© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 89
In the first book of the Harry Potter series, a character by the name of Nicholas Flamel is mentioned. He was a real person who lived in 15th century France. According to the legends that surround him, he was the one alchemist who managed to turn lead into gold. Apparently, if you believe in legends, he also managed to achieve immortality for himself and his wife. Whatever the truth, he left behind a number of hospitals and schools which he endowed, in addition to the knowledge that ‘there went a man with money’.
The alchemists, or call them magicians if you will, set out to control nature, not be its victims. Their primary tool was being able to understand and describe it, as a prerequisite to being able to manipulate and change it. This led to the idea that the alchemist would utter a number of words, and reality would change. Hence, the spells that Harry Potter and his friends learn and use in the series.
There is a strange grain of truth in the idea that understanding and naming things can change reality. As proof I offer parenthood.
A child has a tendency to create chaos. For instance, in our comfortable adult world, the idea of having your clothing redecorated with whatever pen, crayon or pot of paint comes to the child's hand does not sit well with almost anyone who has a kid.
The spell for creating a wardrobe that features the same colours as when the clothing was purchased goes like this… In a loud voice, you shout, “STOP THAT NOW OR THERE WILL BE SERIOUS TROUBLE,” and then you name the child in an equally loud voice, trying not to get your names mixed up, causing the dog to flee or your spouse to look at you as if you have finally lost your wits.
Poof! The problem of colouring of the rest of your clothes has gone away, hopefully for a while. And with a little bit of luck, the part of your wardrobe that did get coloured will respond to that other alchemical technique called ‘a good soak in bleach’.
The problem with understanding and naming as a means of controlling your environment arise when things are misunderstood and misnamed.
Here’s a perfect example. Not so long ago (in fact the incident is so fresh in my memory, it feels like yesterday) I was trolling through the video store in search of some fresh movie. There were a couple of young women standing in the way. One of them, perhaps not fully concentrating on the topic of make-up, told the others, “Let the ‘Oom’ through.”
I am sure it was well-meant, but as far as I was concerned, until that point in my life, I had never really given serious consideration to being older than eighteen. The trauma of being defined as an ‘Oom’ remains with me. Aside from being defined as ‘old’ and ‘respectable’ and all the other barely wanted connotations that come with the word ‘Oom’, there is also the fact that I have never known myself by anything other than my own name, Pierre. The idea of being called ‘Sir’, or ‘Mister’ produces involuntary shudders of revulsion as well.
Nor is my surname something in which I take any pleasure. It produces no surge of pride. It is only the designator of which ‘Pierre’ I am, as in, “Oh, that Pierre.” It is necessary, but not really definitive of what I am.
Other than that, I am not ‘Mr. Mare’, ‘Oom Pierre’ or ‘Sir’, just Pierre. And with a bit of judicious use, and understanding of what my name entails, a lot can be achieved with its use.
Strangely enough though, I can live with ‘dude’. And there is one person who produces a very warm and proud glow, if not whatever toy or sweet upon which she has set her heart, every time she says the word ‘Daddy’.
There is a lot of magic in being able to understand and name things. And with all of the knowledge comes the ability to manipulate reality, for better or for worse. I have seen the word ‘idiocy’ reduce wisdom to tatters and ‘thanks’ turn a thankless task into a pleasure. I have even seen the word ‘hello’ turn a fleeting glance into a relationship spanning years.
Words are wonderful things. Just use them carefully.
Note: In Afrikaans, the language developed by the descendants of Dutch colonialists in the country in which I live, the word 'Oom' translates to 'nice old uncle'. Strangely enough, biological relationship is not taken into account when the word is used.
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