Language Trainers Blog

When an advertising slogan becomes part of daily speech, it means their creators have succeeded.

The Dutch use the following phrase when a problem occurs: ‘Even Apeldoorn Bellen’, which, according to what I was told, can be translated as ‘Let’s call Apeldoorn’. Apeldoorn is a place famous for its insurance companies, and there have been some advertising campaigns for a company which used this slogan. Here’s one of them.

I think a good, functional translation to English could be ‘Houston, we have a problem’; both have been taken by people to mean the same thing; the former from a TV advert, the latter from a movie.

Rules or risks? Learning a foreign language is just one form of learning in general; therefore, each individual will employ the approach that he or she usually applies to other learning situations.

When it comes to foreign languages, one kind of learner prefers a highly structured approach, with plenty of explanations in the mother tongue, graded exercises, constant correction, and careful, airtight rules of formulation. This type of learner is generally very analytical, reflective, and reluctant to say anything in the foreign language that is not grammatically perfect. This person is a rule learner.

A second type of learner relies more on intuition, the gathering of examples, and imitation. He or she is willing to take risks, and is not afraid to make errors in the target language, in the hope that they will be corrected at some point down the line. Such people have become known to me as language disciples - following the language and learning as they go instead of ingesting it in bite-size chunks.

There is no evidence that one type of learner is more successful than the other. What is more important is that the learner’s style is appropriate to the particular task. If the task is to communicate orally in a real-life situation, then risk-taking would be the more efficient path to your goal. If the task is to say or write something correctly, then the rules should be consulted.

It is helpful for each learner’s preferences to be accommodated in the classroom. You may thus wish to examine your own preferences and communicate them to your teacher. For instance, if you feel that you need rules and regulation, you may be a little uncomfortable in a classroom dedicated to imitation and repetition of dialogue, and you might want to ask the teacher for further explanation. If, on the other hand, you feel that you learn more from being exposed to the language and from making your own inferences, you may feel ill at ease in a classroom where the teacher takes time painstakingly explaining the new grammar in your native language, and you would do well to ask the teacher for more practice in speaking.

Some of the most fascinating examples of similarities and differences between languages are found in idioms and set expressions. Language learners are often surprised when a rather unusual expression has a word-for-word equivalent in another language. Just as often, they may be surprised to find that an expression does not have an equivalent in another language or that the equivalent differs in some ways.

Here are some expressions that rather unexpectedly have very similar equivalents in English, Spanish, and Russian – three languages that, although related, are quite far removed in most ways:

English: to shed crocodile tears
Russian: lit’ krokodilovy slyozy
Meaning: to pretend to cry in order to gain sympathy

English: to hit the ceiling
Spanish: tocar el cielo con las manos (literally “to take the sky in one’s hands”)
Meaning: to reach the limit; usually of your patience

English: to know something inside out
Russian: znat’ vdol’ I poperyok (literally “to know something lengthwise and crosswise”)
Meaning: to know something very well

English: to have nine lives
Spanish: tener siete vidas (literally “to have seven lives”)
Russian: dvuzhil’niy (literally “one with two lives”)
Meaning: to be good at avoiding death/danger

English: “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”
Russian: “v Tulu so svoim samovarom ne ezdyat” (literally “don’t go to Tula with your own samovar”).
Meaning: When visiting a strange place, it’s best to follow the lead of the locals

On the other hand, there are no equivalents in English for the following Spanish idioms - see if you can guess what they mean from their literal translation:

cara de viernes (literally “Friday face”) :: a thin, wan face
decir cuatro verdades (literally “to tell four truths”) :: to speak one’s mind freely
saber más que las culebras (literally “to know more than the snakes”) :: to be cunning

At the same time, no language seems to have a word for word equivalent for the English expression “to go bananas” - although there is always a way to express the concept of craziness, no other language seems to use a fruit to draw the comparison between sanity and ‘going a little bit nuts’ (or perhaps in this case, a little ‘fruity’).

Words having to do with anatomy and sex – and words even vaguely suggesting anatomical or sexual matters – have, especially in American culture, remarkable affective connotations.

Ladies of the last century could not bring themselves to say “breast” or “leg” – not even when speaking about chicken - so the terms “white meat” and “dark meat” were substituted. It was thought inelegant to speak of “going to bed”, and “to retire” was coined instead. In rural America there are many euphemisms for the word “bull”; among them are “he-cow”, “cow critter”, “male cow”, and even “gentleman cow”.

But Americans are not alone in their delicacy about such matters. When D. H. Lawrence’s first novel, The White Peacock (1911) was published, the author was widely and vigorously criticised for having used (in innocuous context) the word “stallion”. In a 1962 presentation of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Carousel in front of the British Royal Family, “Our hearts are warm, our bellies are full” was changed to “Our hearts are warm and we are full”.

These verbal taboos, though sometimes amusing, also produce serious problems, since they prevent frank discussion of sexual matters. Social workers report that young people of junior high school and high school age who contract venereal disease, become pregnant out of wedlock, and get into other serious trouble of this kind, are almost always profoundly ignorant of the most elementary facts about sex and procreation. Their ignorance is apparently due to the fact that neither they nor their parents have a vocabulary in which to discuss such matters: the non-technical vocabulary of sex is too coarse and shocking to be used, whilst the technical, medical vocabulary is unknown to them. The social workers find, therefore, that the first step in helping these young people is usually linguistic: they have to be taught a vocabulary in which they can talk about their problems before they can be helped further.

In every language, there seems to be certain “unmentionables” – words of such strong affective connotations that they cannot be utilised during polite discourse. In English, the first of these that come to mind are, of course, words dealing with excretion and sex. We ask movie ushers and petrol station attendants where the “lounge” or “rest room” is, although we usually have no intention of lounging or resting. “Powder room” is another euphemism for the same facility, also known as a “toilet”, which itself is an earlier euphemism.

Indeed, it is impossible in polite society to state, without having to resort to baby-talk or a medical vocabulary, your true purpose for needing to use the “rest room” (it’s not where you “wash your hands”).

Money is another subject about which communication is in some ways inhibited. It is all right to mention sums of money, such as “ten thousand dollars” or “two dollars and fifty cents”. But it is considered bad taste to inquire directly into other people’s financial affairs, unless such an inquiry is necessary in the course of business. When creditors send bills, they practically never mention money, although that is, of course, what they are writing about. There are many circumlocutions: “We beg to call your attention to what might be an oversight on your part”; “We would appreciate your early attention to this matter”; “May we look forward to an early remittance”…

The fear of death carries over, quite understandably in view of the widespread confusion of symbols with the concepts they symbolise, into fear of the words having to do with death. Many people, therefore, instead of saying “died”, substitute such euphemistic expressions as “passed away”, “gone to meet his maker”, “departed”, and “gone west”. In Japanese, the word for death, “shi”, happens to have the same pronunciation as the word for the number four. This coincidence results in many linguistically awkward situations, since people generally avoid “shi” in the discussion of numbers and prices, and use “yon”, a word of different origin, instead.

The affective connotations of a word can best be described as the aura of personal feelings surrounding said word. While there is no necessary agreement about how or what each word emotes, it is the existence of these feelings that enables us to use words, under certain circumstances, for their affective connotations alone, without regard to their informative connotations.

That is to say, when we are strongly moved, we express our feelings by uttering words with their affective connotations appropriate to our feelings, without paying attention to the literal repercussions they may have. In anger, we might call people dirty rats, vultures, and skunks, or alternatively lovingly call someone honey, sugar, duckie or sweetie pie. Indeed, all verbal expressions of feeling make use of the affective connotations of words to some extent.

All words have, according to the usage, some affective character. There are many words that exist more for their affective value than for their informative value: for example, we can refer to ‘that man’ as ‘that gentleman‘, ‘that individual‘, ‘that person‘, ‘that gent‘, ‘that guy‘, ‘that bloke‘, ‘that hombre‘, etc. While the person in question may be the same in all of these cases, each of these terms reveals a difference in our feelings toward him.

Dealers of knick-knacks can be found to write ‘Gyfte Shoppe‘ over the door, hoping that such a spelling carries, even if their merchandise does not, the flavour of antiquity. Affective connotations suggestive of England and Scotland are often sought in the choice of brand names for men’s suits and overcoats to imply style and sophistication: ‘Glenmoor‘. ‘Regent Park‘, ‘Bond Street‘. Sellers of perfume choose names for their products that suggest France for the traditional romantic element: ‘Mon Désir‘, ‘Indiscret‘, ‘Evening in Paris‘ - and expensive brands always come in ‘flacons‘, never bottles.

In your quest to make others take your stance on issues seriously, it’s very easy to fall into the pitfalls known as logical fallacies, errors in logic that stand only to weaken your argument. The term ‘logical fallacy’ indicates a contradiction: while it may seem logical upon first hearing, after close examination it is anything but.

Instead of offering valid reasons to support your viewpoints, fallacies are evidence of unclear, incomplete and over-simplistic thinking. Although often unintentional, sometimes fallacies are used on purpose as a way to deceive people. Many advertisements, commercials, and politicians are renowned for using this tactic. For example, “miracle weight loss” programmes and products use logical fallacies in their marketing when they consistently link weight loss with beauty, popularity and wealth.

In his famous “Checkers Speech”, the late President Richard Nixon argued (or at least, tried to argue) that he did not accept illegal campaign contributions by announcing that he was a family man, that his wife wore a plain cloth coat (as opposed to an expensive fur coat), and he and his whole family loved his dog, Checkers.

These are many types of fallacies, so here are some examples to keep you on your toes:

Loose generalization
“Blondes have more fun”.

Hasty generalization
“Asian students are the best at mathematics”.

Cause/effect
“Ours is not a wealthy neighbourhood, therefore all of its residents are hard-working people”.

False authority
“President Bush says that cruises are wonderful, so they must be”.

Bandwagon thinking
“Because everyone I’ve talked to has enjoyed holidaying in America, I’ll like it too”.

Appeal to emotions
“Because I was an orphan who was later adopted by a dysfunctional, abusive family, I’m sure you will give me a scholarship”.

Trivial objections
“Oscar would be a poor choice as a company president: he dresses poorly and has a funny sounding first name”.

Aphrodisiac, atlas, biro, boycott, cardigan, panic, and sandwich all have one thing in common. They are eponyms – words derived from the names of real, fictional, mythical or spurious characters. Most eponymous words derive from a person’s surname.

Boycott, for instance, comes from the Irish Landlord Captain Charles Cunningham Boycott. After retiring from the British army, Boycott was hired to look after the Earl of Erne’s estates in County Mayo, Ireland. In 1880 the Irish Land League, wanting land reform, proposed a reduction in rents, stating that landlords who refused to accept such rents should be ostracised. Boycott refused and was promptly ostracised. His workers were forced to leave him, tradesmen refused to supply him, and his wife was threatened – indeed he was persecuted to such a degree that he and his wife were forced to flee to England, and in so doing they made the Land League’s boycott a success. The word quickly passed into other European languages; e.g. German: boykottieren.

Biro is a trademark name used to describe a kind of ball point pen, named after its Hungarian-born inventor László Josef Biró (1900-85). Biro patented his ballpoint pen, containing a quick-drying ink, in Hungary in 1938. The rise of Nazism meant that Biro was forced to leave Hungary, and he later settled in Argentina. Towards the end of the Second World War, Biro found an English company to back his product, but the company was soon taken over by the French firm Bic. So it is, then, that the ballpoint pen is known in France as bic and in the UK as a biro.

Other eponymous words include: bobby (English slang for policeman), Braille, Davis Cup, gringo, jacuzzi, masochism, Oscar (Academy award), Pandora’s box, sandwich, Tuesday, Yankee, and zeppelin. Do you know where they come from?

In their book, Strategies for Writing, Ann E. Healy and Martha Walusayi state that using male forms to imply both sexes should nowadays be considered incorrect.

Fifty years ago there were very few female police officers - today there are many more. So why refer to the people who pursue that career as policemen? Is everyone who delivers a mail a postman? Is every member of the Board of Directors in a business a chairman? Of course not, and it shows bias in favour of the male gender to use these words as gender-inclusive generalisations. To those who protest that ‘man’ is merely a generic term that includes both sexes equally, consider the phrase often used in history classes: “the great male theory of history”. Whose faces come to mind when you picture these movers and shakers down through the ages? Enough said.

The authors propose that a good way to steer clear of the issue of gender exclusive titles (policeman, congressman, stewardess, and so on), is to use gender neutral words: police officer instead of policeman; senator and representative in place of congressman; flight attendant to replace stewardess. With a little effort the old fashioned terms can be brought up-to-date for the realities of today’s politically-correct job market.

In recent years, people have striven to change to keep up with changing roles in the classroom and the job market. “Every student should have his report done by next week” is needlessly exclusive. Do the girls not need to hand in their assignments at the same time? The awkward phraseology of “his/her” is inclusive, but also tends to stop the sentence mid-breath. What is usually simpler is to cast the whole sentence in the plural: “Students should all have their reports done by next week.”

Now, my question is (aside from the fact that this use may offend women): is it possible (or indeed necessary) to change a speaker’s natural vocabulary by making an artificial effort simply to sound more politically correct?

While studying Japanese at university, I was looking forward not only to learning my first non-European language (having studied French, German, Latin & Greek at school and university), but also making a stab at an entirely new alphabet (or as our sensei told us to call it, writing system). It was only after our first lesson that I became a little more apprehensive, when I learnt that they employ three separate writing systems simultaneously.

First of all there are two phonetic writing systems: hiragana, which is used to ’spell out’ Japanese words in short phonetic units (for example, sensei (せんせい), meaning ‘teacher’, consists of four hiraganas: se (せ), n (ん), se (せ) & i (い).

The other phonetic system follows the same rules as hiragana, but is used to spell out ‘loan words’ (Japanese words borrowed from English or other languages) or to emphasise Japanese words (for example, in signs outside shops and bars). This writing system is called katakana, and while it follows the same pattern of phonetic sounds, the characters look different, consisting more of straight lines when compared with the more curvaceous hiragana. For example, the Japanese word for ‘icon’ is the same word, but transliterated into the more limited Japanese phonemes to match the sound of the original term as closely as possible - in this case, aikon (アイコン).

These two writing systems were manageable for a gaijin (’foreigner’) such as myself: regular practice reading and writing the characters and recognition exercises coupled with my own enthusiasm helped me become fairly proficient in both writing systems in only a couple of weeks, but it was the third writing system that bamboozled me - kanji.

Kanji are characters of Chinese origin, first imported to Japanese shores by articles from China. These characters are far more complex and intricate than the kana systems, many requiring upwards of 20 individual strokes to draw, and are used primarily for nouns, adjective stems and verb stems, replacing what would otherwise be phonetic characters. Most kanji have several different ‘readings’, which can subtly alter their meaning, as well as usually completely changing the way you say them. The main drawback when learning kanji, however, is that you don’t know how to pronounce them unless you either have the furigana form of the character, or have been briefed in advance of the different readings. To add insult to injury, there are over 50,000 kanji in existence; although only around 2,000 are in daily use.

While the Chinese students in my class had very little difficulty recognising the root meanings of many kanjis, as well as being able to write them with amazing speed and accuracy, every facet of every kanji exercise was a huge challenge for somebody with my background, trained purely on Roman and Greek alphabets with very little talent for drawing complex shapes.

For those starting out in Japanese reading and writing, the only advice I can offer for unlocking the mysteries of kanji would be the same advice given to me by my sensei - gambatte!