SURRENDERING, WASTING TIME AND FOLLOWING ORDERS : THE LANGUAGE OF EMPLOYMENT

THE MYTH OF EMPLOYMENT IN AMERICA

PART 1 - LANGUAGE

Last week, the White House announced some encouraging news about the economy. It said that the "Job Report" for March showed "significant gains." Apparently, more people found private employment during the early spring; and that meant more people were getting paychecks. Since late 2008, the "Job Report" had consistently reported losses. So last month's news was cause for celebration: When people have private sector jobs, it is a national victory.

What makes jobs cause for celebration in America? After all, what exactly is a "job," and why do Americans fetishize them so much? Is there something magical about jobs that makes people live their whole lives seeking them and toiling at them? I say no: In most cases, jobs are a poor way to spend your life; and they are sure way to obliterate your spirit as an individual.

Viewed in the abstract, jobs are nothing to glorify. In most cases, they are just a waste of time. People only work because they need to earn money to stave off material ruin at the hands of creditors, landlords, banks and other superior economic beings. They do not enrich people intellectually or spiritually. Rather, they commit people to a "service obligation," namely, unswerving dedication to the employer's economic mission. That economic mission might involve questionable ethics or outright deceit. But jobs require people to put those concerns aside and "do what the company wants." Worse, if the employee does not "do what the company wants"--or if he simply does not justify his cost in company profit--he is fired. If anything, jobs are gloomy reward. In return for a paycheck, an employee not only must sacrifice his time, dignity, ethics and individuality; he must also commit himself to another's material gain. That is a high price to pay for freedom from bankruptcy.

But still Americans thirst for jobs. Everyone wants one. Economists even measure national commercial strength by evaluating "job creation" and "job robustness." In other words, the entire economic system depends on everyone getting a job and doing what they are told so that larger commercial interests can profit and pay more employees. Jobs depend on hierarchies and disparities in power. Some live to benefit the employer; meanwhile the employer makes off with all the money. The employer expects total dedication to his economic mission; he pays just enough wages to keep the employee fed and under a roof. The employee must follow instructions and be productive.

It is not a fair system: No matter what free market apostles say to the contrary, very little labor is actually voluntary in the United States. True, no one is pointing a gun at employees to force them to work. But deluging people with ceaseless economic obligations under threat of homelessness amounts to practical coercion. If the choice is between letting one's children starve and taking an unfair job somewhere, is it really a choice?

If the field is so tilted, why does everyone want a job? If jobs are inherently unfair, coercive and wasteful, why does the White House tout them as the ultimate measure of national success? Does it not say something about our collective life expectations that we view our jobs as the highest expression of who we are? After all, most jobs are quintessentially counter-creative and anti-individualist. To understand that, consider that in American discourse it is often possible to replace the question "Who are you?" with "What do you do?"

Language relating to employment paints a bleak picture. It tells a story of banality, wasted time and exploitation. By investigating a few common words that regularly appear in the employment context, we see an oppressive, anti-individualist motif at work. And in the process, we begin to understand that the whole mythology surrounding "jobs" in America is exactly that: An elaborate hoax that sustains itself on false expectations and wretched servility.

Let us begin with the most obvious example: "Job." The word "job" is ubiquitous in modern American discourse. We cannot escape it. We even think we know what a "job" means; we visualize some guy slapping on a Starbucks apron and serving up mocchachinos for $5.50 a pop. But do we really understand the word? Where does it come from? What does it tell us? Is it really the sacred thing the propaganda tells us it is? Is it really the thing that determines our strength as a nation? Is it the be all and end all of our lives?

Let us look.

No one can agree on "job's" precise etymology. Most scholars agree, however, that "job" relates to the Middle English word "gobbe," meaning a "lump or mass of something," like clay, mud or grime. Dictionary.com says that "gobbe" did not imply "work" in 1400. But by the 17th Century, it began to assume a new meaning. Specifically, it meant a "specific, discrete piece of work done for an agreed-upon price." That distinguished it from long-term employment; jobs were "petty" and "inconstant." The handyman did "jobs," while the priest had a "profession." A person with a "job" was common trash. The fact that the word relates to "gob" tells almost the whole story. Jobs are grimy, unsavory and despicable ways to spend time. They are like lumps of filth with which people contend every day for a few lousy shillings. And they have always occupied the lowest spot on the "employment hierarchy." Only the meanest types worked "jobs." "Better people" spent their time with "professions" or "callings."

In this historical context, who would ever want a "job?" The etymology tells a nasty story. Only common rogues would deign to be "jobbers" slaving away at their daily lumps. What a horrible way to spend a life. While the word "job" may have taken a more neutral meaning over time, etymology never lies. It is indisputable that the word "job" reflects low social standing and abject surrender to a superior master. Only the most wretched people did "jobs" in the past, like cleaning privies or washing horse dung. Yet now Americans fetishize jobs. Who would have ever thought that so many Americans would have wanted to be the linguistic successors to Elizabethan shit sweepers?

Other employment-related words do not really improve the overall linguistic image. Those fortunate enough to avoid having a "job" might have a "career" instead. Like "job," "career" has become ubiquitous in American discourse. And like "job," Americans think they know what a "career" is. They also understand that "careers" are somehow "better" than jobs. They might not know why; it just seems that "career people" make more money than common slugs with "jobs."

But from an etymological perspective, "careers" are just as pernicious as jobs. While "career" has always elevated itself over "job," both concepts do the same thing: They voraciously consume time. "Career" especially implies a lifetime dedication to a chosen economic pursuit. It derives from the Latin word "carriara," meaning a "road intended for vehicular transport." See Dictionary.com, v. 1.1. "career" derivation. The dictionary's definitions stress "career's" temporal demands: "1. An occupation or profession, esp. one requiring special training, followed as one's life work; 2. A person's progress or general course of action through life or a phase of life." Id.

On its face, "career" does not necessarily imply economic service to a private master. But in American discourse, it does. People go to "Career Schools" and learn how to "prepare for their careers." They hear that it is "great to have a career" and that losing a career is worse than death. In all these usages, "career" implies dedication to a particular economic mission. It is wonderful to have a "life's work" if you believe in it, but how many "careers" really inure to individual benefit? A corporate "career," for instance, is not about the worker; it is about the corporation. A lawyer's "career" is about purposeful economic activity, not individual enrichment or creativity. In this light, "careers" in American discourse paint a disheartening image: They show people slavishly dedicated to a particular economic master for their entire lives. While "career people" may need special training to have a "career" rather than a "job," and while they may earn more money at longer engagements than "jobbers," they are no better in dignity. After all, to have an American-style "career," you have to give up your life to a "particular course of action;" you must "get on the road." In most cases, that means disciplined, directed service to a private economic master. If you do that, what time do you have left for yourself? Very little, if any. In this sense, "careers"--like jobs--generally reflect an essential hostility to individuality and creativity, as well as dedication to superior economic masters. And that is exactly how it is supposed to work, too.

American discourse about employment reveals its hierarchical function through other words, too. Beyond the basic distinction between "jobs" and "careers," there are also "professions." In modern American usage, "professions" are "special careers" that involve some unique learning or discipline. They pay more than other careers and certainly more than mere jobs. "Professions" even conjure mystical connotations because they involve special skills that average people cannot even fathom. "Professionals" use highly specialized language. They ply highly specialized procedures to obtain almost miraculous results. Generally, they go to school for a very long time before going into business. And on that basis they demand more money for their services. The word "profession" is all about "exclusivity:" Not everyone can be a "professional." We cannot all be so smart or skilled. If we were, we could pull our own teeth or conduct our own trials--that would not be good for dentists and lawyers.

"Profession's" etymology bears out these colloquial connotations. The word derives from the Latin "professio," meaning the "taking of the vows of a religious order." Dictionary.com v. 1.1 (profession etymology). In modern usage, the word means: "1. A vocation requiring knowledge of some department of learning or science." Id. Professionals, then, are modern-day mystics. Their very name invokes a "religious order." But they are not free spirits; they "took oaths" to the "religious order." This commits them to their "craft," or--in modern terms--their "knowledge of some department of learning or science." And they are essentially secretive: Not everyone can join a secret religious order, let alone master its complicated rituals or rites.

In practical terms, there is not much difference between a "career" and a "profession." Both refer to constant work for pay, most likely in the service of a private master. In that sense, "professions" consume time even more than simple "careers." Some "professions" genuinely do good. But in most cases, "professionals" band together to maximize their profits by exploiting public need for their "special knowledge." And in America, people do not become professionals to do good. They become professionals because they want "high-paying careers." In the process, they commit themselves to the profession's narrow "department of learning or science" for their entire lives, ruling out all else. Like jobs and careers, then, professions work strongly to suppress individuality and creativity. There is simply no time for anything but the profession--and profiting from it.

Finally, there is a general word that applies to almost all employment-related terms: Occupation. In many ways, occupation perfectly summarizes the temporal difficulties involved in employment. It is a relatively simple word; the subtlety lies in the imagery.

Occupation derives from the Latin "occupare," literally meaning to "occupy." But beyond the familiar "occupation," the word implies a "taking of possession of time or space." There is an element of both superior power and control in the word. It implies that someone or something takes possession. Obviously, anyone or anything possessing someone or something else is superior to the person or thing possessed. In this sense, "occupation" requires a subject and an object, a dominant element and a subordinate element. There is an "occupier" and an "occupied object." It is all about power.

These are revealing insights when applied in the employment context. After all, if a person has an "occupation," who is occupying and who is being occupied? Does the work "possess" the worker, or does the worker "possess" the work? I would venture that the work possesses the worker. It possesses his entire being, including his mind, his time, his creative strength and his focus. He allows someone to occupy him for pay. But he sacrifices his dignity in exchange. It is fundamentally submissive. And it confirms the essential power struggle that pervades all employment relationships: Someone occupies; another is occupied. The occupier profits by occupying the occupied object; the occupied object receives "compensation" for allowing the occupation. Yet make no mistake: It is always the occupier who holds the power, just as a carpenter holds power over his tools.

Where does all this leave us? It leaves us with an ugly picture about employment. American employment propaganda tells us that we should all want jobs or careers. Or a career of jobs. Or maybe a profession, or a professional career. Or at least an occupation. But if we understand what those words actually mean, we should hesitate before so zealously pursuing them. Jobs are just gobs of nasty filth. Careers are time thieves. Professions are hypnotizing, mind-narrowing cults. And occupations are invitations to be "possessed" or "owned." They are all about surrender. They are all about submission.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe we're supposed to surrender and just do what we are told. After all, the White House says we're a stronger nation when we all have jobs.

That is pretty scary if you ask me. Then again, not everyone reads the dictionary like I do.

LAWYERS : WHAT'S IN A NAME? MORE THAN YOU THINK

AN ESSAY

Lawyers are always in the news. They like talking to the press. And the press likes talking about them. They always have something to say; lawyers are pretty glib. They like free advertising, too. So they are happy to speak up when cameras roll.

But no matter how much press lawyers get, it's usually bad. In most cases, news stories involving lawyers discuss their avarice, moral bankruptcy, hypocrisy or outright criminality. Most recently, for instance, several newspapers reported on the proposed settlement between New York City and 9/11 workers. Apparently, the lawyers in that case (it's a big class action suit) advised the 9/11 workers to settle for around $675 million. That would give the lawyers at least 33%, or $225 million. The 30,000 workers would get the rest. A judge rejected the proposal. The press described it like this: "Judge refuses to bow to greedy lawyers. Rejects 9/11 settlement."

People expect lawyers to be greedy in America. That's their reputation. That's what they do. They intervene in private disputes, work mysterious magic behind the velvet curtain then take their fee. That's just how it works. At the same time, people expect lawyers to break rules as often as they enforce them. Vulgar punners like to cross the word lawyer with "liar;" and the pun is not too far off the mark. When hearing about lawyers, people expect elusiveness, craftiness, dishonesty, theft and nasty-spiritedness. It's all part of the public image. It is no wonder that the public does not respect lawyers. Viewed in the abstract, they are a lousy bunch.

But it's all part of the trade. Lawyering is a lousy business. Government tries its utmost to cultivate respect for the law as a beneficial social construct designed to bring about good. Yet a quick brush with lawyers undermines any respect a citizen might have developed for the law. With lawyers, it's not about doing good. It's about winning. And if winning means subverting good--or even allowing evil to prevail--then so be it. That's business. After all, that's what the client wants. As law firms like to say: "We are result-oriented." How true: Lawyers get results for their clients, even if those results seem despicable to everyone else on earth. The word "result," after all, does not necessarily imply "good" or "ethical." Results depend on who's getting them. A good result for the labor baron is a bad result for the workers. A good result for the State is a bad result for the Defendant. A good result for the employer is a bad result for the employee.

Lawyers sell results. They get them however they can. That is why people don't respect lawyers; they are crass partisans who zealously go to bat for scoundrels. In the process, they milk everyone for money and accuse everyone of lying--except themselves.

Maybe our language has something to do with lawyers' poor reputation in America. Yesterday I thought about the word "lawyer," as well as its interchangeable synonym, "attorney." Then I thought about the German word for lawyer, Rechtsanwalt. I have often uncovered compelling conceptual relationships among English words by comparing their equivalents in foreign languages. Perhaps I could understand why lawyers have such a bad reputation in America by making some linguistic comparisons.

Literally, Rechtsanwalt means "rights advocate." That sounds somehow more detached than "lawyer." Although lawyers are not the most respected members in German society, either, their name reveals something more transcendent than "lawyer." After all, a "rights advocate" is someone who stands up for rights. Rights are principles that mean something greater than individual self-interest. Rights stand for something beyond commerce and winning. Rights symbolize personal worth against government intrusion. Rights are somehow "sacred" and "inviolable." When someone violates a right, the aggrieved person has a claim against the violator. We enshrine rights. They exist beyond life. They encapsulate our deepest values. They express our fundamental expectations as individuals in society. Men have gone to war over rights. They have written philosophical treatises about the "Rights of Man" and launched revolutions to secure "inalienable rights." While rights may just be a human invention, they nevertheless represent something larger in people's lives. People willingly fight for rights. While it is ignoble to die for money, it is noble and just to die for rights.

In this light, a "rights advocate" seems a much nobler name than "lawyer." While lawyers in America--just like Rechtsanwälte in Germany--make their living by defending clients' "rights," their name suggests something far less honorable. "Lawyer" is embarrassingly common. It says nothing about "advocating for rights." Rather, it sounds like just another petty craftsman. In English, after all, the suffix "-yer" historically connotes a street-level artisan, like a "sawyer" (man who crafts wood with a saw) or "bowyer" (man who makes bows). Linguistically, then, lawyers fit into this tradition as "petty craftsmen who bend the law just as a journeyman bends a bow."

This interpretation goes beyond mere mockery. It is surprisingly appropriate in describing the lawyer's role in America. After all, lawyering is all about results in America. It is commercially straightforward. It is no different than manipulating tools to saw planks or build bows. People who want to buy plywood and bows don't care about others' rights. They merely want products to be crafted and built. And lawyers hawk the law in stores, just as sawyers hawked sawcraft in old England.

In a word, the word "lawyer" perfectly expresses the commercial nature of legal practice in America. It is not about "transcendent rights for all." Rather, it is about tailor-made products for particular clients who want particular results. The word's origin conceptually places lawyers exactly where they belong: Among street peddlers and common craftsmen.

But what about "attorney?" Does the synonym save the concept "lawyer" from moral destitution? To determine this, we must examine its etymology. "Attorney" derives from French. It takes its form from the French verb "tourner," meaning "to turn," then adds the Anglicized prefix "at-", meaning "to" or "toward." In French, the past participle of "attourner" is "attourné," meaning "turned to." The suffix "-ey" indicates that at some point an Englishman changed the French past participle into letters he could pronounce: He transformed the foreign-looking "é" into "-ey." Behold: Attorney. Literally: "Person turned to."

So how does this differ from "lawyer?" Is it any "better?" Not much. If anything, the word "attorney" refers to the lawyer's role as confidant and advisor in times of trouble. People need to "turn to" others when something bad happens to them. In some sense, the word "attorney" is paternalistic because it implies that people are too weak to fend for themselves and they need a "father-like" lawyer to shepherd them through difficulty. But in another sense, "attorney" implies that a lawyer is a partisan mercenary who will do anything his client tells him. After all, why would you "turn to" a lawyer if not to win your case at all costs?

In my view, the word "attorney" represents the lawyer's role as adversary in the American system. People "turn to" lawyers when they have a commercial problem. They expect their lawyers to vigorously advance their interests, even if those interests stand at odds with all the world. As a partisan, the attorney will "bend the law" in whatever way he can to win. In this way, the words "attorney" and "lawyer" mutually reinforce the commercial--and result-oriented-- nature of legal practice in America. People expect lawyers to do their bidding, so they "turn to" them. And once they do, they expect lawyers to sell them a ready-made product without quibbling over larger issues like conscience or ethics.

This is not to say that some American lawyers are not "rights advocates." On many levels, they are. Every legal case involves rights. But not all rights are noble. In fact, most legal rights involve contracts, property and other social mechanisms designed to maintain private ownership. As a consequence, legal rights perpetuate unfairness because those who can assert them generally have much more power than those who do not. To speak broadly, those with more riches often have substantially more legal rights than those without riches.

But these are merely "technical," private legal rights. There are public rights, too. And those rights have a largely positive connotation. Most people think about public (constitutional) rights when they hear the word "rights," like the right to free speech and the right to equal protection under law. That is why the German word Rechtsanwalt conveys a more positive connotation with regard to the law than the English words "lawyer" and "attorney." It focuses on rights, not commerce or craftsmanship.

In America, people "turn to lawyers." Yet that is the reason why lawyers always get bad press. No one likes a crafty, small-minded, contentious partisan who bickers and backstabs for a fee. Yet that is what lawyers do here. They are crafty craftsmen who bend bows for a set price, not noble "rights advocates." They sell products, just like any other peddler. But unlike other peddlers, they are paid to fight for one person's "rights"--and trample you if you get in their way.

RECRUIT OR HIRE? WHEN DID PRIVATE EMPLOYMENT BECOME A MILITARY CAMPAIGN?

AN ESSAY

Our language is organic. Words that meant something 50 years ago mean something completely different today. Even words that meant something 10 years might have changed. "Gay" and "epic" come to mind. So does "fail." All this interests me because it shows that language is never static. I might complain when words degenerate or mutate because I became accustomed to their older usages. But words change by nature. Language evolves much more quickly than we do. In many ways, we should be thankful for that.

But many linguistic changes deserve condemnation. In particular, I do not like changes that weaken a word's impact or meekly skirt a concept without piercing its heart. Euphemisms fall into this category. To say "collateral damage" when you mean "bombs veered off target and killed 42 children," you are not conveying reality with your language. Put simply, euphemisms reveal discomfort with language. They also reveal a discomfort with the truth, to the extent that we can all agree that something happened at a certain time and place. When a speaker resorts to euphemism, he fears what will happen if he uses truthful language. Euphemism, then, sacrifices linguistic accuracy for the speaker's comfort. In the end, everyone loses; only historians and investigators will find the truth behind meek language.

Euphemisms are not the only linguistic dilutions that obscure truth. In recent years, a nauseating "corporate" language has developed that not only obscures truth, but also fundamentally betrays traditional etymological meaning. This development coincides with rising corporate influence on American government, as well as the hypnotic "career myth" that permeates modern American society. Corporations wield far more power than they like to admit. And they do not just wield economic and social power. Through language, they wield a power over meaning that transcends generations.

In the movie "Into the Wild," the main character is a wanderer who rejects a "traditional approach" to life by venturing into the wilderness. Along the way, an old man encounters him. The old man says something like: "Son, you're 23 years old. Don't you think you should start thinking about getting a job and making something in this life?" The young man responds: "I think the whole modern notion of a career is a 20th Century invention. I choose not to partake in it."

What an interesting line. It matches my view that corporate power in America increased at the same time Americans convinced themselves that "careers were essential" to individual happiness. The wanderer in "Into the Wild" correctly observed that the meaning of the word "career" fundamentally changed in the mid-20th Century. Before 1950, very few people went to college to prepare for a "career" at a private corporation. Instead, they got a basic education and went to work for small businesses (if they lived in cities) or in agriculture (if they lived in the country). A tiny minority went on to college and entered learned professions.

After 1950, however, more and more people abandoned those "old ways" and began following a new paradigm: Go to college, get a job at a private corporation, make lots of money, buy a home live in the suburbs, raise a family and live in relative comfort until pension and death. This was a new life path in 1950. Yet it took hold very quickly; it completely altered America's social landscape. And as more and more people embraced this lifestyle, America's private corporations assumed their commanding influence in American life. Corporations generated the wealth that propelled this new lifestyle. Without them, it would all fall apart.

Against this background, it should come as no surprise that corporations began wielding more power after 1950 than they did before. As America's overall lifestyle changed, so did its habits. Since 1950, the United States has become a voraciously consumer society. Americans spend more money than they have, and that is just the way corporations (and banks) like it. All the while, they depend on private employment with corporations to sustain the money flow necessary to buy all the wonderful things consumer culture has to offer. It is an endless, spiritually vacuous cycle. At the same time, corporations rake in all the profits. They bombard the airwaves with advertising. They speak all the words. And Americans have listened for about 60 years straight. It is no wonder that corporations have assumed power: They have a captive audience that wants to buy all the things they sell.

But I am not writing about advertising or commercial power today. I am writing about language. To illustrate just how much corporate "culture" has infiltrated American life, consider two words: Recruit and hire.

Today, corporations proudly talk about their "recruiting efforts." In 1920, employers used to say: "Doggone it, Joe, we need to hire someone to replace the cashier who quit last week." Now, they say: "Call up the recruiting agency. We need to recruit someone to assume the junior sales associate position following the previous junior sales associate's withdrawal due to personal pressure." In both instances, the employers want to do the same thing: To find a person to do a job for pay. In 1920, the employer says "hire." In 2009, he says "recruit." Why the change? Shouldn't different words have different meanings?

Of course they should. Strictly viewed, "recruit" and "hire" are not synonyms. They are not the same as "crimson" and "red." They involve fundamentally different concepts. "Recruit," for instance, has a genuinely military connotation. The word stems from the Latin "recrescere," meaning to "grow again." According to Webster, the transitive verb "recruit" means: "1. To raise or strengthen (an army, navy, etc.) by enlisting personnel; 2. To enlist personnel into an army or navy; 3. (a) To enlist (new members), as for a party or organization; (b) To hire or engage the services of a person." Webster's New World College Dictionary (4th Ed.). The dictionary defines the intransitive verb "recruit" to mean: "To enlist new personnel, especially for a military force." Id.

In this light, what does "recruit" have to do with private employment? A quick look at the dictionary shows that "recruit" has an almost universally military meaning. It involves "enlisting personnel" for military purposes. Only Meaning 3(b) hints that it might involve private employment. In that meaning, we see a link to the old concept "hire." There is a distinction between "hire" and "recruit." The distinction is a military one. Our language delineates between military "regrowth" and private "hiring."

Yet private corporations have co-opted the verb "to recruit." They like to say "recruit" rather than hire. Why? Is private employment a military campaign? Armies recruit when they suffer casualties in battle. Do private corporations fight battles and incur losses? Certainly not. But this example precisely illustrates how private corporations have infiltrated and plundered the English language. "Recruit" no longer has a distinctly military connotation. Now, it is nothing more than "hiring."

On the other hand, corporations have also stolen another military word in order to describe resignations and firing: "Attrition." The military justifies "recruitment" when "attrition" thins out the ranks. Corporations "recruit" when "attrition" results in open job spots. In the military, "attrition" means guys got their heads blown off and need to be replaced. In private corporations, "attrition" means some guy got up from his desk at the insurance company and said: "Fuck you, I'm outta here." He, too, must be replaced. So the corporation "recruits" a replacement.

What about "hiring?" Why is "hire" insufficient for private corporations? In my view, "hiring" much better describes what private corporations do to replenish their work forces than "recruit." "Hire" is a pure English word with Germanic roots. It is related to the Dutch word "huur" and the German "heuern." Both kindred words mean to "rent out" in a commercial setting. They do not involve the military, nor do they involve "regrowth." No, "hiring" is a commercial word, and it has always been a commercial word. It is only fitting that corporations--as the ultimate commercial actors--should use commercial words to describe their activities. The dictionary defines "to hire" as: "1. To get the services of a person or the use of a thing in return for payment; employ or engage; 2. To give the use of a thing or the services of a person in return for payment." Webster's New World College Dictionary (4th Ed.).

What could be clearer than that? "Getting someone's services for payment" or "employing" them: That's hiring. That's what corporations do. So why must corporations say "recruit" when they mean "hire?" No matter how intensely corporations might pursue "market success," they do not wage military campaigns and they do not suffer casualties in battle. They have no right to use the specialized word "recruit" to describe their purely commercial quest to obtain people's services for a paycheck. The army "recruits" at the "recruiting station." Corporations "hire" at their "offices." There is a distinction in the language that should remain intact.

In my view, corporations have corrupted the word "recruit" and robbed its unique meaning in English. They have succeeded. They hold much more power than Americans care to admit. After all, corporations represent the pathway to "career" and all the miraculous consumer goods that flow from a career's cumulative paychecks.

Most Americans could care less whether corporations commandeer the English language. They just want the paycheck. They don't care whether they are "recruited" or "hired."

I care. I think deeply about language and its transmutations. It saddens me when powerful interests can change our language at will. But I am not normal.

OUR URGE TO BE FREE IS NOT ENTIRELY REASONABLE

AN ESSAY

We always hear about doomed criminals running away from the police. Chases always make the news. They seem to happen in California more than anywhere else. But no matter where they happen, the key element remains the same: Some desperate person tries frantically to delay the moment at which he will be physically restrained. He wants to be free. He wants control over his own body. So he thrashes with incredible energy to maintain that control. He even puts himself and others in mortal danger for a few more free moments. Even the most insignificant infractions put people to desperate flight. They even cause fatal car crashes while trying to escape from a traffic stop. In other words, men love freedom; and they cling to it no matter the cost or the danger.

Freedom has many meanings. It is a common word. George W. Bush used it ad nauseam as shorthand for a complex, biased political value system that had nothing to do with "a lack of restraint on physical movement." But today I want to examine the word's base, bodily meaning, not its metaphorical or rhetorical overlays. "Freedom" is an old English noun that stems from the adjective "free," which in turn relates to the German "frei." In essence, it implies a "lack of physical restraint on bodily movement." At base, it is corporal. It suggests an ability to move the body without being held back. It also suggests an ability to "go where one pleases" without facing opposing physical forces. In this sense, a "lack of physical restraint" intertwines with mental tranquility. People like to go where they want. No one likes to know he could be physically stopped from going somewhere. Physical "freedom," then, closely relates to mental "freedom," and even happiness: You can't be happy if someone prevents you from using your body as you please. Emotional satisfaction flows from physical freedom.

I like the words "free" and "freedom" more than "liberty." I am partial to hard-hitting, German-based words over obscure, imported Latin ones. "Liberty" is a Latin refinement on "freedom." At times, "freedom" and "liberty" mean the same thing. Yet "liberty" sounds somehow more grandiose than mere "freedom." During the Enlightenment, philosophers opted for majestic "liberty" over plebeian "freedom" when discussing man's "natural rights." In the process, they transformed "liberty" into a technical term. "Liberty" was no longer a simple synonym for "freedom." No, "liberty" carried its own theoretical weight. It became shorthand for an entire economic and social value system premised upon "individual choice, conscience and enterprise." John Stuart Mill named his famous ode to free market economic choice "On Liberty," while Adam Smith based The Wealth of Nations on the fundamental assumption that man must enjoy "economic liberty." In the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson famously asserted that man's "inalienable rights" included life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." In all these examples, "liberty" took on a meaning far beyond "lack of restraint on bodily movement." It was something more than just "going where you want when you want." It was something freighted with metaphysical assumptions.

But today I am not writing about Mill's "liberty conception" or even "economic liberty." I am writing about pure, animal "freedom:" The subjective desire to be free from direct bodily restraint. Based upon my own observations, I believe that human beings have a natural desire to be free. There is both a physical and emotional dimension to this desire. Human beings--like their mammalian forebears--relish the ability to move as they please. They feel at ease when nothing constrains their bodies. By the same token, they hate the emotion that arises when some superior power prevents them from moving their bodies as they please. Dogs and monkeys scream when caged. They become agitated and violent. They obviously do not like limitations on their freedom to move. When restrained, their behavior shows they hate it.

Human beings hate being confined, too. Unlike animals, they know when others seek to confine them. That is why they struggle to avoid capture and "maintain their freedom," even if there is no prospect for success. They know how they will feel when they lose their bodily freedom, so they resort to anything to hold onto it. Human beings anticipate the emotional pain that flows from losing freedom. That explains why doomed criminals flee in desperate attempts to remain free. Even when they have no chance to succeed, people will always try to escape, if only for a few minutes.

But how is that reasonable? If there is no chance to succeed in an endeavor, why bother attempting it? In my view, the "urge to be free from bodily restraint" trumps human reason. After all, if human beings trusted their reason in all events, they would never try to avoid inevitable capture. They would not jump over electrified fences or drive 85 miles per hour the wrong way down a one-way street if reason guided their actions. No, something else guides their actions when they feel something threatens their freedom. Human beings will resort to utterly unreasonable behavior to avoid physical restraint. The "urge to be free" transcends virtually all reasonable imperatives. It overwhelms rational calculation and leads men to engage in dangerous behavior that is almost bound to fail.

In my eyes, all this proves that human beings are not purely reasonable creatures. No matter how much we applaud our ability to triumph over nature through reason, we retain extremely unsettling instincts. Our "urge to be free from bodily restraint" illustrates the lengths to which human beings will go to maintain their ability to move their bodies as they wish. Viewed rationally, who would think that mere bodily movement could trigger such intense emotional responses? But that is exactly the point: Reason cannot account for men's violent emotional responses to certain stimuli. For better or worse, men want control over their bodies, just as chimps and dogs want to roam uncaged. And just like chimps and dogs, they rage uncontrollably when anything constrains their ability to roam.

Physical confinement touches a base nerve in our minds. That explains why human beings resort to anything to avoid it, no matter how unreasonable or ineffectual. This has nothing to do with complex coinages like "liberty." It is just a fact of nature. And we will never escape nature.

DELINQUENCY : A POWERFUL WORD

AN ESSAY

Power interests me because it pervades our lives. In many cases, we do not even perceive oppressive power relationships because they are everywhere. We accustom ourselves to them. We subject ourselves to them, even unconsciously. Most conspicuously, we live under certain public powers. There is overt public power, as when government cracks down on protests or visibly executes a condemned man. There is also subtle public power, as when tax collectors privately pursue individuals who do not have money to pay their tax bill. Government holds its power over us by threatening legal compulsion: Either we obey rules or it inflicts pain on our bodies and property. This is how public power operates.

But all exercises in public power pale in comparison to the ingenious methods designed to serve private power. As pervasive as government power may be, it still knows boundaries. Despite some glaring exceptions throughout our history, government must always act according to some legal authority that derives from a written, public source. Furthermore, government agents must abide by certain constitutional restrictions when impacting citizens’ bodies, liberty and property. These constitutional restrictions incidentally enforce “governmental decency” on State actors. In short, there are certain things that government simply cannot do. Not so with private actors.

Private power is far more pervasive than public power. The law cannot be everywhere all the time. In fact, the Constitution expressly and impliedly keeps government out of certain spaces and decisions. See, e.g., U.S. Const., Amendments III (no soldiers in private homes), IV (no unreasonable searches or seizures), V (no compelled self-incrimination or land seizures without just compensation), IX (unenumerated rights), XIV ("Due Process liberty," including freedom from "arbitrary government action"). The Constitution also prohibits government from directly regulating men’s minds, thoughts, opinions, beliefs or conscience. See, e.g., U.S. Const. Amendment I. But private power knows no such restrictions. It can freely enter men’s homes, appeal to their conscience and affect their decisions, no matter how intimate. While private power does not always carry legal force, it can deploy the law when it must. It is no exaggeration to say that the law serves private power, not the other way around.

What is private power? Power itself is a nebulous concept. Generally, it refers to one man’s or group’s authority over another man or another group. This, in turn, does not necessarily mean legal authority. It is much broader than that. Power includes the power to impinge on a person’s conscience, to make him feel guilty, to make him change his behavior or to make him feel obligated in any sense. In essence, power subjects: It impresses the object with a sense of “smallness” compared to the person who applies the power. It enforces obedience, as the employer cows the employee. Power is multifaceted. It appears in every context. But there is one prominent commonality in all this variety: Power always involves inequality. Without inequality in advantage, wealth, money or even sexual appeal, power could not break its objects into submission. When it comes to power, there are strong parties and weak parties. The weak party needs something the strong party has. As such, he must modify his behavior to adhere to the strong party’s requirements.

Yet power operates in far subtler ways than naked oppression. After all, if power is too oppressive, its subjects revolt, just as a dog will abandon its master if he is too heavy-handed. Power does not just dominate in a petty or brutish way; it also pervades lives. Consider the employee who awakes every morning knowing that he must appear at his job. Power pervades his life; he needs the paycheck to feed himself and his family. He does not question how he gets it; he surrenders to power and follows its commands. It is unconscious. He does not revolt against it; it is not petty. Power might inspire resentment, but not enough to make him question its basic authority. Resentment or not, power pervades his life and channels his decisions. Or consider the debtor who struggles to pay back his creditor. He lives his economic life knowing that he must fork over a good amount of his earnings to a stronger party who can hurt him if he does not. Power overshadows the debtor’s life as it did the employee’s. It constrains his thoughts and actions. It makes decisions for him. It impacts his freedom. It weakens his will. It subjects him to a “more powerful” decisionmaker. Why? Because he needed something he did not have before. To get it, he surrenders to private power. He pays as much with his soul as he does with his money.

Debt interests me for the same reason that power does. After all, debt relationships express power. Debt is incident to power. If power expresses a relationship between strong and weak parties that includes subtle mental controls, debt is a perfect example. Creditors are strong; they have something the debtor needs. Debtors, by contrast, are weak. They surrender both their souls and their money to get what the creditor has. Even if the debtor takes something worth comparatively little, the creditor relishes his power over the debtor by demanding far more in return. For example, creditors might loan $25,000 to a debtor. In return, the debtor must pay back $37,500 in two years. If he does not, the creditors have a legal right to seize anything the debtor owns to make good the debt. If the debtor succeeds in paying back the creditor, he gets nothing; he merely eludes the pain the creditor might have inflicted had he defaulted. And he actually enriches the creditor in the process. For creditors, it is a win-win situation: If they do not make a profit on the debtor, they can take what they want from him. If they do make a profit, well, who can argue with success? Yet the debtor lives under pressure. He either must enrich the creditor or lose everything. In this sense, we see classic inequality at work: Debtors and creditors face unequal burdens and owe unequal obligations to each other. And only the debtor lives in fear of legal compulsion. The creditor is the one with the real power—the power to force another to give him something or suffer for failing to deliver.

How does power describe its subjects? Language expresses power in an extremely subtle way, for only the powerful have the authority to choose prevailing words. They have the authority to label their subjects with concepts and epithets. They have the authority to channel both meaning and morality against those who defy them. On this point, consider the word creditors use to describe debtors who neglect their obligations: Delinquents. Creditors use the word in a very matter-of-fact way. They send a letter: “The balance due on this account is now delinquent.” The debtor feels morally bad about this result. He feels scolded. And he knows that the creditor now has power to do even more harm. Power functions best when it constrains its subjects’ minds with guilt, shame and obligation. Power uses the word “delinquent” to evoke these negative moral feelings in the “bad” debtor.

But why exactly “delinquent?” What does “delinquency” have to do with repaying money used for some forgotten commercial purchase? After all, etymologically speaking, “delinquency” delivers a strong moral rebuke. According to Webster’s New World College Dictionary (4th Ed.), “delinquency” stems from the Latin word “delinquentia,” meaning “to leave undone or to commit a fault.” True, the concept involves “leaving something off” or “omitting to do something.” But it also includes a strong moral element. It does not just mean neglect; it means neglect that makes the person morally blameworthy. The definitions bear out this interpretation. “Delinquency,” according to Webster, means not just “1. failure or neglect to do what the law or duty requires,” but also “3. a fault or misdeed.” More to the point, “delinquency” broadly refers to “thorough badness” or even “outlawry,” as we hear in terms such as “perpetual delinquent” or “juvenile delinquent.” Referring to this definition, Webster says that “delinquency” can also mean “behavior…that is antisocial or in violation of the law.” Id. at Definition 4.

In this grammatical light, we see that a “delinquent” is unsalvageable. When we label someone a “delinquent,” we condemn in strong moral terms. A “delinquent” is not just someone who forgets to pay something once in a while. He is a brigand, an outlaw, an irretrievable criminal. He is not just a person who forgets to send in a check for $45.12 every month; he is by nature “antisocial,” commits “faults or misdeeds” and invariably acts “in violation of the law.”

Power consciously controls language in these circumstances. It consciously chooses the word “delinquency” to apply to debt because it wants debtors to feel bad about neglecting their obligations to their superiors. But does failing to pay a bill really render the debtor an “outlaw?” Isn’t this going a bit too far? We all neglect things from time to time. Life submerges us with picayune tasks every day. It is understandable that we might pass one over now and then. From power’s perspective, it is all right to pass over some tasks, but not tasks in which power has an interest, such as a loan payment. You are not an outlaw if you forget to pick up your daughter at school one day, but you are an outlaw if you miss your car payment. Power wants debtors to feel bad about neglecting particular obligations, not all obligations. Specifically, power appeals to the debtor’s conscience when it stands to gain from the debtor. Thus, power cares only for itself; it uses morality and language to enforce obligations that provide benefit. In the abstract, it does not care about “obligation.” It cares only about obligations from which it can derive personal enrichment.

I do not like this at all. We all have a right to use language to express ourselves. No one has authority to selectively alter a word’s meaning to assert his own material dominance over another person. Yet this is precisely what private power does with the word “delinquency;” and no one really seems to notice. Private power has hijacked this word in order to crush its subjects into moral dejection. Why? Because it knows that morally guilty and shameful people are more likely to be obedient and to hand over what it wants. Although morality has very little to do with private commercial dealing, private power injects morality into commercial dealing because it provides additional assurance that it will make a profit. In a strange way, too, it uses morality to remind its subjects who is boss. After all, bosses don’t feel guilt or shame; they are the ones who inflict those feelings on their underlings. Guilt and shame—along with all moral feelings—flow downward. People feel guilty and shameful when they fail to adhere to a standard imposed from above. There is nothing "above" power; power is “the above.” Only those under power can feel guilt and shame. And they are effective weapons to compel allegiance.

Private power is “above” us everywhere. When we actually feel morally bad when we receive “delinquency” letters, we know we’re subjects. Unlike public power, private power does not just impact our bodies and property. It also impacts our deepest moral feelings. That is real, abiding power. That is the kind of power against which revolt is impossible. By comparison, public power and the law are clumsy, imperfect weapons. Private power, on the other hand, is so pervasive and so subtle that is virtually invisible. It influences minds and emotions, not just pocketbooks. And private power prefers it that way: Private. Why attract attention when you don’t need to?

LUCKY OR HAPPY? WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

AN ESSAY

I often write about happiness and unhappiness. In my view, human beings long to experience good, positive feelings as much as they can in life. Freud thought the same: “What do [men] demand of life and wish to achieve in it? They strive after happiness; they want to become happy and remain so.” Civilization and its Discontents, p. 25. Yet people say they want to be “happy” without really knowing what it means. All they know is that they want to feel good more than they feel bad—or at least more than they feel physical pain. Still, “feeling happy” is complex, especially in American life. Many people cannot feel happy unless they first achieve some “subsidiary aims,” such as making money, owning property or obtaining the “right life mate.” They exhaust themselves seeking these “subsidiary aims” to such an extent that they lose sight of the end goal: Happiness. Instead, they endless obsess over the “subsidiary aims.” In short, “a means” to happiness replaces the “end.”

Money is the best example. Money is a medium; it is a means to obtain other things, things that will ostensibly bring happiness. Yet many people forget this when they set out upon “the money-making life.” Even Aristotle recognized this 2500 years ago. Interestingly, both Freud and Aristotle agree that men seek happiness in life: “…[What] is it that we say…is the highest of all goods achievable by action? Verbally there is very general agreement; for both the general run of men and people of superior refinement say that it is happiness, and identify living well and doing well with being happy.” Ethics, Book I, Ch. 4. But Aristotle expressly ruled out “money-making” as a pathway to true happiness: “The life of money-making is one undertaken under compulsion, and wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is merely useful and for the sake of something else.” Ethics, Book I, Ch. 5. In other words, Aristotle understood that money is a “subsidiary aim” that is “merely useful…for the sake of something else,” namely, “happiness.” Despite Aristotle’s warning, however, many Americans live their lives for money. They think it will categorically bring them happiness. In so doing, they are “barking up the wrong tree.” Perhaps that explains why so few Americans think they are happy. If “living for money” categorically cannot win happiness, then there is no way a true “money-maker” will ever find happiness.

If money does not bring happiness, what does? In truth, we can forgive many Americans for their error. After all, we are merely sensory creatures. We believe what we see and hear. Our senses tell us that money appears to make wealthy people happy. They appear to want for nothing. They do not worry about their rent or their bills. They drive beautiful cars, go on exotic vacations and do what they want every day. This stands in stark contrast to our own lives, in which money is a constant worry. When money is a worry, it dominates our outlook. It provides too many opportunities for suffering. In these circumstances, we cannot feel the “strongly positive emotions” that mark happiness. Freud said that the “presence of unpleasure” makes happiness impossible. Cf. Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, p. 34. To paraphrase Bobby McFerrin: When we worry, we cannot be happy. Nonetheless, we believe that if we only cast off the “money yoke,” our worries would disappear, leaving our minds free to finally experience “strongly positive emotions.” From our perspective, the rich have that freedom. That is why we think they must be happy. And that is why we think that money will automatically make us happy, too.

But this is a delusion. One must merely pick up a tabloid newspaper to see that even mega-rich superstars are not happy, either. They might not worry about bills and health care, but they find other sources for “unpleasure” in their lives: Cheating boyfriends, bitter divorces, cancer, lost contracts, sagging boobs, wrinkles, potbellies, baldness, betrayals, Oscar snubs, humiliations, criminal prosecutions for disorderly conduct, drunk driving or domestic abuse… the list goes on. Money did not cause pain here. These unhappy stars have plenty of money. Yet they clearly are not happy, either. They simply experience unpleasure from a different source than the rest.

Where are the happy people, then? If wealth does not bring happiness, what does? In America, commerce is King. This is not just left-wing rhetoric: We really think we can buy anything. Why can’t we buy happiness, too? It seems like a cruel joke. If we seek happiness but we can’t buy it, what is all this chatter about “becoming successful” and “working hard?” If neither success, nor hard work, nor money can categorically create happiness, what is the point? We work hard and attempt to become successful because we want the power to buy things. But if we can’t buy happiness, what do we have? Aristotle and Freud say that we all want happiness. At the same time, American life tells us we need to be successful. Yet the two are not consistent. Success and money do not automatically create happiness. They may provide a means to it, but they are not replacements for happiness. Happiness comes from somewhere else, somewhere within ourselves.

Or does it? Can we fool ourselves into happiness no matter our external circumstances? Can we manipulate our attitudes so that we always feel “strongly positive emotions?” To answer that question, we must examine language. While we colloquially understand that “happiness” means a prevalence of “strongly positive emotions” over “negative feelings, stress and pain,” does that mean that external circumstances play no role in the analysis? Or can we become happy by sheer force of will, despite all the ills that fate throws upon us? In other words, are happy people simply “lucky?” If they are, what does that say about all our frantic efforts to “become happy” in life? If happiness is basically just a crapshoot, why bother even trying to “find happiness” in the first place?

This is not a small concern. In English, there is a very close relationship between the concepts “happiness” and “luck.” “Happy” is an ancient English word. It derives from the root “hap,” which in turn stems from the Old English “haep” and Old Norse “happ,” meaning “convenient” or “suitable.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th Ed. “Hap” means “chance, luck or lot,” or at least an “occurrence or happening.” “Hap” gives rise not only to “happy,” but also to “happen” and “happenstance.” All these words imply purely random, chance occurrences over which human will appears to have little influence. Looking more closely at “happy,” the dictionary tells us that the word means: “1. favored by circumstances; lucky; fortunate; 2. having, showing or causing a feeling of great pleasure, contentment, joy, etc., joyous, glad, pleased; 3. exactly appropriate to the occasion.” Id. A “happy person,” then, appears to have made little effort in life. Rather, he is merely “favored by circumstances” and “fortunate” to feel the way he does. He feels “great pleasure, contentment and joy” because circumstances favor him. But why do circumstances favor him? Because he is simply “lucky?” If he is “just lucky,” does that mean he played a role in his own happiness? Or did “fate” just randomly bless him? Here, we can already see the trouble brewing. To be “happy,” our “circumstances” must “favor us.” We must be “lucky” and “fortunate.” We must benefit from “chance occurrences” and “happenstance” to be “happy.” Our own efforts seem irrelevant to the task. Put simply, “happiness” requires “luckiness.”

So what does “lucky” mean? According to Webster, “lucky” means “having good luck; fortunate.” Webster’s New World Dictionary, 4th Ed. Again, we see “fortune” at work in these concepts. Fortune involves random chance, not purposeful action. And what about “good luck?” “Luck,” like “hap,” is an ancient English word. It derives from the Indo-European root “leuk,” meaning “what bends together” or “what occurs.” That root evolved into the Middle Dutch “luk” and the German “Glück.” In German, “Glück” translates not only to “luck,” but also to “happiness.” Bertelsmann’s Deutsches Wörterbuch tells us that “Glück” means: “1. favorable, fortunate circumstances or a turn of events; a coincidence; 2. the success that comes from that turn of events; 3. a feeling of inner satisfaction and joy, especially after accomplishing sought-after wishes; 4. favorable chance (my translations).” In English, Webster says that “luck” means: “1. the seemingly chance happening of events that affect someone; fortune; fate; 2. good fortune; success; prosperity; advantage.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th Ed.

In all these words, we see an undeniable link between “chance,” “luck” and “happiness.” In German, the link is intrinsic; “Glück” means both “luck” and “happiness.” It describes not only “chance events” and “favorable occurrences,” but also the “feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that springs from them. It is no coincidence that the English “luck” relates to “Glück.” Although the English definition for “luck” does not list “the feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that springs from chance events, the word “happy” directly implies “luckiness.” See “happy” definition, supra. And both words relate back to the Indo-European notion that “luck” merely means that things “bend together” for a person’s benefit. Put another way, luck is random. Human will does not affect it. It blesses its beneficiaries without regard to their efforts, intentions, wishes or merits.

In this etymological light, does it make any sense to “pursue happiness?” It appears not. After all, it seems that happiness depends on luck. Luck blesses at random; it does not favor those who “really want to be happy” or who “work really hard” at it. Without “chance occurrences,” “fortune,” “coincidence,” “turns of events,” “fate” and “favorable circumstances,” we will never truly fit the “happy” definition. The word “pursue” implies purposeful action directed toward a particular object. Yet when we “pursue happiness,” we attempt to secure something that eludes human intention altogether. We cannot really “pursue” something that will happen by chance. Our best and most intensive efforts will not cause something to occur at random. At the most, we can “hope” for such events; we do not “pursue” them. We can boldly struggle to mold our circumstances by effort and toil. But if chance stands against us, it seems that we will never find happiness. Ironically, however, a person may be happy even if he makes no effort at all. As long as “fortune” and “luck” meet on his side, he will experience the “joy and contentment” that arise from his “lucky circumstances.” On some level, we all know this. We have seen examples. This is why we contemptuously dismiss some “happy people” as “lucky bastards.” It just doesn’t seem fair that circumstances “bent together for them,” but not for us. After all, we think we did more, earned more and worked more than they did. Yet they became happy because they got lucky, while we slave away without fortune’s blessings. And we certainly do not experience “great contentment or joy,” because our circumstances are not “favorable.”

But fairness and happiness do not go hand in hand. To use a cliché, life is not fair, just as random events, chance occurrences and “fortune” do not reward us all equally. This perplexes us. We learn that hard work, determination and rational behavior will bring us success, then happiness. We think we have rational control over our feelings and our destinies. We think we should be rewarded for “making all the right moves” and “paying our dues.” Yet “circumstances favor” certain people over others without regard to their merit, effort, ability or zeal. It is no answer to say that some “really hard working people” generate their own circumstances. To some extent, life unfolds without regard to human choice or will. Certain people benefit from totally random occurrences. They meet the right people at the right times. They have the right idea in the right decade. Or they simply happen to please the right person, who happened to live at the right moment in history. Others are simply born with great advantages. No calculation can presage these “chance” occurrences. Yet “luck” bestows them on some, and not others. Blessed with luck, they relish the “feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that flows from their circumstances: They are “happy.” But they were “lucky” first.

Where does this leave us? In a word, it leaves us with the disheartening impression that we do not have total control over our lives. Benjamin Franklin and other enterprising Americans throughout our history disparaged luck, claiming that hard work and “good decisions” “manufactured” luck for them. They said: “Anyone can make it as long as they work hard.” But this, I fear, is propaganda. In my view, men like Benjamin Franklin benefited from luck and chance, no matter how hard they worked. Lord knows how many hard working people have lived on this planet who never benefited from “lucky chances.” They never became successful, famous or even happy. The lucky ones will always say: “This is how I did it… and you can do it, too!” That statement defies the very nature of luck. Luck only chooses some, not all. And it has nothing to do with talent or merit. Talent does not even increase the chances that “luck will strike.” Random means random. There is no way to influence it.

At this point, I cannot avoid discussing destiny as opposed to pure reason. I must confess that I believe in destiny, at least to the degree than I cannot rationally account for certain chance events in life. I cannot verify with my senses why I met certain people in life, why certain people lived, and others died. Quite simply, luck plays a huge role in life. And grammatically speaking, it is a prerequisite for happiness. Thus, it is a matter of chance and coincidence whether we become happy, since nothing can control the “random events” that will generate the circumstances necessary to experience the “strongly positive emotions” that flow from those lucky circumstances. Or perhaps it is destiny that determines who benefits from “chance events,” if they are even “chance events” at all. What do I know? If destiny chooses the people who benefit from chance events—and thus become happy—does that not sound like quasi-religion? There are chosen ones and there are the damned.

We all want happiness. We all want to feel good more than we feel bad. We listen to philosophers and heroes who offer us ways to find it. Yet we cannot escape grammar. Happiness turns largely on luck. Lucky people are happy. Unlucky people are not. Think about it. If some truly unlucky event befalls you, are you happy? Definitely not. Chance did not favor you. But if a lucky event befalls you, are you happy? Absolutely. You benefited from chance. It changed your circumstances and you feel great about it. Did you influence the chance events? Probably not. They would not be “chance events” if you did.

I suppose the only way to cope with luck is to cultivate a healthy respect for uncertainty in life. Maybe we will be happy. Perhaps we won’t. Yet we can spare ourselves heartbreak if we refrain from pursuing it. After all, we cannot pursue luck. And without luck, there is no true happiness. In America, this is a hard way to live. We learn that we can control our lives and we can buy anything. Yet no store sells luck or happiness. Luck can give us money, but money can’t give us luck. By the same token, money can’t give us happiness. You need luck for that.

CORNERSTONES OF OUR LANGUAGE : ENGLISH PREPOSITIONS

AN ESSAY

Englishmen in America echo George Bernard Shaw's quip that the United States and Great Britain are “two Nations separated by a common language.” I could write at length about the myriad subtle differences between British and American English. But I won’t. Others have written superbly on that subject and there is not much I can add to it. Suffice it to say, Americans speak a wholly different language than the average Briton. Europeans who learn English unanimously confirm this to me. They say that it’s much harder to understand an American than an Englishman, primarily because Americans phonetically alter sounds that appear different in writing. For example, the word “getting” looks like it should contain a “t” sound. Yet when an average American says it, there is no “t” to be heard. At most, you will hear a “d” to replace the “t” (ie, “gedding”). At the least, you will hear a strange, swallowed “-nnh” sound to replace “-tting” altogether (ie, “getting” degenerates into a half-swallowed “ge-nnh”). For a foreigner who learns to pronounce every sound he reads, these American dialectic differences cause immense confusion. By contrast, a Briton does pronounce a “t” in “getting." They do not swallow or alter sounds, allowing the foreigner to more easily hear what he remembers seeing in writing.

Having said all this, I love English. I do not speak British English. Despite some claims to the contrary, Americans really do not like British English; they never have. Since the Revolution, they have done all they possibly could have done to make their English different than their former masters’ language. In fact, to widen the divide between England and America, popular myth has it that Congress even debated switching the national language to German in the 1790s. This would have been an appealing decision for several reasons. First, many European immigrants in America at the time spoke German. Second, among major European languages, German is the closest relative to English. Today, however, German seems a strange choice. After all, many Americans think that German sounds utterly foreign. But this is only because English—both British and American—has changed dramatically since the 18th Century. In 1787, English looked and sounded far more like German than it does today. German and English derive from common Germanic roots. Although English increasingly absorbed French and Latin “frills” after the 13th Century, it has never truly abandoned its “Germanic core.” In 1787, the “core” was far closer to German. That is why it would not have been a dramatic leap to change America’s “official language” from English to German, even for people who grew up speaking only English.

I love English precisely because it has a profound identity crisis. It is a Germanic language that likes to masquerade in Latin finery, but without Latin charm or grace. English is not romantic; it is schizophrenic and crass. Because English draws on so many linguistic traditions, it can express the same thought in two, three or even four ways. For example, to express the idea “a door leading out,” we can say “Exit,” from the Latin “ex” (“out”) and “it” (“he goes”), or we can opt for the good old German “Way Out,” from “weg” (“way”) “aus” (“out”). “Exit” sounds more official and more serious than “way out.” “Way out” is prosaic. It sounds too obvious. For better or worse, English has confused itself into thinking that Latin words are somehow more “urbane” than German ones, even though our German words are much more basic and convey meaning much more readily than Latin imitations. As a writer who uses English, I face a challenge every time I sit down to think about what I want to say: “Do I choose a Latin word, or do I go for the throat with German?” No other European language offers so many potential word choices. English is awash with words. We have at least two ways of saying almost every thought we have. That is why it is so fun and fascinating. There is constant variety.

But what is the “English core?” There are certain “core” words in any language that give it a basic identity. Without these words, there is no way to effectively learn the others. In my view, the most “basic words” in any language are prepositions. Without prepositions, we cannot express the locations of objects or actions. We cannot precisely describe things we see or hear. In short, prepositions allow us to linguistically depict our experiences to others. And what is the point of language if you cannot readily conjure an accurate image in another person’s mind? For instance, suppose you see a sea gull flying over a lake. Without prepositions, you could only say: “Sea gull flying lake.” What does that mean? Flying over a lake? Near a lake? Next to a lake? Beside a lake? Toward a lake? Away from a lake? Off a lake? Prepositions define action with relation to an object. Without them, we cannot communicate.

Prepositions are “core English words:” On, over, below, around, about, with, to, of, without, through, near, beside, under, from, by, off, after, before… the list goes on. How could we live without these words? They allow us to precisely identify how and where actions happen. Not surprisingly, they all come from German. Latin did not influence English prepositions because they are too basic to be replaced. Yet these basic words represent the most vital communicative element in our language. In German, “on” is “an.” “Over” is “über.” “Before” is “bevor.” Here we see the great similarities between English and German. Proceeding from these most basic words, we can see how our language developed into the strange hodgepodge it is today. We all too easily forget that prepositions define our language. In German, like English, prepositions are essential. And in an even more basic way, German combines prepositions with verbs and nouns to create completely new ideas. English used to do this all the time. More often now, however, it merely imports a French, Latin or Greek word to express what could be expressed by combining an English word with an English preposition. For example, to express the idea “more of something than is necessary in the circumstances,” English imported the word “superfluous,” from the Latin preposition “super” (“over”) and “fluere” (“to flow”). German, by contrast, stuck with its own adjectives and prepositions. It expresses the same idea as “überflüssig,” combining the preposition “über” (“over”) with “flüssig” (“flowing, in liquid form”). German did not import any foreign words here; it merely combined a German preposition with a German adjective to create a new idea. English could have done the same. But our word “overflowing” has a different meaning than “superfluous.” This is what happens when you allow too many linguistic traditions in the same language.

Yet English does not completely turn away from German-style preposition use. In fact, English combines prepositions with nouns, adjectives and verbs just the way German does. And in my view, we see English in its purest from when it does this. Consider first how rich our prepositions can be. Let us take a simple one: “On.” Who can mistake such a simple word? “On.” We all know what “on” means, don’t we? Well, it depends. There is the “spatial meaning,” as in: “Where is the sugar?” “It is on the table.” In this sense, “on” refers to the location of an object upon a relative flat surface, whether a table, a floor, a chair or even water. Then there is the “attachment meaning,” as in: “Where is that paper?” “It’s on the wall.” Again, “on” refers to an object’s location, but this time it defies gravity. Here, “on” implies that an object has somehow attached to something else. If we combine this meaning with a verb, we create some truly interesting English, as in: “Stop flicking that glue on your brother,” or “Hold on tight.” In this sense, we use the preposition to describe the end result of an action. We “flick” something and it winds up “attaching” to an object, namely, “our brother.” Or we attach ourselves onto something to keep our footing. And it does not end here. “On” can also imply “continuing action,” as in “Carry on!” “Work on!” “Preach on!” or “Walk on!” It can also imply action “approaching” an object, as in: “Come on now!” “Bring it on!” “This case comes on to be heard on the 24th of April 1987.” These are classic, pure English expressions. They do not depend on Latin for their expressive power. You do not truly speak English unless you intuitively—and reflexively—understand them.

History reveals that English used these “prepositional expressions” even more often than it does now. Still, even today, there are English idioms that use prepositions to express something beyond their literal meanings. Consider idiomatic uses involving “on”: “He is really laying it on thick.” This might refer to flattery, sarcasm, charm or even brutality. It makes no sense without context, and even then, “lay on” literally means something different than the idiomatic meaning. Historically, “lay on” could mean even more. In the 17th Century, “lay on” could also mean “attack” or “strike.” Cf. Shakespeare, Macbeth, “Lay on, Macduff, / And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough.’” Act V, sc. viii. These varied meanings all derive from the time-tested Germanic “prepositional” tradition. By combining a simple verb such as “lay” and the basic preposition “on,” English creates delicate, idiomatic subtleties. And this is just one preposition. When we combine “lay” with other prepositions, such as “off,” “over,” “by,” “to” or “in,” we create even more subtle, idiomatic meanings. In this sense, we do not need Latin to formulate uniquely English expressions.

We can thank our Germanic tradition for this. When I finally understood prepositions, I learned how to decipher German. When I speak to my German friends, I tell them I speak German by translating my thoughts into “Older English,” then translating those “Older English” words into German. After all, “Older English” is virtually identical to modern German syntax and usage. In any event, when confronted with a German “prepositional word,” it makes no sense to forage for a Latin embellishment. I simply break it down into its component parts, which look like “Older English.” Today, we see traces of “Older English” in words such as “hereby,” “insofar” and “be it known.” German continues to use such “old-sounding” expressions: “hiermit;” “insoweit;” and “sei es bekannt.” Thus, when I speak German, I imagine I am simply speaking English from an earlier age. German prepositions combine to form the same idiomatic subtleties that arise when we use English prepositions. Yet in many cases, they follow similar patterns. Germans express the verb “attack,” for example, in much the same way Older English combined “lay” and “on.” The Germans say “angreifen,” which combines the preposition “an” (“on”) and “greifen” (“to grasp” or “to grip”). “Attack,” then, “ means to “grab hold of something” or “lay onto it with force.” Linguistically, both “lay on” and “angreifen” follow the same logic and linguistic patterns. And they convey the same meaning in both languages. “Angreifen” may appear obscure to a modern English speaker who simply knows the word “attack.” But a mere glance into our English history reveals our common Germanic roots. Once we clear away the Latin underbrush, we immediately see the Germanic soil. In that light, "angreifen" appears a close linguistic relative, not a bizarre foreign mystery.

Prepositions make this analysis possible. It is easy to get lost in the Latin and Greek maze into which English has crept over the last 400 years. Yet when we take a step back and study our “core words,” we get back to first, Germanic principles. I have been studying and speaking German now for almost 13 years. During that time, I have improved my English because I finally uncovered the ancestral roots from which my native language derived. Learning German made me master “basic English.” It made me respect our great English prepositions. I have grown to trust basic English, not the foreign clutter that confuses it. I like hard-hitting English words. Although I don’t mind employing French, Latin and Greek-based words when I must, I prefer German variants when I have the chance to use them. “Way Out” is better than “Exit.” It may be less profound, but it is more true to our linguistic history. It just sounds more natural. When push comes to shove, English is German. Just look at our four-letter words. In our honest, vulgar moments, we resort to German. Damn, hell, shit, fuck and ass are not Latin or French. They are not delicate. Yet they express our thoughts precisely when we use them, and no one mistakes us. Furthermore, when we modify our vulgar words with prepositions, we do not use Latin, either. “Fuck off,” “Fuck up,” “Fuck over” and “Fuck around” all use old-time German-based prepositions to supply unique, genuine English meanings. We do not need Latin condescension or finery; English gets the job done.

How can you not love English? The variety is endless. With at least two ways to say every word, you can be serious, satirical, ironic, explanatory and ambiguous all in the same stroke. But when it comes to true, honest and natural expression, our basic German roots—along with our prepositions—convey us best. You can count on that.

INSURANCE IS STUPID

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES

Americans spend almost 2% of the entire Gross Domestic Product on “insurance products.” Other countries do not spend nearly as much on insurance. Is there a reason for this? Do Americans really live in deathly, financial fear of lawsuits every day? Insurance comes in many types. In my view, it’s all stupid. Why? Simple: Because insurance creates an automatic adversarial relationship that fosters mistrust, resentment, dispute, uncooperativeness, bitterness, stinginess and dishonesty. I have little difficulty making this judgment because insurance kindles intensely bad relations between men. I have little doubt that insurance is “necessary” and “beneficial” for commerce. That does not mean it is not stupid. “Commercial benefit” generally involves negative emotions and conduct anyway, so it is not surprising that insurance is “good for commerce” and “bad for the spirit.”

What is insurance, anyway? Most people associate insurance with cheap salesmen who operate from faux-wood-paneled offices in bad suits. They don’t really know what it is. They just buy it so they don’t have to pay when they get in a car crash. You buy insurance to protect yourself against the unknown. Risk is out there; according to popular logic, if you have insurance, then you won’t lose all your money when “bad things happen.” Insurance acts as a shield against unforeseen dangers. The longer we live, the more we see that life can take incredibly random turns. Insurance provides a hedge against these terrifying mishaps. That is why people buy it. They think it will protect them from lurking, unforeseen disaster. Even the word “insurance” relates to the word “assurance,” meaning to soothe someone by “positively informing” him that the future will not bring ruin. Insurance “assures.” People like assurance because they know life will smack them in the face sooner or later, and they’d rather not have to both suffer and pay money when it does.

This all sounds wonderful in theory. Insurance protects people against inevitable life risks, providing “assurance” and “peace of mind” to millions. Why, then, do I say that insurance is stupid? To understand why, we must examine the intersection between “providing assurance” and “making a profit.” Insurance companies began in 17th Century England and Holland. These companies pooled together their money and offered to “cover” trans-Atlantic shipping expeditions against various risks, such as shipwreck, piracy, fire or theft. Merchant captains were terrified that these risks would strike. After all, a single pirate could bankrupt an entire merchant house, so why not pay a small sum to protect oneself against that risk? Insurance companies, however, did not provide “assurance” because it made them feel like good Christians. No, they wanted to make a profit, and they did. Historically, insurance companies have made enormous profits. Selling “assurance” against the “terror of risk” is a hot item.

Still, it may seem counterintuitive that insurance companies make more money than they pay out. After all, people buy insurance on the assumption that the company will pay some money out when a disaster strikes. Unlike other enterprises, insurance companies offer value by offering to pay for others’ damages. While they take in money on the one hand, they necessarily must pay it out on the other. It is in the nature of their product. People would not buy insurance if they knew the company would not pay for their damages. How, then, do insurance companies make so much money? Simple: They doggedly contest every assertion that they are liable to make promised payments.

Insurance companies hold sway over a tilted playing field. It is always easier to win disputes when you have more power than your opponent. Insurance companies, for example, write the insurance contracts; you simply read and sign. Many routine insurance contracts run into the hundreds of pages, spelling out every single potential liability and excluding dozens of others. They minutely define every single word, making it possible for the company to argue away anything. An insurance contract could even define “Tuesday” to mean the third Wednesday each month, but not Sunday the 23rd, then exclude coverage on “Tuesdays.” Insurance companies also have far more financial resources than an individual claimant. If a claimant does not like an insurance company’s decision, he alone must confront a massive entity with batteries of lawyers all too willing to find “reasons” to deny him.

All this plays into the insurance company’s hands. They promise to pay money when a “covered risk” happens, but they cut into their profitability whenever they pay out anything. Businesses exist to make a profit, not to suffer losses. In that light, insurance companies have an institutional interest in contesting every single claim made against them for coverage. When they cover losses, they negatively affect their bottom line. When they refuse to cover losses, they positively affect their bottom line. Which alternative do they have an institutional incentive to choose?

In legal terms, insurance represents a “contract” between the “insurer” and the “insured.” As in any contract, one party promises to do or not to do something in exchange for the other’s promise to do or not to do something. Insurance contracts, however, are slightly more nuanced. In an insurance contract, the “insurer” promises to pay the “insured” money—or provide some other service—IF a particular event does or does not happen. In exchange, the “insured” promises to pay money (“the premium”) for the right to make a claim against the “insurer” IF the particular event happens or does not happen. The law calls this an “aleatory contract.” The dictionary says that “aleatory” means “depending on a contingent event.” Dictionary.com v. 1.1. While that is no doubt true, the Latin etymology much more clearly illustrates the “insurance relationship” than the English definition. In Latin, “aleator” means “gambler.” In essence, then, insurance is gambling: The insurer bets that you will not get sick; you bet that you will. The insurer bets that you will not get into a car accident; you bet that you will. And just as the stakes are high when dice fly, so too are they high in “aleatory contracts.” Gambling implies a game, especially a game of chance. When people play games for money, they stoop to anything. That is why insurance leads to such acrimonious mischief.

Insurance relationships are intrinsically adversarial. Although insurance advertising attempts to lull people into thinking that they are “in good hands” or that they can feel “safe at home” once they pay their premiums, nothing could be further from the truth when the “chips are down.” Insurance is gambling, and when the “chips are down,” the house does not like to lose. Insurance companies are corporations; they have a duty to their shareholders to maximize profits. Paying claims jeopardizes their corporate mission. Thus, when an “insured” makes a claim, the insurance company must take sides against him. The company has a duty to enrich shareholders, and paying the “insured” would contravene that duty. This is why insurance companies fight tooth and nail to exploit any ambiguity against the “insured.” This is why insurance contracts minutely define every single word and stack advantages in the company’s favor. This is why insurance companies send investigators to probe the “insured’s” story for inconsistencies and lies. When there is no pending claim between the “insured” and the company, it is all smiles and “good hands.” But once the “insured” suffers a compensable injury, it’s war. The insurance company will attempt to pay nothing. If necessary, it will pay something, but never everything. Before the dice fly, a good gambler does not sit around and wait for the throw; he tilts the table or loads the dice first. Insurance companies can do this. And they do.

I have always reserved special cynical bile for insurance companies. One must merely understand corporations to see that insurance companies have an institutional incentive to wage war against their own customers in order to maximize shareholder returns. Insurance companies, in other words, operate under numerous conflicts of interest; and ultimately their duty to their own shareholders prevails over all other duties. Still, some will doubtlessly counter that insurance companies pay for damages on many occasions. I know they do. Nonetheless, I believe this has less to do with honor than with the threat of legal compulsion. Although the legal system clearly favors insurance companies through contract rules and common law indulgences, it does provide some recourse against particularly egregious, “bad faith” refusals to pay in unambiguous cases. After all, even an insurance-friendly court could not in good conscience refuse to compel an insurance company to pay a claimant who bought “pedestrian injury insurance” two days before being run over by a car in a crosswalk. In such clear cases, insurance companies would lose more than they would stand to win by contesting the customer. Thus, when insurance companies “pay like they are supposed to,” they have merely calculated whether it would be cheaper to pay than to contest. But their overall policy is: “Contest unless the facts warrant otherwise.” That must be the policy. We saw it at work after Allstate refused to pay Hurricane Katrina victims because they suffered “wind damage,” not “flood damage.” It is the only way to minimize expenses and maximize profit.

We all need insurance. There is no other way to spread the cost of inevitable losses in life. But that does not save insurance from being stupid and unfair. Insurance companies are for-profit enterprises that ostensibly “pay claims” to people who suffer covered losses. This creates a fundamental conflict of economic interest. This conflict, in turn, generates automatic acrimony and mistrust between insurers and their customers. It also provides an incentive for the company to pay as little money as possible to the customer. Further, it offers an incentive for the insurance company to protect itself through unfair legal processes, such as writing its own contracts and conducting its own fact investigations. In all these situations, the customer stands at a material disadvantage. He can only hope that he suffers a clear, provable injury that even an insurance-friendly court could not refuse to acknowledge. Otherwise, he must lock into a “gambling contest” with the insurance company. And in this crap-shoot, the odds are against him; the house always wins.