Vocabularily Adventurous
from the mixed-up files of E. G. Morgan
A Chip of Glass | Prose
Late January, 2007--an examination of terms
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Pick up that crayon and throw it into the saucepan. Another, and
another ? that blue one next. Turn the burner up high and stir slowly.
It?s coming along? ah! Perfect. Congratulations, you?ve created a
bubbling cauldron of lumpy brown wax. Is that what you had in mind?
Well, it should be. You?ve used the term ?melting pot,? and I?ve set up a laboratory experiment to show you why you should never describe America that way. When you shove, well, anything in a pot and melt it down, it will never be pink or white or smell like flowers or fresh-from-the-oven cookies. Take cheese. Cheddar and Gouda and Camembert and Limburger all heated up and mixed together will smell like a steaming tub of boiling gym socks with a few rotten fish thrown in, and if it melds completely it will appear a sickly yellow-orange. It will probably also be lumpy, too, and the word ?lumpy? has only negative connotations: lumpy, uncomfortable mattress, lumpy, under baked brownies. I?ve never said, ?Wow, you look lumpy today!? and not been smacked upside the face. So let?s leave the ?melting pot? metaphor will all the pain it causes your face, and we?ll think of something else.
An orchestra. Every time you enter a recital hall to hear Beethoven?s Ninth Symphony, the lights first dim and the musicians begin to tune. The first note is always the same, an A natural, and you expect that. But then the cacophony of sound ensues, and you wait patiently until the second violin in the third row decides she can now play without offending anyone. We can think of America in this way, as an orchestra still tuning. The violin?s are always overpowering and struggling to be the loudest. The violas can never seem to find harmony among each other, much less with everyone else. The cello attempts to blend in, hiding its lowest notes under those of the violas. The bass is self-sufficient, easily tuned and waiting for the rest to catch up. Woodwinds and brass, even percussion, struggle to find their place in the sound, working toward that A natural so that the concert can continue.
Think of America as an orchestra not yet ready to begin. The sound we make is familiar ? we hear the clash of high and low, dark and light, every day. There will always be a violin trying to be best, a bass killing time because he thinks he is perfect, a viola who just can?t get it right. With a little cooperation and an ability to listen to one another, the uncertain period of tuning can end, and music can begin. We may never hear the opening chord of Beethoven?s Ninth, or perhaps we will, just as a cello string snaps and the process must begin again, but the ?tuning orchestra? metaphor is light years better than the ?melting pot?: at least music can?t be considered lumpy.
Well, it should be. You?ve used the term ?melting pot,? and I?ve set up a laboratory experiment to show you why you should never describe America that way. When you shove, well, anything in a pot and melt it down, it will never be pink or white or smell like flowers or fresh-from-the-oven cookies. Take cheese. Cheddar and Gouda and Camembert and Limburger all heated up and mixed together will smell like a steaming tub of boiling gym socks with a few rotten fish thrown in, and if it melds completely it will appear a sickly yellow-orange. It will probably also be lumpy, too, and the word ?lumpy? has only negative connotations: lumpy, uncomfortable mattress, lumpy, under baked brownies. I?ve never said, ?Wow, you look lumpy today!? and not been smacked upside the face. So let?s leave the ?melting pot? metaphor will all the pain it causes your face, and we?ll think of something else.
An orchestra. Every time you enter a recital hall to hear Beethoven?s Ninth Symphony, the lights first dim and the musicians begin to tune. The first note is always the same, an A natural, and you expect that. But then the cacophony of sound ensues, and you wait patiently until the second violin in the third row decides she can now play without offending anyone. We can think of America in this way, as an orchestra still tuning. The violin?s are always overpowering and struggling to be the loudest. The violas can never seem to find harmony among each other, much less with everyone else. The cello attempts to blend in, hiding its lowest notes under those of the violas. The bass is self-sufficient, easily tuned and waiting for the rest to catch up. Woodwinds and brass, even percussion, struggle to find their place in the sound, working toward that A natural so that the concert can continue.
Think of America as an orchestra not yet ready to begin. The sound we make is familiar ? we hear the clash of high and low, dark and light, every day. There will always be a violin trying to be best, a bass killing time because he thinks he is perfect, a viola who just can?t get it right. With a little cooperation and an ability to listen to one another, the uncertain period of tuning can end, and music can begin. We may never hear the opening chord of Beethoven?s Ninth, or perhaps we will, just as a cello string snaps and the process must begin again, but the ?tuning orchestra? metaphor is light years better than the ?melting pot?: at least music can?t be considered lumpy.
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