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Slouching Towards SPOMA

Richard Key

The Society for the Creation and Dissemination of Easily Forgotten Acronyms (SCADEFA) was growing more popular by the day and had not yet reached its peak. Their archenemy, a group calling themselves “People Against the Thoughtless Proliferation of Acronyms” (referred to as PATPA by everyone except the members of PATPA), was vocal opposition, but a small operation in comparison. PATPA had its work cut out for it. It seemed acronyms, like meatless burgers, pitching timers in major league baseball, and doorbell cameras, were here to stay.

But first, a disclosure. I, the narrator, am not a totally disinterested observer, but a proud member of Journalists Against the Corruption of Knowledge and Speech, and So forth (JACKASS). As such, I am uniquely qualified to bring this fascinating story to the public’s attention. The narrative that follows is a distillation of my conversations with individuals on both sides of the debate and judicious parsing of copious purloined documents. Only occasional lapses in factual detail are the result, with most painted over with credible fiction. The highest levels of journalistic practice and ethics have been carefully adhered to, unless it was inconvenient to do so. And now we continue.

“The keyword is thoughtless,” explained Becky Jorgensen, spokesperson for PATPA. “There is a place for acronyms—ASAP, radar, scuba, et cetera. We’re not anti-acronym. We’re against every possible medical disorder, group of persons, or collection of words being turned into an acronym. At some point it becomes its own language. At some point, one needs a glossary to carry on a conversation.”

I ran that past Hiram Bletchley over at SCADEFA headquarters, which is actually his three-bedroom apartment in DUMBO. He used to live in SOHO till the rent got too high.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s regrettable that inserting acronyms into the modern vernacular has become acrimonious. But they’re here to stay.”

“Do you mean acronyms or PATPA?”

“I mean acronyms, but probably PATPA, too. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I believe that’s how Newton put it. Newton was the greatest PEP, no question.”

“PEP?”

“Pre-Einstein physicist”

“Of course.”

PATPA was in decline, at least by the number of members reported to the media. Ms. Jorgensen was not able to paint a pretty picture about the group’s future, although she tried.

“Certainly, we have our challenges,” she began. “It’s always been much easier to be the one muddying the water than the one trying to un-muddy the water. But our small band of purists will very likely begin to attract others of like mind, once our language reaches the saturation point of mindless abbreviation.”

I opted not to point out to her that the saturation point of mindless abbreviation could easily be shortened to SPOMA and save a little time. I do believe she’s correct on at least one point. Medicine is chock full of abbreviations and acronyms: COPD, ADHD, HDL, EKG, DOA, CKD, HCV, SARS, TSH, CBC, ROM, AMA, CABG, and so on. You can hardly get sick these days without being tagged with a few acronyms. Medicine has become an alphabet soup of capitalized letters, partly because the terms are so long that the shorter versions are needed to prevent ATTS (acute twisted tongue syndrome). The practice can occasionally backfire, though, as when a patient perusing his own medical record sees SOB mentioned a few times and doesn’t realize it stands for shortness of breath.

Hiram Bletchley had his own worries. SCADEFA was getting too big for its meeting space, and like a tumbling snowball, was beginning to attract a few twigs and pebbles as it grew larger, hangers-on who were there for the refreshments and the faint possibility of meeting their soulmate. A growing number had less enthusiasm about creating and disseminating acronyms than they did about mingling and matchmaking. Hiram referred to them as NOCBOPs—non-contributory blobs of protoplasm.

“We should start charging dues and scrap the refreshments,” he told me with a sneer. “That would clear out the NOCBOPs pretty fast.”

PATPA, on the other hand, had online meetings only, no dues, no refreshments, and a one-page newsletter published once a month. Ms. Jorgensen wrote the letter herself, her style ranging from gently humorous to acerbically witty. Here’s an excerpt from a recent newsletter:  

Dear like-minded language lovers (LLLs?),

If Shakespeare were writing today, he could save a parchment or two,

scrunching up terms in the modern way. Romeo, Romeo, WFAT, Romeo?

TBONTB…that is the question. This above all: TTOSBT. And, ironically,

Brevity is the SOW.

What if half the readers don’t understand! That’s the point of secret,

codified language—it’s directed at a special audience, those who are

ITK (in the know). Everyone else is left to wonder or tasked with

finding a translation, which takes more time than reading the traditional

version of the expression. Before long, I predict, each word, or group

of words as the case may be, will be reduced to a series of ones and

zeros, undecipherable except by machine. Am I exaggerating? Or

have we already entered the intermediate stage before everything is

turned over to robots?

I showed the newsletter to Mr. Bletchley, who laughed out loud.

“Those people are so out of touch with today’s world. She probably handwrites the newsletter, sends it by snail mail to one of her acolytes, has that person type it up on a typewriter, and then faxes it over to the printer. There are Luddites, and then there are HOWTHSITS—hopeless ones with their heads stuck in the sand. And PATPA is full of HOWTHSITS.”

One of the NOCBOPS Hiram Bletchley had on his radar would not have been too bothered by an announcement that monthly dues would now be charged for membership in SCADEFA. Roger Valentine was one of the recent regulars at the meetings, attracted not by the promise of finger foods or the hope of romance. He already had romance as Becky Jorgensen’s fiancé, and could easily afford a few dollars a month in dues as the recent heir to the Valentine fortune.

Roger’s parents, George and Fiona Valentine, hit it big in the last century with their luxury portable toilet business. Their business, called VIPee, filled a niche that few at the time knew needed to be filled. Catering to outdoor weddings at first, they branched out to cover assorted remote venues populated mainly by the well-to-do. Roger and Becky hit it off at an art gallery soirée despite the base details of the Valentine family business, not to mention the cutesy acronym. Money has a way of polishing gauche.

Although Roger was technically an eligible bachelor, he was a reclusive sort, recognized by almost no one, and that’s the way he liked it. Working undercover at SCADEFA was one way he and Ms. Jorgensen decided they could stay abreast of the scourge ruining the language. Roger’s plan was to weasel his way into the inner workings of the rival organization and figure out what motivated its members and exactly how bleak was the future of modern language.

Hiram Bletchley fired off an e-mail to all members and potential members about the decision to charge thirty dollars per year in dues, plus the additional need to eliminate refreshments at the monthly meetings. From now on, only coffee, tea, and water would be served. He blamed inflation, or in his words, LESCIP—lifestyle erosion secondary to continuing inflationary pressure. And it did work in weeding out some of the hangers-on. Attendance at the next meeting dropped twenty percent.

That meeting, the September one, had a more serious tone than the previous ones. After a few introductory comments, the floor was opened to nominations for board members. Members would cast their votes online, and the new board would be announced at the October get-together. To prevent the accumulation of deadwood, board members were limited to two years. Half the board would remain another year, and half would be new faces.

Roger Valentine was at the September meeting and bribed a couple of members with homemade chocolate cookies to nominate him and second the motion. And just that easily, Roger’s name was on the ballot with six others. Three would be picked.

Armed with a list of SCADEFA members, Roger sent each one a gift of three cookies in the shape of a valentine with a reminder to vote. It could hardly be called unethical or improper. A cookies for votes scandal? No way. It was merely a sweet whisper in the ear that ballots need to be cast.

By the time the October meeting rolled around, Roger had accumulated more votes than any other candidate and took his place on the board. At that meeting, Roger wore a T-shirt he had printed with the letters IWBYV inside a red heart. I will be your Valentine was the implied message. Strangely, almost no one asked for an interpretation.

But one person was intrigued enough by Roger’s shirt to say something. Penelope Birdstock, another new board member, a cute, peppy, blonde-headed dynamo, told Roger it looked “interesting.”

“Do you know what it means?” asked Roger.

“I will buy your vote? Or is that too obvious?”

“I will be your valentine. My name’s Valentine.”

“Yes, I saw that in the minutes. Slightly better, I guess. Valentine. Where have I heard that name recently?”

“Well, there’s St. Valentine. He has a special day once a year.”

“No. Something else. Oh! Fiona Valentine! That’s it! Are you related?”

“My mother. She recently passed away.”

“Oh. So sorry. I’m on the board of the Children’s Hospital as well. Your mother was a star benefactor, and we honored her last year. They named the new chapel after her.”

“Yes. We were very moved by that. They invited me to come and say a few words, but I had another obligation. So, how many boards are you on, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Right now, seven. I tell people I’m on boards so I don’t get bored.”

“And why SCADEFA?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always had this thing about abbreviations. Especially the ones that form another word. I imagine it like language becoming three-dimensional. And you?”

“Me? Well, I, uh, love language, of course, and languages. So, I, uh, I’m interested in the language formed by acronyms. That’s really it. Just interested in acronyms.”

“Doesn’t sound like your heart’s in it.”

“Well, I know that not everyone is thrilled about the language becoming three-dimensional and harder to decipher.”

“Do you mean PATPA?”

“Well, that’s one group, and, of course, they’re crazy, but others too.”

“I’m for anything that speeds up speech. In medicine—I’m a physician by the way—I would go absolutely nuts if every medical term had to be spelled out the long way.”

“But don’t you say the words in your head as you use the abbreviation? And what about abbreviations like AMA that can mean Anti-Mitochondrial Antibody or Against Medical Advice, or even the American Medical Association. I would hate for someone to be treated wrong because of someone’s sloppy abbreviating or an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Honestly, I doubt that could ever happen. Context is everything, but I believe I detect a little anger in your voice, Mr. Valentine.”

“You may call me Roger. And you are Dr., uh …”

“Birdstock, Penelope.”

“No, I’m not angry at all. I just think that, uh, as we SCADEFA members create and disseminate acronyms, there should be some accountability.”

“You probably know this, Roger, but SCADEFA only encourages the creation of acronyms. We are not an acronym factory. Our purpose, in my opinion, is to advance the simplification of a language that is becoming very unwieldy by making certain terms easier to process, and in some cases easier to pronounce. And helping save a few gallons of printer ink in the process.”

“Well, Dr. Birdstock, you sound like you’re all in with SCADEFA doctrine.”

“And that’s why I’m on the board.”

That night Roger and Becky ate at an Indian restaurant in the suburbs, out far enough not to be seen or recognized. A place called The New Delhi Deli.

“So have you thoroughly wormed your way into SCADEFA?” asked Becky.

“I feel like a worm,” said Roger. “I don’t know how spies do this for a living.”

“Any big revelations?”

“Not really. There are some true believers. Some who have completely bought into the acronym agenda.”

“Making any friends?”

“A few. Cookies help.”

“Yes. I love that recipe. Has anyone mentioned our organization?”

“One person. But we didn’t discuss it. She knew my mom.”

“She?”

“Yes. A doctor. Her name is Birdstock, I believe. Penelope. She’s nice.”

Roger had to be out of town when the November meeting took place. VIPee, which was still in business, and which kept Roger on as an honorary officer, sponsored a week-long getaway for upper management in Colorado, trying to catch the first snow of the season. Becky was obligated to attend a cousin’s wedding and was unable to accompany Roger, but was not too upset, as she was not much of a skier. Roger said he understood.

He justified what came next as necessary in his role as spy for PATPA, as an opportunity to gather even more information about the enemy. He invited Dr. Birdstock to the mountains with him. So two board members were absent from the November meeting, where Hiram Bletchley disclosed that he was afraid SCADEFA had been infiltrated by a mole. And that steps were being taken to identify and remove this person who had reportedly been partly successful in accessing privileged information available only to the inner circle of the society.

“Heinous!” That is how Hiram put it to the board. “Heinous treachery! Our security has been breached! Our trust has been sabotaged!” He was beginning to sound like Churchill. “We will not sleep. We will not rest. We will not let down our guard until this…this…SWMBO…this Scoundrel Who Must Be Outed is found and punished accordingly.”

Only Hiram knew what information had been compromised, but he would not say, as none of the board members had been cleared from the list of possible suspects. High on the list of suspects were the newcomers to the group, including Roger Valentine. It made for a short meeting and a short general meeting as well. The only real business was dividing up duties for the December Christmas party, which counted as the December meeting.

The ski vacation was a success in promoting camaraderie in the VIPee upper echelon. And even more successful in forging a friendship between Roger and Penelope, who now referred to each other as Rog and Pen. They laughed and chatted and sat by roaring fires with mugs of chocolate. It might have seemed like a match made in heaven if it weren’t for Roger’s nagging feeling that he was being unfaithful to Becky rather than simply going the extra mile in the service of PATPA. He was also nagged by thoughts that his allegiance to PATPA, and possibly to Becky, was on the wane. It was not his intention, he told himself. Never his intention.

But Becky ran into more than just cousins at the wedding she attended. She literally ran into Luca, one of the groomsmen, spilling champagne all over his shirt at the rehearsal dinner. In all the fuss, there were smiles and awkward laughs and tender apologies, and the quick meeting of eyes. Luca was Italian, studying architecture in the US. By the time the reception was over the next day, he was asking her to come to Italy (to EE-taly, he said) with him.

And that, dear reader, is what she did. Ms. Jorgensen wrote a terse note to Roger. She was sorry for leaving him, she said, but had to follow her heart, as anyone named Valentine must surely understand. As for People Against the Thoughtless Proliferation of Acronyms, well, she would continue the newsletter from Italy, but any organized actions would have to be postponed indefinitely.

Roger’s heart skipped a beat or two as he read Becky’s note, but no tears appeared. He had, in fact, been wondering how to tell her that things might be over between them. He stayed on as a member of SCADEFA, a loyal member. He confessed his treachery to Hiram in private, about how he’d hired a high school kid to help him hack into SCADEFA’s trove of clients, supporters, and long-term plans. He took an oath of secrecy.

And so, the wave upon wave of easily forgotten acronyms continued unabated with PATPA in disarray, and its leader in self-imposed exile. To paraphrase the greatest PEP: A language trend in motion tends to remain in motion.

But that is not quite the end of the story. I, the narrator, who happens to also be the high school kid who helped Roger Valentine break into the SCADEFA files (for which he paid me a lousy box of cookies), am helping to write the next chapter in this saga. After high school, I went to Cornell, majored in journalism, and dedicated my professional life to cleaning up the mess left by the previous generation. Although Mr. Valentine flipped his allegiance, and quickly married Dr. Birdstock at a lovely remote outdoor venue in the Poconos (with, no surprise, upscale toilet facilities courtesy of VIPee), at the last meeting of Journalists Against the Corruption of Knowledge and Speech and So forth, there was more than a little interest in joining forces with the remnants of People Against the Thoughtless Proliferation of Acronyms in the hopes of purifying what remains of our native tongue. It can be argued that the saturation point of mindless abbreviation was surpassed long ago, and that the acronym genie can never be put back in the bottle. Nevertheless, we, the unified and reinvigorated group calling ourselves Citizens Longing for an Acronym-free World, plan to CLAW our way back until the last acronym (including that one) is put to rest.

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The author was born in Jacksonville, Florida, and currently resides in Alabama with his wife and their overindulged tuxedo cat named Velcro. He works part-time as a pathologist, but has been writing essays and short stories for about fifteen years. His author web page is richardkeyauthor.com.

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