Category Archives: word tasting notes

chuckwagon

Ah, the Calgary Stampede. It has all the things that similar events from county fairs to the Canadian National Exhibition have: various booths set up selling souvenirs and household goods; music performances and variety shows, including dogs doing various clever things; and a midway, whereon, if you are not on one of the rides, you are most likely loading up with food from one of the many portable stands or tents. It might be something deep-fried, or it might be some cheap cut of beef… eat it out of a paper wrapper or off a plate and then chuck the remains in a garbage can.

But the Stampede also has rodeo events. One of its marquee events is the chuckwagon races. Not just any wagons, you understand: chuckwagons. So along with the lumbering, trundling sound of wagon, you get the wooden (woodchuck?), choppy sound of chuck. It has nothing to do with chukker, one of the periods of a polo game, even though chukker comes from Sanskrit for “wheel” and wagons have wheels. And there’s also nothing to do with the act of chucking. To the average Stampede-goer, the chuck in chuckwagon is sort of like Jack – it seems like some guy’s name used just as a meaningless intensifier or filler, or somehow just there and you don’t know why: as in jackknife and jackfruit, the chuck in chukwagon may seem to mean jack squat.

But if you watch the race, you might observe that before the wagons start to go, there are some guys who have to load up a bunch of stuff into the wagon at the beginning (I won’t say they chuck it in, because there’s a penalty for any bit that falls out) and then ride around the course with the wagon. What is that stuff? Well, it’s a tent with poles and a stove. Refugees from the midway? Nope, necessary accoutrements.

You see, a chuckwagon is – or, more generally, was – a food wagon, a chow cart. When you have people travelling, for instance cowboys out on the range, the job of feeding them is an important one, and the guy who drove the wagon with the stove and supplies was a pretty important dude. He would often fill other tasks as well, such as carrying the cash. (My wife tells me that in her days with travelling ice shows, the guy who ran the refreshment cart backstage was a similarly important figure.) The wagon he drove had a tent that would be set up on the end, and a stove that could be loaded and unloaded. And from there he would serve the cowboys their chuck.

So, yes, chuck meant food. And I’m just going to pretend you’re not thinking it got its name from being the reverse of upchuck. In fact, it most likely comes from chock, as in a lump or wedge of something (chocks are used to keep airplane wheels from rolling when the plane is parked, for instance). It may or may not have come by way of chuck meaning the cut of beef between the neck and the shoulder blade, which is modified from chock.

So the wagon with the chuck was the chuck wagon. Now it’s normally written closed up, chuckwagon. And while there are chuckwagon cook-off competitions, the chuckwagons used in the races are not chock full of food. More’s the pity – as already mentioned, the Stampede is a great place for fast food.

rodeo

Know what word’s most often seen out with rodeo?

Drive. By a country mile.

Now, if you’re thinking, “Wait, you don’t drive in a rodeo,” well, you’re right. You don’t. You shop. And not in. On. Rodeo Drive.

It’s in Beverly Hills.

They say it “ro-day-o.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Ain’t that the most citified, prettified thing? I mean, OK, yeah, the word rodeo comes from Spanish (from rodear, “go round” – as in “round up”), and in Spanish they pronounce it “ro-day-o.” But come on. Just try saying it that way in Calgary. Or, rather, don’t. It would be like going to the icefields and saying glacier like “gla-zeer.” It’s “roady-o.”

And most of the other things that go with rodeo go with the real kind of rodeo: clown, cowboy, rider, circuit, queen…

Kinda funny, isn’t it, that the one that sounds like road is the one that does not go with drive? But never you mind that. When you say it that way, it rhymes the /o/s, and it gives a kind of yodeling, coyote-howling sonority, a sound that you can hold on the end and trail off as your voice slides down into the gravel. And if it sounds like road, well, it sounds like rode, too, and that’s the past tense of ride, and that’s what you do in a rodeo: ride.

And how ’bout that drive? Well, you could have a cattle drive, that would be something. But most likely you’ll drive to get to the rodeo. Oh yeah, in a pickup truck, and the horse in a trailer, if you’re bringing one. And if you’re going to a great big rodeo like the one at the Calgary Stampede, well, you’re driving into the middle of a city of about a million people, and, y’know, things can get kinda prettified there, too, with those white hats and all that stuff.

But it’s still a “roady-o.” Don’t give me that “ro-day-o.” Not unless you’re singin’ that banana boat song. Or speakin’ Spanish. Y’hear?

yeehaw

There’s hardly a better way to say “Things are startin’ to get mighty western” than just to shout “Yeeeeehaww!” And such a good shout it is – it may be strongly reminiscent of the braying of a donkey, but that’s just because donkeys know about it too (but can’t quite get the start of it or the intonation right). Listen, pardner, it’s like one a them oil wells settin’ to blow a gusher an’ then doin’ it. You got the build-up, yee, with the pitch a-risin’ and the strain a-growin’, and then it just goes, haw, wide open as the Alberta prairie, fallin’ steeply like a plunge down the side of a foothill or a buffalo jump, echoin’ across the mountainside. Yep, ya jut yer jaw an’ then ya open yer mouth wide, like you’re darin’ a dentist to take a try. It’s just so much more primal than, say, exultemus.

Of course, though I got to know the term well enough when I was growing up in southern Alberta – especially around Stampede time – the term’s not from Alberta. Oh no, it’s from the States. And it’s from someplace even more western than Alberta. What’s more west than Alberta? Well, Hollywood, for one.

Yep, hate to break this to you, but cowboys of the 19th and early 20th centuries weren’t shouting yeehaw as they rode out after the cattle, and they weren’t shouting yeehaw at the square dance, either. Aside from possible occasions of some long-ago speaker ordering his team of horses to turn left (“Ye haw!” – “right-left” to a team of horses would be gee-haw, but there’s no apparent link with yeehaw), nobody was shouting yeehaw it until some guys in Hollywood invented it in the mid-20th century… just like the fast draw (yep, that too, invented by a Hollywood stuntman… at Knott’s Berry Farm, in fact).

There are a couple of places yeehaw is thought to have cropped up first. One is the 1948 John Wayne movie Red River – see the trailer at www.tcm.com/mediaroom/index/?cid=12520. You can hear the cowboys shouting, though none of them is really making a clear yeehaw. Another possible vector has been suggested by linguist Jonathan Lighter, who notes that when Speedy Gonzales – yes, that cartoon Mexican mouse – goes zipping down the road, along with andale and arriba and yip-a, he shouts yeehah. And Speedy Gonzales has been around since the 1950s, becoming really popular in the 1960s.

No doubt various other popular entertainments jumped on the chuckwagon, I mean bandwagon, as well. I think most of my exposure to yeehaw has been on TV shows. But no matter how you get around it, it’s an entertainment word – came from entertainment, which is always self-conscious, and has passed into culture as a self-conscious westernism. And often enough now as a sarcastic expression feigning enthusiasm (and meaning “ho-hum”): “Well, yee-haw.”

lasso

Have you seen that lass, Sue?
That lass who lassoed you?
Lassoed you with her leather and her lace?
The lace that laced her bodice,
And, just ’cuz she was modest,
That lace that hid her pretty little face?

Oh, I’ve seen her, alright –
I saw her just last night,
After a hard day riding on the range.
I was lassoing and roping,
And came back really hoping,
But I found that she was acting kinda strange.

Oh, I hugged her and I kissed her,
And told her that I missed her,
And said I’d go and lasso up some chow,
But she said she’d be alright,
And then she said good night,
And that she felt real tired anyhow.

I said it was a loss,
And I was feeling kind of cross,
But then I heard a noise under the bed.
I looked and saw a man,
And said, “Come out if you can,”
And then I shot that rascal in the head.

So now I’m on the run –
Shoulda used my rope, not gun,
But hindsight, as they say, is no damn use.
The sheriff’s on my tail,
So I’d better hit the trail
’Fore lace and lasso lead me to a noose.

Ah, yep, the old west, where men rode hard with their lassos, and the lasses who lived in the towns snared them with their lace and their laces. But lasso and lace will always lead you to a noose. And that’s not some moralism: it’s etymology.

I won’t keep you in suspense. Lasso comes from Spanish lazo, which, like the word lace, comes from Old French laz, which comes (probably by way of an intermediate lacium) from Latin laqueum, which means “noose”. The connection? Well, it should be obvious enough for lasso, which is a kind of noose you throw. For lace, the kind that’s on your shoes came first, with its loops; the decorative kind with many tiny loops came after. So that rough-and-rugged cowboy tool and that soft feminine accoutrement both use words derived from a word for a rope loop – of the kind that can keep you in a most unpleasant suspense.

The shift from a “lass-oh” pronunciation to a “lass-oo” pronunciation came in the US. The British kept saying it the older way until well into the 20th century. Why did the American cowboys change it to “lass-oo“? Well, I don’t rightly know, but I am entertained by the (probably not accurate) notion that that way of saying it is more like the act of using one: the “lass” like the hissing sound it makes swinging near your ear, and the “oo” like throwing it – we know that that “oo” sound has a certain ballistic flavour, and putting the stress on it matches its being the main muscle thrust and the point of the action. Certainly the American way lends itself better to being shouted.

Also, the British way of saying it makes it identical to the last name of the Renaissance composer Orlando di Lasso. And since, as we know, cowboys like to talk about Renassiance madrigals, there was a real risk of confusion.

Well, come on. We know they like poetry, anyway. Is it really such a stretch?

rambutan

Oh, what an impressive-looking word this is. If you meet it never having seen it before, perhaps mentioned on a menu in a Vietnamese restaurant, you may imagine a sound like a taiko drum: a roll into a loud ram, off-beat bu, and sharper tan echoing away. Something aggressive like labdanum!

But if you look it up, you’ll find that the stress is on the second syllable. Well, that changes a lot, especially when you recognize that the last syllable is reduced in English to be like the end of tootin’. But you still have something that sounds like “ram boot in” (or, really, “ram bootin'”) – or, in England, “ram beaut in” – with that ram and, if you say it that way, the kicking sense of boot.

But actually, there’s nothing particularly rammish about a rambutan, nor any bootlikeness. And most people wouldn’t say it’s a beaut. Rather, try the echo of Rasputin (the common anglicized pronunciation). One thing you very likely know about Grigori Rasputin, if you know anything, is that he was hairy. And rambut, as it happens, is Malay for “hair”. In fact, rambutan is Malay for “hairy”. But a rambutan is not a hairy person. Rather, it’s a hairy fruit.

You might have seen them in an East Asian grocery store, perhaps. They’re related to lychees. They’re a couple of inches wide, they’re red, and they’re hairy. (There are also slightly smaller yellow ones.) Not exactly a thunderous, massive, hard, or imposing sight.

But they are a striking sight. They’re red, after all, and they have wild red hair, all around, like bedhead with gel: the hairs are thick ones. They’re reminiscent of Animal from the Muppet Show. You know, the crazy drummer with the wild red hair? Come to think of it, rambutan sounds like one of his crazed utterances – or perhaps even a riff on his drums.

elfin

It’s interesting, really, how a small change in sound can make a large change in meaning. Consider what you would think if I were to say “She had an elfin look.” Now consider what you would think if I were to say “She had an elephant look.” (You might think “Look where?”)

Really, although the spelling of the two words is a bit more different, there’s really no more than a /t/ at the end and an almost-not-there vowel after the /l/ to distinguish them. Well, of course, that vowel also makes a difference in the quality of the /l/ – say the words at normal speed and you’ll see: in elephant the /l/ touches with the tip of the tongue, while the back is not much raised, whereas in elfin the tongue most likely doesn’t touch the tip but it does raise the back. Another effect this has is to make the /f/ feel more like it’s part of the first syllable – as though it’s a snip out of don’t get yourself in trouble.

Well, anyway, this is a compact word with some spindly letters, and that matches two things elves are often thought of as being: spindly – though fat elves have been imagined (Clement Clarke Moore, in his famous poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” a.k.a. “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” calls St. Nick “a right jolly old elf”) – and small. But even apart from Moore’s St. Nick, there has been a trend in envisioning elves as larger types, thanks in large part to J.R.R. Tolkien, whose elves are a long-lived, long and lean humanoid race, suitable for portrayal by Orlando Bloom and Cate Blanchett (man, if there’s not something for you in those two, I don’t know what-all). The result is a bifurcation, as people who aren’t fantasy geeks probably think of Santa’s elves and Disney’s elves, invariably small and with matching voices, while the Tolkien-influenced are more likely to think of them as larger and elegant.

But small or tall, elves have a look, and that look involves angularity of ears, eyes, cheekbones… Call someone elfin and it likely means they have that kind of angular look, perhaps with a bit of impishness and probably a low body-mass index.

Elves also have a certain modus operandi, and that involves sprightliness and spritelikeness, a kind of mischievousness that is a step above kittenishness. All of these qualities would seem to go better with elven than with elfin, given the angularity and vibrancy of the v; the effect of the f is a softening of sound and a featherlike flip of a letter, adding a lesser threat and perhaps greater femininity (ironic if so, since elven was originally the female of elf).

The one thing that is sure about elfin is that it conveys a taste of magic. After all, it can make an elephant disappear with just a slight change in sound… and it can come and go as it pleases: no need to make itself invisible; it can merely switch to Spanish and that’s the end of it: el fin.

Thanks to Elaine Phillips for suggesting elfin.
And thanks to all who send in suggestions. If I haven’t gotten to yours yet, don’t worry, it’s in the queue – I have a backup of several dozen, and of course I like to pick one I have an idea for each day.

illeist

Marcus Brattle, my (de)mentee, is at that impressionable, mercurial, protean age where nearly every meeting is a manifestation of some new bent. The latest is hip-hop and dancehall, which sits a bit oddly on his British-accented tongue. At our most recent meeting, as he slouched up to the dining room table in his house wearing an exceedingly baggy T-shirt and idiotically baggy pair of pants, plus a backwards ball cap with – um, yes, I think it indeed is – fake cornrows dangling from it, I had cause to remind myself of the merits of how much his mother is paying me and how good her espresso is.

“Yo yo yo, de Mar-cuss is here.” He flopped down and started rapping through a bit of “Eye Deh A Mi Knee” by Sean Paul: “We keep drilling it and we keep filling it and all this time say we never put a pill in it. The gal them say them love how we still in it, we free willin’ it and we know we can’t stop killin’ it… Ever thrillin’ it, we value and we illin’ it and from we deh ’bout inna them life nothing ill in it…”

“De Mar-cuss has evidently been practising,” I observed drily.

“De Mar-cuss is ill at it. Now he be illin’ it. De Mar-cuss is licensed to ill.”

Cute. A Beastie Boys reference. “De Mar-cuss is certainly a beastly boy,” I said. “He is also become an illeist, I see.”

“De Mar-cuss is de illest!”

“Not illest,” I said. “Illeist. Rhymes with silliest. Resembles it too.” I had a sip of espresso.

Marcus looked at me warily. “Yo, what dat, yo?”

“It’s not yo, and it’s not you. More to the point, it’s not I, it’s he. An illeist is someone who refers to himself – or herself, though guys seem more prone to it in my experience – in the third person. Like Bob Dole, who always said ‘Bob Dole will do this’ and ‘Bob Dole believes that.'”

“Who’s Bob Dole?”

Pause. Mental readjustment on my part. “A guy who ran for president of the US before you were born. Never mind. …It comes from Latin ille, meaning ‘he’. It’s constructed in contrast with egoist, which is formed on ego, meaning ‘I’. It’s a bit ironic, because illeists tend to be egoists, I find.”

“Yo, it sounds important. It sounds famous.”

“It sounds like Bucky Katt from the comic strip Get Fuzzy.”

“Ouch.”

“I actually like that Latin word ille, though,” I said. “The shape of it makes me think of my hair standing on end when I hear an illeist. And if you say it in the proper Latin way, it has a luscious double l – ‘eel lay’.”

“An eel lay? Oh, that’s ill, man.”

“Well, never mind, in English it’s said like ‘illy’.” I knocked back the rest of my espresso.

Marcus smirked. “I have news for you,” he said, back in his usual dialect. “I’m not the illeist. You are.”

I cocked my head skeptically. “How so?”

“That espresso of which you’re so fond. What brand did you think it is?” He gestured towards the kitchen, wherein I could see a can of Illy espresso. “That makes you the Illy-ist.” He launched into a bit of the Beastie Boys: “But I’m chiller with the Miller – cold coolin’ at the bar. I can drink a quart of Monkey and still stand still. What’s the time? – it’s time to get ill.”

I stared at my empty cup. “It is indeed.”

infrared

When I was young, I would on occasion see this word, pretty much always in the phrase infrared light. I had the sense that it was a special kind of light that one couldn’t see – light that permeated the dark, even. My feeling of this word was certainly conditioned by how I assumed it was pronounced: as in plus frared, the latter rhyming with flared. It sounded clandestine and hot, and perhaps in some way impaired. Its /r_rd/ had a dark massiveness that reared and roared, the mouth starting pursed, then opening briefly and returning to pursed, like a flash of a searchlight or a glimpse of a star.

And I actually heard of, and knew, infra-red for some time before I realized that this infrared was in fact infra-red written without the hyphen! (How infra dig.) Indeed, the hyphenless spelling generated more heat than light. It was also somewhere around that time that I came to understand that infrared (“below red” – infra being Latin for “below” and red being English for “red”) made a pair with ultraviolet (ultra being Latin for “beyond”).

Indeed, perhaps I should have inferred it sooner. Naturally, the different pronunciation comes with a different feel. It has two syllables in a row with /r/ in the onset, which puts it in the company of such as rarity and rural – but with the /f/ before the /r/ it may be a bit easier to say than rural, since the /r/ after the /f/ can be reduced. As well, the middle syllable is the unstressed one. And it has three short bumps rather than a bump and a flare.

So there is more to this word than meets the eye. And indeed one ought to be careful not to infer too much from the infra. It may be below the visible spectrum, but it’s not a minor thing. You can find it all over the place; it’s anything but rare. You’re emitting it right now. So is the sun; in fact, the majority of the solar radiation that hits the earth is infrared. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. Now, certainly, visible and ultraviolet light also produce heat, but at least visible light generates, for our eyes, more light than heat. But all things that emit heat emit light (in the broad sense referring to all electromagnetic radiation, visible or not) – it just happens that most of the time that light is infrared.

Imagine if we could see infrared with our eyes. No human could lurk in the darkness unseen. We would have an even more clearly defined dichotomy between warm things and cold things. Sunlight would be much brighter. Fevers would be obvious, stoves hard to look at; restaurant servers and coffee cups wouldn’t need to warn you of the heat. And a worthless blaze would be less likely said to give, as Polonius (in Hamlet) says, “more light than heat,” since more heat would of course mean more light.

indigenous

This word stays right at the tip of the tongue: nasal /n/, stop /d/, affricate /dZ/, nasal /n/, fricative /s/. Ironic, really, for a word that signifies rootedness.

But it has assorted echoes and overtones that are quite suitable. For instance, igneous, which names a type of rock that has sprung new from the heart of the earth: molten, flowing like the river of life, and then settling and solidifying and becoming a durable part of the ground of its particular place.

And Indian, a term often used for the indigenous peoples of the Americas. They got it, of course, by misapplication from European invaders who at first thought they had arrived in India. The people of India in turn got the name from the river they were on the far side of (from the European perspective), the Indus – the name of which actually comes (altered) from Sanskrit for “river”. Indigenous, on the other hand, comes from Latin meaning “in-born” – as in born in the place. At base, indigenous means simply “native” – as in “born there” – though of course it tends to be used to mean “native” as in “belonging to an aboriginal people”.

Indigenous also has some taste of indignity. In fact, it has gained a considerable popular connotation of having suffered indignities and worse. The various excursions of colonialism and imperialism saw invaders from countries such as England, France, and Spain (just for example) subjugating the indigenous people of the lands they landed on and visiting all sorts of indignities on them as they stripped them of their lands, indignities that continue to have repercussions.

It’s no wonder that if one refers to the indigenous people of a given place, it tends to carry an assumption of disadvantage, since indigenous is used almost exclusively in reference to the victims of colonialism and imperialism. We see this attested in many of the most common collocations – and in the images they tend to bring to mind: indigenous peoples, indigenous culture, indigenous rights, indigenous knowledge, indigenous traditions… Oh, yes, knowledge and traditions: those rooted in the soil are often seen as having deep, true wisdom and authentic traditions. Which of course also carries implications about those not rooted in the soil.

And did you notice that indigenous also sounds a bit like and did you know? As in “And did you know that Japan also has an indigenous people?” And “Did you know that Scandinavia has an indigenous people?” And here is where we start to run into the problems with the assumptions that can be carried unstated with indigenous, and why it is much wiser to say disadvantaged when you mean “disadvantaged” and to leave indigenous to mean only “native to the location” without carrying assumptions about sociopolitical status or experience, value judgements (e.g., moral high or low ground), assumptions about wisdom or authenticity, or whatever else one may want to load unspoken on the back of this word. Allow to me look at some examples of indigenous peoples to sort out what I mean.

Let us start with Japan. Japan has an indigenous people, the Ainu, who were in north and central Japan (especially Hokkaido) before the Japanese arrived there, and who were, starting in the middle of the 19th century, subject to a policy of assimilation, which led to considerable loss of culture – and very substantial intermarriage. But, now, how about those Japanese people who assimilated the Ainus’ lands into their country? Well, current thought is that they are descended from the merger of two peoples, the Jomon, who were the first occupants of the southern part of the Japanese islands, and the Yayoi, who immigrated. (This would make them somewhat like the present-day English, who have both Germanic [immigrant] and Celtic [indigenous] ancestry, though the immigrant Germanic has prevailed linguistically.) So in fact the Japanese have some claim to indigenousness in the south of Japan. And they certainly have a strong cultural sense of belonging. But the Japanese are not disadvantaged and so have none of the pull of the underdog. If someone talks about “Japan’s indigenous people,” the odds are very high that they are meaning to say “Japan’s disadvantaged indigenous people of Hokkaido” – as though lack of disadvantage means lack of indigenousness. Yet Japan also has a disadvantaged group of people who are in fact ethnically Japanese: the burakumin. Are they less disadvantaged for not being ethnically different? No, they are not.

In northern Scandinavia, there is also a disadvantaged indigenous culture: the Saami (also spelled Sami or Sámi). You may have heard them called Lapplanders, but this is not their own word and it’s not all that well liked by them. The Saami, traditionally, are reindeer herders, and the nature of their cultural circumstances led to some resemblance to Plains Indians (e.g., Sioux tribes – Dakota, Lakota, Nakoda) in some ways: their dwellings looked like tipis, for instance (I use the past tense because generally they live in houses now, which should not be surprising), and some of their artistic output is similar, too (I recommend giving Mari Boine and some yoiks a listen to see what I mean).

But while there are cultural differences between them and other Scandinavians, they don’t actually look different. That, however, has not spared them bad treatment. And who has treated them badly, historically? Other Scandinavians – on the one hand, Finns, and on the other, Norwegians and Swedes (oh, and on the third hand, northern Russians). But here again we have the problem that the Finns have been in their part of Scandinavia quite possibly for as long as the Saami were in their part – since the last ice age. And the Norwegians are indigenous to parts of Scandinavia too, though they may only have been there for a couple of millennia. And they are not indigenous to the parts the Saami are indigenous to – and in their national dominance they haven’t always been very nice to the Saami, either.

You will see that when it comes to who’s indigenous, it’s more a question of who was there first rather than how long they were there. For instance, the Maori are the indigenous people of New Zealand. But the Maori have themselves only been in New Zealand for less than a millennium. (Nor do they have a cultural tradition of having always been there; rather, there is a knowledge of having arrived there in canoes.) Before they were there there were indigenous fauna and flora (some of which are now extinct due to human activity). But the Maori are the indigenous people; they were the first people there. And, yes, they certainly were overrun by the British Empire, with all that comes with that.

Now let me ask you: Who is indigenous in South Africa? Well, not Europeans, we know that (though it’s very important for some parts of the white population that they are descended from the first whites who got there, just as it’s important for some in my own family to have been descended from people who arrived on the first boats from Europe to America and from people who fought for American independence). But not all African people are the same, either.

The first people living where South African now is were the Khoi and San, the “Bushmen” and “Hottentots.” They’re still there, of course. About 1500 years ago, other African peoples from the north (often called Bantu as a group, from which came the Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, and others) arrived and colonized and grew their own empire. The Zulu empire was not an indigenous empire; they had come from elsewhere on the continent, though there was considerable intermarriage with the indigenous peoples (and some marked linguistic influence). But of course when the Europeans arrived, the Zulu were in turn defeated and subjugated. But does it make it more excusable since they weren’t indigenous? Were they less subjugated, or are they less authentic? Or have they become indigenous because from the European perspective they were “the natives” (you know, “the natives are restless”)? …Or should we be loading all this on the word indigenous? Would it not be better to examine issues directly and name them explicitly? Say that people A were conquered and subjugated by people B? Say that in the modern society of country X, people A are at a disadvantage simply by fact of belonging to people A?

It’s not simply that the assumptions many people carry with indigenous imply that colonial peoples are rootless and without valid traditions or homelands, or that it is the way of the world that people who belong to a place will be subjugated by people who come from elsewhere. It’s also the implication that there is something inherently superior to being there first. Such an implication would make slaves stolen from other parts of the world less deserving than the people who stole them and took them to their homelands. Such implications have also fuelled aggression and hostility. There are certainly places in the world where people have fought long and viciously over who was there first.

And even the linking of indigenousness to subjugation has its dangers. Consider a country that found itself in economic dire straits. Some among its indigenous people chose to blame some other people who also lived in the country – and had for centuries, but were not indigenous. They claimed that these “interlopers” were controlling their economy and subjugating them, and that the way to return to dignity was to purge themselves of them and return to the purity of the sons of the land. Well, we know what happened when that idea took hold of the country – I’m talking about the Nazis in Germany and their persecution of the Jews.

It’s very obvious that the case in Germany was vastly different from the case with colonized peoples such as Canada’s First Nations, or other disadvantaged indigenous peoples such as the Saami, or even disadvantaged non-indigenous people, even if they happen to “run the country”, as in Haiti. But the point I wish to make is that these different cases need to be looked at, and referred to, on the basis of what’s really going on: domination, subjugation, assimilation, slavery… The question of indigenousness is a dimension that should be named and addressed on its own and not be made to carry assumptions and implications. Remember, too: what is at one time an unstated assumption can easily become not just unstated but forgotten at another time. We have the words to speak clearly; let us use them.

This is, admittedly, more of a soapbox than I usually climb onto with my word tasting notes. And let me be clear: I grew up on an Indian Reserve, though I am of European descent (my parents worked for the tribe), and I have a very clear sense of what has often befallen indigenous peoples who have not managed to fight off invaders. (So, for that matter, do the Irish, for instance, who are also an indigenous people subjugated by the English – but those Irish who came to Canada became part of the colonizers.) I am not trying to erase anything. Just the opposite. I am saying we should name it. Be clear. And be careful about the implications and assumptions we make.

Indigenous also carries echoes in its sounds of ingenious, ingenuous, and ignorant. Let us try to be the first of these and not the second or third.

gowpen

There’s something big, I feel, in gow. It seems more than enow. It may be that I am put in mind of gaur, a big bovine, or cow, or maybe gabhar (pronounced “gower”), Irish for “goat”. The voiced stop at the beginning adds a sense of weight and bluntness, as does the rounded back vowel. As to the pen (which is said with a schwa), it holds a taste of open, and also suggests an enclosure – for your cow, gaur, or goat. And perhaps it follows from pasture to table; the word also gives a taste of gulping.

Well, it’s a handful. Actually, it’s two hands full. I mean this: this word has nothing specific to do with bovines or pens, but it does come with volume, and openness (at the top and enclosure on the bottom), and roundness, and plenitude. Cup your two hands together as though to scoop water or receive loose grains, and you have a gowpen – and the amount contained by a gowpen is also a gowpen. So the ow is fitting: not just in its roundness and largeness (both phonaesthetically and in the actual mouth gesture of saying it) but in the o as the hands seen from above and the w as portraying two hands side by side.

We don’t use this word much anymore, provided by we is not meant Scottish people. Not that the Scots use it a lot, but if you want it, that’s where to get it (if you happened to work for a miller, it was your perquisite, in fact). Sir Walter Scott certainly used the word. It’s not from the Gaelic, though; it comes from Old Norse. The word gaupn originally meant just one cupped hand, and in the plural two; now it’s a singular meaning two.

I do think this is a definition that has long wanted a word – and had one without most people knowing it. We generally make do with cupped hands. Not that we use cupped hands so much anymore; for many in our society now, the gesture is emblematic not of plenitude but of the gesture of some emaciated beggar or famine victim who has not even a bowl. It is also how we hold some almost unbearably cute little animal, be it bird, kitten, marmoset, or whatnot. But to lift a gowpen or water or of meal – well, we don’t have too many gowpen gourmets.

Thanks to a commenter who goes by “Upstarter” for suggesting gowpen.