Let Freedom Rain!

Let freedom rain!

Beautiful, isn’t it? It sounds patriotic. Stirring, even. You can practically hear an orchestra swelling in the background while an eagle flies over a wheat field and somebody slowly raises an American flag.

There’s only one problem. Rain? Are we celebrating liberty or canceling the picnic? Perhaps I meant Reign. Let freedom rule. Or maybe Rein. Let freedom control the horse.

Three completely different words, three completely different spellings, all pronounced exactly the same. And this is the language we have chosen to conduct international business with.

English is often described as relatively easy to learn, which makes me wonder whether the people making this claim have ever actually encountered English. English is easy in much the same way Monopoly is easy when you’re playing with a nine-year-old who owns the board.

You begin with established rules. Everything seems straightforward. Then halfway through the game, the kid announces that landing on Illinois Avenue means he gets $500 because that’s how they play at Trevor’s house. You object. He informs you that Free Parking now owns a hotel. You ask to see the rulebook.

“That’s an old rulebook.”...

Twenty minutes later, he owns both utilities, your railroad, three of your properties, and somehow your shoe. Surprise. I win... That is English.

Consider the word read. Today I read the newspaper. Yesterday I read the newspaper. Same spelling. Different pronunciation. How do you know which pronunciation to use? By reading the sentence. Which read? Exactly. Welcome aboard!

Then English presents us with: Though... Through... Tough... Thought... Thorough. Look at those words for just a moment. Drink them in. Become one with the ridiculousness. They all contain OUGH, yet English expects you to approach each one as though you’ve never seen those four letters before.

Imagine learning this language.

“This is tough.”
“Tuff.”
“Correct.”
“This is though.”
“Thuff?”
“No. Thoh.”
“This is through.”
“Throh?”
“No. Throo.”

The student quietly closes the textbook. “I think I’ll try Finnish.” At least English has rules. For example: I before E except after C. Wonderful! Finally, something we can depend on. Except for weird. And their. And foreign. And science. And height. At which point the teacher clears her throat and explains that it’s really more of a guideline. Oh. So we’re back at Trevor’s Monopoly table. Excellent.

What Exactly Is a “These Ones”?

There are certain phrases that don’t necessarily violate English grammar but still cause physical discomfort. For me, it’s “these ones.” Someone enters a store, points at three shirts and says: “I like these ones.” These. You like these. The ones have already been identified. Their work here is finished.

“These ones are cheaper.”
“Do you have these ones in blue?”
“I think I’ll buy these ones.”

Every time somebody says it, I hear a tiny fingernail dragging across a chalkboard somewhere in Nebraska. But you can’t correct people because you still want to be invited places. So you smile politely.

“Oh yes. Those ones are lovely.”

Then you go home, lock the door, and stand under a hot shower until the trembling stops.

They're Over There Getting Their Coats

No investigation of English would be complete without addressing the holy trinity: There... Their... They're.

There refers to a place. Their indicates possession. They're means they are. Simple. And yet social media suggests that approximately 74 percent of the population has entered into a gentleman’s agreement to simply pick whichever one feels right at the moment.

“Their going over they’re to get there car.”

Somewhere, an English teacher wakes suddenly from a dead sleep, in a cold sweat. But according to ancient linguistic folklore, once every several centuries, someone successfully uses all three correctly in the same sentence:

“They’re over there getting their coats.”

The effect is spontaneous combustion. That's right, bursting into flames upon completion! Nothing remains except a pair of smoking shoes and one grammatically flawless sentence. Authorities arrive. The area is cordoned off. A linguist approaches wearing protective equipment.

“What happened?”
“Witnesses say he used all three.”
“Correctly?”
“Apparently.”
“My God.”
“Nobody touch the apostrophe.”...

The Plural Department Has Some Explaining to Do

English plurals begin innocently enough. One dog. Two dogs. One car. Two cars. One book. Two books. Got it! Add an S. Then English smiles...Hold my beer!

One man. Two men. Fine.
One woman. Two women. Okay.
One mouse. Two mice. Wait.
One goose. Two geese. All right, apparently we’re changing vowels now.

One moose. Two... Moose. Wait what? Why isn’t it meese? If goose becomes geese, I demand meese!! And if mouse becomes mice, why doesn’t house become hice?

YOU HAD A SYSTEM DAMN IT!! What happened?

At some point in the Middle Ages, English apparently held a staff meeting, and somebody stood up and said, “I think consistency is making us predictable.” Motion carried...

Some Letters Are Apparently Decorative

Then there are silent letters. Why does knife need a K? Nobody says kuh-nife. Why is there a B in debt? Why does island contain an S? These letters contribute absolutely nothing. They’re the middle managers of the alphabet. They attend every staff meeting, appear on all the paperwork, and nobody can explain what they actually do.

Then we reach: Colonel. Pronounced: Kernel. No... Absolutely not! That’s not pronunciation. That’s witness protection. That word changed its identity, received government documents, and relocated to Arizona.

English Has Been Stealing From the Neighbors

Part of the problem is that English has spent centuries wandering through other languages and stuffing interesting words into its coat pockets. Kindergarten? We’ll take that. Rendezvous? Ours now. Patio? Thank you. Piano? Don’t mind if we do...

English is essentially the neighbor whose garage contains everybody else’s tools.

French comes knocking. “Have you seen my rendezvous?”... “Nope.”
German: “Kindergarten?”... “Never heard of it.”
Italian: “Piano?”... “GET OFF MY PROPERTY!”

Then English occasionally changes the pronunciation of the word after taking it, which means we’re not even borrowing anymore. That’s grand theft vocabulary!

Scott Hamilton and the Double Entendre

And then we have terminology that sounds considerably more impressive than what it actually describes. Take the double entendre. A double entendre is a phrase with two interpretations, often with one carrying a suggestive meaning. But be serious, “double entendre” sounds exactly like something Scott Hamilton performed at the 1988 Winter Olympics.

“Here comes Hamilton now. Triple toe loop... double axel... DOUBLE ENTENDRE!” THE CROWD ERUPTS.

“Absolutely magnificent, Jim. He hasn’t landed a clean entendre since Calgary practice.” “Notice the extension.” “Textbook entendre.”
The judges raise their scores: 5.9 — 5.8 — 6.0 — mildly suggestive. America wins gold. Nobody knows what happened.

Words That Can't Decide What They Mean

English also contains words that can essentially mean their own opposites. You can dust furniture, meaning remove dust. Or you can dust a doughnut with powdered sugar, meaning add dust.

You can screen something so people can see it. Or screen something so people can’t see it.

You can sanction something by approving it. Or impose sanctions because you very much do not approve of it.

How are we supposed to know? Context... English loves context. Context is the exhausted employee working overtime because the rest of the language department went home early, and Kyle called in sick the same day his favorite band was in town.

Then we have:

“I object to that object.”

“I need to record a record.”

“The farmer will produce produce.”

These aren’t sentences. They’re verbal escape rooms!

And Then There's Grandma

Perhaps nothing demonstrates the fragility of English better than punctuation.

Consider: "Let’s eat, Grandma." A perfectly wholesome invitation to dinner.

Remove one tiny comma: "Let’s eat Grandma."

We have now transitioned from family supper to cannibalism. One punctuation mark... That’s all that is standing between Grandma eating mashed potatoes and being served with mashed potatoes. People say punctuation doesn’t matter. Grandma strongly disagrees.

And so, after careful investigation, The Pompous Post must conclude that English probably shouldn’t work. Its spelling is inconsistent. Its pronunciation is suspicious. Its plurals appear to have been selected by lottery. Some letters are ornamental. Identical words can sound different. Different words can sound identical. Some words mean their own opposites. We’ve stolen half our vocabulary from the neighbors. And one misplaced comma can get an elderly woman eaten.

Yet somehow we continue speaking it. We write novels in it. We conduct business in it. We fall in love in it. We argue on Facebook about it, usually while using 'their' incorrectly. Perhaps that’s the real miracle.

English isn’t a language so much as an enormous linguistic Monopoly game that’s been running for centuries, and nobody remembers who originally owned Baltic Avenue. The rules keep changing. Half the money is missing. Someone put hotels where they aren’t supposed to go. And there’s always one person at the table insisting: “No, no. We’ve always played it this way.”

So let freedom rain. Or reign. Or rein. Whichever. Just remember: they’re over there getting their coats. Please don’t buy these ones. Scott Hamilton remains the only American known to have successfully landed a double entendre in Olympic competition, and for the love of everything holy...

KEEP AN EYE ON GRANDMA. She has suffered enough.