Talking Hands: What Sign Language Reveals About the Mind; by Margalit Fox

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Behind the bleak, brown cover of Talking Hands is a book brimming with color and information. Similarly, a relatively new language -- a signed language that is unlike any other -- has been blossoming for the last seventy years amidst the sand in al-Sayyid, a Bedouin village in the Negev desert of southern Israel. In this village of approximately 3,500 a genetic form of deafness has been thriving as a result of frequent intermarriage. Today, about 150 villagers are deaf, but these people do not live isolated, marginalized lives, a common fate for deaf people throughout history. Rather they are fully-functioning members of their society and they owe much of this freedom to al-Sayyid Bedouin Sign Language (ASBL), a language that sprang up about seventy years ago when ten deaf villagers were brought together and consequently formed a simple contact pidgin.

This language was presumably very simple, virtually without grammar, an amalgam of gestures and signs, mostly nouns, thrown haphazardly together (though we will never be certain: all ten first-generation signers are dead). The second generation, however, were the real magic makers, morphing their parent's grammarless gestures, somehow, into a simple, yet fully-functioning language. Today, the members of this second generation are in their thirties and forties, raising the third generation of signers, who range from infancy to young adulthood. Not only the deaf children but also a large percentage of their hearing brothers and sisters, learn ABSL as a first language. So, unwittingly, these villagers have create a world that many deaf people have pined for, where deaf people are on the same level as hearing people and no one is singled out because of their deafness.

This village, as it turns out, offers a fascinating, even tantalizing opportunity for linguistics. At least as long ago as Noam Chomsky many linguists have been lusting after something, a thought experiment so taboo that it has come to be known as the Forbidden Experiment: essentially, put a bunch of kids together, with no linguistic input save for perhaps a few basic words and see what they make. This could help answer many important questions, chief among them, "How are languages formed?", "What are newborn languages alike?", and "Just how fundamentally similar are languages?" Al-Sayyid has offered a natural opportunity to answer those questions without the risk of forming a roving pack of feral children.

This book is the product of Margalit Fox, a New York Times reporter who, in 2004, decided to shadow a group of four linguists as they went on a research trip to al-Sayyid. The linguists' tools were basic -- just a laptop computer that showed a series of pictures and some video, designed to elicit basic vocabulary and syntax respectively -- but the data they collect will surely keep them busy for the rest of their careers. After the first chapter, "In the Village of the Deaf," Fox spends the next chapter discussing sign language in general. In the following chapters she follows the same pattern, alternating between discussing ASBL in particular and signed language in general.

ABSL is of great interest to many academic disciplines and Fox at least touches on all: anthropology, psychology, genetics, physiology, and of course the many aspects of linguistics. In her attempt at revealing ABSL Fox discusses the results of so many scientific studies, drops so many interesting tidbits she can't help but make her readers all a bit brighter. And I couldn't help but write a blog post about some of them. Already I see this review as rather wordy, more didactic than critical; it is all Mrs. Fox's doing.

Really, this is a great book for anyone -- you need not know anything about sign language or even language in general. It is a colorful, fact-filled book that never made me want to skim. With this in mind, and with the relative popularity of language books in the present day, I can only wonder why this book has not found more of an audience.

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A Trio of Graphic Novel Reviews

Dear Reader,

I am writing to let you know that I have recently written, count 'em, three reviews about, count 'em, three graphic novels. Enclosed are the three links, together with quotations of the first sentence of each of my reviews and maybe a few other juicy little morsels.

Give It Up! and Other Short Stories by Franz Kafka, illustrated by Peter Kuper.
"This was my introduction to Kafka... I, too, can't believe it." I really, really have been meaning to get to it -- to The Castle or The Trial or even something by Alan Bennett. I certainly don't want to waste my life (though I do read a little Joyce now and then) so I will jump to attention soon. But really, what drew me to this collection was the magnificent art. As for the stories...I don't want to be disrespectful towards a master writer so I will reserve primary judgment for now.

The TOON Treasury of Classic Children's Comics, edited by Art Spiegelman and Françoise Mouly
"As any jackass who's read a few graphic novels knows, comics have been through some rough times." A nice smartass, attention-grabbing opening sentence if you ask me, though perhaps I ranted on a bit too long about comics in general at the expense of the task at hand. I also included a poem, "Ode to the Disney Ducks" by Carl Barks.

Whiteout, written by Greg Rucka and illustrated by Steve Lieber
"Whiteout is a fun, nothing-special thriller -- that just so happens to be set at the bottom of the motha-f****** Earth!" Could I really add anything to that, even if I wanted to? Yes, obviously; read the goddamn review!

Though I called them so, really none of the three qualify as a graphic novel in the purest sense of the term. Give It Up! is a collection of adapted short stories, The TOON Treasury is a collection of tales taken from old children's comic books, and Whiteout is simply a reprint of the four issues of the original miniseries originally published in 1998. So "graphic novel" is a loose and sometimes silly term. Wikipedia, in its article on graphic novels, has a section, "Criticism of the term," that features quotes from a number of notable comics figure. My favorite comes from Alan Moore -- as outspoken as ever, yet right on the money:

It's a marketing term ... that I never had any sympathy with. The term 'comic' does just as well for me. ... The problem is that 'graphic novel' just came to mean 'expensive comic book' and so what you'd get is people like DC Comics or Marvel Comics — because 'graphic novels' were getting some attention, they'd stick six issues of whatever worthless piece of crap they happened to be publishing lately under a glossy cover and call it The She-Hulk Graphic Novel....

Review: Lavinia, by Ursula K. Le Guin

My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Lavinia is not a great book. In fact, I think the most it stirred inside me was an urge to reread the Aeneid. I was intrigued by the premise: to finally put a voice to the "Helen who never speaks", Aeneas' third and final wife, Lavinia. But the execution turned out to be rather wispy, ephemeral; I know this woman no better than I did. Her towns and forests, her land of Bronze Age Italy, have remained similarly obscure.

It is no surprise, really, that a time that was ancient and obscure to the Ancient Romans themselves should remain so to us. But this is fiction: Le Guin had total license to shape the world as she wished; however, that great work of epic poetry, hovering over her head and ours forevermore may have proved too much for the mature and talented fantasy writer. Lavinia -- that is, as she is portrayed in this book -- seems far too aware that she is just a character in a book, that she and her entire world may exist, first only in the imagination of Virgil, then only on the musty old pages of his book.

Le Guin wrote Virgil into her tale: at a sacred spot near Lavinia's village, that she visits regularly, Virgil appears to her in a shadowy form and talks to her, tells her of what is to come. Naturally, he laments not having written her story, favoring Camilla, the warrior princess and one of Turnus' allies, instead. He could rewrite his poem, but, *oh* he's dying. How sad. Though I liked the idea of the sacred spot -- every literary character needs a private little garden of her own -- I could have done without the shadowy portrayal of "the poet."

Why, I wonder, are the parents of these kinds of historical dramas either unbelievably liberal or else terribly cruel? Le Guin splits the pair: Lavinia's father, King Latinus, is as kind, wise and liberal as Marcus Aurelius could only dream about; her mother, Amata, however, is cruel and a little crazy, even going so far as to kidnap Lavinia, under the guise of a religious rite, to try to force her to marry Turnus. I rather liked the characterization of Amata: she has not been quite right in the head ever since her two sons died early, and her fixation on Turnus as the preferred husband for Lavinia is largely because they are kin, though the looks she send to him across the dinner table may lead some to wonder.

I could not ask more, either, from the characterizations of Turnus, the hot-head and gallant fighter who is more than a little timid underneath -- or that of Latinus, the dutiful and deeply religious father, who gives his daughter to a foreigner, as destiny decrees. Ascanius, too, Aeneas' son, came out well: the dutiful son who yet lacks most of the luster of his legendary father, who is overeager and makes mistakes.

I would have liked to see more from Achates, however, Aeneas' trusty second in command -- how could comparisons not be drawn to Agrippa? He could have played the cool-headed Voice of Reason, much in the manner of Enobarbus from Antony and Cleopatra. Aeneas himself, in this tale, is a statue, entirely unapproachable. He has dialogue, of course; he does speak, but his characterization is minimal. It is almost appropriate: no one ever will, or should, know exactly what ran through that statue's head. He is too noble, above-it-all, too important to the legendary roots of the Roma Empire, to have such petty things as emotions.

Lavinia, however, is the main character of this book: far too important to leave her portrayal unfinished, skeletal, and wispy. She is deeply religious -- religion, naturally, plays an important part in all proceedings. She is, unsurprisingly, a sort of proto-feminist -- why else write a book like this, if not to divulge a woman's point of view? And she is dutiful, to her family, to her destiny, to the world and its perceived will. So she is everything that was expected of a Roman matron, with a few modern twists thrown in. But she is not a full character. Her world is not complete. This book is not complete.

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Five Tidbits on (Signed) Language

I am currently in the midst of Talking Hands: What Sign Language Reveals About the Mind, by Margalit Fox. The book is intended for the general audience so, though it is ostensibly about Al-Sayyid Bedouin Sign Language (ABSL), "a sign language used by about 150 Deaf and many hearing members of the al-Sayyid Bedouin tribe in the Negev desert of southern Israel," about half of the book is devoted to the history and science of (signed) language in general. A full review will surely follow but first, here are a few fascinating tidbits I gathered from the book.

1. Some languages have only two color words: essentially, black and white. However, they are not black and white in the traditional, anglo-centric tradition: black represents all the dark and muted colors, like blues, greens and grays; white represents the bright yellows, oranges, reds, etc. If another color is needed during practical conversations, speakers have been known to point at an object of the appropriate color. It works well in Al Sayyid: though they live in a bleak desert most families have very colorful rugs and traditional clothing.

Generally, the more color words a language has the older it is: English has eleven *basic* color words (nevermind niceties like mauve and chartreuse), as do Japanese, Hebrew and Hungarian. Predictably, ABSL has only two -- it is only about seventy years old -- though some of the community's deaf children, who attend classes where the more standard Israeli Sign Language is used, have brought home a third word: purple.

2. The creation of American Sign Language (ASL) was a happy accident. In 1815, an American preacher by the name of Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet (yes, that Gallaudet), inspired by Alice Cogswell, his nine-year-old deaf neighbor, traveled to Europe to find an effective method of teaching the Deaf. What he discovered, a sign language today known as Manual French, was a cobbled-together mess of signs from Old French Sign, together with many of the creator's own invention. Essentially, it was French but on the hands, but what worked ex oris was very impractical and unwieldy ex manus. Sentences that took upwards of fifty signs to say in Manual French can be translated to ASL, for example, in as little as five.

Nevertheless, Gallaudet took the system home with him and, together with Laurent Clerc, one of the most prominent pupils of the language, founded the Hartford Asylum for the Education and Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb on April 15, 1817. It was the first school for the deaf in North America and is now called the American School for the Deaf.

It is there that the magic occurred: drawn by the promise of full and proper communication, dozens of deaf pupils joined the school each year. Very shortly the school had a few hundred students. Yet the magic came, not in the classroom, but in the hallways and dormitories. For the first time dozens of deaf people were together on a daily basis, able to interact in some form. In short, they made a language, today called American Sign Language. It probably happened the same way all languages are created: the first generation, armed with perhaps a few hundred signs,* created a basic contact language with almost no grammar -- a pidgin. From there the second generation, lead particularly by young children, took that simple, grammarless gobbledygook and turned it into a language -- a creole. Which brings me to my next point:

3 The language instinct or language bioprogram. In the late 1950s, a man named Noam Chomsky, a man as important to Linguistics as Charles Darwin is to Biology, began what is today sometimes known as the Chomskyan Revolution. Chomsky's work was extensive and far reaching but the crux of the revolution was the idea of the language instinct -- a hypothetical, innate ability that all healthy humans possess which enables them to learn, speak, understand, and even create language.

The nature of this bioprogram is not entirely understood, but decades of research by a whole spectrum of linguists has proven that, yes, it does exist. Derek Bickerton, for example -- author of a book I read last year: Bastard Tongues: A Trail-Blazing Linguist Finds Clues to Our Common Humanity in the World's Lowliest Languages -- has spent his long career studying spoken creoles in the Caribbean and South Pacific, those relatively new "bastard tongues" that sprang up as a result of the unfriendly colonial clashes between native and European languages.

It is a concept that fascinated me then, when I read Bastard Tongues, and it still fascinates me now. Particularly, what are the commonalties of all languages? When stripped down to the essentials, as in the creole stage, languages have proven to be remarkably similar. Language geek that I am, I can't help but grab my pipe and dream about the "perfect" language -- some kind of creole-ish mess, with serial verbs galore, no doubt.

4 Al-Sayyid Bedouin Sign Language is not the first sign language to spring up in a remote village with a high percentage of deaf people. About a dozen have been documented that still exist, though most are not as thoroughly ingrained in the culture as ABSL. However, there was one: Martha's Vineyard Sign Language sprang up, not surprisingly, on the little island south of Cape Cod. MVSL began its life in the early 18th century, when a form of genetic deafness was passed down through the close-knit population, and lasted till 1952, when the last deaf signer died. Little linguistic evidence survives but there is much anthropological evidence and, ahem, anecdotal evidence. Everyone Here Spoke Sign Language: Hereditary Deafness on Martha's Vineyard, by Nora Ellen Groce, relays many of these anecdotes as the author heard them from elderly, hearing residents in the 1980s. The book is at the top of my to-read pile.

5 Is it an Upper- or lowercase "D"? In the simplest terms the word "deaf" is just an adjective like any other, used to describe a human trait-- like "tall," "fat," and "pretty." However, for at least decades -- and probably much longer than that -- many deaf people have seen one another as closely bonded, as a kind of subculture. Thus the emergence of the term Deaf Culture and even the "Deaf Power Movement," to defend and extend the rights and privileges shown to deaf people.

* The signs used by the original class of the school include homesigns (ie simple gestures the deaf people used to communicate with their families at home), signs from Martha's Vineyard Sign Language, and, of course, signs from Manual French. To this day French Sign Language and ASL are rather similar -- in fact ASL signers can generally understand French SL much better than British SL.