Semantics: Something that means nothing.

I'm semantics obsessed. I guess it makes sense, given the line of work that I'm in. One of my goals as a word worker is to eliminate or avoid phrases that have little or no meaning. I was mulling this one today and yesterday: "That is not who I am." This phrase is often used as pseudo apology.

Don't worry. This post isn't about to nosedive down the rabbit hole of grammar. Let's get the obvious out of the way. The phrase makes no literal sense. Moving along.

What bugs me most about "That is not who I am" is its weak-kneed attempt to create distance between a wrong and the person who committed it. When I hear this phrase, I hear myself at age 6 trying to lay the blame for the missing batteries in the remote control on my sister: "I didn't do it. Kate did." The person who took the batteries, mom and dad, that's not who I am.

It's a linguistic dodge cultivated in a PR cubicle farm under ultra-violet light. As such, you will often hear this phrase spill from the mouths of public officials, professional athletes and Hollywood stars who are caught on the wrong side of the law or morality. We hear them utter it. We accept it at face value. 

But what are they really saying? We all screw up royally. The best we can do is own it -- not disavow it -- and move on. 

What Latin taught me about failure.

It started out as a requirement. I wanted a concentration in classical studies to go with my history minor. I got more than I bargained for. I got my ass kicked.

Latin I was a bloodbath. I could memorize the declensions and conjugations. But when it came to translation or composition, I crumbled. I had no idea how the pieces fit together. When I looked under the hood of this language, I saw something awesome in its complexity. 

I was defeated. I dragged myself back to class and back to my copy of Wheelock's Latin day in and day out. Nothing worked. I was barely passing and felt like I was holding back the rest of the class. At first, I was ashamed of my failure. And then I accepted it. 

I ground out the rest of Latin I and managed to scrape together a B- for the semester. And I came back around for Latin II. I wanted that concentration. I went into Latin II knowing it was going to be an ordeal, knowing I would fail. And that's when it clicked.

I could read it left to right. I understood the syntax. And most important, I saw the beauty in the efficiency of the language. It had a functional strength that I've since pushed to emulate in how I approach English as a writer and editor.

Why did it suddenly make sense? I accepted that it was going to be difficult. I accepted that I was going to fail. And when I stopped trying so hard not to fail, I succeeded.

I keep my copy of Wheelock's Latin on my nightstand. I put my glasses on top of it before I go to sleep. When I put them on in the morning, it's the first object I see as my eyesight comes back into focus. It's a useful reminder.