When I was young – in high school, I guess – there was this kind of schtick I had with my mother sometimes.
It started like this. She was a reader and teacher of English Literature. So there were books by poets around the house: poets like William Butler Yeats and John Keats.
It always rather annoyed me, the incipient rationalist, that English spelling is so inconsistent with respect to pronunciation (as it does my students now, no doubt). Of course I knew the correct pronunciations of their names. But I would point to the book by Yeats, and mispronounce his name. "Yeets," I'd say.
"Yates!" my mother would insist, annoyed.
I'd point to a book by Keats. "Kates," I'd suggest, snarkily.
"Keets," she'd mutter, no doubt understanding my point, but refusing to yield.
So this went on for years. Whenever she had a book by either of those authors in her proximity, we'd play out this little drama, or even if either of those poets would come up in conversation. Given her specialization, and my own long interest in poetry, this was probably more common than anyone could expect.
Well, a few days ago, at my mother's house, we were standing and gazing at her shelf of books of poetry. So of course, there he was. How could I resist?
"Yeets," I said, a call-back to our ancient exchanges.
"If you say so," my mother sighed.
I looked at her in surprise. I paused for a moment, not sure I'd heard correctly. I pumped my fist and leaped around the room, excited. "Victory! Victory, at last," I proclaimed.
My mother looked on, dismayed and maybe alarmed. "What?"
I had to remind her of the old exchanges. I said that in all the years of those interactions, never had she yielded ground on the sacred, canonical pronunciations of those poets' names. Once reminded, she rather got the point, I guess.
She said gently, "I guess I don't see the point in arguing any more."
[daily log: walking, 7km]