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Scraps from the language feast

I have a question: given a choice, which would you prefer, synecdoches, or metonyms? I suppose those who think they understand the definitions will merely shrug their shoulders and say they’d choose whichever knocked at the door first; others will pretend that even identifying them beforehand is unutterably  pretentious. Me? I’m a closet user.

What, I can hear you ask, is the difference, and why would it matter where I chose to use them? Is it a gender thing? Are they illegal in some countries? What are they hiding…?

Well, according to the Merriam Webster dictionary (you have to start somewhere): a synecdoche is when the word for a part of something is used to refer to the whole thing, or less commonly, the word for a whole is used to refer to a part. Metonymy on the other hand, is when a word only associated with something is used to refer to the thing itself. I had to turn to other sources to further clarify the clarification, I’m afraid: a metonym is a word, name, or expression used as a substitute for something else with which it is closely associated. The confusing similarity of their definitions and the fear of epistemological reprisal is why I would only use it from the safety of the closet, by the way.

Actually, there is another reason… a metonym can also be used as a code -a way of disguising something you don’t wish to divulge to those who are not au fait (which almost always, this includes me, and I would probably misuse it and get myself beaten up, or something.)

So, during a recent eavesdrop I heard a word -okay, it was actually 2 words: fig leaf -a concept I thought was pretty straightforward; but then again I don’t have a TikTok app on my phone, nor am I entangled in the web like everybody else on the bus. How would I know it was a metonym, eh?

One day on the slowly moving #250 bus that I am sometimes forced to take, I overheard two ladies in the seat ahead whispering quite loudly. “Did you see the tattoos on the fingers of that horrible man in the lineup for the other bus?” an elderly lady in a bright red coat whispered to her attentive seat mate. “He had a fig leaf,” she continued, when her be-hatted friend brought her ear closer to the red coat.

This was followed  by a swift, stertorous intake of air, a horking cough, and finally a slow unbelieving shake of the hat precariously bobby-pinned to her thinning white hair.

Red coat elaborated, since she wasn’t at all sure whether her friend’s cough had preceded or followed her disclosure. “He had #8 tattooed on one finger and another #8 on the next one.”

Her friend shrugged and didn’t seem to fully appreciate the significance, so red-coat sighed loudly enough for her friend to hear her, and explained. “8 is the eighth letter of the alphabet, right?” A quick look convinced Red to expand her explanation. “H” she added in a whisper after checking around the bus for eavesdroppers. I pretended to find some lint on my sweatshirt, so I think her eyes skimmed over me without a blink.

At any rate, when I felt it was safe to open my eyes again, I could see her friend silently counting the alphabet out on her fingers, but judging by the expression on the back of her hat seemed none the wiser.

“It stands for Heil Hitler! It’s a fig leaf,” Red added with a shrug of her own, her patience obviously wearing thin. “Because it hides things,” Red finally explained. “The man at the bus stop was probably one of those Proud-men right wing extremists, or maybe even an Incel: I saw him staring at me…”

Her friend shook her head again and tut-tutted, either because she couldn’t really hear what red-coat had said, or didn’t understand the references.

I didn’t either, but then again male extremists were people my former specialty hadn’t included, and I don’t think they’d even invented Incels then. But that was then; I’m retired now and maybe they have special apps on the phone for them nowadays.

Still, it reminded me of something that had happened in my office many years ago when I was perhaps even less worldly wise. Fig leaves as non-artistic entities, came to my attention as useful inventions in my previous life as a gynaecologist.

Early in my career, in a naïve attempt to inform my patients of their salient anatomies, I had tacked a labelled anatomical diagram on the wall over a chair in the examining room adjoining my office. The only one I could find in poster size was one that compared male and female… parts. One of my more critical patients had moved the chair away from the wall and complained to me that she refused to sit under a set of male… well, things as she put it, apparently missing the equally valid point of instruction about the female things which were on the same diagram. I promised her I’d take it down, but after she left, the next patient arrived and told me she quite liked it.

I explained about the complaint, and she smiled. “Look, doctor, I think the diagram is a great idea! A lot of us are a little sketchy about the proper names of the various male anatomical features.” I could see her eyes twinkle. “Why not just put a fig leaf over the offending areas -that’s what artists used to do to keep the church off their backs.”

I was a little concerned that a leaf would destroy the whole educational purpose of the diagram, but I felt I’d better try it over the male area anyway.

The next day, I scotch-taped a big oak leaf from a tree outside the office over the contentious organ, but I ended up having to substitute a paper sticky, because the leaf didn’t even last the morning before it broke off from so much bending. My patients were a curious lot. Most of them, their doctor included, had never heard of fig-leaf metonymy though.

Nowadays, of course, I think I’d be able to cover it with one of those fuzzy things the TV newscasts use over faces to protect privacy. I wonder if I could have bought one at that adult store that was down the road from my office…

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