Showing posts with label patriotism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label patriotism. Show all posts

Sunday, October 7, 2012

On the use of the Queen’s English.


Jonnie Comet
30 May 1997


  There have been some who question my use of British Commonwealth English, claiming that, for an American-born writer and scholar living in the late 20th C., and especially as an educator in language arts, I of all people ought to be embracing the usage of modern American English.  The fact is that for purely academic reasons I have been adhering to this usage almost exclusively since about 1972, except in those forums where Americentric instructors and those unable to recognise the Queen’s English forbade it (I have had PhDs in English literature ask me why I’d misspelt this way, not realising it might have been deliberate). Though it may leave me vulnerable to heated debate, particularly from anti-Anglo Americans, I can and do set forth my rationale in honest, reasonable terms.
  The first is that the English invented the language. Swift once advocated a ‘language police’ to correct errors and enforce spelling and mechanics, an idea upon which Dr Johnson obviously leaned in compiling his first English Dictionary in 1755. I confess I sort of like the idea– well, consider the alternative, which smacks of linguistic relativism. But then, openly despising all things English or European, Emerson advised his friend Webster to concoct an American dictionary in the early 19th C, in which all vestiges or Anglo- or Eurocentric usage would be ‘corrected’. In this heavy-handed anti-Anglo anti-dogmatism, itself hypocritically dogmatic, the idea of a deliberately deviant form of the language emerged. I would therefore submit that this typically Romantic (and American) rebellion has caused more confusion than good, and my next few points will support that.
  Next, the use of Commonwealth usage represents a more enlightened world view. Only the culturally ignorant would refer to British spellings and usage as ‘wrong’ and the American ones as ‘right’, when the United States is the only English-using society which deviates from the established English usage materially, such as in prescribed rules of grammar, spellings and pronunciations. If we are ever to unite this world by a common language, that language ought to be English, and not American English but the real thing. Consider, dear Reader, before you claim that America somehow outweighs England in all things considerable, that the largest English-speaking populace in the world is neither America nor England itself, but the Commonwealth Republic of India; and the Indians use British English. In numbers alone the original form must take precedence; for in fact, the total population of the world using British English in everyday discourse, occupying every continent of the globe, in writing as well as speech, outnumbers the Americans three to one.
  I may be American by birth and Italian at heart, but I am English by choice. My sensibilities are English, not American. Like a pre-1770s Colonial I see things through English precedents and do not subscribe to Emerson’s proud boast that the United States is somehow entitled to be culturally and linguistically superior to and insulated from England. For my life I cannot see how any thinking person can claim that. The British have been America’s staunchest ally, culturally, financially and militarily, since the first third of the 1800s and still own more real estate in America than any other foreigners. Further the entire institution of the American nation is predicated on English common law and the forerunners of English history, culture, architecture and philosophy. Refusal to accept this is akin to denying the genetic primacy of a parent. To contend that the United States could somehow exist entirely independent of England is rash, unenlightened and possibly even an indication that one is feeling ideologically threatened.
  The last justification is the most strongly held of all and hearkens back to Swift’s point. In all my pedagogical studies, especially in the English content areas, the gravest concern of the instructors and textbook authors seems to be the inclusion of what are known as ‘multicultural’ influences. The modern stated mission for liberal language educators in America is to tolerate, absorb, and in some cases even teach ‘nonstandard’ variations of English.  I submit that this is woefully anti-literate and anti-intellectual. These deviations tend to come from people whose education in standard English is below the desired ideal, as defined by the schools themselves– in other words, the people who deviate from standard English do so because they are ignorant of it, not because out of poetic licence they have opted to use something else for some kind of effect. My argument is this: if we are expected to accept alterations to a dynamic language from undereducated elements of society, then why must I be considered ‘incorrect’ to insist that the language could and should likewise be affected by higher-educated elements of society, even– and mark this point very clearly– from the most enlightened and highest-educated elements of all, those who are aware that American English is not the definitive form of the language?  If we are ever to be better people, and a better society, we must be upwardly mobile in our aspirations. Rather than accepting inferior linguistics, we should be fostering superiority in our communication. For my part, then, I shall adopt the language of kings and nobles, use it well and encourage all in my sphere of influence to do likewise.



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Old soldiers’ home.

Jonnie Comet


I wandered in one summer sweet,
Quite pleased to find the lawn so neat;
The place stone quiet, I alone
Sat down before my father’s feet.

I told him what was on my mind,
And he made answer, of a kind;
Our mutual sentiments thus known,
I left refreshed, and he, resigned.

And as I strolled out ‘neath the trees,
I heard the Flag snap in the breeze;
Some distant warbird’s noble drone
Gave anxious obligations ease.

For I know well these aged men
Who served in wars’ dark horror then,
Despite all threat to breath and bone;
Their valour e’er inspires my pen.

I owe them all a greater debt
Than humble beds can meet, and yet
Amid the grass, and trees, and stone,
Like Daddy, they abide, well-met.
 

- 8 March 1997

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l. 11 - warbird - affectionate nickname for a retired military airplane –JC


On Harry Wu released from Chinese prison.

Fortunate son... 

Jonnie Comet
31 August 1995 


  The release of Harry Wu from China last week  is indeed good news, but it is certainly not the end of the issue. Mr Wu has turned even more light on the actual state of human rights in China.  I find it appalling that industrialists and consumers in the land of the free are happy to turn a blind eye to these injustices, so long as profits remain high and products are marketable.  How many inexpensive consumer goods do we know that are made by the labor farms Mr Wu was trying to expose? It’s too hard to believe that Disney and McDonald’s and other marketers of Chinese-made plastic toys are unaware of how the Chinese government coerces their own population into contributing to the GNP. It is not only injustices against human beings that the Chinese have committed.  As an electronics buyer a few years back I was shocked at how well carried it was that the Chinese PC-board manufacturers habitually dump all their freon and other by-products directly into the rivers which peasants use for untreated drinking water.  In this way the Chinese government epitomizes the me-first attitude of turning a buck no matter what the cost to their neighbors or their own environment. Is this an organization to whom we as conscientious consumers really want to give our hard-earned money?
  I am sure most people in the US have no idea how bad it is for people in China. Harry Wu went there to show us.  You see, the People’s Republic of China is not really a communism.  In true communism, the people work together, and the people have bread. The current regime in China rose to power in 1949 on the platform that the people shall have bread; but they still don’t have it.  Those in this country who would have more government intervention would be wise to study the Chinese as they really are, as Wu attempted to show us. In a totalitarian state, no activity which is not sanctioned by the government is considered legitimate.   There is no free press– this includes Wu’s freelance research.   Therefore, in the eye of the Chinese government, he was gathering intelligence about them without permission, which is spying, and so the Chinese feel they are right to try him for it.   It’s painfully obvious that their clemency was only motivated by a need to keep as many American investors with blinders on in their country as they can.  After all, they do fear the American consumer public, and they know that a boycott of Chinese products, while difficult for us, would be catastrophic to the way of life which the people in power in China now enjoy at the expense of their comrades. That’s something to think about.
  All is not in vain. I submit that 50 years of the misnamed ‘People’s Republic’ is a very short span of time in the history of humankind for a population to be kept powerless and in the dark by a small group of self-serving bureaucrats.  The Soviets proved it would not last 75 years.  Harry Wu will go on to be denigrated and spat upon by his native country, until one day, when his labors will see fruition. Take heart, dear Mr Wu– you are in good company.  The apostle Paul was once persecuted by his own people too.  And Mandela.  And Walsea.  And King.


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My leather jacket.

Jonnie Comet

 

I don’t know about every guy who grew up in the ‘Sixties, but I watched a lot of Hogan’s Heroes on TV.  And my favourite character was always Col Hogan.   Now I am sure this is not just because he was the guy in charge and I have this sort of power thing.  When we used to play Army on the block, there were always certain kids who had certain affinities for certain characters.  My brother was always Newkirk because he could do the Cockney accent.  I was always Col Hogan because I loved that leather jacket.

No character in any WW2 movie I ever saw wore that rakish flier’s gear with more elan than Col Hogan.   He had the hat pushed back, jacket bunched up around his hands in his pockets, insolent smirk on his face– a perfect symbol of anti-authority in action.   But this disdain for authority was always well directed; for Hogan was always faithful to his country, his men and his mission.  That mission being, in the absence of opportunities to kill his enemies, to at least make life as miserable as possible for them at every chance he could.  Little did the antiwar activists of the day realise that here was a pro-military television character of their fathers’ generation who was actually a man after their own heart.

So to me it was not surprising that the leather jackets so popular in the ‘Fifties (worn by ex-pilots and then by their sons), made a comeback during my high-school years in the ‘Seventies.  We had Happy Days and American Graffitti and The Lords Of Flatbush, all of which were nostalgic looks at the days when things like military-issue leather fliers’ jackets were still cool, before they went out of vogue in the decade of anti-military, anti-establishmentarianism.   And really, those Liberals were right; for there is nothing more ‘establishment’ than a leather jacket worn by some brave pilot in that greatest-ever war-to-end-all-wars.   Those guys were real heroes, real-life knights in shining armor, doing battle with the infidels of Fascism five miles above the earth at closing speeds of eight hundred miles an hour, without Radar, without fancy electronics, by their own eagles’ eyesight and nerves of steel alone.   It’s an image that readily lends itself to the fabrication of legends and myths about swashbuckling antics and derring-do the likes of which Dumas only ever dreamt.   Juxtapose that glory with the hideous likelihood of being flung out into a freezing-cold nothingness with half your body blown apart and the rest of it on fire and precious few seconds to recite your Rosary and the Our Father before you black out and plummet the rest of the way to impact upon a foreign soil held by an enemy unwilling to give your remains a Christian burial merely out of spite.   Who would dare claim there is nothing positive and inspirational about celebrating the resolute bravery of those who willingly defied such bone-chilling fears to do right by their country, conscience and God?

I had the fortune (some might say mis-fortune!) of being in London during the summer of 1984, when Europe swarmed with sixty-year-old Yankee vets searching for remnants of their adventures on that longest day, 6 June, forty years earlier.  At Quartermasters, the army-navy shop in Islington, the proprietor had posted a sign above the counter:

‘Anyone asking anything about D-Day WILL BE SHOT!’

Now this particular establishment carries a reputation in the motion-picture industry for stocking or being able to quickly acquire anything needed for WW2 films and as such had long ago run out of original-issue Army Air Force A-2 flight jackets.  Being an enterprising chap the proprietor had gone out and contracted an English manufacturer to make authentic reproductions, of which mine is one.   It is in the correct goatskin with a period nylon lining and all-brass fasteners, and is particularly distinguished from the faux copies readily available in the US and elsewhere by its conspicuous absence of side ‘hand-warmer’ pockets.  The original jackets did not have them; knowing this beforehand, I found exactly what I had been looking for hanging on his rack at Islington.   I mean, let’s face it: why does a pilot in the cockpit of an airplane need to put his hands in the pockets of his jacket?   He’s flying the airplane, for crying out loud! Doubtless some guys had them cut in; the stories are legend about Yanks sneaking off on leave to Savile Row and having their GI-issue wardrobe tailored to fit for individuality.  Ike himself went there and had his wool dress jacket cropped at the waist; and this went on to be an unofficially-acceptable modification of the uniform (rather in the way that Lt Kennedy and others adopted Admiral Sperry’s yachting shoes in the Navy); in cases the Army even went so far as to identify which tailors in London were authorised to do the work.   The ‘Ike jacket’ became known as the ‘cool’ guy’s jacket, the jacket for the guy who drove a Buick convertible at home, smoked Luckies, and changed girls every Saturday dance. But, perhaps I digress.

So, the jacket that I have now and wear all the time is just like my dad’s.   Unlike many guys of my generation I was denied the opportunity of ever even seeing my dad’s own jacket.   On his way home to Fort Dix for his formal separation, after thirty missions and several commendations and half a year doing instructor duty back Stateside, his A-2 was swiped on the train.  To me that’s sacrilege.  It’s like stealing a Super Bowl ring or an Olympic medal.  What would the thief do with it?   Wear it?  And what can he say if someone were to ask him about it?  He can’t claim any pride of having earned it; can he?

And so this begs the question: why do I wear mine?   Do I have any claim to that level of honour?  No; of course not.   The jacket is only a reproduction; and I’ve never been at the right place at the right time to have been called off to any wars and thus get to earn any important jackets.   But that’s exactly why I wear it.  It commemorates a principle that’s important to me, something I care to think about every day. Heroes just don’t grow on clothes racks.   And those heroes whom our generation has so admired should never be forgotten.  They went through hell so we wouldn’t have to.  Just ask any one of them.

And I know one day that 70-ish guy from the VFW, who’s given up on modesty after seeing everything for which he fought get trampled on by clueless earringed brats with no respect for the flag, may come up to me and say, ‘Yo, kid.  Whaddiyou think, you earned that jacket?’

But I have a response for him.  ‘No, sir. My father earned it for me.’


- 6 February 1994

 

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