Condom.
I liked Hanover for its amplitude. The bell would ring and mayhem would break out, lockers slamming and kids screaming and screaming kids getting slammed into lockers. In my scaled-down universe—its topology distorted by homesickness, and the fear of experiencing it again, so that local became global, crowding great swaths of the world from view—Hanover was a teeming city after the village of private school. With a student body that was 50 percent white, 43 percent black, and 5 percent Hispanic, the school was significantly more diverse, but the atmosphere wasn’t especially progressive. The school sponsored Miss New Hanover High School, a beauty pageant at which female students competed in evening gowns for a tiara. The homecoming queen was customarily white one year and black in the next one.
Some valiant teachers—Mrs. Bean, scandalously, had a tattoo—tried to expose us to life beyond our hometown and its strictures. An immovable rump of their colleagues, however, subscribed to the belief that book learning was poor preparation for the world as they knew it. To grow up in Wilmington was to have the invaluable privilege of belonging, of knowing that—whatever you did in your life—the same people who were there at its beginning would be there at its end. They were fixed points, forever findable. When the time came, they would welcome your children and mourn your parents. But the closeness of the community relied on its closedness, fostering a sort of micro-xenophobia, the threat less actual foreigners than people from other states. In Advanced Placement English, our teacher—with smudgy beauty mark and scrolled peroxide curls, rumored to be a former Playboy bunny—jettisoned the curriculum in favor of lessons in comportment.
“What is an appropriate hostess gift?” she would ask.
“A candle, a picture frame, or a box of chocolate,” we chorused back.
“With what color ink should one compose a thank-you note?”
“Black is preferred for men, blue is preferred for women.”
Tests were a breeze. All you had to do was walk to the front of the room and demonstrate that you could correctly enunciate words like twenty (not “twunny”) and pen (avoiding “pin”).
“Pop quiz!” she would cry, summoning one of us to the chalkboard like a game-show hostess waving down a contestant from the stands.
“What is the number after nineteen?”
“TWEN-ty.”
“What is the number after nine?”
“TEN.”
“What am I holding in my hand?”
“A PEN.”
“All together now!”
“TEN PENS!”
A FEW YEARS LATER, southeastern North Carolina gave rise to its own neologism. It was 2003. France had just promised to veto the United Nations Security Council’s resolution to invade Iraq. Neal Rowland, the owner of Cubbie’s, a burger joint in Beau-fort—two hours north of Wilmington on Highway 17—decided to strike back. A customer had reminded him that during World War I, sauerkraut makers had euphemized their product as “liberty cabbage,” and frankfurters had been rechristened “hot dogs.” Rowland bought stickers and slapped them on top of such menu items as fries and dressing, scrawling in “freedom” wherever it had once read “French.” “At first, they thought I was crazy,” he told CNN, of the employees of the restaurant’s eleven branches across the state, as the stunt took off. “And then now, they think it’s a great idea, and all the stores have started to change—Wilmington, Greenville, Kinston, all over.”
In Washington, a North Carolina congressman urged his colleagues to join the “freedom fries” movement. Soon, the word French was purged from congressional dining rooms. The French issued an eye-rolling reply: “We are at a very serious moment dealing with very serious issues, and we are not focusing on the name you give to potatoes.” They noted that frites were Belgian. Nonetheless, the trend caught on. The makers of French’s mustard were forced to issue a press release: “The only thing French about French’s mustard is the name.” Aboard Air Force One, President George W. Bush’s chefs served “stuffed Freedom toast,” with strawberries and powdered sugar.
The next year, in the 2004 presidential election, Rush Limbaugh mocked John Kerry as Jean F. Chéri, a lover of Evian and brie. Tom DeLay, a wit of the era, began his fund-raising speeches with the line, “Good afternoon, or, as John Kerry might say, ‘Bonjour.’” In 2012, when Mitt Romney—who had spent two years as a missionary in Bordeaux—ran for president, the trope that foreign languages, especially French, were unpatriotic remained in evidence. An ad entitled “The French Connection” was set to accordion music. It warned, of Romney, “And just like John Kerry—he speaks French.” The gotcha shot was a clip of Romney saying “Je m’appelle Mitt Romney” in a promotional video for the Salt Lake City Olympics.
Foreign languages were not always taboo in America. The word English appears nowhere in the Constitution, whose framers declined to establish an official language. Many of them were multilingual. Perhaps they thought it obvious that English would prevail. Perhaps they were ambivalent about enshrining the tongue of their former oppressor in the foundational document of a nation that meant to overturn orthodoxies, welcoming men of varying origins.
English, in some sense, meant the monarchy, an association that gave rise to a number of revolutionary schemes. In 1783, when Noah Webster issued his blue-backed speller, freeing his countrymen to spell gaol “jail” and drop the u in honour (spunge and soop, sadly, never caught on), American English itself was a novel language, a runaway strain. One magazine justified it as the inevitable outgrowth of the dry American climate, writing, “The result is apt to be that the pronunciation is not only distinct, but has a nasal twang, which our English friends declare to be even more unpleasant than their wheeziness can be to us.”
Americans were bursting with ideas about what language could be. They saw it as a church or a parliament, another institution to remake. Benjamin Franklin wanted to reform the alphabet so that each letter indicated a single sound. He invented six new letters including ish (to indicate the sh sound) and edth (for the th of this). A letter he wrote to demonstrate the system brings to mind a proto–I Can Has Cheezburger:
THE SOUND OF AMERICA at its inception would have been lilting, susurrating, singsong, guttural. J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, a French immigrant to New York, wrote in Letters from an American Farmer, his best-selling survey of revolutionary America, of “whole counties where not a word of English is spoken.” In 1794, a bill that would have mandated the translation of official documents into German failed in the House of Representatives by a single vote. Dutch dominated the Hudson Valley, where the courts struggled to find English speakers to serve on juries. As François Furstenberg writes in When the United States Spoke French, Philadelphia was overrun with refugees from the French Revolution. During the 1790s, sixty-five Frenchmen lived on Second Street alone, including a Berniaud (china merchant), a Dumoutet (goldsmith), a Morel (hairdresser and perfumer), a Duprot (dancing master), and a Chemerinot (pastry cook). At the orchestra, audiences demanded that musicians play “La Marseillaise” and “Ça ira,” leading Abigail Adams to complain, “French tunes have for a long time usurped an uncontrould sway.” In 1803, the Louisiana Purchase doubled the nation’s French-speaking population. Louisiana entered the union as a bilingual state. Its second governor, Jacques Villeré, conducted the entirety of his official business in his only language: French.
Americans
