Matching Tracksuits

Month: January 2005

Numa Numa

Monday 31 January 2005

Last week we had a small party. It was typical in most every way — lots of chatting, laughing, eating, a bit of drinking, some dancing. Nothing crazy.

It was actually an unplanned birthday party for Johnny. We decided to have as a theme a multicultural culinary war: Johnny fixed kwaśnica; I cooked chili — the guests refused to pick a winner. It was confirmed once again, however, that due to the mildness of Polish cuisine, things which are not even remotely spicy for someone like me simply set the average Pole’s mouth ablaze.

Naturally there was a cake — Kinga’s contribution. Damn, can that woman bake!

The surprising hit of the party was a little Flash video that a friend in Warsaw showed me. It was an amateur video for a pop song that was a sensation this summer throughout Europe: “Dragostea Din Tei” (meaning “Love Among the Linden Trees” in Romanian).

Read the Wikipedia article about the song.

The song is by O-zone, a group of three Romanians who’d grown up in the Republic of Moldova, and it is perhaps the worst song I’ve ever heard. Plastic, false, and simplistic, it’s everything I hate in contemporary European pop music.

It was bad enough that this summer you could hear it everywhere. Perhaps the worst thing about it is how devilishly catchy the melody is. I’ve even caught myself humming the damn thing in the shower.

But the video — devastatingly funny.

Elections

Sunday 30 January 2005

Relatively high voter turn-out; deaths held to double digits; dancing Iraqis.

Do they read this blog?

I stand humbly corrected.

All W’s Horses

Saturday 29 January 2005

So the Iraqi people are going to be voting in their first election. Many have pointed out the absurdity of the elections in which:

  • no one knows the candidates;
  • no one knows what the parties stand for;
  • insurgent violence will keep many away;
  • voter safety is an issue, and cannot be assured;
  • a significant portion of eligible voters has already declared, “We won’t vote”;
  • many Iraqis are arguing shouldn’t even take place.

Bush is ramming this election down their throats in an attempt to legitimate his decision to invade Iraq.

No one in Baghdad is calling the shots in Iraq’s surreal experiment with electoral politics.

The marching orders are coming from Washington. And after all the tragedies that Iraq has so far experienced, this continued direction from a distance promises even more tragedy and farce in the days to come (The Capital Times)

The elections don’t seem to differ that much from Saddam’s elections. Then, Iraqis went to the polling station to avoid retaliation from Saddam; now, Iraqis avoid the polling stations to avoid execution by the insurgents. Sunday’s election will be only slightly more legitimate than those during Saddam’s reign only in so far as the candidates don’t all represent the same agenda. In theory. But since no one really knows who the candidates are or what the parties represent (except there’s probably not any who express the _slightest_ amount of anti-US sentiment), for all the Iraqis know, they could all be voting for the same agenda, no matter whom they vote for.

Well, those that do get out and vote.

Was Bush really so blinded by his own idiocy? Did none of his advisers say, “Hey, maybe it’s not such a straightforward thing as going into the country and receiving the warm thanks of the newly-liberated Iraqis.” Did he really expect the Iraqis to start jumping up and down, clapping their hands like little girls, all saying in a unified voice, “We want elections!! We want elections!!”?

If Iraq were a chess game (and oh, that it were), Bush would play in the following method:

  1. Make an attack plan (He’d probably try the old worn out Scholar’s Mate), without giving thought to the opponent’s defense.
  2. Execute the attack plan.
  3. Ignore what the opponent is doing throughout the game and go ahead with the attack plan.
  4. When clear mistakes are made, continue with the attack plan.

The Bush administration seems to be incapable of such analytical thinking required by chess, much less required by war. Unfortunately, the pieces Bush is shuffling around live and breathe, as in Vonnegut’s short story “All the King’s Horses.”

Bush doesn’t seem to know he’s gotten the US in a no-win situation:

  • Postpone the election = cries of plans for on-going occupation
  • Let the elections continue = the mess we currently see

And the post-election reality doesn’t seem so bright either:

  • Withdraw troops = civil war in a matter of -weeks- days
  • Postpone the election = cries of plans for on-going occupation and increased “resistance”

Of course, it’s not as if people weren’t foreseeing this before the invasion. But Bush already had his mind up about

  • finding and destroying weapons of mass distruction;
  • bringing freedom and liberty to the oppressed Iraqi people;
  • shutting down Saddam’s terrorist support infastructure;
  • avenging the assination attempt on Daddy;
  • getting business for his buddies at Halliburton

and so no amount of reason could talk him out of it.

But you can’t reason with someone who has the mental ability of a turnip.

Nagging, er, Encouraging Kinga to Blog

Wednesday 26 January 2005

The original motivation behind this whole blog was the joke domain name, “matchingtracksuits.com.” The “matching” part implies not one author, but two.

That was the idea.

But my wife has been reticent to join me on this blogging adventure, and instead reads what I write behind my back.

The original motivation behind this post was to get readers to direct some encouraging words Kinga’s way. That was the idea.

I’ve been encouraging her to write a bit, if only to practice her written English. She seems hesitant to put her thoughts out for all to see (as if the Vast Hordes visit MTS).

Perhaps there’s a blogging gene and she’s missing it?

I have to admit — I do like this whole blogging thing. It’s a natural extension of my journal, which I’ve been keeping for years and years now. It just includes the added element of “audience.”

Yet, while I like it, it is getting a bit tiresome. The initial thrill must be wearing off. Unlike with various other addictions, I don’t foresee this resulting in heavier doses.

Perhaps some help would, well, help.

Perhaps that’s the real motivation behind nagging my wife about this. But maybe, perhaps, conceivably … there are those out there curious about the other tracksuit.

Classification

Tuesday 25 January 2005

At the end of each semester, all teachers meet in order to “discuss” the students’ results. Grades, in other words. After opening business, each homeroom teacher reads a summary of his/her students’ results.

All students names are read last name first. I get the feeling I’m in the military.

A model, using English names, would look something like this:

Number of students: 24. Number of students classified: 22. Two students, Jones Samuel and Nab Susan were not classified in mathematics due to [somewhat in-depth explanation]. Three students have been excused from participation in P.E., for medical reasons.

There were twenty students with no failing marks. There were three students with one failing mark. There was one student failing two subjets, and no students with three or more failing marks.

The students with the best results were Baker Joshua, with an average of 4.87; Anderson Tabitha, with an average of 4.68; Jackson Samuel, with an average of 4.66; Cole Brenda and Jones David, both with 4.45.

Grades in Polish are from 5 points, not 4.

Students with failing marks and/or the lowest average: Woolsey Katherine, 2.21, failing Polish and mathematics; Smith John, 2.33, failing mathematics; Kline Gregory, 2.35, failing mathematics; and Williams Derek, 2.44, failing German.

The class average with all obligatory courses is 3.24, and without the optional courses, 3.31.

Behavior grades are as follows: Three students received a grade of “model beahvior”: Baker Joshua, Anderson Tabitha, and Cole Brenda. There are five students with behavior graded “very good.” Fifteen students received a grade of “good.” One student received a mark of “correct,” Williams Derek.

And there you have it. For each of the thirteen classes, all this information was rattled off. Of the thirteen classes, I teach seven of them, but I was required to sit and listen about the six that I don’t teach. Nonsense.

Most amazing is the behavior grade. Each student gets a mark between “model” and “rebuked” (literal translation). All the other possibilities are mentioned above, with the exception of the next-to-worst grade, “inappropriate.” This behavior grade is put on students transcripts, to what ends, who knows?

Johnny

Sunday 23 January 2005

Johnny is only his latest alias. When I met him, he went by Abdul. For a while, our mutual friend insisted on calling him Albert. But Johnny is Janusz’s choice now.

My best friend in Poland, Johnny’s fate represents to me all that’s wrong with Poland today. Armed with a Master’s Degree in political science from Poland’s oldest and most respected university, he should have no problem getting a job in Poland’s EU-transitional reality.

He’s currently a concrete finisher in Liverpool. “The pay’s better than anything here,” he says with a smile, “And I sleep well at night.” With the opening of job market in Ireland and England (among a handful of other EU countries), Poles have been virtually stampeding out of the country. Ireland is an especially attrative country for Poles today, as an employment source and a model for how to integerate successfully into the EU. Literally whole families are picking up and moving to Ireland, running from 19+% unemployment and a political system so filled with corruption that it ranks first among EU countries in that regard.

Johnny’s returning to England in a few weeks. His plans are uncertain, other than squirreling a bit a way and working on his English.

It’s a shame, though, for Poland needs smart and honest young people now. During the small party after my and Kinga’s civil wedding, Kinga’s aunt was talking to Johnny and by the end of the evening was convinced that Johnny had to stay in Poland, get active in politics, and save the country.

Still, despite it all, Johnny’s optimistic about his country’s future. He recently bet a mutual friend a one-liter bottle of Jack Daniel’s that in four years, everything would have normalized noticably. “Normalized” was not really defined, but who cares — as I told Johnny, “If I happen to be in Poland then, I’ll be drinking with somebody!”

Comfort Food No. 1

Friday 21 January 2005

Quaker Instant Oatmeal, Apples and Cinnamon

Taste: artificially close to oatmeal.

Brings to mind:

  • Snow days
  • Picture day in junior high and worrying for the first time about your hair
  • Grocery shopping with Mom
  • Doing homework while eating breakfast
  • Heating water in a microwave oven

When removed from the box, the individual packets are also good as padding for Christmas packages sent from home.

I don’t know much about electricity and wiring

Wednesday 19 January 2005

but I’m pretty sure that strange things as were happening around here last night should not be happening.

I’d literally just finished complaining about the techno hell I was scheduled to endure and had gone over to C-Span to watch some more of the Rice confirmation hearings when suddenly the light on my desk went out and the icon indicating that my laptop had switched to battery power.

Frank made the comment that it could be due to the age of the building, speculating that it could have been pre-WW2 and originally unwired, then wired and re-wired. I’m not quite sure of the age of the original building itself, but it could very well have been pre-WW2. In 1999-2001, though, it was completely rebuilt. I don’t mean renovated, I mean rebuilt — all that’s left of the original building is the foundation and the outer walls. The floor Kinga and I live on was actually non-existent then, so everything here is about four years old.

Short-term power outages happen around here (super-rural Poland) semi-regularly, so I thought nothing of it. In fact, for the first time in my life, I was happy about the apparent blackout. “Peace!” I thought.  But the thum-thum-thum-th-th-thum-thum-thum was still going on downstairs.

And Senator Bidden (bless his compromising heart) was still making me smile via Real Player and the LAN router across the hall.

Intrigued, I tried the kitchen light. Nothing. Still further intrigued, I went out into the hall and tried the light switch there. “Ba-ba-ba-PING!” and the incandescent lights were on.

Odd.

As a side note, I will very irritatedly report that most of the students were not hooting and hollering but just sitting at the edge of the room — a typical dance. Why the music has to be so loud for that, I’ll never know.

I put on my coat and descended into Techno Hell. The teachers’ room there was without electricity, but the adjacent areas had power. In fact, as I left, I noticed that there were lights on almost throughout the school. Talking to the teachers there, I learned that they were just as confused about it as I was. No one knew what was going on.

Returning home, I decided to start cooking dinner by candlelight — a minor irritation, compounded by the bit of back luck that had given Techno Hell a different electrical fate than me. “Why oh why didn’t they lose power?” I muttered.

Then the fridge switched on and I thought I was saved.

I reached over to turn on the light — nothing. Fridge running, no light. I checked the lights in the living room. They worked. I went to the bedroom — nothing going. So then I did the only logical thing: I systematically went through the apartment switching on all the lights to see which power outlets were live and which were not.

The bizarre results:

  • The bedroom and bathroom were completely without power.
  • The living room was fine, even though one of the outlets was in the same wall as one of the dead outlets in the bedroom — directly opposite it, in fact. In theory, on the same line.
  • The main light in the kitchen didn’t work, but the small light above the sink did.

Now, as I said, I don’t know much about electrical wiring, but this seems pretty damn odd to me.

And it seems to indicate some pretty weird construction practices. When the maintenance man came, I stood talking to him for a moment with my neighbor, and I found out some even more bizarre info:

  • Most of the wiring for the upper floor where we live goes through a fuse box on that floor — which makes since.
  • Some of the lines run through another fuse box two floors below us.
  • My neighbor had power everywhere except where his fridge was plugged in.

“Who the hell thought up such a wiring plan?!” I wanted to scream/laugh, but I bit my tongue and thanked the maintenance man for his help.

An hour or so later, the power all came back on, but I’m still scratching my head over it.

That’s not the only example of weird wiring in Poland. The switches for most bathroom lights are outside the bathroom. You flip it on as you enter. In the first apartment I lived in, though, the lights were on the hinge side of the door, so if you forgot to turn on the light (which happened when I first arrived), it wasn’t just a matter of sticking your hand out the door. You had to go back out into the hall, close the bathroom door, and turn the light on…

Hootin’ ‘n’ Hollerin’ in Polish Schools

Wednesday 19 January 2005

We have an apartment above an elementary school. That’s living hell when they have school dances. They usually last from two in the afternoon until eight at night: the first two hours for the younger kids and the last four hours for the older elementary school students.

I remember the after-school dance I chaperoned while student teaching in a junior high school. It was an hour and a half.

Four hours seems a bit of an exaggeration.

Our apartment is one floor above the area where they dance, though not directly above it. The junior high kids who come in and serve as DJs turn the music up so loud that the floor of our apartment literally vibrates, and the you can hear the super-low-frequency bass tones reverberating throughout the whole apartment — walls, glasses, ceiling, everything shaking.

You never truly notice how repetitive techno music is until you can only hear the bass and drums. Then, “variation on a theme” seems to be too generous a description.

For an elementary school dance.

I asked one of the teachers if she didn’t think that was perhaps a bit too loud for such young ears.

“It could do serious, lasting damage,” I said.

“Yes, but if we didn’t play it so loud, they couldn’t hoot and holler as they like to do during dances,” was the response.

I’ll pause for a moment to let that one sink in.

All sorts of things were swirling in my mind, and the delicacy of the moment was highlighted by my lack of Polish fluency.

First reaction: “Hum, I always thought it was the teachers who ran a school.” Tactless no matter the level of fluency.

I settled for something along the lines of, “Well, why not simply tell the kids, ‘Look, it’s too loud. You’ll have to be quiet or you won’t hear the music,’ or, ‘This is as loud as we’ll play it. So if you don’t like it, you don’t have to come.'”

“We should,” she laughed.

But they won’t.

So here I sit, thirty-six minutes into a four-hour marathon of “thum-thum-thum-th-th-thum-thum-thum” techno hell.

Honest

Tuesday 18 January 2005

I recently told of an unexpected admission from students. “What to do!?” I ruminated.

“Why do you have to do anything at all?” my wife asked.

Because a teacher can’t just give some assignment, take it up, reprimand the students on it, then let it float of into oblivion. In the end, I’ll probably take the easy way out for myself: say, “I understand it this time, and won’t make you redo it, nor will I give you failing grades for the work turned in.” After all, less work for me.

But the desire for blood did rise again, the next lesson.

It’s a tough class, in other words.

I’ve always had a strange relationship with “tough” classes. At some point, I usually storm back to the teachers’ room saying, “I hate that class,” and then a few days later say, “That’s not just a bad class after all. I kind of like them, in fact.” By their final year, I often find myself liking those classes, usually because we’ve fought our way to a sort of equilibrium.

But it’s important to point out that the class does not represent the students. In a weird way that I never would have understood before being a teacher, a class is without a doubt much more than the sum of the students in it.

Some of the students in the class that so angered me are among my favorite students. (Yes, yes, teachers shouldn’t have favorites, but we’re only human.) Understand: they’re not my favorite students because they’re such hardworking angels. Indeed, often some of these favorites even contribute to the problem.

Classes simply have their own dynamic, independent of any given student in it. It’s frustrating, precisely because it’s somewhat uncontrollable.

There are checks and balances, but it remains out of the control of any one teacher.

It’s not mob psychology, in other words.

The End of [Herbert Armstrong’s] World

Sunday 16 January 2005

The end of the world came for Herbert Armstrong nineteen years ago today.

He’d been predicting the end of the world for some time, starting back in the thirties. World War Two, he declared, would end with “the Second Coming of Christ!” It ended with the Iron Curtain, but never mind.

He then updated his prediction: 1975. He even wrote a “book,” for lack of a better term, called 1975 in Prophecy. Once again, Jesus was late for his own party.

Armstrong, founder of the now-evangelical, then-cultic Worldwide Church of God, had a fondness for the number nineteen. It was somehow of some Biblical significance. “Nineteen-year time cycles” and such. So here it is, nineteen years after the end of his world, and we’re still bumbling along.

The fact that Armstrong never got it right, and in fact failed in two predictions of Jesus’ return (not to mention a host of other failed predictions), hasn’t killed the hydra of Armstrongism. There are still true believers out there, waiting eagerly for the end of the world that’s supposed to come any day now. Men like Roderick Meredith, Gerald Flurry, and David Pack make the most of them, convincing their followers (“sheep,” as they like to call them) to donate thousands of dollars to their sects in return for a guarantee of personal safety when “the Tribulation” begins in “five to fifteen years.”

The Philadelphia Church of God published a year ago its own thoughts about the legacy of Herbert Armstrong.

It’s been “five to fifteen years” for forty years. Armstrong’s been dead an entire “19-year time cycle.” But cultic thinking and the need for security create a seeming perpetual motion machine out of Herbert Armstrong’s teachings. The world is a better place without Armstrong, but his ignorance continue to haunt.

The question of just who Armstrong was used to haunt me a great deal. The question of identity was the question of sincerity. In other words, did he really believe his own heresy? In still other words, was he consciously fleecing his believers? This simple question — was he a True Believer — affects all other aspects of how we view him. It’s makes it a question of either being an uneducated but sincere man who got caught up in his own growing power and wealth, or being callously manipulative and evil.

Everyone who’s ever been affected by Armstrong and come to reject his heresy has to answer that question. I’m not sure I’ve worked out my own answer. I probably never will. Unfortunately, I’ll probably never stop trying to work it out — the obsession factor.

The legacy, if it can even be called that, of Armstrong is dying outside the circles of people who were directly affected by his heresy. Before he died, Armstrong managed to visit with all sorts of kings and dignitaries. Supporters say it’s because he was such a great, noble man; critics charge that he bought these audiences.

At his death, letters of condolence from leaders around the world:

Teddy Kollek, mayor of Jerusalem at the time, wrote, “One could only be deeply impressed by his vast efforts to promote understanding and peace among peoples. His good deeds were felt in many corners of the world.” The mayor of Pasadena called him “a giant of a man.” The Israeli ambassador to the U.S. called him “an inspiring religious and public and educational personality.” The king of Thailand considered him a “close and valuable friend.” The king of Nepal said he was “dedicated to the cause of serving humanity.” (Philadelphia Trumpet)

“He was a great man,” everyone in his church thought when he died, “And the whole world shares in our grief.” The letters from leaders (even Reagan sent a letter) were proof of Armstrong’s worldwide impact. They knew him; they met with him; they sought his advice — the world reeled from the loss.

And now? How many know of him? If I were to stand at a street corner and take a poll in downtown Manhattan, who would know whom I’m talking about?

Virtually none, I would imagine.

The day before

Friday 14 January 2005

The trouble with the day before is that no one knows he’s experiencing a “day before” until it becomes the day after.

Nineteen years ago it was a “day before” for about 100,000 people.

It was the day before the end of one man’s world.

Tomorrow, life starts again for thousands, but they don’t know it. Tomorrow, everything changes for the select few, but no one knows it. The changes are so sudden that it’s only in sum that they make any sense, make any difference.

God Holding His Breath on Borrowed Time

Thursday 13 January 2005

Until I noticed the reference to God being “blue.”

Thus I left things hanging.

Many words in Polish have dual meanings. Nothing new there — English is loaded with them, my students like to point out.

“Niebieski” in Polish is derived from the word “niebo,” which is “sky” or “heaven.” Immediately we get into trouble, because the sky is a physical, observable phenomenon, while heaven is, at best, theological conjecture.

With such a start, meanings can only slide into more silliness.

The ontological status of the meaning of “niebo” aside, it gets more confusing when we throw the adjectival form into the mix. As expected, “niebieski” means “heavenly.”

However, “niebieski,” as you first learn it in a Polish course, would be “blue.”

Hence, whenever I’m in Mass and hear that we should now direct our prayers “do niebieskiego ojca,” I can’t help but conjure up images of blue deities even though I know the priest is just telling us to direct our prayers to our “heavenly father.”

There are other slippery words in Polish.

“Pożyczyć” is undoubtedly my favorite. It means, “lend.”

And “borrow.”

[Short pause.]

Exactly.

At first, that seems like saying “xidhb” in some language means “black” and “white.” “Lend” and “borrow” have such intrinsically different, though related, meanings that it’s difficult to comprehend that a language exists that represents both ideas with the same word. But it’s really not that different: lending and borrowing both involve a temporary transaction of a given object, with the implicit understanding of said article’s eventual return.

What English throws into the mix is the ownership information. By using the word “borrow,” I make it clear, without any context, that I am lacking something. By using the word “lend,” though, I make it clear that I am the owner.

Ownership in “pożyczy” is, of course, differentiated; only it’s done grammatically.

  • “pożyczyć‡ komuś›” is lend. “Komuś›” is the dative case for “ktoś›,” which means “someone.” And dative case, for those who don’t know, is the case used in inflected languages to indicate the indirect article.
  • “pożyczyć od kogoś›” is borrow. “Od kogoś›” means “from someone,” which makes the direction of the transaction (and hence ownership) clear.

Beginning students (and, to my dismay, students with some experience with English) often confuse these two English words, and come up with, “Can you borrow me your pen for a moment?” or “I can borrow you this or that.”

More linguistic ambiguity:

  • The words for “lock,” “zipper,” and “castle” are all the same: zamek.
  • The words for “pigeon” and “dove” are the same, resulting in students coming up with an interesting construction: Pigeons of Peace.

But linguistic ambiguity is a two-way street, and soon I’ll delve into the wild world of “things that mess with Polish students’ heads.”

Honesty

Wednesday 12 January 2005

Sometimes students stop me dead in my lesson, and I stand there, unable to think what to do next. I’m not talking about “stupid” questions, or even behavior problems. Rather, I’m referring to that tendency all students have to say or ask something that just makes you reflect.

The other day I was fed up with a class and its behavior — not even putting forth the slightest effort in a group speaking activity.

Now, I know it’s artificial. I realize when I give them a task to do in English, they could accomplish it immediately in Polish. But as I ask them, “What for?” Usually they cooperate. Sometimes they don’t.

They other day, they didn’t.

In retaliation (and that’s really the right word, I think), I assigned them a lot of homework. Basically, they were to translate the entire text we were reading into Polish.

I got the expected response: a chorus of “Proszę pana!” (“Please, sir!”) I stood firm, though, and refused to relent. “The whole thing,” I told them.

As they were filing into the classroom the next day, I could sense something was up. Then one lad stomped in, flopped down in his chair, and gave me a glare. He violently opened his book bag, jerked his materials out, and slammed them on the desk.

He’s a theatrical boy, this lad (we’ll call him Maciej), and so I regularly would have paid no heed. But the general atmosphere in the class was, as I said, strange, so I had my guard up.

Roll checked, then my usual line: “Show me the homework,” in the silly way that Cuba Gooding, Jr. did, sort of, in Jerry Maguire. And so they start pulling out a typed translation — a first, to be honest.

They started handing it in, and it hit: it’s the same paper, photocopied twenty times.

“Michał, do you have your homework?” I ask one boy.

“No,” he said. Another in the back piped up, “He didn’t have the twenty groszy for copying.”

Shock — here they are, admitting it.

“What?”

“Yes, we copied it all, sir,” replied Boy in the Back Row.

Then Agata began to explain, “See, sir, we had a big test in math today, and we didn’t have any time to do the English homework. So Maciej typed it into the computer, ran it through a translator, and we all photocopied it.”

I glanced down at the work. “It’s the product of a computer translation, that’s for sure,” I thought

“We have homework in English every day,” Agata continued. “We don’t have many grades in math, and this was very important.”

“Maciej, how long did it take you to do this?” I asked.

“Two hours,” he grumbled.

“And the math test?”

“Pała,” he replied. I probably don’t need to translate that.

So where did it leave me?

The facts were simple:

  1. It was an unreasonable assignment, given in wrath, so to speak, rather than from some pedagogical motivation.
  2. They were honest about it.
  3. Their reason for not doing the assignment was fairly compelling.
  4. It didn’t seem fair to punish them, or even get angry.

I simply stood there, thinking, “What to do? What to do?” I wanted to be fair, but I also had to save face. With some classes, face and authority are equivocal for a high school teacher, so I had to strike a balance.

Frying Mr. Teddy

Tuesday 11 January 2005

Recently I mentioned the absurdity of the “Freedom Fries” wave sweeping across Patriotic Probably-Mostly-Republican America. Language is a living thing, and we can’t read current politics into a word’s etymology, I argued.

An amusing example of this in Polish: the word “pan.”

In modern usage, it has the meaning of “mister,” as in, “Mr. S” being “Pan S.” “Mrs.” is “Pani,” and on a side not, I know from an Indian friend that “pani” is Hindi for “water.”

Linguistic webs aside, “pan” would also be translated to French as “vous,” or to German as “Sie.” So when speaking to a stranger in Polish, you speak to them in third person singular out of respect. (Unless you live in the mountains down south and are speaking a dialect, and then it’s like French: second person plural.)

Armed with only this knowledge and some elementary Polish, you’ll be in for an amusing surprise when you go to Mass, because you’ll hear God referred to as “Pan Bóg.”

“Mr. God?” was my first surprised reaction.

More digging.

“Pan” also, and originally, means something like “master,” in the sort of 18th-century, English manor sense. So the patriotic Mickiewicz poem Pan Tadeusz wouldn’t be translated, as a Pole joked with me, “Mr. Teddy,” but rather, “Master Tad” (Source).

And so now “Pan Bóg” makes since: it’s simply “Lord,” or even “the Lord God.” When I learned all this, I stopped snickering under my breath whenever I rarely attended Mass with a friend.

Until I noticed the reference to God being “blue.”

Venerable Southern Institute

Monday 10 January 2005

Willful Expose mentioned recently that bastion of liberal education, Bob Jones University.

Ah, Bob Jones, where interracial dating was only recently permitted.

Well, Willful pointed out a lot of the absurdities of the regulations there. Some of my favorites:

  • Residence hall students may not watch videos above a G rating when visiting homes in town and may not attend movie theaters.
  • Contemporary Christian music is not permitted (e.g., Michael W. Smith, Stephen Curtis Chapman, WOW Worship, and so forth).
  • [Men’s] sideburns should not extend past the middle of the ear. Men are expected to remain clean-shaven.
  • All wireless access to the Internet is forbidden since all Internet use must go through the University’s filtered access.

Basically, as Willful pointed out, a barbed-wire fence.

In her original post, she failed to mention one regulation that best shows BJU’s southern mentality:

All weapons must be turned in for storage. Trigger locks are required for pistols. Fireworks are not permitted on campus. (Source) Guns are as intregal to the southern mentality as grits. While it’s completely “rational” to forbid dates without chaperones, trampling on Second Amendment rights is just out of the question. Why, there’s no amendment regardin’ the holdin’ a hands, but son, we gotta God given right — right, I say — to keep an’ bear arms.

The south is, after all, where you’re most likely to see gun racks and to have students miss school on the opening day of some given hunting season. So while parents are not likely to raise hell — Godly, Christian hell, but hell nonetheless — about little Jamie not being allowed to access the internet with his wireless modem, they just might when Bubba Jones says, “Now, ya’ll gotta leave them there Colts and Winchesters at home, y’hear?”