Hungary, part 1

For the next four weeks, starting today (Monday), I’m going to be studying Hungarian at the University of Pécs, on a scholarship provided by the Tempus Foundation (https://tka.hu/english). This is not my first time with this program — I attended last year as well, on the same sort of scholarship, and thus most of what we’re doing this year is fairly familiar: I know most of the teachers, many students have been coming for more than one year, and I can get from the dormitories to the building where we have our classes without getting lost.

There isn’t all that much to say about how the program is going at this point, since we’ve only had one day of classes (and not even a full day at that), but they seem to have fixed some of the more annoying issues from last year — for instance, we no longer have to walk far, far away from the university to eat lunch (last year lunch was served in a restaurant that was maybe a 10-minute walk from the main class building), and they’ve made it easier to choose between vegetarian and meat lunch options on a day-by-day basis, rather than having to simply elect one for the duration of the program.

I was originally placed into a class that in my opinion was far too easy, but switching to a higher-level class for a few sessions to try it out was extremely easy. Although I feel a little bit behind in the higher-level class, I will probably end up staying there if they let me, since I tend to do best at language learning when I can just jump off the deep end and start talking to people who know the language better than I do.

I unfortunately can’t promise that I’ll write about this program with any regularity, but I will try. Some future posts may be written in Hungarian, but I will include an English translation at the bottom.

Nonbinary Kinship Terms Survey Results 1

A couple of days ago, in a conversation I was in, the question came up of how to refer to one’s nonbinary relatives. While it’s true that there exist gender-nonspecific terms for most relations (e.g. “sibling”, “parent”, etc.), there don’t appear to be terms in common use that refer explicitly to nonbinary people, even in queer parlance.

Thus, being the conlanger that I am, I decided to come up with a few such terms on my own, and to try to make them similar enough to the existing English kinship terms that they would be recognizable as referring to the relationship that they did, even to a person who was hearing them for the first time. I ended up creating terms for five categories (a nonbinary parent, sibling, child, sibling’s child, and parent’s sibling), and ran a brief survey on Tumblr to determine if English speakers could identify which terms referred to which categories.

Of the 78 people who took the survey, 88.5% indicated that they were native speakers of English, and 55.1% indicated that they felt they knew how the novel words were supposed to be pronounced (39.7% said they only felt they could tell sometimes). Below, each group of words is discussed in greater detail.

Vether

Pronounced /’vɛðəɹ/, this word was intended to refer to one’s nonbinary parent. I actually coined this one long before the conversation that led to this survey, after reading an exchange where a person* suggested that the term “baba” would be a good choice for what a baby might call their genderqueer parent; I then backformed that to a hypothetical word that shared the “-ther” suffix found in “father” and “mother”, and began with the one labial fricative that didn’t already begin a kinship term in English, i.e. /v/.

A solid 65.4% of respondents got this one “correct”, identifying it as referring to one’s parent. However, there was a substantial minority (14.1%) who voted for “parent’s sibling”, and smaller minorities who chose the other categories, as well as variations on “I don’t know” and one freeform response.

Sether, Sebber, Sither, Bruster

All of these were intended to refer to one’s sibling. Respectively, they are pronounced /’sɛðəɹ/, /’sɛbəɹ/, /’sɪðəɹ/, and /’bɹʌstəɹ/. All are essentially portmanteaus of “brother” and “sister”, with “sebber” also being influenced by the word “sibling”.

Although a majority of respondents chose the “sibling” option for all four of these, that majority was largest (87.2% and 84.6%, respectively) for “sither” and “bruster”. Only 65.4% of respondents chose “sibling” for “sebber”, with the rest divided between the other four official options and a number of (sometimes humorous) freeform responses. Interestingly, although a majority of individuals (56.4%) got “sether” “correct”, a large minority (21.8%) indicated that it referred to one’s parent.

Tozzer and Tother

I intended for these terms to be pronounced /’tɑzəɹ/ and /’tɑðər/, and refer to one’s child. However, in neither case did a majority of respondents choose this option (although “child” did represent the largest group of responses — 24.4% — for “tozzer”; “parent” and “sibling” received 16.7% and 14.1% respectively). “Tother” received a clear majority of responses in favor of it referring to one’s parent (52.6%), with another large chunk of responses (19.2%) in favor of “sibling”. One freeform responder indicated that they thought “tother” should rhyme with “mother”, which may have contributed to the preponderance of “parent” responses.

One complication that I, as an American, did not anticipate is that the word “tosser” is apparently an insult in Great Britain. This was pointed out multiple times in the freeform responses to both of these words. I did notice that “tozzer” sounded a bit like “tosser” while creating these words, but was not aware that it was an insult. Both terms come from playing with the sounds in “daughter”, adding elements from “father”, “mother”, and “brother”, plus a healthy dose of random variation.

Naith

Prnounced /neɪθ/, and referring to a sibling’s child, this is the term that I hypothesized would produce the most confusion among respondents, but it seems to have been clearer than I expected: 61.5% of answers went to the “sibling’s child” option, with minorities of 15.4% and 11.5% for “child” and “parent’s sibling” respectively.

I coined this word by playing with the vowel in “niece”, and then changing the sibilant /s/ to /θ/ in order to resemble, but not match exactly, the /f/ (written “ph”) in “nephew”.

Entle

A portmanteau of “uncle” and “aunt” with the stressed vowel changed to /ɛ/, and pronounced /’ɛntəl/, this word was meant to refer to a parent’s sibling, and 78.2% of respondents agreed. Of the remaining answers, about half chose “child”, with the rest being split between the remaining options and freeform answers of “grandparent” and “grandchild”.

Conclusions

Most of the terms I created produced the desired associations in readers, although there was a lot of uncertainty with some of them. “Tozzer” and “tother” were totally off the mark, but this is probably explainable by their similarity to “tosser”, and the fact that “tother” can be read as rhyming with “mother”, neither of which I anticipated when I coined those two terms.

I’m probably going to start using “vether”, “naith”, and “entle” when I need them. I would also like to work one of the “sibling” words into my vocabulary, but choosing one is going to be difficult, since my personal aesthetic favorite (sether) is also the least obvious of the four options surveyed.

Finally, it’s very clear that we need a new word for one’s nonbinary child. I’m currently at a loss for ideas — I thought about trying to derive a term from the Proto-Indo-European *dʰeh₂ylios, but couldn’t come up with anything that felt like it would evoke the concept of a child, at least not to my own brain.

Further Analysis

I’d like to see how much of a correlation there is between getting the “correct” answer for a particular word, and being a native speaker of English. This isn’t conceptually that hard to do, but I’ll need to play with the data a bit, and I’m exhausted and wanted to get *something* posted tonight. I’ll try and post an update in the next couple of days. I’d also like to provide actual charts with the data I received, but Google Forms doesn’t provide an easy way to export them as images without going through at least one WYSIWYG editor.

*If the person in question sees this and asks me to cite them by name, I will do so. I’ve decided to keep them anonymous for now for privacy’s sake.

Kem and Doy

In modern English, there do not appear to be any generally accepted terms identifying people by their genital configuration and secondary sex characteristics without having to invoke gender and the social convention surrounding it, as “AMAB” and “AFAB” do. While those terms (and a few others) allow discourse to function to a certain degree, they continue to feel a bit awkward for the task at hand. It would seem useful to have unanalyzable terms for each of these categories.

Thus, let the word “kem” /kɛm/ refer to a person with traditionally Y-chromosomal physical traits (both in terms of genitalia and in terms of secondary characteristics), and the word “doy” /dɔɪ/ refer to a person with traditionally X-chromosomal traits. These terms are intended to be used as adjectives, but could be repurposed as nouns if necessary.

Now, of course, there are a lot of people who have traits from both categories, often with one of them being dominant. That’s okay, since there’s no need for these two words to be mutually exclusive — one can be mostly doy but have a couple of kem features, or fairly equally distributed between the two. The important thing is that these words refer to aspects of physical bodies, rather than gender identities. Additionally, they refer to aspects of a person’s physical body regardless of how they came to possess it — thus, a kem person is kem even if they were born doy, and vice versa.

Etymologically, the word “kem” is at some level inspired by the term “kemmer” in Ursula Le Guin’s work, although it isn’t clear whether that was conscious, or whether it only became apparent after the word had been coined. The word “doy”, on the other hand, is entirely a priori, with no known source of inspiration other than the need for a new word that didn’t already mean something in English.

Michael Burnham: Missed Opportunity?

This post is spoiler-free.

For those of you who haven’t been watching it, Michael Burnham is the main viewpoint character in the new television series Star Trek: Discovery. Although female, she was given a name that, in our era, is traditionally male, which appears to be a signature move of her creator Bryan Fuller’s. However, given when the series is set, it would not be at all surprising for the name “Michael” to have become a woman’s name.

As languages evolve, it is entirely natural for names to switch which genders they are associated with. Due to sexism (and possibly other factors), it is far more common for traditionally male names to be adopted by women than the other way around, and at first glance, that is what appears to have happened in Michael Burnham’s case: since Star Trek: Discovery is set at least two centuries in the future, it would make sense for the name “Michael”, and probably a number of other names as well, to have become female names (given the egalitarian nature of the Star Trek universe, you might also expect a number of female names to have switched to male, and possibly a much larger number of names being entirely gender-neutral, but the absence of those particular changes is not in and of itself surprising from a linguistics perspective in the way that no change at all would be).

Alas, this was not to be. Within a couple of episodes, it is established that Michael Burnham is one of a very small minority of women bearing the name “Michael”, if not the only one, when her roommate correctly guesses her identity from her first name alone. And while it isn’t that surprising that the producers of Star Trek would miss a minor linguistic detail such as this, it is a bit disappointing. All they would have had to do is to write one scene slightly differently, and possibly add a couple of minor characters with names corresponding to the “opposite” gender in modern English.

Perhaps if I ever try to write futuristic science fiction, I’ll get a chance to show how future names might actually look.

Diglossia

To start off with a couple of potential biases: I’m a polyglot. I learn languages for fun. While I definitely understand how sharing a native language makes communication easier, I probably will never truly grasp the mindset of a person who is okay with remaining monolingual. There are languages that are more or less of a priority for me, but I would never be able to give up all foreign languages.

Secondly, at this time I would prefer not to comment on what the linguistic situation on Earth will look like in two or three centuries. That would require a lot more research than I’m willing to do for one blog post, and even then predicting the future with a high degree of certainty is usually impossible. The one thing I will say is that we are just about guaranteed to see a major die-off of languages over the course of the next century, and there is little we can do about it other than supporting extant speaker communities and recording as much information about those languages as we can.

Anyway:

This post, and a number of people whom I have spent time with, have argued that in the long run, it would be better if the world had only one language, so that all people could communicate with one another more easily. While I personally am very strongly in favor of preserving linguistic diversity, this post is not here to argue that point, so much as to show that linguistic diversity and ease of communication need not be at odds with one another.

To me, there is an obvious way to allow nearly everyone to communicate without unnecessary difficulty, while preserving the world’s languages: diglossia. For anyone unaware, the term “diglossia” refers to the situation in which two (or sometimes more) languages are used side by side in the same community. Typically, each language is used in a particular, well-defined domain — for instance, German-speaking Swiss use Standard German in written work and in education, as well as when communicating with people from Germany, but speak Swiss German (which is not mutually intelligible with Standard German) just about everywhere else.

The aforementioned diglossic system in use in Switzerland is probably a good model for what an ideal worldwide diglossia might look like, although there would probably be need for a few changes — for instance, every local language would retain their own literature and written language, and schooling would be conducted bilingually through secondary school. Universities would probably end up having a mixture of classes taught in the local language and those taught in the global one, much as modern European universities will occasionally offer classes in English. The result would be that almost everybody would be natively or near-natively bilingual in their local language and the global language, and could communicate with people across the globe without having to sacrifice their native culture.

One issue with multilingualism brought up in the blog post I cite is the existence of people who have little to no ability to learn a foreign language. While I personally am not particularly familiar with the science behind how common this is, or whether learning two languages natively would obviate this issue, it stands to reason that a generally bilingual world would probably have little trouble accommodating such a person. If a child were clearly struggling to acquire both languages even with extra help, they could prioritize the common language in order to ensure their ability to communicate in the larger world, without having to worry that they would then be unable to communicate with their (bilingual) family. And if they chose to prioritize the local language, there would be no shortage of bilingual citizens who could serve as impromptu interpreters and translators as need arose.

At any rate, there is no reason to assume that global communication requires everyone to give up their heritage languages. Multilingual societies have been around for a very long time, and it would serve us well as a global community to emulate their model.

The Future

When I was little, I would watch Star Trek and other science fiction movies and TV shows, and imagine what the future would be like.

I thought it would be awesome — it was the future, after all. Everyone would be driving a flying car; every wall would have an intercom and video phone in it; the buildings would look like something out of The Jetson’s.

But then, the future started to arrive. It didn’t feel much different, and I hardly realized what was happening until much later. Time ticked on, years went by, and new inventions came, but nothing really changed. We got smartphones, faster computers, drones — but cars still drove on the ground, buildings looked the same as ever, and nobody went around installing shiny new touchscreen intercom panels in every wall. Why would they? Everyone had a smartphone!

As a child, I always thought the future would replace the past. But in the end, the past didn’t go anywhere. The future just got grafted on top.

Alternatives to Panels at SciFi Cons

At all of the Science Fiction/Fantasy conventions that I’ve been to, the primary sort of event offered has been the panel. For those who aren’t aware, panels at these sorts of cons generally consist of three to five experts on a particular topic — either authors, scientists, or people who just happen to know a lot about something — who present their views, and then discuss amongst themselves while the attendees listen.

While there is usually an opportunity for the audience to ask questions at the end, the panel is usually a fairly monodirectional event from the perspective of audience members who aren’t actually on the panel. Although this isn’t always a bad thing by any means — being able to just sit back and listen can be a blessing if one doesn’t have anything to add — it can start to feel limiting when an audience member has a lot to say on the topic being discussed, or otherwise feels that they could contribute to the discussion if only they were allowed to speak.

In light of this, I propose that cons set aside a room or two that can be reserved on a first come first served basis by anyone for anything that they can think of. I imagine that many people will present readings, lectures, and perhaps plays or concerts if the necessary equipment is on hand, but attendees would also be encouraged to use the rooms for kaffeeklatsch-style discussions and other more egalitarian activities (ad-hoc filk sessions come to mind, but the possibilities are endless).

Crucially, there would be (1) no authority deciding who was allowed to use the space and who wasn’t, with the possible exception of rules preventing individuals from hogging the rooms for extended periods of time, (2) no restrictions on the format of the goings-on in the room, as would be the case with traditional lightning talk and/or talent show spaces, and (3) no judging or evaluation not explicitly organized by the attendees who had booked the room. With luck, this would lower the bar to entry, allowing more people to take advantage of cons as places to share their ideas without waiting for them to be published or otherwise “noticed” (in fact, assuming the presenters were okay with it, these sorts of small, ad-hoc venues would probably be a great place for publishers to hang out in, keeping their eyes open for interesting work).

If anyone is involved in running a con and would like to try something like this, go right ahead, although I would appreciate some sort of citation if you were inspired by this post. I expect that the first few times, it would take a bit of tweaking to get the right number of rooms, but you’d probably be able to gauge how many you’ll need after a con or two, and plan accordingly.