Let's Talk
by Ferris
Gilli
Scientists
now recognize that the human brain's capacity for language does
not come from our ability to talk. Noted psychologists have
concluded that language is a particular mental faculty that can
be expressed through means other than vocalizing, like signing
or drawing pictures or body language. I can't believe they're
just now getting around to the idea.
I was floored to read that until recently, linguists believed
that we talk only because we have the physical capacity to
vocalize. That just flat does not make sense. For instance,
imagine what happens during any religious service with families
attending. Volumes can be expressed between parents and kids,
and between kids and other kids, with nary a word spoken.
The theory that language derives from physical ability was bull
doody. It took the hands of deaf infants to show the linguists
the light. In 1991 psychologists conducted a prolonged study of
both hearing infants and deaf infants. The deaf infants had deaf
parents who used only American Sign Language to communicate with
each other and with their babies. The specialists observed that
the deaf babies began babbling with their hands at the same time
as the hearing babies began babbling with sounds. Out of the
mouths of babes, indeed. The published results of that study
couldn't have come as a surprise to any deaf parents of deaf
children.
The deaf infants' hand gestures, on progressively more adept
levels, paralleled the vocal babbling of the hearing infants.
Just as hearing babies go from nonsense words to real words to
real sentences, deaf babies do the same with their hands, using
ASL. And guess what else? Hearing babies who spend time with
both hearing speakers and deaf signers begin babbling vocally
and with their hands. Stick your finger in your chin and go,
"Duh."
The plain truth is, our brains' bent for language is innate. We
gotta talk. If we can't use our voices, then by golly, we'll
substitute other methods. Regarding the art of language, I'm a
stickler for good grammar. Far from always being correct, I just
want to put my best foot forward while trying to keep it out of
my mouth. I have never forgotten something my eighth- grade
English teacher said: "Good English is that which gives no
offense and is clearly understood by those toward whom it is
directed." A perfectly constructed, grammatically correct
sentence cannot be very good if its listener doesn't understand
it.
Suppose you are the proprietor of a beauty shop in Deer Lick,
and you receive a terrifying phone call, a bomb threat, with
only forty-five seconds to evacuate the building. You
immediately turn to your customers and shout, "I adjure you to
deplete this appurtenance posthaste, as detonation is imminent!"
That correctly-structured warning is hardly good English if your
patrons get blown to smithereens while they're trying to figure
out what you said. Any survivors would most certainly agree that
good English would have been, "Get the hell outta here, gals,
the place is gonna blow up and we ain't got a second to lose!"
Another illustration is taken from when I was fifteen, during a
sleep-over with my friend Sandy. Due to my desire to exhibit
good manners, my language became formal and stilted and as a
result, barely comprehensible. At the end of the delicious
supper, I said, "My compliments, Mrs. Ledbetter. Your baked
offerings were cirrously weightless, the fowl crust was
exquisite, and the pastry was a confectionery delight."
Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter stared at me, and a younger brother
giggled and said, "What's she want, Mama?"
Sandy asked bluntly, "Why're you talkin so funny? We cain't
hardly understand you!" Sandy turned to her mother and said,
"Mama, I think this idjit is tryin to tell you the biscuits were
real good, the fried chicken was extra crispy, and she loved the
apple pie."
Every-day English language would be downright boring if everyone
spoke straight from the dictionaries and manuals of style.
Warmth and individuality would be lost, and listening for
pleasure might become damned nigh impossible.
I have some beloved life-time
friends in and around Deer Lick who employ words that do not
exist in any dictionary, or at least not in the context in which
they're used. And their accents are so laid back they sleep on
their syntax. But if I ever return to Deer Lick for a visit and
find that these people have smartened up their speech, I sure
won't feel like I'm back home. Here is a conversation in which I
understand the other speaker perfectly well, and it would be
presumptuous of me to suggest she change her style. It's more
natural for me to go with the flow.
"Janey, it's good to see you. How have you been?"
"Sugar, I thought you'd went to foreign parts for good! You can
see Deer Lick ain't changed none. Well, I'm not so bad now, but
a while back it seemed like we was havin one calamighty after
the other. First, Arthur, he took bad with his stomach and
couldn't eat anything but Jello and grits for two weeks. He fell
off right bad, but filled out again when he was able to eat
mashed potatoes and pot roast. Then I had stripped throat and
infected nasial pastures and had to take a mess of
anniebiotics."
"Gosh, Janey, I hope y'all are all right now."
"I guess so, for the most part. But them anniebiotics, you know
they can cause you to have a yeast infection."
"I know it. Did they mess you up?"
"And how! I've been about to itch to death! Howsomever, I bought
me some medicine and my virginia's near cleared up. You have to
use the stuff a full seven days or that mess'll come right back
on you."
"I know it'll make you not hardly fit to live with. So, how's
the rest of the family?
"Well, my brother Jim, he had some prostrate trouble, but he's
over it now. Let me ast you sump'n. Have you ever had a
mammogram?"
"Yeah, I have one every year. Why?"
"Well, I went ahead and got a complete physical the other day.
You know, it ain't healthy to go to the doctor's, that place
just thongs with sick folks. Anyway, the doctor palpitated my
bosom. He didn't find a thing wrong, but he set me up for a
mammogram anyway. I like to died when he told me not to drink
coffee or tea or Coke or eat chocolate when it was gettin time
for me to have the thing."
"Yeah, the caffeine makes your breasts sore, and you sure don't
want sore breasts for a mammogram."
"That's the truth! When I come home after having that thing, I
told Arthur to shoot the doctor if my boobs was flat. You know
what that mammogram put me in mind of? One of them old-fashioned
wringer washers! But you know, I'm real glad I done it. It puts
your mind at ease."
"Well, you sure are lookin good, Janey. Your hair's mighty
pretty curled like that."
"Thanks, honey. I just come from Carolyne's Beauty Shop, but to
tell the truth, I coulda fixed it better myself and saved my
money."
"Were you there when they had the fake bomb threat? I heard
Carolyne couldn't talk plain enough to shoo everybody out, and
if ituh been a real one, y'all all woulda got blowed up."
