Salute, and Apologies, to Gigi
I have referred earlier to my cultural background, and I have long ago grown past my anger at my parents for not teaching me what they did not know. But over 50 years later, I still remember a prime example of our local grammar. I was with my grandpa and other locals cleaning up weeds in the graveyard at the Locust Hill Baptist Church. Another local farmer approached the group and someone asked him where his hoe was. He replied "I ain't got aern".
Now fast forward past three years at Tennessee Temple Bible School, four years in the Air Force, and some other stuff, and there I was at the age of 29 walking into the freshman English class at North Texas State University. Our instructor was a graduate student, and her name which I am sure I am misspelling was Gigi Galogli. She had us read an article of some sort and then asked the class to discuss it. Naturally, I barged right in to complain that the author of the article had nothing to say. Another student quickly corrected me and said " If he didn't have anything to say, he wouldn't be writing". I replied "well actually most people who write have nothing to say". When class was over, Gigi asked to speak to me. I was initially defensive and prepared to prove that the author was an idiot. Gigi said to me, in almost these exact words "Jim, I think you are going to be bored with most of the material the class reads, so I would like to offer you an alternative. I will give you other reading assignments, and I will meet with you in private once a week, but you have to write a report and go over it with me every week. It will be a lot of work, but I think you will find it interesting". Holy shit! That was the best thing anyone had said to me since the preacher told me I was saved.
The first few weeks my book reports would have fared better in a paper shredder than they did in the uncompromising and harsh hands of Gigi. I have never worked harder in my life. I could hardly write a single sentence without a search through the Harbrace College Handbook, and I spent many hours trying to look up words in the dictionary that I had no clue how to spell. But the books! Camus, Kafka, Hemingway, Auden, Frost, Sartre, Hesse-- it was like a starving man being let go in a 100 item all you can eat buffet. The satisfaction I felt when she finally complimented something in my report has been matched by few other events in my life-- such as the first time I was able to ski off the chair lift at Arapahoe Basin without falling down. Gigi apparently had departmental approval for the process, but they ruled that I had to take the final exam along with the rest of the class. Uh oh, no reference books, nothing but the exam paper and a pencil. Well, I scored a whopping 43 on the exam. We never discussed my final grade, but I think Gigi must have taken a lot of flack from the department for giving me a B. The reason I suspect that was that I went on to the second semester of freshman English under another teacher who gave me no special treatment. The practice was to post final grades outside the classroom, and as I reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hallway, I saw Gigi reading the list. She turned away without seeing me, but she must have been breathing a sigh of relief. I got an A. I ended up with English Literature as a minor and had a 3.7 average in the subjects. From there I went on to work careers that often required a lot of writing, and did very well. I owe that and much more to Gigi, and my dear, wherever you are, alive or dead, thank you so very much, and bless you.
Well, dear reader, that explains the salute part, and you probably have already guessed the apology part. Here I am posting my words on the world wide web where all the world can look; and to both of you who do look, let me hasten to explain. I learned how to use tools. I never learned the concepts of grammatical construction. When I worked, I constantly used the tools that most of my peers had ceased needing years ago, and without the advent of computers and spell check, I would never have survived. Now I am retired. I have no proof reader, and since I ain't being paid, I just plunge right in and publish things without running them through the tool ringer. Frequently, I use colloquial expressions, or bend the rules deliberately as a function of my somewhat irreverent attitude toward all things accepted as holy. Just as often, I make mistakes simply because I do not have a sound conceptual grasp of the rules of English language. I know, for example, that there are rules to govern whether English in the last sentence should have been english. [oops, I was going to say that I wasn't sure and was not going to look it up, but the little red lines that automatically appeared under english let me know I had guessed right.] I also know, for example, that I mix up parts of a sentence between which there should be agreement, and make other mistakes that involve the accepted use of nouns and verbs and stuff like that. So I apologize to Gigi and to the reader for leaving participles dangling, etc..
Far be it from me to let myself off with a feeble excuse, but that does not restrain me from also trying to understand the reason mistakes happen. I have always been a little ashamed of my culturally deprived background, and hence became pretty defensive in situations where one might commit a fore paw. I remember arguing that lack of early training could easily be overcome with hard work, and that in a single afternoon at the age of eighteen, one could learn all the table manners one needed to fit right in even in the most discriminating of formal gatherings. Reality came calling one evening. I was in the company of a very dear friend who had been born into wealth and privilege. It was Christmas time and I had given her some gen-u- wine crystal brandy snifters. We had been sharing a Courvoisier for a few minutes when I happened to notice our glasses. The bowl of my snifter was covered with my fingerprints, while her fingers had touched only the stem. I commented on the fact, and she said she had noticed, but did not say anything. Cheez, she didn't learn that in a single afternoon when she was eighteen. Sure I have forgiven my parents for not being cultured folks who brought me up in a polite social environment, and I am not uncomfortable in formal situations, but down deep I am still a little pissed that my social skills have been sewn on to my public self, and upon close inspection show clearly that those skills do not come naturally, having developed that way just because that is how things were done in my family. [-3 points, run on sentence.]
I have referred earlier to my cultural background, and I have long ago grown past my anger at my parents for not teaching me what they did not know. But over 50 years later, I still remember a prime example of our local grammar. I was with my grandpa and other locals cleaning up weeds in the graveyard at the Locust Hill Baptist Church. Another local farmer approached the group and someone asked him where his hoe was. He replied "I ain't got aern".
Now fast forward past three years at Tennessee Temple Bible School, four years in the Air Force, and some other stuff, and there I was at the age of 29 walking into the freshman English class at North Texas State University. Our instructor was a graduate student, and her name which I am sure I am misspelling was Gigi Galogli. She had us read an article of some sort and then asked the class to discuss it. Naturally, I barged right in to complain that the author of the article had nothing to say. Another student quickly corrected me and said " If he didn't have anything to say, he wouldn't be writing". I replied "well actually most people who write have nothing to say". When class was over, Gigi asked to speak to me. I was initially defensive and prepared to prove that the author was an idiot. Gigi said to me, in almost these exact words "Jim, I think you are going to be bored with most of the material the class reads, so I would like to offer you an alternative. I will give you other reading assignments, and I will meet with you in private once a week, but you have to write a report and go over it with me every week. It will be a lot of work, but I think you will find it interesting". Holy shit! That was the best thing anyone had said to me since the preacher told me I was saved.
The first few weeks my book reports would have fared better in a paper shredder than they did in the uncompromising and harsh hands of Gigi. I have never worked harder in my life. I could hardly write a single sentence without a search through the Harbrace College Handbook, and I spent many hours trying to look up words in the dictionary that I had no clue how to spell. But the books! Camus, Kafka, Hemingway, Auden, Frost, Sartre, Hesse-- it was like a starving man being let go in a 100 item all you can eat buffet. The satisfaction I felt when she finally complimented something in my report has been matched by few other events in my life-- such as the first time I was able to ski off the chair lift at Arapahoe Basin without falling down. Gigi apparently had departmental approval for the process, but they ruled that I had to take the final exam along with the rest of the class. Uh oh, no reference books, nothing but the exam paper and a pencil. Well, I scored a whopping 43 on the exam. We never discussed my final grade, but I think Gigi must have taken a lot of flack from the department for giving me a B. The reason I suspect that was that I went on to the second semester of freshman English under another teacher who gave me no special treatment. The practice was to post final grades outside the classroom, and as I reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hallway, I saw Gigi reading the list. She turned away without seeing me, but she must have been breathing a sigh of relief. I got an A. I ended up with English Literature as a minor and had a 3.7 average in the subjects. From there I went on to work careers that often required a lot of writing, and did very well. I owe that and much more to Gigi, and my dear, wherever you are, alive or dead, thank you so very much, and bless you.
Well, dear reader, that explains the salute part, and you probably have already guessed the apology part. Here I am posting my words on the world wide web where all the world can look; and to both of you who do look, let me hasten to explain. I learned how to use tools. I never learned the concepts of grammatical construction. When I worked, I constantly used the tools that most of my peers had ceased needing years ago, and without the advent of computers and spell check, I would never have survived. Now I am retired. I have no proof reader, and since I ain't being paid, I just plunge right in and publish things without running them through the tool ringer. Frequently, I use colloquial expressions, or bend the rules deliberately as a function of my somewhat irreverent attitude toward all things accepted as holy. Just as often, I make mistakes simply because I do not have a sound conceptual grasp of the rules of English language. I know, for example, that there are rules to govern whether English in the last sentence should have been english. [oops, I was going to say that I wasn't sure and was not going to look it up, but the little red lines that automatically appeared under english let me know I had guessed right.] I also know, for example, that I mix up parts of a sentence between which there should be agreement, and make other mistakes that involve the accepted use of nouns and verbs and stuff like that. So I apologize to Gigi and to the reader for leaving participles dangling, etc..
Far be it from me to let myself off with a feeble excuse, but that does not restrain me from also trying to understand the reason mistakes happen. I have always been a little ashamed of my culturally deprived background, and hence became pretty defensive in situations where one might commit a fore paw. I remember arguing that lack of early training could easily be overcome with hard work, and that in a single afternoon at the age of eighteen, one could learn all the table manners one needed to fit right in even in the most discriminating of formal gatherings. Reality came calling one evening. I was in the company of a very dear friend who had been born into wealth and privilege. It was Christmas time and I had given her some gen-u- wine crystal brandy snifters. We had been sharing a Courvoisier for a few minutes when I happened to notice our glasses. The bowl of my snifter was covered with my fingerprints, while her fingers had touched only the stem. I commented on the fact, and she said she had noticed, but did not say anything. Cheez, she didn't learn that in a single afternoon when she was eighteen. Sure I have forgiven my parents for not being cultured folks who brought me up in a polite social environment, and I am not uncomfortable in formal situations, but down deep I am still a little pissed that my social skills have been sewn on to my public self, and upon close inspection show clearly that those skills do not come naturally, having developed that way just because that is how things were done in my family. [-3 points, run on sentence.]
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