Taking Literacy Literally

(c) 1996 by the Colorado Daily, (c) 2011 by Laurie Kay Olson

I know I run a huge risk in writing a column on literacy because I’m bound to get mail saying that a comma was out of place, but I need to comment. Since Sunday was International Literacy Day (September 1996) I thought I’d chance it.

While most people think of the illiterate as being those who can’t read or write at all, a large number of people read and write so badly they have trouble communicating. Working at a newspaper, I get to see letters to the editor in their original condition. It’s scary.

My first lesson in the importance of precise language came from Frank Reno, former English teacher at Baseline Junior High. He told of his trip to a department store to buy a pair of sunglasses. The sign on the table read “All Sunglasses $4 – accept Foster Grants.” Being the savvy English teacher he was, he argued that the Foster Grants were also $4 since “accept” means to include. He walked away with a pair of expensive sunglasses for $4 while the clerk was quickly changing the sign to say “except.” Moral of this lesson: poor English can cost you.

As journalists, we survive and thrive via the written word and often laugh over the letters we receive. We spent one afternoon howling at a letter about computers empowering “death squids” in El Salvador. An image from a sci-fi flick flashed into our minds with giant tentacles waving as people ran screaming through the streets of San Salvador, while an evil scientist huddled over a computer sending encoded messages to the squids. The sincerity of this person’s letter was lost amid the laughter.

Another letter, written on the evils of driving, ended with a sentence about this man’s “mechanical satin.” I was baffled. A mechanical piece of fine fabric? After reading his letter several times I realized that he meant “mechanical Satan.” This is why I opposed teaching children that phonetic spelling is appropriate. It isn’t. Ever. (Uh-oh – sentence fragments!) There are “two” many homonyms in our language “four” this to be practical. Aside from limiting communication, it leads people to write us letter about “weather” affirmative action is necessary, “of coarse.”

Then there are the punctuation abusers. Some people can’t seem to decide where a sentence ought to end. They continue to string their thoughts together with colons, semi-colons, and commas until a single sentence will go on for half a page. I wonder if something happened to these people to make them afraid of periods. Just a tiny little dot at the end of a string of words apparently sends them into panic. Perhaps this same phenomenon is why some people can’t seem to employ an apostrophe to make a contraction or a possessive. I don’t know. Since I got over my fear of commas I just can’t relate anymore.

Dear Abby has the similar problems. She received a letter from a man complaining that magazines weren’t being very responsive to his short stories. He did it in a letter that was so poorly written that it was laughable. My advice to those starting out: Wanting to be a writer isn’t enough. You actually have to know how to write.

To be fair, we do receive clear, concise, well-written letters. Unfortunately, they are the exception. Why don’t you see the gaffs that I’ve mentioned here? We are kind and tidy things up as best we can without messing up the meaning. That is if we can find it.

The Sporting Life

(c) 1996 by the Colorado Daily, (c) 2011 with additional text by Laurie Kay Olson

Hi, my name is Laurie, and I’m a sports-dysfunctional.

There needs to be a 12-step program for this.

One of the problems with growing up ion Boulder is that you are expected to be imbued with a certain amount of athletic excellence – and unfortunately I am the anti-athlete.

While most people manage to trot out some little story about how they were always the last one to be picked for a team, in my case it was worse. The team captains would stand and argue about who had to take me until the teacher would show up and force me onto one of them. The embarrassing thing is that this would happen even when one of the captains was my best friend. My friendships didn’t last long during sports season.

When I was ten years old, I managed an amazing feat while hitting golf balls with my cousin Rick. I managed to catch one of his drives – with my right eye. He went on to be an excellent golfer while I gave up on golf with a spectacular shiner.

I admit it. I was a tremendous klutz. This was facilitated in part by the fact that I had shot up to five feet tall and fully developed by the time I was eleven. I was too tall and round to compete with my short, stick-figure classmates – making me comparatively unbalanced. OK, let’s be honest – I was top-heavy.

I have clear Charlie-Brownish memories of enthusiastically trying to kick a soccer ball, only to end up on my back in the grass, staring at the sky. I would be there for a few moments contemplating the chances that anyone would ever mistake me for a jockette. Then I would get up and reluctantly return to humiliate myself again.

Add to this the hideous gym suits that had a tendency to ride up your butt, give you holster-hips, and hide your figure just when you were starting to discover what to do with one, as well as communal showers with two-dozen other girls, and gym quickly became my least favorite part of any given day.

In high school I finally found that I had some small talent for volleyball. Not great, though, for my growth spurt had stalled shortly past 5-3 which made me a little short at the net. And, alas, volleyball, too, fell by the wayside. There must be something about me that gives people the impression  that I couldn’t possibly manage to hit a ball if my life depended on it (unless it could be four-eyes and thunder-thighs . . . hmmm, could be).In my last game, a teammate decided that I wasn’t going to get the ball headed directly for me. In a split second, his head was between the ball and my hand. The heel of my hand shoved his nose into his brain-pan for the briefest moment. He wound up on the floor, squirming in agony, hands over his nose, tears coming from his eyes and me bending over him with laughter, having just experienced the reality of slap-stick shtick.

For the safety of those around me, I have decided to avoid all sports that involve balls, bats, racquets, teams, or other players (heaven help us if I ever decided to try the javelin or discus). I have resorted to such activities as swimming, although I have to be careful not to get my face in the water so I won’t drown.

Delores, the woman who works where I swim, has kindly memorized all necessary emergency numbers, including the county coroner, taken a refresher course in mouth-to-mouth, and has programmed 911 into the speed dial of her cell phone. I hope she’ll never need it, but with my track record, she’d better have her dialing finger poised the next time I wade into the pool.

(Editor’s note: Laurie Kay Olson is rooting for the Rockies to win the Super Bowl.)

(Author’s note: I am extremely grateful to Delores who eventually did have to call 911 at my request when my mother had a stroke at the pool five years ago. Bless you Delores!)

You Might be a Boulderite if. . .

(c) 2011 by Laurie Kay Olson. Original version (c) 1996 by the Colorado Daily Newspaper

Boulder is unique, to say the least. Since most people who live here have come from somewhere else, how do you know when you’ve attained true Boulderite status?

As an observant Boulder native, and therefore also innately eccentric, I have a list of criteria to help you identify when you have really arrived. If you are truly a Boulderite you probably:

• Have experienced wind damage when a sudden gust of wind blew your kayak, skis, or snowboard off the roof of your late model four-wheel-drive vehicle (for natives this would be from the roof of your aging used car that cost less than the kayak, skis, or snowboard).
• Have one excuse for everything from minor fatigue to Republicans: “It’s the altitude.”
• Have a better-than-average chance of if identifying food such as daikon, kohlrabi, ginger root, and shitake mushrooms at the supermarket, and know what to do with them when you get home.
• Think that wind is only a light, refreshing breeze until gusts exceed 90 mph, or blow your dog across the lawn, whichever comes first.
• Have had at least one self-righteous argument about the smoking ban or gay rights.
•  If Republican, find yourself having errant liberal thought accompanied by the occasional urge to hug a tree.
•  If Democrat, find yourself in a liberal paradise.
•  Have taken sides on the skier vs. boarder issue and can argue it with a certain amount of eloquence, even if you do neither.
• Own at least one crystal, fossil, or really cool-looking rock.
• Have the ability to commute to work via auto, bus, cycle, fax, email, or telepathy.
• Are surprised to meet someone who was actually born in Boulder (we do exist; honestly, it’s not just a myth).
• Have had an encounter with a wild animal larger than a squirrel within a short distance of your domicile (if not closer).
• Believe that living here is a result of your karma.
• Have nearly knocked off a bicycle breaking traffic laws, or been a bicyclist who has nearly been knocked off by a motorist breaking traffic laws.
• Now complain about the humidity while newcomers are desperately trying to fin their moisturizer.
• Are addicted to at least one trendy outdoor activity – skiing, boarding, rafting, kayaking, sailing, hiking, mountain biking, etc.
• Suffer severe guilt pangs about throwing something away, even if you know it is not reusable or recyclable.

Now some tips on how to identify Boulder natives. They are able to pronounce Colorado backwards, sing the Panthers’ or Knights’ fight songs, begin sentences with “I remember when. . .” and actually remember when the letters CU were painted on the Flatirons.