Language of Love
Growing up as the daughter of two teachers, I frequently found words to be my favorite playthings. It thrilled me every time my parents, unafraid to use polysyllabic vocabulary around their toddler, would pepper a conversation with a piquant new word. Without any fuss or machinations, my parents brought me gently but firmly into the world of “grown-up words.” They chose to bring me up to their own linguistic level and taught me from an early age to deduce meaning from context and to ask questions about unknown words. Unlike the parents of my baby-talk peers, they never told me that the words would be too hard for me...and so, they never have been.
Because of my parents’ refusal to sacrifice the right word for an easy word, my “language arts” courses have always felt like family reunions. Dangling modifiers will forever have the same wide-nosed, toothy smile as my brother, eager to gently confuse and amuse. Predicate nominatives are my mother on the telephone, responding to the question, “Is this Lisa?” with, “Yes, this is she.” And sentence diagrams—delightful to assemble and then delicious to savor—are the thanksgiving meal. Year after year in my childhood, the unit recurred, a week-long holiday for which I always gave thanks.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is of sitting on the floor with a green-and-russet cardboard shoebox, rearranging the letters printed on its sides and sounding out my new creations with gusto. Never mind that on the same shopping trip that brought me that shoebox, I had also gotten a new stuffed animal. I was far more thrilled by the feeling of the sounds in my mouth—of the crisp, apple taste of the d’s, or the smooth, molasses drawl of the a’s. To this day, I delight in the boggling way that words are united in crossword puzzles, as words such as “epee” and “Beyonce” suddenly become neighbors and wave hello. At the blacked-out corners, “supernova” and “cricket” dance around each other, two strangers caught awkwardly in a doorway.
In my own imagination, words don’t just describe the attributes and characteristics of something external—they intrinsically have personalities. “Docile” turns around three times before oofing down onto his belly, his head resting on my feet. “Tendril” is a great flirt, brushing against my arm before turning red and smiling shyly. Seeing words like these in context is like running into an old friend, serendipitously, in a foreign country.
Nowadays, others find my passion for phonics a childish and embarrassing trait. And it’s true that I can no longer sit for hours rearranging the letters of “G.H. Bass and Company.” Who has the time? There are tests, and quizzes, and when those are finished, there are exams and standardized testing. But hidden underneath the harried junior-year exterior, I carry a dirty secret: I love studying SAT words. Sometimes, late at night, too tired to carry on with work, I stealthily open the newsprint booklets under the desk and whisper hello to my old friends, calling each out by name. “Pernicious…propinquity…prusik…” Thanks, mom and dad!
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