INSULT TO INJURY: OF GLASS HOUSES AND CASTING STONES: A NEW YEAR'S PARABLE

"Regrets, I've had a few,

But, then again, too few to mention."

-- Paul Anka

"My Way"

Once upon a time several years back, shortly after I became a pompous and pretentious English grad student, my mother wrote me a letter. Nothing spectacular, really. Just her usual fare of hometown news, tidbits about my siblings and complaints about Dad.

Unable to resist the temptation afforded me by Mom's letter, I brandished the red pen I'd been using on my students' freshman comp essays that semester, scribbled numerous comments and editorial marks on the letter and mailed it back to my mother with a barely passing grade. She could, I informed her, revise it for a higher grade if she wished.

She was not amused.

And she was not alone. Over the years I have learned that most folks do not take kindly to my questioning of their linguistic lapses -- a fact that has made difficult my calling as a defender of all that's gracious and poetic within English and as a sworn foe of those who would abuse the language. Split an infinitive or dangle a modifier, and I shall be there ready to ruthlessly rap your linguistic knuckles with the measuring stick of grammar and usage.

Alas, it's a lonely calling that pretty much guarantees being left by myself at parties and family reunions. The last thing people want to hear on New Year's Eve as they raise their champagne glasses in a toast is my mocking voice castigating them for using a preposition to end a sentence with.

Pity.

Even the neighborhood kids used to preface their decisions to play with my children by saying, "Your, uh, father's like not gonna be there to, umm, correct my grammar or nothin' like that, is he, man?"

Like, uh, no, dude.

And the rest of the family? Pfffttt. Although sometimes I doubt it has much to do with grammar, my siblings have pretty much given up talking to me altogether. My cousins just run in terror.

But the worst part of being a self-appointed protector of the language is having to endure the gratification others derive from catching me crossing the line of proper English. Yes, yes, I make mistakes -- several so far in this column alone -- and there will be those, including my editors, who will look disapprovingly on the errors of my ways.

Make a mistake, whether it's in writing or in life in general, and the people surrounding you, even those you once considered friends, will be more than happy to point it out to you, to call your attention to your faults and failings with a degree of giddiness and glee.

"Should that not be in the subjunctive mood?" someone will inquire with an appropriate sniff of condescension.

"Are you certain your pronoun and antecedent agree?" another will demand, clicking their tongue in disgust. Tsk, tsk.

Both will wear smirks on their faces akin to the expression donned by the town infidel when he catches the holier-than-thou preacher with his pants down.

Of course, I used to justify each grammatical faux pas and every lapse of usage with an excuse and a knowing wave of my hand.

"It's a colloquialism," I would say, as if everyone should know.

Or else, I would claim I did it on purpose. All great writers have done it, like James Joyce or William Faulkner, who knew the rules and so could break the rules. Sort of the syntactic equivalent to sinning boldly that grace might abound, I suppose.

Joyce's "Finnegan's Wake," for example, actually ends with the word "the." And Gertrude Stein once started a story with the coordinating conjunction "and."

But I digress.

The truth is, of course, that no one of us is immune from his share of grammatical goofs, gaffes and bobbles. I have made more than my share of mistakes in life, grammatical and otherwise. And I will undoubtedly make many, many more.

Mea culpa.

So at this, the beginning of a new year, when we confess our sins -- both the things we have done and the things we have left undone -- in hopes of finding reconciliation and redemption, I admit that I, too, have erred and transgressed in ways much greater than a linguistic lapse into gobbledygook. I'm sure I will do it again.

And let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

~Jeffrey Jackson is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.