‘Deceived’
When I heard it, I could have capsized the laundry basket on wheels for pure shock. The tiled laundromat floor would have been littered with damp but clean T-shirts lacking structure, threadbare socks, and polyester lace thongs undoubtedly purchased at a 5 for $25 Aerie sale.
Nothing quite so dramatic occurred: my surprise likely manifested as a mere facial expression (bemused smile? astonished gawk?). “It” was a moment in a recent rerun of This American Life. I haven’t been listening to the program as much as I used to: I’ve been black pilled by depraved podcasts and by this article that coined the term “inspiresting.” My appetite for earnest, well-crafted liberal storytelling has sadly diminished.
The episode was about goof-ups made by children—the last act highlighted when these mistakes hold over into adulthood. Alex Blumberg narrates: “Consider the word ‘misled.’ I talked to 3 people, including my own father, who used to pronounce it ‘MY-zuld.’ All 3 believed it was the past tense of a nonexistent verb ‘misle,’ which means to deceive. Or to mislead.” (Listen here: 47:20-47:34).
Make that 4, Alex! I’ve had this exact experience with the word ‘misled.’ While I don’t believe my mistake ever crept into my spoken vernacular, I still mentally stumble from time to time when reading the word. It was funny to run across such an obscure shared experience listening to a show I’ve demoted to the bench. I suppose that’s just the serendipity of this kooky, crazy American life!
Silly Mistaaaaakes…
I had a math teacher in sixth grade who would shake his head as he handed our quizzes back to us. Tut tutting, he would sing-songily say: “Silly MistaaAaAakes” to warn us that our grades were slipping because we were making lazy arithmetic errors. His attitude toward silly mistakes implied that they were more threatening than high-concept blunders. Silly mistakes were a product of laziness, inattention, a failure to double-check your work.
It’s hard to describe how bad silly mistakes make me feel. Mishearing. Mispronouncing. Misunderstanding. I find them so embarrassing because they are often honest mistakes, earnest ones. That vulnerability makes me cringe. As bad as it feels to make these errors myself, it’s even worse to bear witness. It’s the linguistic equivalent of when someone has a big old chunk of spinach in their teeth. You are faced with a choice: say something or just leave it be.
I’m certain that the bedrock of my current phone anxiety was an unpleasant call I had as a kid. One evening, my mom asked me to order a pizza from Valentino’s. I dialed, the conversation began, and it quickly became clear that this man was no elocutionist. Ordering a pizza is a very specific process—a series of questions and answers. I was trudging along valiantly until he said: “Mrhkwhsh?” I replied: “I’m sorry, what was that?” Impatience rising, he said: “Wnknsfshd?” I asked: “I couldn’t hear, could you please repeat?” And this went on for eternity.
Mispronunciation is horrible too. My brother always had a good perspective on the topic. He would say that you shouldn’t judge someone for pronouncing something wrong, because it likely means that they learned the word from reading. And reading is an act of self-betterment (expanding your vocabulary, gaining perspective, blah, blah).
It’s true. There are a lot of reasons you shouldn’t mock someone for the way they pronounce their words. But, my brother is a born teacher, and I’m a cynical town crier! We can’t all be so magnanimous. My mom and I have mocked him mercilessly about a time he mispronounced “bonanza” (I mean, it also doesn't help that he was casually dropping the word “bonanza”). This happened ten years ago, and we still occasionally tease him about it.
I was talking to an old friend on the phone and he asked if my blog and newsletters were intended to be the next Absalom, Absalom! I didn’t get the joke and said: “Well I DO love Faulkner…” He explained that he was kidding because my writing style is nothing like Faulkner. He meant to indicate that what I write is easy to read—I communicate clearly and don’t tend to be overly dense.
It’s true. I’m tragically addicted to clarity. I can verge on being didactic, and have to edit myself for spelling things out over and over. It’s a gift to write coherently, but it’s limiting too. Why?
It’s a method of control (i.e. “Because writing and reading are separated by time and space, my writing must be clear for the meaning to come through.”)
It’s a lack of trust (i.e. “If I am not 100% clear, then my reader will misinterpret me.”)
It’s a symptom of fear (i.e. “If my reader misinterprets me, they might not like me/judge me/misunderstand my intention, et cetera.”)
I have a deep desire to dabble in more poetic writing, with forms that are more open to interpretation. It’s a leap of faith that my words won’t get lost in translation. That my intentional prose won’t be taken for a silly mistake.
5 Misheard Songs (1979-1986)
Ironically, for being such a music lover, I’m not great at discerning lyrics and often hesitate to look them up. It could be that I’m nostalgic for the short time in my youth when the internet was not available to me 24/7, and I could actually argue with my peers about song lyrics. Such squabbles probably belong in the past: they were rarely interesting, and only ever ended in hurt feelings. But, they were still better than arguing about politics or talking about the weather.
P.S. I didn’t intentionally choose such a narrow time frame. This either speaks to a lack of clarity in an era of music OR is an obvious reflection of my parent’s music taste (ergo the music I grew up with).
“Pulling Mussels (From The Shell),” Squeeze
I heard: “Pulling muscles for Michelle.”
Actual lyrics: “Pulling mussels from the shell.”
What can I say? I thought this was a song about a guy doing acrobatic labors of love for some chick Michelle. Doing such strenuous acts to win her over that he was pulling muscles.
“Voices Carry,” ‘Til Tuesday
I heard: “Even downtown, this is scary.”
Actual lyrics: “Keep it down now, voices carry.”
I admit my revelations about this song came in waves, and I didn’t know the true lyrics until a few weeks ago. A while back I realized that what I heard as “this is scary” is obviously actually the very TITLE of the song. I overheard a band covering “Voices Carry” in the park, and wrote an article about it: my lyrical goof-up almost made it to print when I wanted to make a joke about how “Even downtown, voices carry.”
“Accidents Will Happen,” Elvis Costello
What my brother heard: “Excellence will happen.”
Actual lyrics: “Accidents will happen.”
It’s fun to imagine a world where excellence replaces accidents. How would this look? Like instead of tipping over the glass of chardonnay precariously wedged between your knee and the arm of the couch, you effortlessly finish an insightful and provocative collection of essays?
“Stop Your Sobbing,” The Pretenders
What my friend heard: “You gotta stop sobbing at home.”
Actual lyrics: “You gotta stop sobbing now.”
I feel bad because this is a major callout for a close friend! If you’re reading, I’m sorry to be lambasting you in my newsletter, rather than just telling you in person… For some reason, this obscure Kinks cover is such an earworm for me and I find myself singing and humming it all the time. To my friend’s credit, Chrissie Hynde pronounces “now” in the funkiest way possible (a two-syllable “nah-how”). I never corrected him because I find the mix-up charming, and it gives the song a new, funnier meaning.
“Livin’ on a Prayer,” Bon Jovi
What I heard: “Livin’ on a frayer.”
Actual lyrics: you guessed it! “Livin’ on a prayer.”
This is a great example of how kids mishear so purely. The concept of “living on a prayer” was too complicated for me to understand, so I took it at face value, thinking that Bon Jovi must be referring to some object or place that he was “livin’ on.” The fact that I thought it was a nonexistent word that I didn’t know the meaning of (“frayer”), rather than a word with which I was intimately aware (raised Catholic, remember?) is delightfully bonkers. When I admitted this mix-up to my high school best friend, she suggested that perhaps I was thinking “Livin’ on a frère” (as in the French word for brother).
Thanks for reading! Go forth, singing loudly and wrongly!
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Yes, it’s misled and song choices this week - 100%