“Gotten” is, technically speaking, a past participle of “get.” “Get” is a fine word. It is short and direct, and it is particularly useful when we want to be clear and declarative. “Get away!” “Jeez, dude, get a life.” Or, as my uncle likes to say so affectionately, “Get your damn hands off that banjo!”
If I do, in fact, remove my hands from the banjo with its apparently hypersensitive tuning pegs that only my uncle and God know how to manipulate, and if I want to communicate as much to this beloved uncle, then I have a number of choices. “Jeez, dude, get a life,” might be one option. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say I want to speak in a more formal register. If so, I might say, “I have gotten my hands off the banjo.” My response simply took the verb my uncle offered, “get,” and employed a past tense form to demonstrate the accomplishment of his imperative.
And if I said that I would immediately want to wash my mouth out with a Leinenkugel. “Gotten” might be the ugliest word in our language, but thankfully, it’s also one of the most dispensable. It always surprises me when I encounter it in the works of writers I respect. Here is a sentence from a fine writer, David Rothenberg, from his book on the music of whales (a book I strongly recommend):
“In the seventies, Paul Winter went down to Baja California three years in a row, where the gray whales in their winter calving lagoons have since gotten more and more interested in human whale watchers.”
It’s like biting into a muffin and crunching some wooden sliver from a broken spoon. Why not, “have since become”? Or simply substitute “are” for “have since gotten”?
“Gotten” is never necessary. There is not a single situation where another word, and a better word (I think they are all better), can’t replace it. Let’s get rid of it.
Anyone born before about 1982 knows that the National Football League has ruined a perfectly good sport. I feel pity for the younger generations who think it is normal to spend the afternoon watching an alleged football game that consists mostly of over-paid and over-concussed players standing around waiting for the result of a booth review. The NFL has, over the last couple decades, managed to produce a product that is longer but somehow contains much less action than it did in, say, 1976. I now prefer to spend my Sunday afternoons dumping trays of ice onto my driveway and watching them melt.
Anyway, hand it to the product of such a deteriorating institution to come along and have a go at wrecking our language, too. I am referring to Chris Carter’s ESPN segment, “Where You At?”
“Where you at?” Well, if I happen to have used this expression in a job interview, I’m probably back at the local unemployment office.
Okay, I get that it is a slang expression, that it has its own significant history in urban culture, and that it is quite possible this post will open me to the charge of cultural insensitivity. But it is simply a fact that making this expression the title and recurring motif of a major media broadcast will have consequences. Chris Carter and ESPN are now forever associated with grammatical embarrassment, not to mention reinforcing the stereotype of the “dumb jock.” The consequence is loss of respect. Hell, I even lose a bit of respect for myself just watching it.
The idea of the segment is to call players out on their underperformance. Essentially, it is an exercise in public humiliation. In this spirit, I call out the folks at ESPN. Quit making yourselves look stupid. It’s embarrassing, or at least it should be. And if it’s not, then go watch some reruns of football games from the sixties and get a better idea of how things are done right.
With all due respect to those who labor in cinder block halls, high school can reasonably be characterized as mostly unfortunate. For starters there are those awful prom dress choices, and then there is that seemingly universal and senseless compulsion to forgo jackets and hats in sub-zero weather. But there is also the impression left by your well-meaning English teachers that longer is better. It isn’t.
Don’t try to fit a whole paragraph or even an entire paper in one sentence. Here is an example:
When the serpent shed its skin, it is as if it had been in some way born again, and is somehow associated with the tree and has apparently enjoyed its fruits since it can slough its skin and live again.
Slow down. Present your points in clear and manageable units, preferably units known as simple sentences:
The serpent shedding its skin suggests rebirth. Symbolically, it may be associated with trees that similarly shed their leaves. The serpent of the garden myth probably ate the fruits of the tree of life. Thus both the tree and the serpent seem to die and yet live again.
We are taught the structure of English in stages of increasing complexity. This leaves us with the notion that complexity is better. This simply is not the case. Clarity is the key to good writing. As a general rule, clarity is proportional to simplicity.
The apostrophe is the roadkill of language. Glance anywhere from the streets and sidewalks of America and you see (sometimes nearly smell) the slaughter: womens’ clothing (women is always plural, so you never add an s and put the apostrophe at the end), or, as in the sign outside the window I am looking through, homemade pie’s. Homemade pie’s what, you might ask? Its (not it’s) cherries? Its crust? But this apostrophe misuse is so ubiquitous that I suspect most of us are either too numb or too confused to even bother noticing.
There is really only one rule to apostrophe use, but, unfortunately, the rule’s usefulness has been lost to history. The apostrophe represents a missing letter or missing letters. Thus cannot becomes can’t, she has becomes she’s.
But here is what has been lost to history: English, back in the day, represented possession with an “e” in the suffix, not just an “s.” Sam’s screaming solo would have been written Sames (or, more likely, Sammes) screaming solo. We would have Markes breathing rhythm, Anthonyes anger management seminar, Mattes plush lawn, or Jennes perplexed look.
But we don’t. We rid ourselves of that “e” because we are a hasty and lazy people who have, evidence suggests, failed to adjust to the consequences.
This has been the busiest semester of my career. I have never been further behind in my grading. I try to avoid looking at my desk. In fact, I can’t really see the desk itself, at least the surface of it. It is covered with suffering.
I just fished out one piece of misery, an essay on Dracula and the Freudian uncanny, and found this sentence:
The unsettling feeling from the castle is given in the form of a remarkable place with dark corridors which eludes to a place of evil.
Here is a sentence in the active voice with the relevant grammatical units identified:
Steve (subject) can fix (verb) all our grammar problems (direct object).
Here is what the passive does to this perfectly clear sentence:
All our grammar problems (subject) can be fixed (verb) by Steve (prepositional phrase).
I think it is safe to say that all of us generally prefer to be subjects rather than objects. That is, we generally (though there are a host of exceptions, some of them licit) prefer to act rather than be acted upon. Steve certainly does. But look at what happened to him in the passive sentence above. He was reduced to the lowly object of a preposition (not, alas, a proposition). The passive voice obscures action and, in direct proportion, it obscures clarity.
The most obscure of all passive constructions removes the actor altogether, which is what our writer above has done. Here is how it might be repaired:
Bram Stoker describes a remarkable castle filled with dark corridors (not to mention succubi) to suggest an unsettling feeling of evil.
The key to clear writing is active subjects. Subjects that can act force a writer to use expressive verbs (rather than virtually meaningless linking verbs). Steve likes clear sentences.
I have been reviewing “paper checklists” that often appear on writing center web pages. Many instructors hand them out with paper assignments. These checklists can be useful, especially when they don’t end up a crinkled mess in the bottom of a backpack. But, on the whole, I find them unfortunate.
One problem is the evident (and probably neurotic) obsession with the technicalities of citation. Neglecting to put a colon between the place of publication and the publishing house is apparently a sound indicator of your likelihood to be serving pimply teenagers rancid beef patties in perpetuity.
I have looked at eight of these checklists. On seven of them grammatical concerns appear as the last item. On one the matter of grammar does not appear at all. On two lists the very term is anathema. They call the g-word “conventions” or simply “language.” One school in California implies that matter of grammatical competence is so petty you should leave it to others. Under the heading “Conventions (grammar and punctuation)”–the parenthetical is in the original–they ask that you check off “I have visited the […] writing center for help editing and proofing my work before submission.”
I would like to submit, without apologies, that if you can’t put a sentence together you can’t write a clear thesis (usually number one on the checklist); you can’t formulate a persuasive argument (usually number two); and you certainly can’t properly introduce and analyze the arguments of others.
Try thinking in butchered grammar. Grammar is quite simply the very foundation and expression of reasoning. The other points of the checklist come to nothing without it.
There’s a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire–
He likes it ’cause it’s cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish…
Shel Silverstein is a fine poet in the great tradition of (misnamed) nonsense verse that includes folks like Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, and Dr. Seuss. “Bear in There” is about as serious, playful, nonsensical, or meaningful as just about any other poem in the history of poetry. Is the bear just a bear? And those hairy paws in a butter dish? Hmmm…a hint of something we might want to keep from the grownups?
But my point in this post is to review the guidelines for quoting poetry. The issue to keep in mind is the essential difference between poetry and prose: poetry has meaningful line breaks, prose does not. So, you have to preserve the line breaks when you quote poetry. The rules are pretty simple:
1. If you are quoting less than four lines of poetry, run the quotation into your paragraph and show the line breaks with a space, forward slash, space. For example:
Silverstein is characteristically suggestive when he writes about the Polar Bear with “his big hairy paws / In the buttery dish.”
2. If you are quoting more than three lines, set the poetry off with a block indent of ten spaces.
I am particularly fond of the poem, “The Dong with the Luminous Nose,” by Edward Lear. What makes it a particularly fine poem for children is the complete absence of any “hidden” sexual implication:
And now each night, and all night long,
Over those plains still roams the Dong;
And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe
You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe
While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain
To meet with his Jumbly Girl again;
Lonely and wild — all night he goes, —
The Dong with a luminous Nose!