Lying language

In the recent Australian election Julia Gilliard said she was humbled when it became clear that she would be the new deputy prime minister of Australia. It has become a cliché for politicians to say they are humbled when getting news of victory.

My dictionary has two meanings for humble:

1. To bring down in pride or arrogance.
2. To decisively defeat.

Nothing had happened to Ms Gilliard to bring her down in pride or arrogance, and she certainly was not decisively defeated.

In contrast John Howard took the news of his crushing defeat in which he even lost his seat with graciousness. He credited those who had helped him in his political career. He acknowledged his staff, his political allies and his family. The manner of his departure from the political scene was a model for candidates in a democratic society. In fact he was humbled. It would have been appropriate for him to say so. Somehow that locution is reserved for those from whom it is inappropriate.

False humility of politicians is not too serious a matter, but the almost obligatory mention of being humbled when winning sets a tone of dishonesty. More important is the concealing of reality by the choice of words used by government to conceal the realities of warfare.

For example, rendition is sending prisoners to other countries for torture. Collateral damage is unintended slaughter of civilians. Senator Eugene McCarthy of the United States remarked that as the Catholic Church dropped Latin the military picked it up.

Australia has a military as countries must have. It is called the Australian defence force. Of course an army must do more than defend. It must at times threaten, attack or occupy. It even sometimes acts as a relief agency in case of floods and other disasters. In fact it would be unreasonable if the military could not perform all these functions. A world where all nations had defence forces and the name meant what it said would be completely safe, as armies could not attack.

The Australian Parliamentary information service could locate no legislation or administrative document authorising the use of the name, Australian defence forces, for the Australian armed forces. The designation of the Australian military as the Australian Defence Force has no legislative or administrative sanction.

The facts of life are simple. We are born, and normally grow old and die. However, the simple Anglo-Saxon word, old, is treated with disdain.

My wife and I recently bought a mattress. The manager of the store took us to one of the sales people and said, "This young couple want to buy a mattress".

I said, "We are not a young couple. We are an old couple who want to buy a mattress."

"Right! This is a senior couple who want to buy a mattress."

"We are not in a position of seniority to anybody. We are not young. We are old, old, old."

For some reason he would not or could not say "old". “Old” is not leprosy. It is a chronological condition. It is nothing to be ashamed of or be proud of. But the word with some people seems to be more of a taboo word than the vulgar verb referring to the sex act used to be.

I have decided to rehabilitate the word "old" from its state of taboo. On a couple of occasions I have worn a badge with "old man" in yellow letters on a white background.

The first occasion was to the Queensland art gallery. I was standing looking at an artwork containing writing indicating the social conscience of the artist. A man looked at the picture, my badge and me and said, "Very clever".

A woman noticed the badge and said, "That's right."

The second occasion was at a choral recitation at St Stephens. There the reaction was different. A man came up to me and said, "Who pinned that thing on you?"

"I did. What's wrong with being old?"

"As long as you don't think old."

He rushed off before I could say that thinking old could contain more wisdom than thinking young.

An old woman and later a young man both said, "You're not old".

To both of them I said, "I'm 82. How old does one have to be to be old?"

Another man remarked, "I'm an old man, too".

Sensing a bore I retreated to my father's ploy. His deafness became even more evident when he sensed a bore trying to make conversation. I said, "Can't hear you. Deaf, you know."

He yelled louder, "I'm an old man, too. How old do you think I am?"

"Can't guess."

"Oh, c'mon."

"Can't tell."

He yelled, "I'm 72!"

I introduced him to Marie, "Meet an old man".

As I walked away I saw him expostulating. She later remarked that he was a bore.

The woman on my left at the concert said, "Why the badge? Anyone can see you're an old man."

That is the point of the matter. Why deny reality?