Evie Groch
Incomplete Sentence
This must be a nightmare. I can’t wake up. I’m flanked by my defense attorney, Ms.
Turabian, on one side, and her assistant, Mr. Strunk, on the other. Ms.Turabian is
young, sharply dressed in a beige suit with a pop of red color in her scarf tucked in
around her neck. The court session is about to start, and the District Attorney
representing the people is trying to stare me down and scare me into pleading guilty.
I’m not having any of that. He may be tall, athletic, and good-looking, but he is wrong.
Behind me sit the witnesses for the defense: an editor, my grammar school teacher, Mr.
Harris, my junior high school journalism teacher, Mr. McGregor, presenters whose
workshops I have attended, my physical therapist, and an allergist. I’m not sure why
Ms. Turabian wanted them all here, but she assured me she has a plan.
Judge Warren asks the lead prosecutor, Mr. H. Burger, assisted by Mr. Trent, an older
gentleman wearing a Colombo coat, to read the charges. It turns out I’m charged with
falsely accusing others of misdemeanor grammar violations without a license, showing
my disdain for incorrect usage, wincing at misconjugations, making exasperating
sounds upon viewing misspellings, ‘tsking’ at incorrect use of antecedents, reacting
audibly to mispronunciations, and rolling my eyes at run-on sentences, all actions
deemed unfit for polite society. The people have risen up against me.
“How do you plead?” Judge Warren asks. She is mature, with salt and
pepper hair.
I stand and defiantly say “NOT GUILTY!”
“Not so forceful,” whispers my attorney to me.
The prosecution proceeds to call witnesses who have at one time or another seen me
react viscerally to comments or memos from them. Each one called to the stand leaves
a quote in the judge’s mind. What I hear is:
“Who do you think you are?”
“Boy, are you a snob!”
“Just let it go.”
“I’ll never speak in front of you again.”
“What a grammar Nazi!”
“You’re not the grammar police.”
When it’s our turn, Ms.Turabian gets up and says to the court, “Please accept Exhibit A.”
She walks over to the judge and hands her a sheet of paper and then returns to her
seat next to me and asks me to read aloud what is printed on it. She prefaces my
reading with describing it as an email I received recently.
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Evie Groch
Aloud I read:
“Please let Dan and I know if you have posted the EDLD 6801 assignments…”
That’s all I need to read in the email from the Professor & Chair of the Department of
Educational Leadership, who by the way, holds a Ph.D., to feel a pang shoot through my
guts. I can no longer focus on her message or content until I ameliorate the discovery
of the broken grammar. I double over in pain and cannot continue reading.
“Are you ready to call your first witness?” ask Judge Warren.
“Yes, your Honor. I call Dr. Herschberg to the stand.”
Old Dr. Herschberg walks haltingly to the stand, giving me a look of confidence as he
passes. He identifies himself as a physiotherapist and explains that the reaction the
court saw me execute was something involuntary, like a spasm, a tic, a burp, a hiccup,
or a cramp. He clarifies that he has been seeing me for many years and treating me for
backaches and ailments stemming from these involuntary reactions. He is thanked and
reseated in the gallery.
Next Mr. Harris, my elementary school teacher, is called. I remember him always
wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a bright tie. He wears
the same today, like they plucked him right out of the classroom. He confirms that he is
the one who taught me English grammar, parsing, punctuation, subject-verb
agreement, and so on. He takes pride in his accomplishment as he speaks, sneaking in
a smile to me every now and then. “How did they even find him?” I ask myself. I
haven’t seen him for over 50 years. I didn’t think he was still alive.
Mr. P. White is called next and identifies himself as the editor of our local paper which
has published many of my letters to the editor. He is white-haired, plump, and very
outgoing. He assures the court that my letters never (or hardly ever) need any editing
at all, and he considers me to have been taught well by my teachers. Great Caesar’s
Ghost, he exclaims. Why is this woman even on trial? I had never even met the man
and had no idea he actually read my letters.
The next witness for the defense is a famed allergist whom I have never seen. Dr. Chan
seems to be revered by everyone in the courtroom. He is questioned as an expert on
allergic responses to diverse stimuli. He shares that after studying my case, he
concluded that I am hypersensitive to anything that is dissonant, like a perfect pitch
singer who is pelted with false or overly flat or sharp notes. I had never considered
that before, but it makes perfect sense to me.
When called, Mr. McGregor walks to the stand, giving me a thumbs up sign on the way.
He testifies that I was the proofreader on the school’s paper. I was assigned that job
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Evie Groch
because my eagle eyes could catch errors and typos that others missed. He made a
point of emphasizing how much they all depended on me. He takes some credit for
teaching me these skills and doesn’t understand why there any charges against me for
upholding the English language. Bless his heart. I hope the judge pays attention to
that.
The second to the last witness is a presenter of generational information whose
workshop I attended many years ago. He is asked if he used a PowerPoint in the
presentation of his I attended. Yes, he did. Does he remember me approaching him
after the presentation to offer him editing advice on spelling, punctuation, and
grammar? Yes, he does. What was his reaction? He remembers accepting my offer
and showing appreciation for my suggestions which he incorporated. He was thankful I
hadn’t corrected him in public. How did they ever find him?
As the last witness, Ms. Turabian calls me. I walk purposefully to the stand and am
sworn in. She has proven to be very talented, strategic, and confident. She asks me if
I know what a Type A person is like. I answer that I do and think I am one. She asks
me to say yes to any items on a list she reads that describe me. I find myself
responding yes to the majority of them. They include orderliness in thought and deed,
logic, concrete and sequential thinking, the right way to do something, using the correct
procedure for a predicted outcome, arrangements that work, planning an event to the
last detail and executing it. Wow, I must be more extreme than I thought. I don’t
think I’m that rigid or uptight. I enjoy the arts, all of them. What’s going on here?
That can’t be the only side of me. Can’t this be over already? I don’t know how much
more I can take. I shift in my seat and sense that my palms are sweaty. It just doesn’t
feel real.
Ms. Turabian asks if I would like the opportunity to say a few things about myself and
nods to signal me I should take it. I do. I start by admitting that I too commit
grammatical mistakes, but I am diligent before I send anything out to anyone. Some
things slip by me, like typos that exist as words, just not the words I intended and
Spellcheck would not have caught. Autocorrect isn’t my friend either. When I have a
main dish to eat, and all the dinner forks are in the dishwater, but salad forks are in the
drawer, I have to wash a dinner fork to use with my meal. Why? I do not know.
Would the meal taste different with a salad fork? Maybe not. But then, I insist on
using chopsticks at an Asian restaurant. I cannot eat soup with a teaspoon either. It
must be a tablespoon or soupspoon.
I make it clear that I do not correct people in public, don’t go around with a marker
changing incorrect spelling on signs like some people do, and don’t act like a snob or a
Nazi. I didn’t even send a correction to the author of the email handed in as evidence. I
would never embarrass her, and I would rather suffer in silence than lose my job.
Perhaps I have a mild case of OCD, but rather than see myself as a snob as others
might, I understand that when communication is at its best, there is order in my world,
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Evie Groch
there is functioning beauty, things flow, connections click, creativity blooms, and peace
reigns. When I don’t have to focus on what’s incorrect, I can appreciate what is correct,
the loveliness in the world, the poems, the prose, the melodies, the messages, the arts.
The prosecution has its chance to cross-examine me and tries to show how belligerent I
can become when confronted with incorrect grammar others believe is correct. I
acquiesce that there could be a difference of opinion, but that’s all it is.
Both sides make their concluding remarks and rest. Judge Warren asks if she can
address a question to me before announcing the verdict and possible sentence. Do I
have a choice? Of course, I say as I stand.
“How do you feel about using the pronoun ‘they’ instead of he or she when the
antecedent is singular?”
“Must I answer?”
“You agreed to.”
“Although I clearly see the need for a neutral pronoun that represents the
singular antecedent, this has not yet been authoritatively accepted, so I’ll have to plead
the 5th.”
Judge Warren looks at me for several seconds, then at Ms. Turabian, and finally at the
prosecution. With no visible emotion, she says, “I was afraid you’d say that.”
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Pdf Entry Information
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
WEN: 18EF6E
Division: FA - 362 - Short Story
Class: 10 Senior Hunerous - exhibitor 55
Title: Incomplete Sentence
Description: When a grammar guru goes to court
Notes: