In the Land of Invented Languages - Arika Okrent [94]
The nu- that attaches before the verb “to kill” in the second word is part of a complex verb-agreement system that uses prefixes to show who did what to whom. Most people are familiar with a system that uses word endings that indicate who is doing the verb. For example, in Spanish, the -o ending on a verb like hablar (to speak) indicates a first-person-singular subject (hablo—“I speak”), while the -amos ending indicates a first-person-plural subject (hablamos—“we speak”). Klingon has such affixes, but they attach before rather than after the verb root, and instead of having six or seven of them, like most Romance languages, it has twenty-nine. The prefixes proliferate because they indicate person and number not only of the subject (who is doing) but also of the object (who is being done to). For example, qalegh means “I see you,” and vIlegh means “I see them”; cholegh means “you see me,” and Dalegh means “you see them.” This type of system is unusual in the realm of languages that people typically study, but not as a general possibility for language.
Subject and object agreement by prefix is quite common, for example, in the Native languages of North America. However, it is not a feature of Mutsun, a West Coast language of the Utian family and the subject of Okrand's dissertation. Many have speculated that Klingon is based on the Native languages that Okrand studied as a linguist. “I used some features from other West Coast languages, like the ‘tlh’ sound, for example,” said Okrand, “but my basic strategy was to switch sources whenever it started becoming too much like any one language in particular.” This strategy explains my reaction, as a linguist, to Klingon: it is completely believable as a language, but somehow very, very odd.
And very, very difficult for the average English speaker to learn. But neither the mind-bending complexity of putting Klingon sentences together nor the uvula-twisting chore of articulating Klingon words prevents the Klingonists from studying, speaking, and writing the language. In fact, the challenge is part of the attraction, maybe the main one. Learning the Klingon language, though mocked as the most absurd thing a person could do, is what makes Klingon speakers feel above the usual Star Trek fandom. Lawrence Schoen, the head of the KLI, recalls how after an article about the Klingon language appeared on the front page of the lifestyle section of the Chicago Tribune, “memberships poured in from people who thought this was all about playing Klingon. You know, the foreheads, the costumes. But when they found out what we really did, they couldn't hack it. It was too much work.” Those who can hack it feel a haughty pride in their linguistic accomplishments, despite the fact that no one who hasn't attempted to hack it can understand what they have to be proud of. The difficulty of the language keeps it from being just another part of the costume. The ones who end up sticking with it are in it for the language—and the cachet, the respect, that comes (from however small a group) with showing that you can master it. Anyone can wear a rubber forehead, but the language certification pins must be earned.
When I arrived at the Klingon conference in Arizona, I didn't know a thing about Star Trek. I hadn't seen any of the movies. I couldn't name one Klingon character from the show. But I knew one thing for sure: I wanted one of those pins.
What Are
They Doing?
In 1999, the satirical paper the Onion ran a story under the headline “Klingon Speakers Now Outnumber Navajo Speakers.” This is absolutely not true, but it would have been true had they picked nearly any other Native American language. How many speakers are there? It depends on your definition of “speaker.” The Klingon Dictionary, written by Okrand and licensed by Paramount, has sold more than 300,000 copies of its two editions. But a dictionary buyer does not a speaker make. There are probably more than two thousand people who have learned to use