Pig Latin More Than Oinking In the Mud
Posted: Saturday, August 06, 2011
by John Brazell
I grew up in a Dallas suburb and learned a second language at a young age. The word “bilingual” had not yet been invented, and neither had the wheel.
My new language was Latin, called “Pig Latin” though I had no idea why. It didn’t require grunting or burrowing your snout in the mud.
I knew of only two people who spoke Latin; Julius Caesar out of my history book, and Bubba, my best buddy from around the block. I was impressed that Bubba had something in common with Julius and was willing to teach me. We agreed it would become our own private language and keep our hiding places and club affairs secret from girls. It didn’t.
My failure to impress people was discouraging. I figured if a classic, Latin, was rejected people would think Swahili, my next choice, was made-up too. I’d discovered it in a National Geographic and decided if it was good enough for Tarzan; it was good enough for me.
Back then taking a second language in Texas ’ schools wasn’t required. Officials decided that teaching English to Texans was a big enough challenge after a poll showed “conjugation” was thought to be a dirty word. I enjoyed English class and took more than my share of courses. It didn’t hurt that my high school teacher was right out of college, helpful, made of porcelain and resembled a rose in a gravel pit in faculty photos.
I regret not learning more languages as the world became a smaller and more complicated place. It’s good that SB, my sweetie, reads a lot, is on top of the language game, and corrects things I say all the time.
My first memorable encounter with a person speaking a “foreign” language was many years ago and proved to be traumatic. I was a whippersnapper barely out of Business School working in South Carolina where every word has at least three syllables. An older hand told me this was a conservative part of the country. That I should get a haircut and listen carefully when people spoke. I found a barbershop near the University, stepped inside and went directly to a waiting chair.
The barber, proficient in "Carolinian," asked something I didn’t understand so I asked him to repeat the question. Embarrassed that I would never know what was asked, I nodded “uh-huh” and the snipping began. Finished, I looked in the mirror and surmised the question was, “Do you want a haircut like the college boys?” I had gone from a buttoned-down, buttoned-up look to a "buzz-Mohawk-frazzle” (combo #3) in ten minutes, and spent each day for a month explaining my hair got caught in a radiator fan belt.
SB and I were on a leg of globetrotting -- in a Volkswagen, an oxymoron -- from Italy through Switzerland , Germany and on to Paris . My worst fear was that our putt-mobile would become the hood ornament on a Mercedes, spitting out vapor like cumulous clouds, on the limitless autobahn. Our second fear was we’d get thrown into the Seine or forced to drink White Zinfandel and eat Big Macs in Paris for failure to pay correct tolls on the autobahns. SB thumbed furiously through her “Fodor’s Dollar Converter” but couldn’t keep up.
We arrived in Paris at dusk, circled the Arc de Triomphe thirty times, bullied through five layers of honking cars, and parked our VW in front of our small, obscure, very “Parisian” hotel. Three times daily I called the rental agency, with pocket translator in hand, and begged anyone that answered to pick-up the rental car. In the middle of my pleas and without warning, I’d be passed from one person to another. None understood my yammering, nor I theirs. We left Gay Par-ee, less gay, with the car still on the street. From the plane I uttered “au revoir” the only French I knew.
Yesterday I met with our new yard guy, Juan, a likeable young man, to discuss trimming the grass and bushes. There wasn’t much discussion as Juan’s English is limited to “Senor,” “Okay” and “Pay me American dollars.” Rather, we walked around while I gesticulated and got a headache repeating, “Cut short, trim, no blow, clean up, okay?” Juan followed with a furrowed brow searching my face for a clue.
Exhausted from the heat and abortive effort to communicate, we sat on the steps and drank water in silence. I finally found some humor in the moment and asked with a grin, “Any chance you speak Pig Latin?”
“Si Senor, I know pigs, I know pigs, Oink.”
: )
Interpret the Pig Latin and I'll send Juan over to mow your lawn - “Oodgay iefgray arleychay ownbray.”
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Top-level comments on this article: (4 total)Pig latin doesn't seem kosher, to me!Paul, killer comment - love it. Great to hear from you. John
Good article John, I enjoyed reading it.Thanks so much for reading David. You are the consummate pro in my book and if you enjoyed it, I'm thrilled. Best to you
Good grief Charley Brown!
Hi John, my mom taught me Pig Latin when I was very young. I thought it was cool. Oh well. Then she taught me Double Dutch. It was much harder. Each letter of the alphabet is a word (many just a nonsense word) and you have to spell everything you say. As a tool or a game to teach kids to spell, it was brilliant.
So ... gug oh oh dud gug rug eye ee fuf cash hutch a rug lul ee yub bub rug oh wash nun!
Hugs,
DianneDianne, back before computer and video games we had to make our entertainment. Thank Goodness Moms and Pops created games that we'e useful. Now I think I'd like to learn Double Dutch which also sounds like a good flavor of ice cream :)
Thanks and Best to youI have a tendency to take things kind of literally ... so here goes. :)
The vowels are all long: like when you say a, e, i, o, u. The consonants are as follows: bub, cash, dud, fuff, gug, hutch, jug, kuck, lull, mum, nun, pup, quack, rug, suss, tut, vuv, wash, ex, yub, zuzz. Then you just spell every word and try to put a pause in between words so the listener has a moment to process and catch up. It takes a little practice, but is actually a little more private than Pig Latin, if you need to speak discretely it to your loved one in public. Unfortunately, my husband has no desire to learn or practice Double Dutch. Dud rug a tut!Dianne, mentioned Double Dutch to my wife and she remembered it also as a child. For me I struggle enough with Ebonics (ha), English and Texan already. Actually we live in a world where secrets hold less value any more. We all are forced to listen to the most intimate details from phone calls, casual conversations, "reality" TV shows and such. For an oldster as moi, it is sometimes shocking and unpleasant as I love mysteries. Best to you. John
I enjoyed your article. Very funny! Thanks for sharingKrista, thanks so much for dropping by. As you might guess I'm a humorist and love those who love humor. It's still the best medicine. Best to you.
John
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