Languages in LA

Here’s more multi-lingual fun from the city of angels. I bought a sofa and loveseat today. I hate shopping with a passion, so when I have to do it, I do it quickly. I was driving down Hollywood Blvd when I saw a furniture outlet place, a tiny room next to a liquor store, most unpromising. On impulse, I dove in, browsed for about 3 minutes, and found a nice moss-colored set for a reasonable price.

The owner was Chinese, and seemed a little startled when I looked it over for about 10 seconds and said “You deliver?” He was happy to assure me that they did, however, and though his English was limited, as long as we both understood “Visa” all was well.

Delivery was set for 2pm. What was interesting to me was that the owner, who said his name was John but whose accent compels me to call him Djon just so the reader doesn’t slip into complacency, had a Latino assistant helping him unload the furniture. It was obvious watching the process of unloading that Djon’s helper didn’t speak a lick of English or Chinese. It seems fair to presume that Djon’s Spanish was limited as well.

I watched with great interest as they each stationed themselves at an end and Djon simply used hand gestures to indicate that they would hoist up the couch, rotate it counter-clockwise, and the helper should back in first. And this wasn’t a desperate, awkward bunch of hand signals. This was as smooth as American Sign Language. These two men had obviously worked together plenty. Djon simply indicated what movements he expected to have to make, the assistant gave a brief nod, and my new furniture glided in like a bird settling into a nest.

I am, however, still glad that my dentist and his assistant are not communicating the same way.

I spent the weekend at the Screenwriter’s Expo at the LAX Marriot. This is a strange place to be three days before a looming writers’ strike, but no matter. Strikes end eventually, and when they do, life goes on. Anyway, I was privileged to hear a seminar by Richard Walker, guru of script and screen at UCLA.

He was a great speaker, but he caught my attention particularly when he said, “Let me share something with you… and notice, in California, we don’t say things or tell you things. We shaaaare.”

Everyone chuckled, but I was cringing. This is true. I’ve been so inundated with “sharing” that I had stopped noticing enough to complain. But I hate it. Folks here don’t seem to “tell” or “say” unless they are relating a story wherein they said something, or are making an emphatic “let me tell you” sort of statement.

Even more obnoxious is the language at the school where I work. Excuse me, I mean in my community of educators. They like to “share out.” This is teachers going society one better, and you can almost hear the superior sniff that accompanies it. In countless meetings, I’ve been informed that I am expected to discuss this issue or that with my fellow educators seated near me, and then we would turn and share out what we’ve discussed.

This phrase is generally accompanied by an open-handed (both hands) gesture reminiscent of a hostess behind a well-stocked buffet table announcing that dinner is served.

I am a contrarian at heart. Being told to share out even random thoughts makes me want to skulk in my classroom and hoard pencils. I hearby make this solemn vow to the universe: you will never hear me say that I’m going to “share something with you” unless I am being very sarcastic and the next word is going to start with an F.

I work in Los Feliz and live in Hollywood. This is the tiniest of commutes. However, I’m considering moving to West Hollywood; I’m willing to pay more rent for less space if it means living next to a tree instead of a highway. This means, of course, lengthening my commute.

Commute is a dirty word here, and I understand why. In the afternoon, it takes 20 minutes to go three miles. If I hightail it to the land of Chateau Marmont and House of Blues, I can expect it to be 55 minutes for 7 miles. And there will be much honking. But I’ve come to believe there is value in the commute.

I often leave work brooding about something: a student whose health I’m worried about, or whose attitude is enraging me, or a new tedious administrative requirement whose arbitrariness is exceeded only by its futility. And my feet usually hurt. I get in the car with my face set in grim lines.

I pull out of the parking lot and turn on my stereo. Now, I’m one of those horrid people who get obsessed with one song, and listen to it over and over for hours on end, month after month. People have been known to try to get out of my car while it’s still moving, and it will come as no surprise that I’m single. But here’s the thing. After sinking into the trance that loud, dramatic, gorgeous, throbbing music can reduce one to, particularly in the enclosed and air conditioned space of a car… my troubles are gone. My memory is wiped clean. My mood is tranquilized. I’m barely aware of where I am (which may explain all the honking horns. They’re probably honking at me as I drive muzzily through my orchestral fog, dozing through left-turn opportunities and gliding calmly through red lights.)

But when I arrive home, my mood has lifted. And that after only a 20 minute exposure to my current favorite song (Eric Bachmann’s Little Bird) Imagine what a zombie I’ll be if I have a longer commute. I’m looking forward to it!

Ooooo, it’s almost time for Halloween. Funny how Hollywood and Halloween are such similar words… we should have a specific word for the stuff you see down on S&M Boulevard (Santa Monica Blvd, that is) at Halloween. We should call it Hallowood.

I toyed with calling it Holly-ween instead of Hallowood, but considering that around here it’s the official holiday of gay men with a lot of money and creativity and few inhibitions, there’s something just too good about a word that simultaneously suggests references to religion and erections. Let me tell you, Halloween on Santa Monica is like venturing into the Versailles section of an intergallactic arcade. The costumes are postively arresting (literally, as there is something about Halloween that brings out the handcuff fetish in certain neighborhoods.)

Last year at Halloween, my mother was visiting from the glacial purity of her cabin in the upper peninsula of Michigan. I decided to take her down to “see the pretty costumes” on S&M Blvd. Until that night, her nearest brush with decadence had involved slot machines. We camped out at a bar called Mickey’s and Mom got to see Hallowood, up close and personal. A guy in buttless chaps brought her a beer, and she accepted it graciously, though she looked like a startled prairie dog all night. Ah, that was fun night. You’re never too old to enjoy shocking mom.

This year, I’m trying to figure out what to do for Hallowood. I’ve finally found an apartment in Weho, so I’ll be near enough to walk to the festivities. If I were ten pounds thinner, I swear I’d squeeze into a black leather Trinity-from-the-Matrix outfit. As it is, however, perhaps I’ll just grab a beer and a camera, and send Mom some pictures from this year’s promenade of sin. There are a few pairs of buttocks she just might recognize from last year.

I love my Hollywood dentist, because he is not stingy with the novocaine. When I leave there I’m numb from nostril to earlobe, and that’s how I like it. Last time I went, he shot me up with so much of the stuff, I couldn’t feel my right temple. And that’s good.

Normally, I’m so full of terror I’m oblivious to anything in the dentist office. I just huddle, my arms wrapped around myself, brooding on the coming horrors. But today as I let the novocaine seep through my jaw, while my tongue swelled up I listened to my dentist and his receptionist talking.

It’s not eavesdropping because they weren’t speaking English. Well, not completely. They were codeswitching, and the pattern was interesting. It sounded rather like this:

He: So, ah, lebaneselebaneselebaneselebanese?

She: Yes, but … lebaneselebaneselebaneselebaneselebanese.

He: Well, you know, lebaneselebaneselebanese.

She: I know! I know, I know, but lebaneselebaneselebaneselebaneselebanese!

He: Okay, but lebaneselebaneselebanese.

She: I know.

Well, this was fascinating. I started paying closer attention. When the assistant came to stick the temporary crowns on my teeth, I assumed she was Lebanese too. But lo, a moment later, another assistant stuck her head in and they conversed in brisk Spanglish.

What was interesting is that the codeswitching was different. Rather than initial opening remarks followed by a steady stream of the other language, this was true Spanglish, with sentences that were half and half, fluidly switching from one to the other. It sounded rather like this:

Asst: I’m going to take the españolespañol and see if I can español español it. If yes, I can español español Vons, but if no español, español, so…

If I remember correctly from my long ago sociolinguistics classes, the degree and style of codeswitching has to do with how bilingual one is. Obviously in this case the Spanish speakers were more instinctively bilingual than the Lebanese speakers. I wanted to ask whether they were picking up any of each other’s languages, but by this time my tongue felt like a big, fuzzy, rolled up sock, and I couldn’t. Alas.

Many a night I have sat at a posh restaurant at Sunset Plaza and listened to my two best friends argue about the correct phraseology of certain kinds of government assistance. One of my friends is taking care of her elderly mother, Ms. H., a very sweet lady with a list of medications that should entitle her to at least a Christmas card from Pfizer.

Because she is a senior citizen, and because her medical needs strap even a well-employed daughter, Ms. H. qualifies for Medicare and Medicaid. This is known as being medi-medi.

My other friend, who works for those who translate bills from doctor’s office into governmental assistance language, insists that this cannot be so, that Ms. H. must be getting one or the other, and our friend only thinks her mother is medi-medi.

I have no interest in the logistics of the argument. What I enjoy is listening to them bat the phrase medi-medi back and forth. It’s amazing the different ways we refer to government assistance (the more blunt term being welfare.)

My school is called a Title One school. Sounds rather prestigious, doesn’t it? It’s not. It means that the majority of our students qualify for “subsidized meals” (foodstamps, essentially.) The school gets more money for each student that qualifies, so we are under pressure to get the students to turn in applications for foodstamps. Many’s the time I’ve heard a student protest, “We don’t need this,” only to be required to tell them, “The school still needs the application on file.”

More disturbing is when children do indeed qualify, though they don’t consider themselves poor. It’s quite a shock for them, sometimes, to be handed a sheet of foodstamps during homeroom. You can see the sudden dawning of understanding in their eyes: I am considered poor even though we pay our bills.

But I’m sure their self-esteem is a small price to pay for our school’s ever-increasing budget. And it’s not charity. It’s not welfare. It’s Title One. Not as catchy as medi-medi, but still, quite nice, yes?

I am getting ready to leave my dusty old apartment over the 101 for a shiny new one in a quiet neighborhood in West Hollywood. As can be imagined, I am vibrating with impatience. I found myself, as I cleaned up the old place, singing a song I learned in high school choir class.

The song is an old Negro spiritual, although you aren’t supposed to say Negro anymore so I don’t know what they are calling such things today. Indeed, I think you aren’t even supposed to say they anymore. It’s undoubtedly next on the list of no-no’s now that we are afraid to say you people to anyone unless they’re white.

Anyway, I was remembering as I sang, how my choir teacher, Mr. Highland, instructed us to sing it as if we were black. Well, he didn’t say it that way. He said, “Don’t sing soon I will be done with the troubles of the world, that’s how you would sing it. But you have to sing it how THEY would sing it,” (already you can imagine the trouble he’d get in today.)

“Like this,” he sang, “Soon Ah will be done wid de troubles ob de worl’… de troubles ob de worl… de troubles ob de worl’….”

I know he meant no harm. He was ardently liberal and was undoubtedly hoping to pay tribute to a tradition. Nowadays, he’d be accused of mocking and blackface, and would be… well, I suppose nothing would happen to him but a stern talking to and a tearful public apology. Then Bill O’Reilly would say something about the matter and a parody of the whole thing would turn up on YouTube and that would be it.

Still, it made me feel old to be singing in my echoing, empty apartment, soon Ah will be done wid de troubles ob de worl’, and to know my adolescence was another era.

I am trying to learn the lingo of the Hollywood screenwriting community. Quickly. Before I embarrass myself again. My first red-faced moment was a year ago, when I told my apartment manager I was writing a screenplay. She said I should talk to my downstairs neighbor, who already had an agent.

I summoned my nerve and asked my neighbor if he had any advice for me. Instantly he asked, “Is your script in final draft?”

I thought he meant Are you on your final draft, i.e., Is it done? I nodded.

He offered to look at it. “But this is in Microsoft Word!” He said.

Yes, it was. So? Ah, my first blunder. Final Draft is formatting software. Later, listening to him chuckle to his writing partner on the phone, “She thought Final Draft meant…” I vowed to learn more.

Since then I’ve picked up a few terms. “Pitch” is when you try to dazzle someone with a 30 second rendition of your story. Specifically, trying to dazzle someone who might be induced to give you money.

Now comes “hip-pocketed.” My first script has found itself an independent producer, and for a year he and I have milled about, trying to dazzle a studio who might be induced to give us money. However, most of them want “attachments”. That is, a director or well-known actor who has promised to participate… once we have the money.

I finally found a director at the L.A. Film Festival. My neighbor is now advising me that since I don’t have an agent, the director’s agent will represent me if it actually gets as far as money being involved (rather than the current flurry of emails and occasional meetings over coffee.) Should we get to this point, my temporary representation by the director’s agent is known as “hip-pocketing.”

“Oh, don’t worry, he’ll hip-pocket you for this project.” Who ever would have thought this is a good thing? I’m glad I learned that in advance, so I don’t huff “I beg your pardon?!” when he offers to put me in his pocket.

I learned a new way to say “drunk” today! My new landlady, who was born in Cuba but raised in West Hollywood, was telling me the amusing story of her elderly mother partying on a cruise. She said, “Oh, she was just piped! Just piped! I said Ma, you’re not used to rum, you’re gonna get piped, and she was!”

This was a new one for me. I’ve heard of people being wasted, blasted, smashed, crocked, blitzed, and snockered, but never piped.

I asked her whether that was slang specific to this area and she paused to think it over. “Well, that’s what we said in high school, and I went to school here, so…” Of course, that was back in the 80s. Not to give her age away or anything. But I’m operating now on the assumption that “piped” is a local West Hollywood thing.

Now I’m trying to figure it out: why piped? At first I thought piped as in music. That’s my Navy background at work. When the Commanding Officer came aboard the ship every morning, the bo’sun would pipe them aboard, that is, give a long blast on the bo’sun’s whistle and announced over the 1MC, “USS Emory S. Land, arriving.”

But now that I look at the other slang terms for “drunk,” I’m struck—pun intended—by how violent they are. Smashed! Blitzed! Wasted! Now I’m thinking piped like: hit over the head by a lead pipe. Because that’s kind of what it feels like. Well, the next day, anyway.

So, having figured that out to my satisfaction, I now must solve the mystery of how the East Coast “anyhoo” caught on here in Hollywood. Because she says that too, and I am fairly certain it’s about as native to California as hummus.

Some of my students are budding thuglets with La Vida Loca faux-tattoos inked onto their hands — it’s three blue dots in a triangle at the juncture between the thumb and forefinger. One of these kids got stabbed last year in Echo Park. (That scar on his shoulder will win him female attention and sympathy for years to come. Chicks dig scars.)

So amid that bleak landscape, refreshing moments are precious. Here’s what I mean: amid my usual crop of wild, disinterested adolescents, there are the rare wonders, children who washed up on our shore God-knows-how. Two years ago it was a tall, blond Russian boy with wit and remarkable cultural knowledge. Gordy once watched three boys playing and needling each other as I struggled, exasperated, to get them to just once pay attention to the lesson. Finally he turned to me and said wryly in thickly-accented English, “The Three Stooges.” That was a refreshing moment.

Another was a girl from Bolivia whom I sat down in front of a computer and directed to write a summary of the book we had just read. She was the (very) quiet type, so I sort of wandered off and forgot about her for the better part of an hour. When I came back, she silently presented me with 9 pages… nine pages… of methodical, exact details from the novel. Single spaced. I am still certain that she is from Mars.

My most recent refreshing moment was yesterday. My little bespectacled girl from India came into the room and bounded up to me with a tiny white rose bud she had picked from a bush as she passed. “Here,” she said with a gallant flourish, “a white rose for a white lady!” This is just precious; she can’t know that “white lady” is not usually a term of endearment. Particularly in Los Angeles. I think I shall have to press that rosebud in my Complete Works of Jane Austen book. It’s just too cute.