Language as a weapon, pt 1

This CNN article notes that the City of Los Angeles has decided that the terms, “Master” and “Slave,” are inappropriate and insensitive labels on computer and electronic equipment. For those of you unskilled in Geek-speak, a master drive in a computer is the primary drive, while a slave drive is secondary. It doesn’t really mean anything other than the master drive is where your computer will first look for booting instructions.

But we are now too sensitive to use the word “slave” anymore, unless you’re into bondage, in which case you’ve got a lot more to hide from polite society anyway. I’m not a big fan of this type of soft censorship. It leads rise to charges of racism when someone uses perfectly appropriate words that sound a bit like the verboten words. It changes the way language is used, and it makes people believe that Liberals have run amok.

Except Political Correctness is not a liberal disease. Even though many people on the left blanch at insulting words, the idea that we shouldn’t offend anyone ever is a very conservative trait. I try not to use words that are offensive or insulting because, as a writer, I want to get my thoughts across to the reader, and throwing a big, bad word in the middle of something is like a traffic light on the Autobahn. I use any word as a tool, and most of the time a racial or sexual incentive isn't needed... you jerk.

Back to the issue. Calling a computer peripheral “slave” doesn’t diminish or make light of the horrible history that America had with slavery. It isn’t a racial slur. It isn’t even meant to be provocative. It is simply one more sexual euphemism that computer scientists labeled every part of the computer with. Do you want your disk hard or floppy? How much RAM do you have? Have you upgraded your firmware? Attach that dongle or the software will not load. Please, show me the racist engineer that decided that a slave drive was a sneaky way of sticking it to African-Americans, and I’ll show you a thousand engineers that snicker every time the computer prompts them to insert their disk into any drive.

I am sometimes surprised at what society picks next to be the dread word. English is loaded with words that don’t have the noblest roots. So we still “hysterical,” despite its extremely sexist origins. If “slave” is indeed going to be a false target for White guilt, what will we call that group of people in our history books? The shackled class? It’s too silly to even joke about it. But it is one more example of how we can’t seem to focus our attention on the things that make racism and sexism prevalent in any society.

Posted by Jonathan at 07:25 PM, 26 November 2003 | Comments (0)

The Kingdom

They call it “The Kingdom.” It sits behind the building where you’d go and get your food. You’d never even know it was there, but it’s larger and vaster than the main building. It is where they store their dry goods, like flour and corn meal. They also have a huge, two-story freezer in the Kingdom, which they turn on during the holidays.

I think it’s ironic, perhaps, that you’re in the front, buying your chicken that’s been disemboweled, split-through with a spear, and slow roasted, or you’re buying your chicken that’s been torn apart, tendon from bone, and batter-dipped for frying. I think it’s ironic that the front is dedicated to humanity’s position on the food chain, but the Kingdom, in back, is run by the birds.

Starling and chickadee and sparrow and crow and sea gull, at any time, you’ll see more of them than there are people in the Kingdom. And when I walked into the vastness of it, I could hear the smaller ones, the stowaways from Great Britain, chirping and flittering around in the rafters in the near darkness. They quieted down when I reached the shelves that held cans and bags and sacks. One such sack was in the wrong place, sitting upon a square pack of 16 cans. The sack, once protected by plastic, was eviscerated, spilling its guts of bleached flour onto the cans beneath it, and the floor below. There were little peace-signs imprinted in the fine powder at random intervals. These were bird tracks. The birds found a way to get into the flour.

Oh, I thought, the processed, bleached flour must be like crack cocaine to these little birds. They probably get no real nutrition from this, just energy.

And so, I didn’t think it was the best thing to have the flour exposed. I covered up the ripped part of the sack with a large piece of the torn plastic, and held it down with a large can. Then I walked away.

In the empty vastness of the Kingdom, I could hear the echo of beating wings. Far enough away to not spook the birds, I turned around to see seven small brown and black birds looking at the plastic cover and the can holding it down. A few of the birds flew at the can, to frighten it I suppose. They were all twittering and chattering, and the frustration in the noises they made was evident and growing, until I heard, “TWEEET!”

It was loud and echoed through the Kingdom. It was a high, shrill noise that could not have come from a bird any larger than my hand, but it demanded attention be paid. The other birds and I froze for a moment, and they flew back into the rafters.

“TWEEEET!” knocked around the walls and vaulted ceiling again. I couldn’t make out the source of the sound. It shook all around me. There was more flapping in the rafters, and little tricks of shadow and light made it look like there were several dozen birds up there. Then there was silence.

Slowly, deliberately, I walked towards the exit, towards daylight and open air, until I was stopped in my tracks by,

“TWEEEEET!”

The sound surrounded me and was nowhere in particular. It was an angry chirp, a desperate whistle. Just steps away from the doorway, it stopped me. Thinking for just a moment, I turned around again, and quickened my pace back towards the shelves. I threw down the can and ripped away the plastic. Flour dust danced all around me. I swiveled and made for the exit again, pausing only briefly, once out the door, to peek back into the darkness of the Kingdom, where the birds ruled. Two or three little birds pecked and scratched in the white flour, flittering in excitement, content, for now.

Posted by Jonathan at 02:06 AM, 18 November 2003 | Comments (1)

What I witnessed on Sunrise Highway

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a kid on bike get hit by a car on Sunrise Highway. I thought for sure the kid was going to be seriously, seriously injured, but he actually got up and limped to the median before anyone could reach him and tell him not to move. The impact sounded bad... horn, screech, dull thud, shattered glass; although, that was just the headlight smashed by the petal of the bike. It was a sporty car with a low front, so he slid right up the hood. I was in a parking lot when I heard the horn and screeching. I saw the actual impact, and dialed 911 after shouting “Holy Shit!” about four times.

Another guy, who apparently saw the car run a red light, had also called the police and reached an ambulance dispatcher before me, so, by the time I had hung up with the police, we could hear an ambulance siren down the road. I told the police what I saw, which was just the accident itself, not the causes, and they told me they didn’t need my statement. The other guy, meanwhile, filled out a form. The kid who got hit was obviously dazed, possibly in shock, but didn’t seem seriously wounded. As I left, they were checking out his legs, which has some abrasions, but that was about it. He was very lucky.

It bothered the hell out of me, though, for the next couple of hours. My empathy was not only for the kid, but for the driver of the car, who did pull over, did the right thing, and waited for the police to arrive. But she was getting yelled at by people as soon as she got out of the car, and she broke down crying as soon as a cop went over to talk to her. She was just a kid, too. It would not be something I would want to have in my memory, the day I hit someone.

The witness guy said to me, “Man, when I was that young,” gesturing over to the young driver of the car, “I did things that I’m ashamed of now. But I never hurt anyone but myself. You don’t realize that running a red light can kill someone.”

Posted by Jonathan at 12:22 AM, 13 November 2003 | Comments (1)