The Silent L

Last week was an interesting and rather uncomfortable week. It all started in my Elementary Staff Discussion Class on Friday afternoon, a class populated with all female teachers at my college ranging from 5 years older to me to my mother’s age. The topic was food – and in their book there was a long listening passage with the word ‘salmon’, the silvery fish that swims upstream to spawn.

As per our usual course I am going over the vocabulary at the top of the lesson - I say it, they repeat it and back and forth we go. Wine, cheese, casserole, quiche – and we are chugging along pretty well (especially since quiche was in their books – what are publisher’s thinking?) then came salmon.

I said salmon. "|ˈsæmən|"

The ladies said. "|sæl| |mɒn|"

“Close but the ‘l’ is silent and it’s ‘ə’ not ‘ɒ’”

Then my best student (let’s call her Suzie Q) says "Oh I see teacher - |ˈsimən|!" (In case you don’t know the IPA – that word is SEMEN)

I didn’t speak – rather I looked like this:

Oh Sweet Jesus! What's happening?! I'm not trained for this. Oh no it's contagious!

Unfortunately in my utter shock I didn’t move quick enough. And since Suzie Q is the best student all the other ladies thought she was right. Just like the seagull scene in Finding Nemo the mispronunciation spread and I couldn’t stop the |ˈsimən| flood. Seriously it was like a tsunami. Bringing in embarrassment and taking away all of our dignity.

"|ˈsimən|" goes Suzie Q

"|ˈsimən|" goes Lady A

"|ˈsimən|" "|ˈsimən|" "|ˈsimən|" "|ˈsimən|" "|ˈsimən|" "|ˈsimən|" chimed the overeager ladies in a diluted chorus. Remember some of them are old enough to be my mother.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!" was all the protest I could muster as I watched, flabbergasted, it take hold of the group - like Mad Cow Disease. One by one they fell.

I tried in vain to fix it. I stood at the front:

"Salmon" I said slowly and with emphasis.

"Semen" went the class.

"Salmon"

"Semen"

"No listen. |ˈsæ|"

"|ˈsæ|"

"Good. |mən|"

"|mən|"

"Great. Now |ˈsæ| *pause* |mən|"

"|ˈsæ| *pause* |mən|"

"Yes, a little faster |ˈsæ| - |mən|"

"|ˈsæ| - |mən|"

"Now in one breath: |ˈsæmən|?"

"|ˈsimən|"

The salmon semen call-and-(wrong) answer chorus went on for 10 minutes.

And it only got worse from there. Throughout the lesson they kept mispronouncing it and I was struggling not to die/blush. They said things like:

‘Class what did he and his friend order?’

‘Well Don ordered semen for an appetizer and John ordered semen for dinner.’ – No, No I don’t think they did. It's not that kind of establishment.

‘Teacher I have a question.’ ‘Yes’ – I squeaked with apprehension. ‘Is it hard to get semen?’ I pulled out my ambassador hat – tried to keep the sass in my head (as the manual labor = hand job snafu entered my mind) and just blinked. This was just too rich.

Other inquires including if semen was good for you and one's health and my personal druthers for it (semen that is not salmon - nobody asked if I liked salmon) were left unanswered. I was mortified and shammed so shammed. How could this all go so astray?

This continued for at least 35 minutes. No matter what pronunciation, IPA, rhyming tricks I could come up with, it kept coming out semen.

I had to stop the lesson. I really didn't want it to come to this.

With a face as red as a traffic light I had to explain what semen was so they would stop saying it - for the third time some of them are old enough to be my mother. Awkward! Now it was their turn to blush and some were highly offended and indignant. One of the ladies was scandalized! She shot me this look so I shot her my best 'I told you to say salmon - y'all said semen repeatedly with glee. And that's on you!' look.

God damn those silent ‘l’s.

In an equally uncomfortable situation that weekend I went to get some dinner with a group of Vietnamese people. Beers were ordered. Glasses were plonked down on the table. Chunks of ice were dropped into the glasses. Menus were frowned at and instructions were issued to the waiters and relayed to the cooks. I was clueless and blithely unaware. Plates of food started to arrive. The party was jumping.

Talking, laughing, drinking, eating. Knees not fitting under the table. Chopsticks, bowls, plates, dipping sauces, spoons, wet napkins and beer bottles piled haphazardly on the table, requiring rearrangement every time a new dish or a new diner arrived.

There was rice and veggies and a seafood hot pot. I stuck to the veggies, but my helpful host piled some squid into my bowl.

In a desperate attempt to make conversation – and just to speak, I put the squid into my mouth and said ‘what’s that?’ pointing to some squid in the hot pot thinking I knew the answer.

“Testicle”.

I stopped chewing, trying to decide whether to spit out the spongy stuff in my mouth – and how to do it with deft and grace. It’s not that improbable that someone has ordered a plate of testicles. Vietnamese don’t waste anything. Chicken feet, bone marrow, offal, coconut worms, bull-penis soup, ovaries, pig’s blood, embryonic eggs – they’re all fair game so what’s left?

“I thought it was squid,” I mumble around the half-chewed animal part. As I say this I stare at my host – who at times plays little jokes (also his name is Mr. Hung – I know, I know, it’s really too much). But he’s not blinking or smiling or trying to even suppress one. He’s serious.

“Yes I said tensticle”.

“Wait! Say that again”.

“Tensticle”

“Do you mean tentacle?”

“Yes  - that’s what I said”.

Relieved – though still freaked out, I finished eating. On the ride home we had a little conversation about testicles and tentacles.

Paging Dr. Freud.

Paging Dr. Freud.

PS - All puns in this post were intended.