When in French by Lauren Collins

revealed that even among speakers of the same language, there was little agreement about what constituted a “cup” versus a “bowl,” a “mug,” or a “vase.” No one could say at exactly what point one verged into the other. Furthermore, the subjects’ sense of what to call the objects relied heavily on the situation: while a vessel of flowers might be called a “vase,” the same container, filled with coffee, was almost unanimously considered a “cup.”
    Labov was building on a distinction that Locke had made between “real essences” (the properties that make it the thing that it is) and “nominal essences” (the name that we use, as a memory aid, to stand in for our conception of it). “The nominal essence of gold is that complex idea the word gold stands for, let it be, for instance, a body yellow, of a certain weight, malleable, fusible, and fixed,” Locke wrote. “But the real essence is the constitution of the insensible parts of that body, on which those qualities and all the other properties of gold depend. How far these two are different, though they are both called essence, is obvious at first sight to discover.” Replace
gold
with
marijuana
—a body green and herbaceous—and my father’s point becomes clear: a rose is only a “rose,” and “marijuana” is only marijuana, in a linguistically prelapsarian world, when the properties of a thing and its name are perfectly equivalent.
    After his accident, my father remained in the hospital for weeks. Thanksgiving came and went—familiar food at astrange table. I was seven, child enough to be entertained by a makeshift toy: a plastic tray filled with uncooked rice. When he was well enough, I went to visit. A vague but specific imprint persists. A right turn from a corridor. Plate glass and a prone silhouette.
    Terror came as an estrangement of the senses: a blindfold, a nose clip, a mitten, a gag. I remember only what I heard.
    â€œDo you know who this is?” the nurse said, with the bored cheer of the rhetorical questioner.
    He didn’t, though. My father looked at me and committed a category error. Instead of my name, he said, “Bluebird.”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    T WO SUMMERS LATER I flung my sleeping bag—a red polyester number, embellished with parrots and palm fronds—onto the ticked mattress of the top bunk. I had pleaded to go to camp. At first my parents had resisted. But I kept on for the better part of a year, and eventually they agreed to send me, in the company of several hometown friends. For three weeks I would be drinking in the beautiful customs of Camp Illahee in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Transylvania County, North Carolina. Oh!
    Illahee
means “heavenly world” in Cherokee. The camp had been encouraging campers to “be a great girl” for nearly seventy years. It was an old-fashioned place, offering horseback riding, woodworking, archery, needlecraft, camping trips to crests that looked out on the deckled blue haze—it appeared to have been rendered from torn strips of construction paper—from which the range took its name. The ethos was brightly self-improving. According to the Log, the camp’s collective diary, earlier generations of Illahee girls had been divided into three groups: “under five-three,” “average/tall,” “plump.” Acamper from 1947 wrote, “Vesta told us our figure defects and we found each other’s. We studied the ideas of some of the world’s great designers and found the clothes best suited for us.”
    By the time I arrived, the mode was Umbros and grosgrain hair bows. On Sundays we wore all white—shorts and a polo shirt buttoned to the neck, a periwinkle-blue cotton tie—to a fried-chicken lunch. Vespers was conducted in an outdoor chapel, nestled in a grove of pines. Each of us was allowed one candy