A Random Observation

I think one of my favorite phrases in the blogosphere is "typo and it stays." It indicates a situation similar to a Freudian slip, except with the added bonus of the person making the mistake having obviously looked at the mistake, considered changing it back, and yet decided, "Yes, this IS the impression I want to be giving."

Fun Fact of the Day

"Kangaroo" is an aboriginal Australian word meaning "I don't know what you're saying."

My Life in the Perfect Passive Participle

In Latin--almost never in English because our version is so much more complicated, but pretty much every other sentence in Latin--there is a certain construction known as the perfect passive participle. It can best be translated as "having been [verb]ed." Despite its unpopularity in English, I think in the perfect passive participle a lot. This is partly because I speak Latin, and partly because I have an automatic predisposition to like anything unpopular, but also partly because I think of it as an inspiring way to use words. It's a way to describe the past in a way that necessarily links it to some later event.

Having been bullied for many years, I resolved never to let anyone treat my friends that way.

It sounds weak in English, as the passive often does, but to me that only makes it a better way to convey the meaning of that sentence. Even on the obscure, "meta" level of the language I used, it demonstrates passing from weakness to strength.

It's simpler in Latin, where a perfect passive participle is only one word long. Though it won't be a perfectly literal translation, it is quite possible to translate it as an adjective without losing meaning. If you are reading this blog and have seen the title plastered all over it, or if you have seen the name under which I am writing this, you have seen this construction. Amata means "having been loved," or simply "beloved." Therefore, in the rather unusual conventions used by the first Latin textbook I ever owned:

iuliana amata iam amat.

There are two ways to translate that: either as "Now Iuliana Amata loves," or as "Having been loved, Iuliana now loves."

Eximus

So it's the last night my family's going to be spending in Hawai'i. I'm not really sure how to feel; on one hand, I really love it here and I've missed living here, but on the other I really miss having a bed to myself that isn't on the floor, and on a foot we're going to have a(nother) funeral for my grandpa before we get home for which I'm going to sing.

Grief is a strange thing for me. It's always kind of dull and distant, because I've grown up in a military family and had to lose touch with everyone I knew every year for a long time. Between that, the fact that I'm largely lacking in most kinds of time sense, and my faith, I actually don't see the difference between temporary separations or permanent ones. Or maybe I just don't believe in permanent separations at all anymore. There's little sense in the back of my head that firmly believes, and cannot be convinced otherwise, that sooner or later I will come back to Hawai'i, and that someday I will see Grandma Jan and Grandpa Bob again and ask them the questions that I never knew to ask until after they died, and that someday I will get to meet my natural grandmother on my dad's side and see if I really do look that much like she did.

And, yet, I cry over war memorials, now that I begin to understand how much pain and horror they represent. I visited the USS Arizona today. She must have been beautiful, just like her sister ship the Missouri still is, and unlike the last time I visited both--when I was much younger--I understand now what kind of destruction took place at Pearl Harbor in World War II. The Arizona is still commissioned, I found out yesterday, even though she has been sunken and a tomb for her crew for seventy years. The flag over the memorial is attached to the remains of her mast. It flies at half-staff to honor the dead, the same as at Arlington and Punchbowl cemeteries.

After seeing so much this week, I feel like I should do something about it. Something to honor the sailors who died at Pearl Harbor, and the survivors like my great-granddaddy. Something to show respect for the Hawaiian culture that I know too little about and have so much interest in. For the former, I know what I can do. I can tell my family's stories, and sing in honor of those people.

For the latter, all I can do for the time being is shut up and listen. But maybe, if I listen hard enough, perhaps I could learn to speak Hawaiian properly.

Maybe if I listen hard enough, I could begin to deserve to learn.

Please Direct Me To The Mahalo

This is a post about trash cans. Specifically, the kinds of trash cans you see at fast-food places, which always seem to have "THANK YOU" printed on them.

Right now, I'm in Hawai'i for a family vacation--my first time coming here for any span of time less than a year. When I was younger, on three different occasions, my family lived here more or less permanently. I freely admit to having loved everything about it except for fourth grade (long story involving an abusive teacher and two sets of bullying classmates).

One of the things I've always especially loved about Hawai'i is the language. You have to learn at least a little bit just to get around every day, at least enough to be able to pronounce the names of the streets and figure out whether you belong in the "kane" or "wahine" bathroom. Just basic survival matters like that. And it's a beautiful, deceptively simple language (at least until you're confronted by the fact that the state fish is known as the humuhumunukunukuapua'a, meaning "a fish with a nose like a pig").

Of course, in the Hawaiian language, the word for "thank you" is "mahalo." Which brings me back to the title of this post: has it occurred to no one else that someone from another country who speaks another language might come to America and assume based on the tradition of the polite fast-food trash cans that "thank you" means "trash can"? I would never have thought of it were it not for the fact that my dad has made a habit, every time we come to Hawai'i, of joking that "mahalo" must mean "trash can." After all, it's carved into the lid right there.

We attended our old church yesterday, and interestingly the pastor gave us a survey about military families that he wants to use to plan his next sermon series. Oddly, he had a number of possible relationships to the military with checkboxes at the bottom, to indicate one's perspective--but "child of a servicemember" wasn't an option. Perhaps I ought to make a blog post in answer to his survey.

As I finish this post, we are headed to Punchbowl Cemetery. I promised my aunt BabyBlue (of BabyBlueOnline) that I would lay flowers on her mother's grave, and while we're there we are also going to visit Auntie BJ and Uncle Earl's graves (no relation, that's just how Hawaiians talk about close friends of older generations).

Prima Nocte

Here is where I begin, prima nocte--during the first night.

I have to admit, I've never blogged before. I'm a little girl, age eighteen, and I'm starting this blog as a place to explore all the things that I'm not allowed to talk about other places, like speaking foreign languages and falling in love with the unpopular crowd and all the other messy parts of figuring out who I am.

I called this blog "Estne Illa Amata?" with a question mark, because in a lot of ways that one little sentence encapsulates a lot of what I've been asking myself lately. Estne illa amata? It means, "Is she loved?"

The "she" in question changes sometimes. Sometimes I'm referring to myself, other times to a friend. Sometimes I'm asking what love is, and how to define my own feelings. Sometimes I look at big questions in the world, and I ask, "Does this show love to the people who need it?" And sometimes it's just me being rebellious enough that I insist on studying the language I love, classical Latin, rather than limiting myself to what I'm allowed to learn.

About Latin... sometimes, I might use this blog to practice my linguistic skills. In accordance with the conventions we used in my Latin 2 and 4 classes, and for the sake of readability, I'm going to be using English spacing and capitalization, but I just can't bring myself to render the consonantal I as a J. Hence my screen name, Iuliana Amata. I'm a little ambivalent about whether or not the vocalic V should be rendered as a U, but since I seem to have already started doing it I might as well keep going. This may change at some point.

I call myself Iuliana Amata, "Juliana is loved." Amata, is-loved, not Amanda, must-be-loved. I have enough experience on the Internet that I do not expect that everyone who reads this will like me or agree with me. I do, however, expect, and I will enforce, common courtesy. That means no wanton insults, little to no profane language, and considering before you say anything that there is a real human being on the other end of the connection.

Thank you for reading.