On not divorcing English.

As I overheard a volunteer teaching a non-English speaker irregular verbs this morning at the library, I was moved with compassion to tell him, “Don’t give up. English is a horrible, wicked, and ridiculous language. But it can be learned.”

Naturally, the reason I’m both qualified and entitled to say such a mean thing about English is because it’s my language. I can objectively admit that if you wanted to design a language impossible to learn, you could scarcely produce by design anything as sadistic as what we actually have. And yet I also believe that English is beautiful precisely because of those complexities which make it torture to learn.

No loving person would ever choose to inflict English on himself or others. Still, this undesirable misfit language is dear to me precisely because my lifelong relationship with her was an arranged marriage. I have the option of acquiring others, but I can never forsake my native tongue. Though English is certainly an abusive spouse, we are nevertheless together until death do us part, and maybe even after that.