Trying to Change Bad Grammar

I have a thing about the proper use of the verb, “diagnose.” When I read a sports columnist report that a quarterback had been diagnosed with a torn ligament in his knee or hear a news anchor say that an actress had been diagnosed with breast cancer, my reaction is the feeling I get on hearing nails scrape a blackboard. There may be other instances of ignoring proper grammar, but something down deep in me stirs to a boil when “diagnose” is misused. I guess it all started when I started editing in earnest for a national medical journal. I had published a few articles before that but had never paid much attention to using words for clarity and preciseness. At a lunch at a medical meeting I happened to mention that I did a bit of editing of grand rounds for the hospital. A cardiologist sitting next to me asked if I would like to have them published in the bimonthly journal of which he was the editor for internal medicine. So it began---the attempt to convert the spoken word into the written word, always trying to use words whose meaning was exactly what the speaker intended. When I encounter the misuse of “diagnose,” I react by sending an email as follows: “You can diagnose a flat tire. You can diagnose flat feet. You can diagnose bad teeth. But you cannot diagnose a person. You can say that “a doctor diagnosed a ruptured cartilage in the quarterback’s knee” or that “her physician made a diagnosis of breast cancer.” Long ago I stopped sending corrections to abusers of grammar because I soon found I was not changing anybody’s bad habits---the misuse of “diagnose” continued without a pause. I heard from only one person I wrote to: Elizabeth Farnsworth of The News Hour. I had written her about her report that someone “had been diagnosed with breast cancer.” She thanked me for my letter of August 11th, 1999 (hers was dated November 29, 1999) apologized for responding so tardily, and said she would try to incorporate the proper use of “diagnose” in her delivery.

Two Immigrants

Here are the stories of two immigrants; their common theme is the deep desire to get to the land of freedom and opportunity.

My father wanted to go to America. As he made plans, his mother cried bitterly and begged him to stay, even suggesting he join the Russian army, which showed how desperate she was to prevent him from going so far away. But he was determined: at age twenty he left Rudney, Ukraine, for Minsk and then headed north to the German border. Before he could get there he was caught by Russian soldiers. He spent four weeks in jail, then was sent home. About a year later he tried again; this time he visited Rabbi Meyer in Minsk for a blessing, and made for the border. He was successful. He crossed Germany to Hamburg, embarked on the Prince Oskar for the two week sail to Philadelphia. At the immigration desk he was dismayed to learn that Congress had recently passed a law that all immigrants must have $25 in their possession as a requirement before entering the country. Where was he to get $25? Then a kindly gentleman handed him the money, asking no questions and wanting him to sign no papers. It was HIAS in action. The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society was active all over the world helping new arrivals past regulations and other problems. Dad went with the other immigrants to a railroad station, a tag with his name, destination and his brother's name pinned to his coat. He was given a basket with sandwiches, cake, and fruit, courtesy of the Prince Oskar. After a day and night of travel he arrived in Pittsburgh. He wandered around until a policeman, accustomed to newly arrived immigrants, offered to help. He put Dad on a streetcar and instructed the motorman to drop him at Eighth Avenue in Munhall. The streetcar stopped in the middle of the block as a favor to make it easy to find #510, but Dad didn't know which direction to go. He drew on one of his sayings, "A peasant can get to Moscow with his tongue." He walked into a clothing store, managed to explain his problem, and in a few moments was knocking on the door at #510. He had completed his journey; he was united with his older brother Louis who had preceded him to the States by four years. It was October 1914.

Flora, who has the evening shift caring for Mom, also has a remarkable story of coming to America. She was born in Oaxaca, nearly the most distant city in Mexico south of the border. When she was fifteen, she resolved to go to America. She set up what sounds like an ambulatory cafe: whatever fruits, vegetables, meat and fowl she could buy, she would cook and sell as a street vendor. She worked all day, seven days a week. Using the "layaway" plan she turned her earnings over to a "coyote." After about a year, when she had accumulated $400 and despite pleadings by her mother, she and about twenty others and the "coyote" headed for the Arizona border. On American soil she was loaded on a truck with the other illegals to Gainesville, Florida. The trip was punishing: there was no room to lie down and she had little chance to sleep or even be comfortable. At no time, from the day that she started saving money to the moment she crossed the border, did she have any fears or doubt about what she was doing; it helped that she was a teenager, upbeat and full of energy. In Florida she began day-long work as a "picker"; she picked peanuts, jalapeño peppers, tomatoes, and oranges. The hardest were the oranges: she had to carry a heavy basket, and move the ladder from tree to tree; the worst hazard was the bees that tormented her unmercifully. Next she was taken to Selma, North Carolina, where she "dug potatoes," lugging a sack to fill during the long days' work. When she became pregnant, she delivered in a hospital in Rocky Mount, a small town north of Selma. Medicaid helped with her bill. She went to Washington, D.C. where she obtained papers certifying her as a legal resident. She moved to Houston in 1990 and became a citizen in 1996; she was proud to take the examination in English. Soon after, her parents moved to Houston.

written by Dan

An advantage of Old Age

Are you skeptical that I have found something in my old age that gives me a thrill? I can't blame you, but I swear it's true. It's a very important part of our national culture that Yvette and I enjoy practically every evening. No, it's not THAT. It's old movies. And what is so remarkable about that? It's that my memory is so bad that the movies I enjoyed in the 30s and 40s have become enjoyable again, they are almost like new. That means that "Modern Times," Chaplin's masterpiece, will have scenes that I remember clearly and will make me giggle, but I can never recall what led up to his working with those huge machines and how he escaped from the factory. But seeing the movie again with the advantage of captioning means that it's like new.
I've seen "Double Indemnity" many times; Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck and Edward G. Robinson are superb in their roles; I know the plot well. But now I see the camera angles and the use of shadows to add to the tension, subtleties that show how Hollywood exploits lighting and the camera.
Old timers like Marie Dressler and Wallace Beery and Victor McLaglen didn't need talkies to be stars. Instead of following the plots I watch their miming and appreciate how they portray feelings and action, often "chewing the drapes," but always impressive.
Old black and white movies have it all over those in color. And the early movie stars, male or female, had no wrinkles; their perfect complexions which I''ve now become aware of are due to the wonder of lighting which fools the camera and makes the actors timeless.
And the Basil Rathbone duels---always the clash of weapons where it seems someone is bound to get a swordpoint in the gut. Yet I've learned about the choreography of these scenes which permits the fighting to go on and on , always with the potential for wounds but nothing fatal until the script says so. I now see every combat as a study of dance with weapons.
I'm fascinated by film stars Valentino, Garbo, Fairbanks, Gable, and the Barrymores. They are so subtle, they mime perfectly, they capture the screen with ease. Now I concentrate on their makeup, the lighting, the camera angles and see things that my adoring childhood eyes ignored completely.
What I enjoy most out of seeing old movies are the opening scenes. I usually can recall what a movie is about but rarely can remember how the movie opens and how the plot is introduced. The Hollywood writers were masters of that: they were captivating, usually subtle, always smooth. Hollywood has come back to me; old movies are new again.

You should meet Oleg

Everyone loves a success story; it means a lot when a family member is the person you're hearing about.
If you met Oleg, you would find him a shy, unassuming young man, with a ready grin and a mop of jet-black hair. There is no way by just looking at him to know what he has been through. And he'd never offer to tell you his story. But it's a remarkable one.
When Oleg was about age 12, his family was becoming more and more uncomfortable living in the Russian Crimea. Anti-Semitism had always been present but it was getting worse. They had to leave. There were few options; they would have preferred the United States but it was not taking Russian citizens. When Oleg came home in tears from school after being bullied for being a Jew, his mother made the decision: the family—Oleg, mother, stepfather, stepbrother, grandfather (my cousin), grandmother, and great-grandmother—was going to Israel as quickly as possible.
With a few household and personal belongings they flew to Vienna and then on to Israel. After the family settled, Oleg was hospitalized for a circumcision; the Russians would not permit that and Oleg's grandfather felt that action had to be done to initiate Oleg's becoming a true Jew, a descendant of Abraham. When asked about it, Oleg, now 26, says, "It hurt."
Then at age 13, he joined several other refugee teens to become a bar mitzvah. He adjusted to Israel—went to school, learned English and Hebrew. He went to college, became interested in computer science, served his expected time in the army, all the while continuing his studies. He scuba dived, learned parasailing, traveled to Europe and South America.
Recently he completed a M.Sc., probably in computer science.
Pictures of him show a tall, handsome guy with a gorgeous body and a look of pleasure in life.
Today I received an email from him; he is planning a trip back to the Crimea to visit his Aunt Dora (my cousin), give her some money, and visit "nostalgic places."
Quite a guy, quite a story.