Think of the many meanings of single words. One that comes to mind readily is “run,” which has a multitude of meanings.
“Run” can be a verb or a noun. As a verb, it can mean move quickly (as in run home), to travel (as in run a bus route), to flow (as in water or blood), to complete, as to run for office.
And as a noun, “run” can mean a difficulty at a bank, a baseball score, a snag in a nylon, a continued performance, as a run on Broadway, or a continuous spell, as in a run of bad luck, and dozens of other meanings.
I’ve been aware of the multiplicity of definitions for certain words, but had not really thought of one I’ve heard most of my life: “orale,” given the three-syllable Spanish pronunciation of “o-da-leh”, but not the anglicized sound of “oh-rail.” I must have heard it first when I was an Optic seller at age 11. I’d sold a 5-cent paper to a man leaving a downtown cantina, but all he had was a dime and I didn’t have any change. He turned down my suggestion that he buy two of that day’s papers for the dime.
“If you meet me right here at this time tomorrow, I’ll give you the paper free,” I said.
His response: “Orale.”
He seemed OK with this sizable financial negotiation, and so I gave his “orale” a positive spin, meaning “OK by me.”
Some might argue that “orale” is simply one of those words one utters for lack of a better word. Is it equivalent to “doch” in German, “alors” in French or “pues” in Spanish? My money is on “orale” as having more substance than the above words in the other languages, which are more filler.
And at this point I’m adamant that “orale” has NO CONNECTION to “like,” the pure-filler word that every teen intersperses with virtually every word. We hear it — constantly in expressions like “And I was like, WOW!”
Years back, when I was taking German classes at Highlands with the late Jose Pablo Garcia and the late Jean Johnson, I’d do some homework by chatting with another colleague, Werner
Muller, who spoke some German and had taken coursework in that field in his youth.
Muller reminded me to insert “doch” often in German conversation to appear to know more than I knew. It might have worked.
But back to “orale”: A former student, Francisco Apodaca, placed a list of “orale’s” meanings on Facebook. You’ll find it helpful, and informative in the event someone throws an “orale” your way. Now often, in greeting a Spanish speaker, I’ll embellish the word by making it “orale, ese bro.” That proves I’m “one of them” and also that I can be from only one place: Las Vegas.
First on the list as an English rendering of “orale” is “I agree with you.” That’s perfect and entirely in line with what the Optic purchaser of yester-century spoke when I promised him a free copy of the next day’s Optic.
If you want someone to hurry, “orale” can mean “come on!” What if someone’s flipped you off and you’re headed for a physical confrontation? “Orale” then means “Bring it on!”
See how versatile and flexible that one word can be?
Apodaca’s posting reveals a lot more. It also means “Hurry up” and “That’s amazing.” The latter definition, however, applies only to something that occurs on the basketball court: a lucky shot, perhaps. But “orale” must never be used when someone makes a miracle three-point shot. The only word that suffices here is “sapo,” which must not be confused with an “orale.”
The list contains other meanings: “I’m flabbergasted,” “There you go,” “OK,” “It’s your turn,” “Go ahead,” “I’m waiting for you” and “Watch it!”
I have no strong feelings about some of the remaining nuances, except for “I’m waiting for you” and “watch it.” “I’m waiting for you,” in the context of “orale,” usually means a threat. It immediately follows when a guy says, “I saw you looking at my girl, and after school, I’ll be waiting for you.” And “watch it” often converts to a bit of linguistic gymnastics to the word “watchate.”
So “orale” is generally a safe expression although meanings often depend on context. So if you hold the door open for someone, and the response-greeting is “orale,” you’re on safe turf, and you know that person will reciprocate some day. But if you cut somebody off in traffic and the tete-a-tete spills out to the parking lot, reminiscent of the set-to that occurred last week between biker gangs in Waco, Texas, it might not be exchanges of recipes the person you encounter has in mind.
• • •
Probably for the rest of my life I will carry a certain amount of guilt for things I thought in my childhood. Twelve years in a parochial school made a believer out of me.
Our homeroom teacher at Immaculate Conception School, Sister Mary Sans L’Humour, never let a spurious giggle go unnoticed or unpunished. “And Arthur, would you like to tell the class what you find so funny” became almost a daily regimen, usually following the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. Perpetually one who finds humor in all things linguistic, I often got in trouble for my levity, for finding humor in situations in which one ought to be serious.
Indeed, throughout my professional life, I’ve been chided by those above me for giggling inappropriately or even for smiling when others aren’t, prompting them to ask, “What’s so funny?” I don’t believe I’ve ever had the right answer for that question, nor has the asker of that question ever seemed to appreciate my levity or my explanation. I believe the what’s-so-funny? query reflects others’ fear that we’re laughing at them, and that isn’t always the case.
Sister Sans L’Humour did her job well.