Six Second Summary
Stimulus Booklet:
Text One (Non-Fiction) - It's Our Own Strain of Strine, Habib (Harriet Veitch)
You know you've arrived as a community in Australia when the lexicographers start taking note. And while Melbourne has long been a focus of linguistic research into migrant accents and words, with its living laboratory of Greek and Yiddish speakers, Sydney has emerged with the newest ethnic dialect under the microscope: Lebanese Australian English.
Migration patterns, especially over the past 30 years, have seen Lebanon account for two out of every five Australian migrants from the Middle East. In the last census, 72.8 per cent of those born in Lebanon called Sydney home, and in NSW more than 114,000 people can trace their immediate Lebanese ancestry.
Bruce Moore, head of the Australian National Dictionary Centre at the ANU, in his new book, Speaking Our Language, The Story Of Australian English, says while Melbourne's Greek and Yiddish communities' languages were about familial and cultural values and identity "something more complex is occurring in the Lebanese example".
He says the ethnolect, a variety of a language spoken by an ethnic subgroup, "is used consciously to separate the speakers from Anglo-Australian values, and at its extreme also to separate the speakers from some parts of their own culture".
Welcome to Lebanese-Australian English - English with Arabic flavourings. "Shoo" is "what's up?", "yallah" is "let's go/goodbye" and "habib", Arabic for "darling", is almost "mate". As one Lebanese man explains, "habib and mate differ" because "mate is like a friend, just to make fun with them. But with the term 'habib' when you're talking to him, is like a serious talk."
Although, as Moore says, "habib" has become more complex in Lebanese-Australian English because it has become a pejorative word for males who assert themselves aggressively.
"The responses of both male and female informants," Moore says, "clearly indicate that habibs were obsessed with grabbing girls' attention, hotted-up cars and loud music, and have their own style of dress and particular ways of talking.
"Such a habib might say 'I swear to god' and 'you know what I mean', change 'this' into 'dis', and create hybrid language versions by adding the English 'ing' to Arabic colloquial verbs."
The comedian, Akmal Saleh, who migrated from Egypt to Australia when he was 11 without a word of English, says as he grew up, he made a conscious decision to move away from the Arab-Australian culture in Australia.
"If I wasn't Egyptian and I said this, people would think that I am a racist, but it's true. A lot of people here stay within the community. It's often fear of change." He picked up English at school.
"After about a year I was quite good at English … but we still used Arabic to our advantage.
"We used to go to the swimming pool and every few days or so we'd go over to the shopping centre opposite and tell the lady at the information desk that our sister was missing. She'd ask her name and put it over the loudspeaker. "Anna in Arabic means 'I', so we'd make up names that meant things like 'I eat shit' and then rush away so she wouldn't see us laughing, while any Arabic speakers around would think, 'Did I just hear that?'"
Language experts think that ethnolects will die out as the country becomes more homogenised culturally.
But then the country might be a bit poorer for it, eh, habib?
Text Two (Poem) - Dead Swagman (Nancy Cato)
His rusted billy left beside the tree
Under a root, most carefully tucked away,
His steel-rimmed glasses folded in their case
Of mildewed purple velvet; there he lies
In the sunny afternoon, and takes his ease,
Curled like a possum within the hollow trunk.
He came one winter evening when the tree
Hunched its broad back against the rain, and made
His camp, and slept, and did not wake again.
Now white ants make a home within his skull:
His old friend Fire has walked across the hill
And blackened the old tree and the old man
And buried him half in ashes where he lay.
It might be called a lonely death.
The tree Led its own alien life beneath the sun,
Yet both belonged to the Bush, and now are one:
The roots and bones lie close among the soil,
And he ascends in leaves towards the sky.
Text Three (Prose Fiction) - Extract from The Semplica-Girl Diaries (George Saunders)
SEPTEMBER 6th
Very depressing birthday party today at home of Lilly’s friend Leslie Torrini.
House is mansion where Lafayette once stayed. Torrinis showed us Lafayette’s room: now their “Fun Den.” Plasma TV, pinball game, foot massager. Thirty acres, six garages (they call them “outbuildings”): one for Ferraris (three), one for Porsches (two, plus one he is rebuilding), one for historical merry-go-round they are restoring as family (!). Across trout-stocked stream, red Oriental bridge flown in from China. Showed us hoofmark from some dynasty. In front room, near Steinway, plaster cast of hoofmark from even earlier dynasty, in wood of different bridge. Picasso autograph, Disney autograph, dress Greta Garbo once wore, all displayed in massive mahogany cabinet.
Vegetable garden tended by guy named Karl.
Lilly: Wow, this garden is like ten times bigger than our whole yard.
Flower garden tended by separate guy, weirdly also named Karl.
Lilly: Wouldn’t you love to live here?
Me: Lilly, ha-ha, don’t ah . . .
Pam (my wife, very sweet, love of life!): What, what is she saying wrong? Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you love to live here? I know I would.
In front of house, on sweeping lawn, largest SG arrangement ever seen, all in white, white smocks blowing in breeze, and Lilly says, Can we go closer?
Leslie Torrini: We can but we don’t, usually.
Leslie’s mother, dressed in Indonesian sarong: We don’t, as we already have, many times, dear, but you perhaps would like to? Perhaps this is all very new and exciting to you?
Lilly, shyly: It is, yes.
Leslie’s mom: Please, go, enjoy.
Lilly races away.
Leslie’s mom, to Eva: And you, dear?
Eva stands timidly against my leg, shakes head no.
Just then father (Emmett) appears, says time for dinner, hopes we like sailfish flown in fresh from Guatemala, prepared with a rare spice found only in one tiny region of Burma, which had to be bribed out.
The kids can eat later, in the tree house, Leslie’s mom says.
She indicates the tree house, which is painted Victorian and has a gabled roof and a telescope sticking out and what looks like a small solar panel.
Thomas: Wow, that tree house is like twice the size of our actual house.
(Thomas, as usual, exaggerating: tree house is more like one-third size of our house. Still, yes: big tree house.)
Our gift not the very worst. Although possibly the least expensive—someone brought a mini DVD-player; someone brought a lock of hair from an actual mummy (!)—it was, in my opinion, the most heartfelt. Because Leslie (who appeared disappointed by the lock of mummy hair, and said so, because she already had one (!)) was, it seemed to me, touched by the simplicity of our paper-doll set. And although we did not view it as kitsch at the time we bought it, when Leslie’s mom said, Les, check it out, kitsch or what, don’t you love it?, I thought, Yes, well, maybe it is kitsch, maybe we did intend. In any event, this eased the blow when the next gift was a ticket to the Preakness (!), as Leslie has recently become interested in horses, and has begun getting up early to feed their nine horses, whereas previously she had categorically refused to feed the six llamas.
Leslie’s mom: So guess who ended up feeding the llamas?
Leslie, sharply: Mom, don’t you remember back then I always had yoga?
Leslie’s mom: Although actually, honestly? It was a blessing, a chance for me to rediscover what terrific animals they are, after school, on days on which Les had yoga.
Leslie: Like every day, yoga?
Leslie’s mom: I guess you just have to trust your kids, trust that their innate interest in life will win out in the end, don’t you think? Which is what is happening now, with Les and horses. God, she loves them.
Pam: Our kids, we can’t even get them to pick up what Ferber does in the front yard.
Leslie’s mom: And Ferber is?
Me: Dog.
Leslie’s mom: Ha-ha, yes, well, everything poops, isn’t that just it?
After dinner, strolled grounds with Emmett, who is surgeon, does something two days a week with brain inserts, small electronic devices? Or possibly biotronic? They are very small. Hundreds can fit on head of pin? Or dime? Did not totally follow. He asked about my work, I told. He said, Well, huh, amazing the strange, arcane things our culture requires some of us to do, degrading things, things that offer no tangible benefit to anyone, how do they expect people to continue to even hold their heads up?
Could not think of response. Note to self: Think of response, send on card, thus striking up friendship with Emmett?
Returned to Torrinis’ house, sat on special star-watching platform as stars came out. Our kids sat watching stars, fascinated. What, I said, no stars in our neighborhood? No response. From anyone. Actually, stars there did seem brighter. On star platform, had too much to drink, and suddenly everything I thought of seemed stupid. So just went quiet, like in stupor.
Pam drove home. I sat sullen and drunk in passenger seat of Park Avenue. Kids babbling about what a great party it was, Lilly especially. Thomas spouting all these boring llama facts, per Emmett.
Lilly: I can’t wait till my party. My party is in two weeks, right?
Pam: What do you want to do for your party, sweetie?
Long silence in car.
Lilly, finally, sadly: Oh, I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.
Pulled up to house. Another silence as we regarded blank, empty yard. That is, mostly crabgrass and no red Oriental bridge w/ ancient hoofprints and no outbuildings and not a single SG, but only Ferber, who we’d kind of forgotten about, and who, as usual, had circled round and round the tree until nearly strangling to death on his gradually shortening leash and was looking up at us with begging eyes in which desperation was combined with a sort of low-boiling anger.
Let him off leash, he shot me hostile look, took dump extremely close to porch.
Watched to see if kids would take initiative and pick up. But no. Kids only slumped past and stood exhausted by front door. Knew I should take initiative and pick up. But was tired and had to come in and write in this stupid book.
Do not really like rich people, as they make us poor people feel dopey and inadequate. Not that we are poor. I would say we are middle. We are very, very lucky. I know that. But still, it is not right that rich people make us middle people feel dopey and inadequate.
Am writing this still drunk and it is getting late and tomorrow is Monday, which means work.
Work, work, work. Stupid work. Am so tired of work.
Good night.
Questions:
Text One - Non-Fiction (4 marks)
How does the text represent the importance of language to collective identity?
Text Two - Poem (4 marks)
How does the poem represent the human experience of death?
Text Three - Prose Fiction (4 marks)
How does the story use language techniques to create an authentic narrative voice?
Texts One, Two and Three (8 marks)
Discuss how TWO of the given texts discuss notions of belonging within the human experience.
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