The joys and sorrows of language

Last week we discussed ways to add meaning to an otherwise senseless death, and I promised to write this week about immortality. I will do that, but you'll have to hang on just a little longer because first I want to talk about language. (After all, if we're going to be immortal, we may as well settle on a way to communicate for eternity.)

Tonight we had choir practice, and it was rough. We are preparing for Easter and beyond, and are struggling with anthems in Latin and in French. The combination is particularly difficult, because we have to remember to pronounce the word "qui" as kwee in one case, and kee in the other.
Add to this the fact that two of us grew up in England, and so had to learn Latin and French for O-levels (the exams on which J. K. Rowling based OWLs in the Harry Potter series), and the pronunciation we learned in class differed from the sung forms. French in particular tends not to pronounce any of the last five or more letters in a word, except when sung, in which case they are given their own syllable and note. And then the sung form of Latin in England differs from that in the U.S.A., which led to the closest that Presbyterians come to a knock-down brawl--which is not very close--over the pronunciation of virgine.
The choir has decided they don't like French.


There's long precedent for this dislike of French, both the people and the language. Americans have often made fun of the French, deriding them as "surrender monkeys" over their behaviour in World War II, and holding resentment over the fact that the French would not allow our aircraft to overfly their airspace when we bombed Libya in 1986 (conveniently forgetting that Spain also denied overflight). When France opposed our invasion of Iraq in 2003, french fries were renamed freedom fries in congressional cafeterias. And yet we forget that had it not been for France's aid, in particular in challenging Britain's dominance of the seas, during our own revolution, we may still be singing God Save the Queen as our national anthem (which even the Scots think is an awful choice).
But it's the English who have the real gripe with France, mostly over the fact that William the Bastard decided that, since he wasn't going to inherit anything from daddy thanks to his sobriquet, he might as well gather some of his Norman buddies and invade England. This happened in 1066, and we still haven't forgiven them. [OK, it's never clear when I write or speak whether the first person refers to Americans or English. Let context be your guide, because I will probably shift back and forth frequently.] This meant that the peasantry of the 11th century all spoke an early form of English, with its origins in the Germanic (thanks to the previous invasion by the Saxons), while the nobility--all FOWs (Friends of William, now re-dubbed The Conqueror, which sounded ever so much better) resolutely spoke French. Melvyn Bragg addresses this in his brilliant book The Adventure of English: The Biography of a Language. For example, Bragg explains, since the English raised the animals on each estate, the names of animals are Anglo-Saxon in origin. Meanwhile, the meat from the animals was cooked and served in French-speaking mansions, so the names of the corresponding meat are French. Hence we raise deer, but eat venison; we raise pigs, but eat pork, we raise cows, but eat beef (or veal). There's no explanation for chickens.
So there is long history of animosity between the English and the French. The Scots, on the other hand, have usually had much better relations with the French, which is also reflected in their language. In Scottish slang, a cup can be called a tassie, clearly from the French la tasse.
However, even though our choir is Presbyterian, and the denomination hails from Scotland--the Church of Scotland, or Kirk, is Presbyterian--we have decide that:
We Don't Like French.