IN EIGHTH grade English, Mrs.* Antoniaza told us that the singular pronoun for a group of mixed or unknown gender was he–his–him. Always. Female students objected. Too bad, Mrs. Antoniaza replied. Rules were rules.
But language is dynamic. Grammatical rules do not dictate but reflect usage. Indeed, a little over ten years later, feminist sensibilities had rightly succeeded in overturning the he–his–him rule. I am all for the fairness underlying the change but not fond of the awkward he or she construction. Not to worry. A bit of finessing is all it takes to avoid the dread phrase and still honor the fairness. (I share a few tips here.) In the 1980s, a colleague with a Ph.D. in English predicted that the already informally acceptable they–their–them would become standard. I wasn’t so sure, but today, not for reasons he or I could have anticipated, American usage indeed seems headed that way. So, sorry, sticklers.** Even if the use of they–their–them as singular pronouns grates on your ears, it is no longer “incorrect.” Still, writers must take care to avoid confusion. Again, a bit of finessing can save you. That’s why some of us call writing “work.” ______________________ *No, not Ms., thank you very much, she told us. **Not really sorry.
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My grandmother was a big part of my early life, in many ways my rescuer. Following up on my prior entry, here’s a tale of another important lesson I almost didn’t learn. * * * ONE FINE DAY in Reno in 1975 as I sat in my German immigrant grandmother’s kitchen looking through the paper, I noted that the jazz–rock band Blood Sweat & Tears (BS&T) was to perform at a dinner show at a Lake Tahoe casino–resort. Before I could think better of it, I overheard myself say, “David Clayton–Thomas is back with them. I always said I’d go see them if they came to town. Oh well.” “Well,” my grandmother said, “let’s go. I will pay.” Uh oh. Here’s the thing. Everyone in our family knew not to go out to dinner with Gram. She was wonderful and generous with her grandchildren, but in restaurants she was a snob and a complainer. Her family had servants when she was a child in Germany. Decades in America hadn’t broken her of treating servers like servants, which in her mind meant treating them with outright disdain. She was especially unkind to female servers. To her, respectable women didn’t work outside the home. No restaurant could please her. If you made the mistake of saying your meal was good, she would spit out so other diners and the help could hear, “My dinner tastes like shoe leather.” Moreover, a lot of people about my age would be at the show. Call me small, but this 21–year–old wasn’t eager to walk in with a 72–year–old woman clutching his arm. But I had wished aloud, and Gram had heard. If I declined, she would know why, and it would hurt. A split second was all I needed to decide. “Gee,” I managed, “that would be great.” On the appointed night, we drove up the mountain to Lake Tahoe. As the host showed us to our seats, did everyone stare and assume I was a gigolo*, or did I only imagine it? No matter. It felt the same. To my relief, Gram was not discourteous to the help. Nor was she impatient with being seated at a crowded table with other couples. Nor did she complain about the food. The night was young, but so far so good. The meal was served and the show began. BS&T and David Clayton–Thomas delivered a stunning performance. I still thrill at the memory of the tuba solo Dave Bargeron belted out. Toward the end of the song “Hi De Ho,” Clayton–Thomas called out for the audience to sing along. Only one audience member did. It happened to be an audience member with a German accent, and she didn’t hold back on the volume. I sank a bit lower in my seat. I loved the show. Unfortunately, the lights came back up after it was over. Once again I felt everyone staring at me. They most likely weren’t, but it was what I imagined. I slinked out of the place with Gram on my arm, loaded her into the car, and we headed down the mountain. Once in the car, she began not to complain, but to exult. It was the first time in years she had forgotten all of her troubles. It was the first time in years anyone had taken her anywhere. (True enough.) It was the most fun she could recall having ever had. She’d had a wonderful time. All the way down the mountain, she brimmed with happiness. And gratitude. To me. Me. You know, the guy who—thank goodness she hadn’t been able tell—had been embarrassed to be seen with her. I found myself thinking, That wasn’t so bad. I could do it again. Three months later, it came time for me to leave Reno. Gram died about six months later. ________________
*Decades later I would understand that there’s nothing wrong with being a gigolo or any other kind of non–coerced sex–worker. See Chapter 10, “Should It Be Legal?” in my book Behind the Mormon Curtain: Selling sex in America’s holy city. I was 17, and Dad had given me 16 hours to move out. Suffice it to say that I was a good kid, and that Dad had his demons. My grandmother, his mother, sheltered me in her home for a few weeks while I looked for long-term digs. Dad refused ever to speak to Gram again.
Among the many life skills this then–17–year–old lacked were laundering and ironing. Gram willingly assumed those tasks for me, offering to continue once I found a new place to stay. In time, the family of my best–friend–since–age–11 offered to take me in. My friend’s mom, Beverly, even offered to do my laundry with the rest of the family’s. She would hardly notice the extra, she assured me. At the news, Gram went ballistic, conjuring up accusation after accusation directed at Beverly. That horrible woman was sure to ruin my clothes! Gram ranted on, refusing to let it rest. I am and have always been slow to anger, but after a half–hour the harangue was getting to me. A strong rebuke welled up. But suddenly, some remote corner of my brain spoke calm. It said, Gram needs to be needed. She’s afraid of being replaced. You’re the youngest, the only one left who relies on her. Instead of defending Beverly, how about you address the real issue? I drew a breath and looked at my seething grandmother. “Anyone can do my laundry,” I said, “but nobody else can be my grandmother.” She was instantly calmed. My mouth often blurts without bothering to consult the Inner Executive Committee. Here I am, better than 50 years later, ever grateful to said Committee for butting in and turning what could have been a regrettable memory into a tender one. I stayed with my friend’s family for 18 months—but I continued bringing my laundry to Gram. To be sure, she did me a big service. But, I had come to realize, I did her one by letting her do it for me. J.D. VANCE’S SHAMELESS, childish display during last week’s meeting with President Zelenskyy brought to mind an incident from some years ago. After doing my daughter a trivial favor, a woman I was dating was angry because my daughter, she claimed, hadn’t thanked her. I doubted that—my kids are pretty good about please and thank–you—but then, I hadn’t witnessed the transaction, so I didn’t try to argue.
She continued, “You know how it makes you mad when you do something for my son and he doesn’t thank you?” I was honestly baffled. I couldn’t recall any instance of expecting thanks from him, much less resenting not having received it. “Actually, no,” I said, “I do things for him because I want to do things for him, not because I want thanks.” “Your relationship with him is totally different, so don’t use that as an example,” she snapped back, apparently forgetting that it was she who had invoked the example. Don’t get me wrong. Thanking is good manners. But if you’re stomping about in a rage over not being thanked, you weren’t doing a favor. You were trying to buy a bit of praise. This was borne out the next evening. At a large gathering, my daughter showed up and poured out effusive thanks in front of everyone. My friend beamed, did the aw–shucks–it–was–nothing thing, and all was forgiven. She remained in great spirits for the rest of the evening. Taking my daughter aside later, I said, “Well done. She was angry because you hadn’t thanked her.” My daughter’s reply was insightful. “I did thank her,” she said, “but I decided to do it again in front of everyone, because she likes to look wonderful in front of other people.” That dating relationship didn’t last long. |
Welcome to Cunoblog... where I share thoughts about writing. I don’t consider myself a writing authority, but that doesn’t keep me from presuming to blog like one. Oh, and I reserve the right to digress when I feel like it. Archives
March 2025
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