"AMERICAN LANGUAGE," PART 1:

THE ALPHABET OF SAVAGES

Photo by John Hubbard, 1991

View the Show Notes

Allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the united states of america and to the republic for which it stands one nation under god indivisible with liberty and justice for all of I to the the justice united under liberty allegiance with flag god and for all of america it republic for stands one and to the states which nation pledge indivisible the thof I toe jusdllticed unegiae unitnce r all of ag god and f stmewith flaands o states wone and to therihich natica it repuerty er libae indivblic foron pledgisible the td unth flads fes mtherihice anoleiitsdaiaiceuejudgisibec foroeI toeert inw stitnae reagoatondall of e un d awin d to lg ndivhof rep stblicn ph natlltcagy er lib aaddeiiiu aciijeliilnhlllllopoon hIiiheefhflfhn nopoos rrrrtta aattssts sstrrdeeiefiedeeeac bbbttttceddfgggghwu viiieeunnonecced dwyttttnn oonuamlaaa
aaaaaaaaaaa
bbb
ccccc
dddddddd
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
fffff
gggg
hhhhhh
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiii
j
lllllllll
m
nnnnnnnnnn
ooooooooo
pp
rrrrrr
ssssss
tttttttttttttt
uuuu
v
ww

y?

Pain Dance

Origins of the Alphabet

As a white American male, or "WAM," I feel a responsibility to wear this penis symbol around my neck and to talk about certain social-political issues. Like pain and suffering.

Some religions say that the only thing inevitable in this life is suffering. But in America, we just like to experience these things second-hand. Many of us feel things mainly through the media--a media that filters and massages the raw data until it is somehow more bizarre, more interesting, more palatable than the facts alone would be.

One example of this--and we'll ignore the whole O.J. media circus tonight, thank you--is that series of grisly murders in Milwaukee, done by a man who was apparently a gay, racist cannibal. It's a question of marketability. Isn't a series of murders and heads in freezers more gruesomely absorbing than another "minor" story during that time, that the NEA was being cut because of greed and partisanship and mismanagement? (Oops. Not that I have an axe to grind. I love doing shows on a shoestring budget.)

So, to read about something or see it on TV is not the same as when it happens to you, but it's infinitely more fascinating. Because language...it frames our reality. The anthropologists Edward Sapir and Joseph Whorf theorized this back in the Fifties. Their theory offers an explanation for why much-used concepts in some societies have multiple shades of meaning and importance that other cultures don't share. To briefly summarize, it's why it's said the Eskimos have over 100 words for "snow" and we have almost as many words for "vagina."

Let's take a look at the building blocks of our American Language: the Arabic alphabet, on which the Roman alphabet is based. The alphabet we now use came originally from the Semitic-speaking Levant peoples, who lived in what is now called the Middle East. For centuries, the people in that region of the world drew pictures--cuneiform figures on clay tablets--to record events and important records. The Phoenicians refined what is now our alphabet as early as the 15th century B.C., according to tablets found in Mesopotamia. You see, the Phoenicians lived around what is now Lebanon and Syria working as shipbuilders and traders on the Mediterranean. And these guys needed a language unlike the hieroglyph kind in Egypt taught only to priests and scribes in long years of study: They needed a shorthand written notation that even deckhands could use while dealing with the natives from their boats. As the Phoenicians traded farther into Europe, so went their language. And the Anglo-Saxon version evolved centuries later, and...here we are today with Valley Speak.

Yes, our American alphabet...was originally based on trade. Not on religion or higher learning, but on supply-side economics. And the origins of the alphabet is evident in the language that American has become. American Language, like its ancestral versions, is still a language based on commerce, a language of the commonwealth. It is the language of money, of movies, and of movement.

It is the language of Ozzie and Harriet, of Rambo, of Billie Holiday.
The language of our royalty, of Kennedy, of Madonna, of Marilyn Monroe.
It is the language of tall, glass business complexes and low, brick housing projects.
The language of elementary schools and crack houses.

It is the language of Ronald Reagan and Ronald McDonald.

Hey, baby!!!

Rocking the Baby

What I said to my baby as it lay bundled in my arms:

You better learn to walk straight in line, you better learn to tell time;
You better learn to talk when it's right, you better learn how to fight;
You better learn how to walk on by without batting a word, without saying an eye;
You better learn not to cry, baby, better learn not to--

Rock
the baby rock. Rock the
baby rock. Rock the baby
rock. Rock the baby
rock.

You better learn to like not being heard.
You better learn to love authority, you better learn to agree;
You better learn how to get on my good side--

Learn to pay--this ain't no free ride! You better learn, baby, you better learn; you better learn not to burn, baby,
Better learn not to burn, baby, better learn not to--

Rock the baby rock. Rock
the
baby rock. Rock the baby
rock.

Rock the baby rock.
You better learn how to hang a "JUST MARRIED" sign on the back of your pickup.
You better learn to sign a mortgage claim, you better learn that women aren't men.
You better learn that God burns the ones who sin;
Yeah, so you better learn how to get on His good side;

Learn to pay for that heavenly ride. Yeah, you better learn to love what angels do:

To watch TV the whole day through. You better learn, baby, you better learn; you better learn not to burn, baby,
Better learn not to burn, baby, better learn not to--

Rock the baby rock. Rock
the baby rock. Rock the
baby rock.
Rock the baby
rock.

...That must mean it's hungry.
...That must mean it needs to be changed.
...That must mean it needs an education--Well,

Sorry, baby! Sorry, baby! SORRY, BABY!

Rock
the
baby rock.
Rock the baby rock. Rock the baby
rock. Rock....

Big Shoes

He wore big shoes.
He had big dreams.
Bigger than the shoes he wore--
Bigger than the Kennedys.

I want to step out in your big shoes--I really wanta.
I want to walk a mile in those big shoes of yours,

I really wanta. And everywhere I go, and everything I do,
They'll say--
Ooh ooh ooh, those big shoes!
Ooh ooh ooh, those big shoes!
Ooh ooh ooh, those big shoes!
Ooh ooh ooh!

I want to go to Bombay (ooh la la)
And do things the hard way; (ooh la la)
Everyone has little feet there-- (ooh la la)
You can tell by the tiny shoes they wear. (ooh la la)

Hey, baby, what's the word?
Big words for big heads,
Big shoes for big feet,
Stepping in the big, big street;
Stepping to a big-bad-boombox heartbeat.

Like a boomerang, my little shoes keep walkin' back to you;
I wish I had your big shoes so I'd be on my way.
'Cuz if my shoes were as big as yours, I'd be headed for the EXIT door;
Well, I was headed for the EXIT door,
So what stopped me?

Big shoes (ooh la la)
And my little feet; (ooh la la)
I'm stepping around, (ooh la la)
But I can't...find the...beat. (ooh la la)
In my big shoes, (ooh la la)
I'm standing so tall; (ooh la la)
And the bigger the sole, (ooh la la)
The harder they're gonna fall....(ooh la la)

They'll fall down, they'll say--
Ooh la la la la la la lalala la!
Ooh la la la la la la lalala la!
Ooh la la la la la la lalala la!
Ooh la la la la la la lalala la!

At Stake

I have a dream. I dream that it's now and all the witches, all the people who were accused, all the women who didn't fit the system and were burned at the stake, all the midwives come back. Not their bodies, but their spirits, which have never left the earth. They've been hanging around the village squares in Europe all these years, where all the burnings occurred. They come back to haunt us. All the people who challenged the church, all the women who soothed women's childbirth pains without paying the church when the church made it clear that birth pain was what a woman deserved for her sin! And in my dream, all these people, all these spirits whose bodies were charred to ashes, they fly to Central Illinois. Just hop on 747s because, baby, being a ghost does not make it any easier to get around! And they come swooping into town, into America. Into the Heartland.

And the spirits go around, scoping out the houses and the 1.7 cars per family, looking in at the people. And these American women are having...a Tupperware party! They've got their polyester pantsuits on, their 4-inch spike heels, their bargain perfumes, their shiny permed hair. They got lipstick on, bras, girdles: Tupperware kind of women.

And the spirits come into the room, just twenty or so, and hover. And stare. Stare! Stare at women who would have been burned back in the Middle Ages for looking like harlots, looking like heretic whores! The women have Miracle Whip and Ritz crackers and diet cola on the coffee table. And all of the sudden, these women become aware; they know there's something there with them! "Blanche, Vivian, do ya see them? There's a bunch o' ghosts in the house! AGGGGGHHH!!! And they want something from us. Look at 'em beckoning!" And the women can't figure out what they want. Money? Joyce and Karen rifle through their purses: "I'm sure Jack left me a fifty last week...." Nope. The spirits don't want it. Food? Jen makes a little offering of paté on the lid of an Almond Roca can. Forget it. Then the women get the idea: The spirits need to cross over to "The Other Side."

The spirits, they sense, are demanding a sacrifice. Instinctively, the women decide to sacrifice all the props, all the things that they use to keep themselves looking good, being good for men. All that lipstick, all that rouge, that sticky hairspray. It just goes in a pile on the shag carpet. All that mascara, that eye shadow, that Oil of Olay, that vaginal deodorant; those pointy-toed spike heels, baby, those Lee nails. And the women start pulling out their breast implants, pictures of before and after weight-loss programs from women's magazines, purses full of appetite suppressants; it all goes in the pile. And then Jeannie gets out her lighter, lights it all up. Bonfire! Bonfire on the living room floor! And everybody's screaming and running like bees in a smoked hive, Tupperware's melting. And when it's just a burned-out pile, the spirits start flying up in the smoke, they're all going to the other side. And suddenly Betty realizes she can channel! So she sits dumbfounded as one last specter pauses for a moment before leaving this world and says, through the voice of Betty,

"We just wanted to know how much one of those large, colorful bowls costs....
Salad-making supplies are so scarce in the afterworld...."