Living with a language purist can’t be all fun and games.
     Although I intended the purist reference to be about my father, the late J.D. Trujillo, it could also refer to me, at least as far as my wife Bonnie is concerned.

     When, on occasion, Bonnie says, “You sound just like your dad,” I wonder what could have given her that idea. Does ANY offspring, for any reason, want to be compared to a parent? It seems that no matter how much we disagree with elders’ habits, practices, beliefs, customs, techniques and mannerisms, we are destined to emulate them. Or, as George Santayana said, “Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat Western Civ. 101.”
     My dad was the son of Severino Trujillo, a man who in the late 19th century traveled overseas, studied in Paris and acquired several languages. A comparatively educated man for the times, he must have seen to it that my dad’s grammar, especially in Spanish, was flawless. In turn, dad kept us five children in tow, never tolerating any solecism. Once, when I said, “That’ll learn you,” Dad asked, “Where’s your grammar?” Naturally, I pointed out that she’d been dead for years.
     Some purists overlook the good in an argument because of its ungrammatical or unpunctuated state. Some can’t see the essay for the typos. In the same way, some teachers of art insist that their subjects “stay between the lines.” In that regard, I never really felt comfortable in a man-to-boy conversation with Dad, fearful my language (it didn’t matter which language), would be shredded, riced, diced and pureed, mainly because Dad expected the King’s English (or Spanish) emanating from someone who at the time hadn’t had the luxury of many years of elementary school.
     Later, as a journalist, I felt proud of being part of a two-man team that helped uncover a drug ring in western New Mexico. Some investigative reporting revealed its existence weeks before the cops found out (although the police said they’d known about it for months but were still surveilling it). Feeling great at getting a banner headline that day, I mailed a copy of the newspaper to my parents.
     What was Dad’s reaction? “Do you realize you misspelled the word ‘marihuana’?” Actually, I hadn’t (realized it). His rationale was that one doesn’t pronounce the drug “mariwhana,” thus necessitating an “h” somewhere, not a “j.” Nevertheless, my impression was that the misspelling was all Dad got out of the Woodward-and-Bernstein type expose. Any correspondence with my dad unfailingly got critiques, no matter how minuscule the error. Dad wanted each written Spanish word to come complete with its requisite four tildes and seven accent marks.
     I was reminded of the young girl who was constantly being corrected. The girl said, “Mom, you’d correct my language even if I was dying, wouldn’t you?” Her mom replied, “No, dear, if you WERE dying, I’d correct you.” And there was a vacationing family on a raft in Africa. The son hollered, “Dad, come quick! Mom’s being attacked by an alligator,” only to have the father reply, “Son, we’re in Africa, so it must be a crocodile.”
     To compensate for those who demand unquestionable language, there are those who deliberately put their own spin on and mispronounce and misuse them on purpose. There’s no reason why the cadence of a drill sergeant wouldn’t flow better if the G.I. were to count off: “One, two, three, four.” Instead, it has to be “hup, hoop, hreep, horp.” At least the vowels stay intact. And you’re criticized if you say, “Forward, march,” when it really should be “harch.”
     In my youth I was interested in a neighbor girl, Vangie, a world of fun, but who I thought had a speech defect in that her “no” always came out as “doh,” and that was decades before Homer Simpson. So I asked this girl who was unable to say “no” why she used the voiced lingua-dental plosive consonant in favor of the pure nasal sound.
     Vangie replied that she had no trouble saying “no” (I certainly found that out) but would say “doh” for effect, the same way people say, “That’ll learn you.” Trying to sustain a courtship with her was problematic, as the dialogue usually went like this: “Would you like to go for a ride?” “Doh.” “How about the movies tomorrow night?” “I said ‘doh.’”
     I was left wondering, What is she doh-ing to my emotions and my ego?
     Over the years I’ve learned why language purists don’t have any friends: we devote too much time correcting others, as if we had the corner on proper usage. It’s been humbling realizing that some of my best friends are prone to in a way split infinitives and to once in a while ignore the rule that a pronoun is a word you shouldn’t end a sentence with.