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shrike

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shrike (shrik), n. [<AS. (via deal.) scric, bird of shrill cry < same base as shriek with reference to the cryle, any of several shrill-voiced birds with hooked beaks, gray, black, and white plumage, and long tails: most types feed on insects, some on small birds, frongs, etc: also called butcher bird.

I have been surprised at the accessibility of the words so far. They have all been words that I know, that easily conjure up discussion of concepts and issues. But for this week’s selection is a word I did not know and has a definition of something I was unaware existed.

So, the shrike. The shrike is a kind of bird. I love birds. I have come to appreciate birds even more since I moved to Tucson. Tucson is full of all kinds of birds. There are hummingbirds, woodpeckers, quail, cactus wren, crows, pigeons, and many more. Although the great grey shrike and the loggerhead shrike do live in the United States, they tend to stay in northern states. So, to my knowledge, I have not seen a shrike here in Arizona.

loggerhead shrike

Shrike are also known as “butcher birds,” named for the way they feed. They tend to spend most of their day resting on or near objects with sharp and pointy edges: barbed wire, branches with sharp ends, chicken wire. Once they have their prey, they impale the creature while they chew off bite-sized chunks. So ostensibly, they are eating the, for example, lizard, while it is still alive and writhing in pain. Peaceniks they are not.

Kaweahoaks.com calls shrikes “trim, businesslike birds.” I’m not really sure why. Is it because with their black, white and grey plumage, they could look like they were wearing a business suit or tuxedo? Or is it because they mean “business,” they are “taking care of business,” (insert other cheesy saying here) when they hunt and eat their food?

Shrikes are typically monogamous and, since they are territorial, they tend to defend their area in pairs. When the male is courting the female shrike, he does a dance that resembles the way he eats, by mocking how he impales creatures and offering her a piece of the invisible food. Fake hunting? Offering food that doesn’t exist as a form of courtship? Well, there are still shrike around so I guess it works for them.

Shrike556-CQB-LMG-003
A quick Internet search revealed that the shrike is also the name of a semi-automatic machine gun, i.e. the Shrike 5.56—a patented “drop-on” belt-feed upper receiver assembly that fits all MIL-SPEC AR15/M16/M4 type lower receivers. I do not know what any of that means. The picture of the gun makes me think it is a pretty serious weapon. In an attempt to learn more about the weapon, I did further searches and then, I got worried. Were my google or facebook ads suddenly going to offer me details about local gun shows or on how to join the NRA? Would someone doing a search on my computer find in my history the word “machine guns” and suddenly become concerned? That’s so unlike her.

But more disturbing than this was the pure amount of information about machine gunnery on the Internet. I don’t like guns at all and don’t think that machine guns should be available to civilians. I would expect detailed information about handguns, weapons that many people choose to have in their home for protection (or sometimes, for if they need to kill someone). But machine guns? People talking about specifications and release and action are using terminology to cover up one idea—violence. No matter what you terms you used, machine guns are manufactured to kill. And they are not rifles, meant to be shot at deer or ducks. Machine guns are meant to kill human beings.

Typically, these guns would be employed at war. And through the military, I would imagine you are taught the intricacies of the weapons you will use. I can understand that military personnel might do some searches to learn if there is more information out there about the guns they will use. Other than that, all of this information on the web is for gun enthusiasts. I think gun enthusiasts fall into categories. Number 1: Hunters, who obviously use guns. Number 2: Gun collectors, people who are curious about the history of warfare. They have may have an old bayonet, a rifle from the Civil War. They keep them unloaded in display cases next to the case with their wife’s Faberge eggs. Number 3: People who just like guns. I’m thinking number 1 and 2 would not be interested in semi-automatic weapons. They ruin their bounty, filling them with bits of shell. They aren’t old or interesting. Gun enthusiasts in group number 3 are the ones that concern me.

Why do we, as humans, like anything that is dangerous? Because it makes us feel powerful and alive. Because we like to believe that we are the only ones that will defy mortality. This is also true about guns. I would be willing to bet that people in group 3 like guns for this reason. Owning a gun makes them feel powerful. Maybe they feel impotent in their work life, their relationship, or their relationship to the world around them, but they have something very powerful that belongs to them. But there is a difference between being powerful and being brave. Guns give one person the capacity to end another person’s life. This makes the person holding the gun powerful. However, owning or carrying a gun doesn’t make a person brave even if it makes them feel that way. Ending another person’s life does not make you brave. On the contrary, most times it signals that the person pulling the trigger is operating out of fear.

Someone fears she is powerless so she fires her gun. Someone is afraid to deal with where his anger is really coming from because that would be too painful or make him too vulnerable so he fires his gun. Someone fears that if he doesn’t shoot first, he will be shot at so he fires his gun. A nation’s leader is afraid that if we don’t act first, we will be attacked so he orders the nation’s soldiers to fire their guns. A nation—told to be afraid of everything—wants to believe it is the most powerful nation in the world so its families will be safe and demands that its leaders send out the troops to fire their guns.

Fear is a normal human emotion, as is anger. It is not the emotions themselves that are problems but the way that we respond to them that makes a difference in our lives. Having protested against wars in my lifetime, I am often criticized as being “unpatriotic” or of “not supporting the troops.” I do support the troops and that is why I don’t believe anyone should be made to kill another human being. Soldiers are props in our wars. They do not know the person they are shooting, what their name is or what their family is like. Human beings—despite what we are told—are not wired for violence. When we hurt and kill other people, we suffer. There is something “off” in us from that experience.

I have talked to veterans from all different wars who are suffering with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. They have continuous nightmares based on what they had to do, something that is not in their makeup. I have talked to people convicted of violent crimes, who deeply regret what they did and who talk about what happened when anger mixed with a weapon—their hands, a gun, a knife. They didn’t think it was in them to do what they did.

We are good at the things that feel good to us—loving our significant other, raising our beloved children, taking care of family and friends in times of sadness and joy. These things feel good to us because they are at the core of who we are. We all have the capacity to do things that we can be proud of and harmful things, things that have the potential to hurt others. But ultimately, we have to work to be brave, despite this being a hard world, from the material we have in us and not because of what we hold in our hands.

Appropriately, the Shrike 5.56 is manufactured by a company called ARES Incorporated.  Ares is a figure from Greek Mythology. He is the son of Zeus and Hera, who, as any Edith Hamilton reader will remember, had quite the tempestuous relationship. Hera did not want to marry Zeus. For one, he was her brother. Beyond that reason, she didn’t see him as a good partner. He had swallowed his first wife and had a history of philandering. She refused him for 300 years until he came one day to her window in the shape of a disheveled cuckoo bird. She immediately had compassion for the bird, and at that moment he turned back into himself and convinced her to marry him.

Greeks used their gods to understand and explain the behavior they saw in themselves and to reiterate what was to be applauded and punished. Is it a mystery, then, that born out of this unwilling and untruthful union came Ares? Ares is referred to as the god of warfare, of bloodlust, or as Wikipedia states, “slaughter personified.” He is also considered a coward.

One version of the Shrike 5.56, made by a company named for the God of slaughter, can fire off up to hundred rounds per minute. As Ares says, the weapon “is designed for hard use” and “provides the modern operator with the adaptive firepower necessary to prevail on today’s battlefield.” I sort of feel bad for the shrike. Sure, he doesn’t employ the most fair or peace-loving techniques to capture and eat his prey. But he uses his bounty for sustenance. A bird’s got to eat. It doesn’t seem fair for his name to be given to a gun that is capable of mass slaughter.

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drop

As in, I “dropped” the blog posting for last week. As in, the post “dropped” out of my head, “dropped” off my to-do list, “dropped” outside my priorities.

Last week was my first week of teaching and school so even though I picked a word, I didn’t get to posting it or to writing about it (part of this might have to do with the fact that that the word “drop” has 15 definitions). But here it is, the word of last week:

drop (drop), n. [ME, droupen; ON, dropa; akin to G, tropfin toften; for the base, see DRIP], 1. a small quantity of liquid that is somewhat spherical or pear-shaped, as when falling. 2. a very small quantity of liquid. 3. pl. liquid medicine taken in drops. 4. a very small quantity of anything. 5. a thing like a drop in shape, size, etc. as a pendant earring or a small piece of candy. 6. a dropping; sudden fall, descent, slump, or decrease: as, a drop in prices. 7. anything that drops or is used for dropping or covering something, as a drop cutrian, a drop hammer, a trap door, or a slot for depositing letters. 8. the distance between a higher and lower level; depth to which or distance through which anything falls or sinks. 9. in football, a drop kick. v.i. [DROPPED or, occas., DROPT (dropt), DROPPING], 1. to fall in drops. 2. to fall; come down. 3. to sink to the ground exhausted, wounded, or dead. 4. to fall into a specified state; pass into a less active or less desirable condition: as, she dropped off to sleep. 5. to come to an end or to nothing: as, let the matter drop. 6. to slump; become lower or less, as temperatures, prices, etc. 7. to move down with a current of water or air. 8. to be born: said of animals. v.t. 1. to let fall in drops. 2. to sprinkle with drops. 3. to let fall; release hold of. 4. to give birth to: said of animals. 5. to utter (a suggestion, hint, etc.) casually. 6. to send (a letter). 7. to cause to fall, as by wounding or killing. 8. to dismiss; have done with. 9. to lower. 10. to omit ( aletter or letters) in a word. 11. to poach (an egg) 12. [Colloq.] to leave (a personal or thing) at a specified place. 13. [Slang], to lose (money). 14. in football, a) to drop-kick (a ball). b) to make (a goal) in this way. 15. in nautical usage, to outdistance.

at the drop of a hat, 1. at a signal. 2. immediately. at once; without hesitation or reluctance.

drop behind, to be outdistanced; fall behind.

drop in, to pay a casual or unexpected visit.

drop off, 1. to go away or out of sight. 2. [Colloq.], to fall asleep.

drop out, to stop being a member or participant.

get (or have) the drop on, [Slang], 1. to draw and aim one’s gun at (another) more quickly than he can draw and aim at one; hence, 2. to get (or have) any advantage over.

I remember learning about onomatopoeia, a fancy word for something I think we all inherently feel and understand, in elementary school. I liked these words, known to me but suddenly imbued with importance because of a new concept that went along with them. Crash. Bang. Thud. The words whose consonant and vowel construction made them sound like the definition that went with them.

Drop. It is a word that feels this way. A word that—to me, at least—implies a fall into an unknown and sometimes scary destination. Last week was the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, the storm that was only a Category 1 when it hit, and the breaking of levees in New Orleans. And the word of the week, and its many meanings, feels oddly appropriate to me. Millions of raindrops. The dropping of plans, of events, of schoolbooks to get out of town. Drops of hurricanes poured into glasses by those who decided to wait this one out at hurricane parties with friends. The word from a neighbor to my parents and then to me that there wasn’t a drop of water on our street. Followed by the drop of the news that the city was now flooded. People floating in the water. People dropping dead from exhaustion, from dehydration, from heart attacks, from shock and loss. President Bush dropping out of the public eye and our government dropping responsibility for its citizens. Local, state, and federal officials dropping the ball as the citizens of my hometown struggled to stay alive with no food and water and in the face of tremendous loss. Coast guard trying its best but dropping behind in reaching every person in his home, atop his roof. A good five days after the storm, the first supplies dropped down to the people at the Convention Center. Drops followed by drops followed by drops. Dropped calls as I tried to reach friends and family, to see where they were if they were okay. Dropping out of work as I spent all my time in the office trying to find out the latest information. Drops of tears heard over the phone on multiple calls a day to my parents. My stomach dropping when I heard that my cousin and state trooper Ivy had finally been able to see our house two weeks after the storm saw the waterline five feet up. He couldn’t open the kitchen door because the water had picked up the kitchen table and dropped it in front of it. The drop of my parents’ plan to retire in the next year. The drop of their security, having paid off the house. Not a drop of hope. Not a drop of peace. Not a drop of poise. People picked up at the Superdome and the Convention Center and then dropped onto buses, dropped at the airport, dropped on bridges. New Orleanians dropped in the Kentucky, in Arizona, in New York, in places where they knew no one and nothing. Children separated from their mothers and dropped thousands of miles away. Pets dropped off at kennels, at foster homes, with people who weren’t their owners. Refrigerators, kitchen tables, photo albums, clothes, mattresses dropped in the street in front of houses. Roofs dropped into living rooms from felled trees. My parents and I dropped all we could save of our house in the back of a van and drove away. People dropping their expectations of returning to the city they love because they have no money to return, no home to return to. The Road Home dropped their promises to Hurricane Katrina victims. Insurance agencies refusing to pay what’s due and dropping their policyholders. People seeing the racism and classism witnessed in the footage of Katrina and then, quickly, dropping the issue. Newsmedia finding new stories and dropping New Orleans out of the headlines. Volunteer groups dropping into the city and rebuilding. People from elsewhere dropping their judgment that New Orleans should not be rebuilt. That citizens should have left. That people of New Orleans were ignorant or stupid for not leaving, that they were dumb to live there in the first place. A dropped sense of security in the levee system and in the government’s concern for New Orleans. Me dropping the information to friends from other places that a year, two years, after the storm, the city looked the same as it did a month after. The drop of letters and photos in my mailbox from college friends, showing their support and trying to replace some of the memories I lost. Dropping into my old haunts now four years later and seeing them full of people. Dropping through neighborhoods where houses and businesses are still abandoned. Dropping down to the ground to dance to Rebirth Brass Band at Jazz Fest. A dropping of heads at the funeral of another friend who has died since the storm. Bulldozers dropping concrete and bricks that, just minutes before, were the public housing apartments for New Orleans residents. Homeless citizens going to drop in shelters that may or may not have room for them. Friends and family unable to drop in for a visit because they now live hundreds or thousands of miles away. Tourists dropping their original vacation plans and heading to New Orleans to spend their money there. Businesses dropping out of conventions in New Orleans either because it looks bad after bailouts to be in a “party city” or because they are worried the storm has left the city devastated, still. Drop-kicks scoring goals for the Saints as Saints fans drop their banners to throw up their arms in joy. A drop followed by a drop followed by a drop. Definition #7:  to move down with a current of water or air.

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dished

dished (disht), adj. [pp. of dish], 1. dish-shaped; concave. 2. farther apart at the top than at the bottom: said of parallel wheels.

There it is. The word of the week is “dished.” And unfortunately, since this is an old dictionary, it is not the past tense of “dish”: to gossip, to give the lowdown, to talk smack, etc. I will consider other ways I want to explore this word during the course of the week, but for now, I will be honest about something.

I really really really hate doing the dishes. I know that many people don’t like to do household chores, dishes being one of them. The lovely Buddhist monk and poet Thich Nhat Hanh talks about being present to your life, even when you are doing things you would rather not be doing. I remember him asking, Why would you wish your life away? Don’t wish away the moments when you are doing the dishes. Instead, be present during them. Now, I love him. I think he is a wise, spiritual, profound man. But I have to say, I have tried to be present doing the dishes and my mantra, inevitably, becomes, “I hate doing the dishes. I hate doing the dishes. I hate doing the dishes.”

I have thought about why. Part of it is because I have a small kitchen, with not much counter space, and thus doing the dishes is cumbersome. I also do not have a dishwasher so I have to scrub and scrub by hand. But I think the heart of it is that I like to get things messy, but I do not like picking up after. Cooking and baking = fun. Cleaning up after = no fun. Eating a delicious, beautiful meal= fun. Returning to the kitchen to scour a pan = not fun. I have a hard time relishing in the process of cooking and eating and then returning to do the work of cleaning up. Problem is, I don’t want to clean up later either.

So, dishes. They aren’t my favorite, but I am working on it. And from the picture of my kitchen, you can tell that, today, I dished.

dishes

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and the first word is…

IMG_0668

port⋅ance (pôr/t’ns), n. [Early Mod. Eng. <Fr. portance < porter, to bear, carry; cf. –ANCE], [Archaic], conduct; bearing; carriage; demeanor

(definition from Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language: College Edition. The World Publishing Company. Copyright 1955.)

So here it is, the first word for the dictionary project. I find it interesting that portance is our first word here given my recent obsession with the AMC show Mad Men. Everything about that show revolves around decorum, around the appropriate way to walk and dress, around what it means to be a gentleman or a lady. There are rules for how the advertising executives should conduct themselves with clients. There are rules about the ways wives should take care of their husbands, home and children. There are rules about how marriages should proceed, how wives should look the other way, how husbands should be discreet with their affairs outside the home. And there are judgments based on whether women and men fit into the molds predetermined for them, whether they come from good families.

But in addition to those preset rules and values, there are also excuses made for acting outside of them. Men should always be polite and respectful to women, but, you know, boys will be boys. Men should know how to hold their drink but they should not overdo it. There is a fine line between a good businessman and a lush. You want your wife to act like a lady, but certainly not your mistress. Single ladies should be pretty and proper to attract men, but everyone knows men love seductresses. There is a fine line between a sexy woman and a whore.

I think the most fascinating thing about the show for me is that these rules are so different than the ones we follow. Dress codes have changed. Gender dynamics have changed. The nuclear family has changed. And yet, even as so much has changed in almost a half a century, there is always the memory of this time. Its residue factors into every decision and interaction we have in our daily lives. I remember as I apply for jobs that I would not have been considered for these positions fifty years ago. I remember as I am questioned by family members about my love life that being thirty and single fifty years ago would have been even more of a stigma than it is today. I remember as I see women navigate their work and family lives that there was a time that they were expected to take care of their family and be contented with that. If they were not, they could be sent to an “analyst” to figure out what was wrong with them.

A friend of mine who also watches the show questioned her own fascination with the show and with a time period so many decades ago. She wondered if it meant she would have rather lived then or if it was because her parents had existed in that world and in a similar office environment. I think there was a certain safety in having clearer lines of conduct then, particularly in the distinctions between men and women. You knew how you were supposed to behave. The answers were clear and universal, and all you needed to do was follow the handbook already written for you.

There was safety and seeming ease, but with these strict guidelines came severe limitations. What happens when you are supposed to be one way but you find yourself more complicated as a person than those rules allow? What if you are a man who enjoys taking care of your children and home? What if you are a housewife who enjoys hunting and fishing? What if you have an inheritance but find yourself without purpose and with a desire to do something, to work somewhere?

I think we are a little bit slow to recognize how many rules of conduct are still in place in our daily lives. Everything has changed—it is true. However, it is dangerous for us to assume that these values do not linger on, especially as the show has gained a following of people nostalgic for that period in history. For the truth is as I watch the women secretaries be ogled by their bosses and cohorts, I think back to times when I have felt demeaned as a woman in the workplace. As I see the lead character Don Draper reckon with his past and with his predetermined role as breadwinner and strong husband, I think of all of the men I have known who have suffered intensely from trying to maintain their masculine role and having no one to share their trials with. We would do well to see this show not merely as a reminder of what was but as a clue into what expectations continue to exist. What is good and helpful about them? What harms us as individuals and communities? What rules of conduct exist because it contributes to us being good, kind human beings? And what obsessions with portance keep us and those around us bound?

mad-men-women

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