roorback

It’s a bit of an obscure – some might say obsolete – one this week (although I’ve never let that stop me before). A roorback is a false story published to damage someone politically, usually a candidate trying to get elected – AKA dirty dirty tricks. (It’s also the ninth studio album by Brazilian heavy metal band Sepultura, but that’s not what we’re interested in here.) Roorbacks are a form of black propaganda, which is propaganda intended to create the impression it was written by those it’s discrediting (as opposed to grey propaganda which doesn’t identify its source, and white propaganda which doesn’t care who knows where it came from). But how did political lies get the name ‘roorback’? 

In 1844, James K Polk, the 11th president of the United States, was trying to get elected. By all accounts it was a pretty nasty campaign, with both major party candidates throwing a lot of metaphorical mud at each other. One of these is known as the Roorback forgery. In late August an article appeared in an abolitionist newspaper quoting part of a book about the fictional travels through the deep south of one Baron von Roorback, a made-up German nobleman. A newspaper in Ithaca, New York printed this without mentioning it was fiction, and also added a sentence saying that the Baron had seen 40 slaves who’d been branded by Polk with his initials before selling them. (Polk was actually a prolific slave owner – he even replaced White House staff with his own enslaved people because it was cheaper – but there’s no evidence that he branded them. So that’s alright then.) The item was withdrawn by the newspaper when the Democrats challenged it, but not before it’d been widely reprinted elsewhere. Ironically Polk actually benefited from the lie – despite his questionable attitude to people ownership – as it reflected badly on his opponents when it was found out.

Because of this, many later political falsehoods were branded (see what I did there) as ‘roorbacks’. In today’s era of fake news and clickbait, maybe there’s still a place in modern English for this one?

geek

Unless you’ve seen Ryan’s Murphy’s TV show American Horror Story or Guillermo Del Toro’s film Nightmare Alley (both of which I highly recommend, as long as you have a strong stomach), you might think a geek is just a slightly derogatory word for a socially inept someone who spends a lot of time on a computer in their parents’ basement. A little sad, maybe (but also likely to make millions later in life with a tech start-up). But in fact, the word ‘geek’ actually has a pretty nasty backstory. Brace yourself…

The first OED citation of geek comes from 1876 in a glossary of words from northern England where it’s defined as ‘a fool, a person uncultivated; a dupe’. This is because it comes from a German word ‘geck’, which means ‘fool’ or ‘simpleton’. In early 19th-century America however, ‘geek’ took on a much darker meaning. Carnivals and freak shows were big business. Many of these featured a ‘geek show’, usually a man whose humiliating act consisted of chasing some live animals (generally chickens but sometimes snakes or rats), then (sorry) biting their heads off and swallowing them. Unlike many of the other members of the freak shows (like conjoined twins or bearded ladies), the geek looked just like the members of the audience. This meant they were easy to replace, so didn’t need to be paid much. They were considered the lowest of low in carnival circles, and were often drug addicts or alcoholics who were paid in booze or narcotics. Many broke their teeth and jaws during their gruesome acts, and suffered from animal-related illnesses. Definitely a tough gig.

Chang and Eng, conjoined twins who were widely exhibited in the 19th century. They married sisters and fathered 21 children. I’ll just leave that one with you.

So when did ‘geek’ change from exploited carnival worker to nerdy but clever computer person? As per usual, I can’t find a definitive answer for this. Jack Kerouac seems to get some of the credit for it in a 1957 letter where he wrote:

‘… unbelievable number of events almost impossible to remember, including … Brooklyn College wanted me to lecture to eager students and big geek questions to answer.’

It wasn’t until the 1970s and 80s that ‘geek’ took on the meaning we know today. Since then it’s been reclaimed as a positive (see ‘geek chic’ for example) which makes it a contronym – a word that started out as one thing and now means the opposite.

(If you’re wondered whether ‘nerd’ has similarly dark origins, you’ll be pleased to hear that it doesn’t – it was coined by Dr Seuss in 1950 in a book called If I Ran the Zoo. Phew.)

nidification

Spring be sprunging. And that means animals and birds be having babies. And it’s birds we’re looking at here – nidification is the act, process or technique of building a nest.

Nidification has its origins in Latin – nidificare means ‘to build a nest’. This comes from nidus, meaning (somewhat unsurprisingly) ‘nest’. A couple of related words are ‘nidifugous’, which means ‘to leave a nest soon after hatching’, and nidicolous, which means ‘reared for a time in a nest’, and also just ‘living in a nest’.

The Guinness world record for the largest birds’ nest is currently held by a pair of bald eagles and was found in Florida in 1963. It measured 2.9m (9ft 6in) wide and was 6m (20ft) deep. It was estimated to weigh more than two tonnes (4,409 lb). Another massive nest builder is the Australian mallee fowl whose creations can measure up to 4.57m (15ft) in height and 10.6m (35ft) across. We also have some big birds over here as well – in 1954 a golden eagle nest was found in Scotland that was an impressive 15 feet deep.

Phwoar, look at the nest on that – a sociable weaver nest in Namibia (photo by Harald Süpfle).

Little birds are also getting in on the big-nidification game as well. The sociable weaver (who sounds like it’d be a laugh in the pub) is only around 15cm long (so it’ll struggle to carry the drinks). But it builds massive nests which house hundreds of its mates. These are made up of several different ‘rooms’ – they use the inner ones for sleeping at night (as they’re warmer) and the outside ones for hanging out in during the day. They even place sharp sticks at the entrances to stop any predators from getting in.

Birds don’t have the monopoly on nidification. Lots of other animals build nests, including insects (termites and ants, for example), frogs and fish. Gorillas also build nests which they sleep in at night – they make a fresh one every day, which is the equivalent to changing the sheets, I guess.

wheelhouse

You’ve probably heard the phrase ‘that’s in my wheelhouse’ – it means that something is your area of expertise. But why wheel? And why is it in a house?

The word ‘wheelhouse’ has been around since the mid-19th century. Back then it meant exactly what it said on the tin – a building with a wheel in it, most usually on a boat or ship. In the nautical sense it referred to the place where the steering wheel was, i.e. where the captain was most likely to be found. It first appeared in writing in an 1835 travel memoir by an American writer called Joseph Holt Ingraham. He wrote: ‘The pilot (as the helms-man is here termed) stands in his lonely wheel-house.’ (Ingraham, who later became a clergyman, died by accidentally shooting himself at the age of 51 in the vestibule of his own church. That’s got to put a dent in your faith in the almighty.) Shortly after this, ‘wheelhouse’ appeared in an 1840 letter to Daniel Webster, then the American secretary of state, from a traveller who was on a ship that burned and then sunk (double whammy). He wrote that the ship’s captain ‘went into the wheel house, and that was the last I saw of him’. (You’ll be pleased to hear that the captain did manage to escape the on fire/sinking ship, along with three other people. The 136 passengers on the ship all drowned though. Wow, that’s really good captaining, mate.)

So how did ‘wheelhouse’ become a word for an area of expertise? Well, at some point in the 1950s (the internet wasn’t any clearer than that, sorry), baseball commentators and reporters picked up on the term and started using it to describe the area of the strike zone (I think this means where the batter swings the bat) that’s the prime spot for them to hit a home run. Which is a good thing, apparently. In the 1980s the term moved from sports writing into everyday language, when we started using it to figuratively describe an area in which someone excels.