Category: Languages

Or even the accent of a junior linguist, such as myself.

You may find out more than you want to know.

A reader writes:

Dear Jimmy,

You are driving me crazy!! I know that you are a very literate person and pronounce other languages correctly, so why do you refuse to pronounce your “ing’s” at the end of your words instead of you just saying “in”!?

You’re drivin me crazy!!

The phenomenon you’re referring to is commonly referred to as “g-dropping” or “dropping your g’s”, though this is actually a misnomer. There is no /g/ sound in the suffix “-ing.” What we actually do when making the distinct “-ing” sound is say /in/ except we touch the back of our tongue to our velum (the soft flap of skin at the backs of our mouths) instead of touching the tip of the tongue to the ridge behind our teeth.

The thing is, “g-dropping” is an extremely common feature of the speech of English-speakers. Everybody does it to some degree, and it’s more common in some accents (pronunciation schemes) than others. One of these is the English country aristocracy’s accent. It’s also common the American Southern group of accents, which can be quite distinct: Someone from the Tidewater area of Virginia will sound very different from a Cajun, who will in turn sound different than an Appalachian.

My own accent tends to be Texan (more East Texan than West Texan), with admixtures of Ozark hill accent elements, and I do drop my g’s.

Sorry, that’s just the way I talk.

I take pride in it.

When I’m speaking someone else’s language, I make every effort to adopt their phonology, even if it means I have to practice really hard to learn to make sounds that English doesn’t use (like the Hebrew /r/, which is made at the back of the mouth, or the Arabic /gh/, which is a kind of throaty noise that sounds like a trilled /r/.)

But when I speak my own language, I use my own accent.

People make fun of my accent at their peril. (Remember that when using the comments box, below.)

Here’s a page that has a really interesting section on “g-dropping.”

You may also notice something else I tend to drop other word-final sounds when I talk. For example–like my relatives and co-regionalists–I tend to say kep’ instead of kept and an’ instead of and.

There’s actually a rule for what sounds get dropped, and I recently found out what it is: In simplified terms, a word-final stop tends to get dropped if it is preceded by a consonant with the same voicing.

Lemme ‘splain:

Certain consonants are called “stops,” because they stop the flow of air coming through your mouth. /t/ and /d/ are two examples of stops, and you’ll notice I tend to drop those a lot when they are word-final (i.e., at the end of a word).

They get dropped when immediately before them there is a consonant that has the same voicing they do.

“Voicing” refers to whether you have your vocal cords turned on or off. Some consonants we make with our vocal cords turned off (like /p/ and /t/) and other consonants we make with our vocal cords turned on (like /n/ and /d/). To see what I mean, put your hand on your throat and say those four sounds. You’ll feel vibration with /n/ and /d/ that you won’t feel with /p/ and /t/. That vibration is produced by you turning your vocal cords on as you say the sound.

Thing is, people with my accent will tend to drop a stop consonant at the end of a word if it is preceded by a consonant with the same vocal cord status.

For example, since /p/ and /t/ are both “unvoiced” (i.e., vocal cords off), I will tend to drop /t/ at the end of a word when it is preceded by /p/. That’s why I say kep’ instead of kept.

Simialrly, since /n/ and /d/ are both “voiced” (i.e., vocal cords on), I will tend to drop /d/ at the end of a word when it is preceded by /n/. That’s why I say an’ instead of and.

Similar rules (and even much more complex ones) govern every accent, and people internalize them without even realizing it. It takes the professional activity of linguists to tally up the data and figure out the unconscious rules that govern the pronunciation schemes we call accents.

Ain’t phonology a hoot?

Or even the accent of a junior linguist, such as myself.

You may find out more than you want to know.

A reader writes:

Dear Jimmy,

You are driving me crazy!! I know that you are a very literate person and pronounce other languages correctly, so why do you refuse to pronounce your “ing’s” at the end of your words instead of you just saying “in”!?

You’re drivin me crazy!!

The phenomenon you’re referring to is commonly referred to as “g-dropping” or “dropping your g’s”, though this is actually a misnomer. There is no /g/ sound in the suffix “-ing.” What we actually do when making the distinct “-ing” sound is say /in/ except we touch the back of our tongue to our velum (the soft flap of skin at the backs of our mouths) instead of touching the tip of the tongue to the ridge behind our teeth.

The thing is, “g-dropping” is an extremely common feature of the speech of English-speakers. Everybody does it to some degree, and it’s more common in some accents (pronunciation schemes) than others. One of these is the English country aristocracy’s accent. It’s also common the American Southern group of accents, which can be quite distinct: Someone from the Tidewater area of Virginia will sound very different from a Cajun, who will in turn sound different than an Appalachian.

My own accent tends to be Texan (more East Texan than West Texan), with admixtures of Ozark hill accent elements, and I do drop my g’s.

Sorry, that’s just the way I talk.

I take pride in it.

When I’m speaking someone else’s language, I make every effort to adopt their phonology, even if it means I have to practice really hard to learn to make sounds that English doesn’t use (like the Hebrew /r/, which is made at the back of the mouth, or the Arabic /gh/, which is a kind of throaty noise that sounds like a trilled /r/.)

But when I speak my own language, I use my own accent.

People make fun of my accent at their peril. (Remember that when using the comments box, below.)

Here’s a page that has a really interesting section on “g-dropping.”

You may also notice something else I tend to drop other word-final sounds when I talk. For example–like my relatives and co-regionalists–I tend to say kep’ instead of kept and an’ instead of and.

There’s actually a rule for what sounds get dropped, and I recently found out what it is: In simplified terms, a word-final stop tends to get dropped if it is preceded by a consonant with the same voicing.

Lemme ‘splain:

Certain consonants are called “stops,” because they stop the flow of air coming through your mouth. /t/ and /d/ are two examples of stops, and you’ll notice I tend to drop those a lot when they are word-final (i.e., at the end of a word).

They get dropped when immediately before them there is a consonant that has the same voicing they do.

“Voicing” refers to whether you have your vocal cords turned on or off. Some consonants we make with our vocal cords turned off (like /p/ and /t/) and other consonants we make with our vocal cords turned on (like /n/ and /d/). To see what I mean, put your hand on your throat and say those four sounds. You’ll feel vibration with /n/ and /d/ that you won’t feel with /p/ and /t/. That vibration is produced by you turning your vocal cords on as you say the sound.

Thing is, people with my accent will tend to drop a stop consonant at the end of a word if it is preceded by a consonant with the same vocal cord status.

For example, since /p/ and /t/ are both “unvoiced” (i.e., vocal cords off), I will tend to drop /t/ at the end of a word when it is preceded by /p/. That’s why I say kep’ instead of kept.

Simialrly, since /n/ and /d/ are both “voiced” (i.e., vocal cords on), I will tend to drop /d/ at the end of a word when it is preceded by /n/. That’s why I say an’ instead of and.

Similar rules (and even much more complex ones) govern every accent, and people internalize them without even realizing it. It takes the professional activity of linguists to tally up the data and figure out the unconscious rules that govern the pronunciation schemes we call accents.

Ain’t phonology a hoot?

No, it has nothing to do with technobabble on Star Trek.

Sapir and Whorf were a pair of linguists, and their hypothesis is that language plays a strong role not just in expressing thought but in shaping and controlling thought.

The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis undoubtedly has an element of truth in it. We do a lot of our thinking in words, and the words that we have at our disposal will make it easier for us to think certain thoughts and harder to think and express others.

Unfortunatley, the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis seems to be too strong as it is commonly interpreted. Thinking is not as strongly determined by language as many suppose. This is clear from a variety of facts, including that we also do a lot of our thinking visually (using images rather than words) and we can make up new words and expressions for things and distinctions we can recognize even though they are not expressible using current language. We’ve also all had the experience of having an insight and then been unable (at least momentarily) to find the words to express it.

The strong versions of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis and its knockoffs (including some that originated before Sapir and Whorf) have also had bad consequences. For example, if you’ve ever read the novel 1984, you know about Newspeak–a revision of the English language designed to eliminate the words and thus the concepts needed to express ideas at variance with the totalitarian system IngSoc (English Socialism). Its purpose was to make politically undesirable concepts literally unthinkable.

Here’s a copy of George Orwell’s essay on The Principles of Newspeak. It’s fascinating reading, particular when–after enunciating the principles of Newspeak–Orwell gives a Newspeak translation of the beginning of the Declaration of Independence. Check it out.

The thing is, though, Newspeak wasn’t simply something Orwell came up with out of whole cloth. 1984 is a cautionary tale warning about the dehumanizing effects of Communism, and Newspeak is based on Soviet language revision as a form of propaganda.

The same impulse is behind the politically correct and gender-revisionist movements in American English: By re-engineering how people are allowed to express themselves, it is thought that the thoughts they think will be re-engineered as well.

Some new research is testing the limits of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. This research involves going to cultures whose languages have severely restricted vocabularies in some areas and see if they can conceptualize things that don’t fit their language.

For example, there is the Dani people of Indonesia (ever meet any of them, Beng?) who have only two color terms: black and white. Turns out, though, that they can distinguish other colors, even though they don’t have words for them. I don’t know, but I suspect that they may have circumlocuations for other colors (e.g., “The American dollar is the same color as grass”) even though they don’t have unique words for them.

Another group is the Piraha people of Brazil, who have only three number terms: one, two, and many (which might be more accurately translated “one,” “a few,” and “many”). Turns out the Piraha display the ability to conceptualize more numbers than their counting system has terms for, though with certain numerical tasks they show marked limitations.

There’s an article from The Economist which reports on the Piraha number research. It’s not quite as well done as I’d like (e.g., it concedes more reality to the hypothesis than I think is justifiable), but it’s still fascinating stuff.

There’s also this excellent Wikipedia article which gives some of the other side of the story.

Whorf himself thought that Hopi Indians didn’t have a way to express temporal relationships the way we do and that they perceived things in a kind of non-linear, timeless way (that would radically change their understanding of physics, for example).

Needless to say, this got relativists all excited for a while.

Also needless to say, it’s complete hog slop.

The Hopi do have the concept of linear time and they can express temporal relationships in their language. Whorf simply didn’t gather enough data and pay enough attention to the data he had to realize this. In fact, it’s really embarrassing to look at later studies of this question and note that Whorf’s own data contains counterexamples to his claims about the Hopi conceptualization of time.

Sapir-Whorf has even reared its head in biblical studies. A number of years ago there were a lot of people all worked up about the way the biblical languages allegedly affected the thought of the sacred authors. Hebrew was held to result in “concrete” thought, while Greek was held to result in “abstract” thought, making the former suited to the parochial Old Testament and the latter suited to the cosmopolitan New Testament.

The kindest thing that can be said about these kinds of claims is that they are highly problematic.

Today most biblical scholars (or at least the good ones) will roll their eyes when such claims are introduced. Except for technical vocabulary, all human languages have approximately equal expressive power, and technical vocabulary is the easiest thing to add to a language when you need it. It is extremely difficult to make a whole lot out of the character of Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek and attribute specific theological thought to the genius of these languages. That doesn’t stop one from hearing a lot of such claims from certain quarters, though.

While we’re on the subject of technical vocabulary, let me mention one particular idea you hear sometime: that Eskimos have a huge number of words for snow that express subtle distinctions lost on us English-speakers.

It’s not true.

Total myth.

Long discredited.

Every professional linguist knows this.

Contradict the claim when you hear other people make it.

It is true, however, that the Ferengi language has 178 words for rain.

Wonder what Lt. Cmdr. Worf would make of that?

This Saturday at Mass they had seven (Count them! Seven!) babies baptized. As part of this process, the usual baptismal questions got asked (e.g., “Do you want this child baptized in the faith of the Church?”) and the seventh dad said something unusual in response . . .

SEVENTH DAD: Yes.

What was unusual about this is that the dad didn’t say what all the other parents said . . .

OTHER PARENTS: I[/We] Do.

Faced with the jarring “yes,” something occurred to me that hadn’t occurred before. I suddenly realized why we never hear this response in liturgical ceremonies. The reason is actually very simple.

Latin doesn’t have a word for “yes.”

Yes, I know. Amazing as it might seem, many languages don’t have a word for “yes.” Latin is one of them. So is Chinese. So is Irish. Other languages, like Spanish (“si”), German (“ja”), Hebrew (“ken”), Arabic (“na’am”), Aramaic (“aeh”), or Japanese (“hai”) do have a word for “yes.” Even the language of the reprobate French has such a word (“oui”).

“Yes” is a word that has a function but not a meaning. Its function (or at least its principal function) is to affirm whatever we just have been asked. The meaning of “yes” depends on what question has just been put to us. For example, if we want to give an affirmative answer to “Do you want to go to the party tonight?” we could say “yes” or “I do.” If we want to give an affirmative answer to “Are you taking calculus this semester?” we could say “yes” or “I am.” The word “yes,” not having its own meaning, thus picks up its meaning from the context in which it is used.

As a result, it’s entirely possible to live without the word. What happens in the languages that don’t have a “yes” is when speakers want to give an affirmative answer, they grab the main verb of the question and use it in a first person form. Thus “Do you?” questions get the answer “I do,” “Are you?” questions get the answer “I am,” and so forth.

That’s the way it is in Latin, so when people are asked in the liturgy whether they want to do certain things or have certain things done (“Do you take this woman?”, “Do you want which child baptized?”) the Latin original of the liturgy has the answer “I do,” and when this gets translated into English, that’s what comes across. Not even ICEL has has the khutspah to translate these with a colloquial “yes.”

This isn’t the only time when this kind of thing happens. A while ago I was reading a quotation from a British author (either Chesterton or Waugh, I forget which) in which he noted that Irishmen tend to say “I do,” “I am,” etc., where Englishmen would say “yes.” The reason, he noted, was that Irish lacks a word for “yes,” and the verb-grabbing affirmative method native to Irish has passed over into the English-language speech of Irishmen. Thinking about Irishmen I’ve known or heard, I realized he was right. They do have a greater tendency to do this in preference to using “yes.”

What I want to know is: What happens at the end of the Beatles movie Yellow Submarine in these languages? In the English version the Blue Meanies are converted from saying “No” to “Yes,” with “Yes” spelled REALLY BIG on the screen.

What do they do with that in Chinese, Irish . . . or Latin?

This Saturday at Mass they had seven (Count them! Seven!) babies baptized. As part of this process, the usual baptismal questions got asked (e.g., “Do you want this child baptized in the faith of the Church?”) and the seventh dad said something unusual in response . . .

SEVENTH DAD: Yes.

What was unusual about this is that the dad didn’t say what all the other parents said . . .

OTHER PARENTS: I[/We] Do.

Faced with the jarring “yes,” something occurred to me that hadn’t occurred before. I suddenly realized why we never hear this response in liturgical ceremonies. The reason is actually very simple.

Latin doesn’t have a word for “yes.”

Yes, I know. Amazing as it might seem, many languages don’t have a word for “yes.” Latin is one of them. So is Chinese. So is Irish. Other languages, like Spanish (“si”), German (“ja”), Hebrew (“ken”), Arabic (“na’am”), Aramaic (“aeh”), or Japanese (“hai”) do have a word for “yes.” Even the language of the reprobate French has such a word (“oui”).

“Yes” is a word that has a function but not a meaning. Its function (or at least its principal function) is to affirm whatever we just have been asked. The meaning of “yes” depends on what question has just been put to us. For example, if we want to give an affirmative answer to “Do you want to go to the party tonight?” we could say “yes” or “I do.” If we want to give an affirmative answer to “Are you taking calculus this semester?” we could say “yes” or “I am.” The word “yes,” not having its own meaning, thus picks up its meaning from the context in which it is used.

As a result, it’s entirely possible to live without the word. What happens in the languages that don’t have a “yes” is when speakers want to give an affirmative answer, they grab the main verb of the question and use it in a first person form. Thus “Do you?” questions get the answer “I do,” “Are you?” questions get the answer “I am,” and so forth.

That’s the way it is in Latin, so when people are asked in the liturgy whether they want to do certain things or have certain things done (“Do you take this woman?”, “Do you want which child baptized?”) the Latin original of the liturgy has the answer “I do,” and when this gets translated into English, that’s what comes across. Not even ICEL has has the khutspah to translate these with a colloquial “yes.”

This isn’t the only time when this kind of thing happens. A while ago I was reading a quotation from a British author (either Chesterton or Waugh, I forget which) in which he noted that Irishmen tend to say “I do,” “I am,” etc., where Englishmen would say “yes.” The reason, he noted, was that Irish lacks a word for “yes,” and the verb-grabbing affirmative method native to Irish has passed over into the English-language speech of Irishmen. Thinking about Irishmen I’ve known or heard, I realized he was right. They do have a greater tendency to do this in preference to using “yes.”

What I want to know is: What happens at the end of the Beatles movie Yellow Submarine in these languages? In the English version the Blue Meanies are converted from saying “No” to “Yes,” with “Yes” spelled REALLY BIG on the screen.

What do they do with that in Chinese, Irish . . . or Latin?

Ray mentioned that after starting Pimsleur Cantonese he quickly had occasion to use it after a Cantonese Mass when a woman started speaking to him in it.

I just had a similar unexpected experience.

One of the few flaws of the Pimsleur sets is that they don’t come with a vocabulary list, and sometimes I’m not 100% sure I’ve heard the word correctly on the CDs. Thus, whenever I’m working a Pimsleur set, I go out and buy a cheap-o phrasebook/dictionary to look up the spellings of words for confirmation. (Dover has a really good line of $4 phrasebook/dictionaries).

Tonight I went to the bookstore to get an inexpensive Japanese phrasebook/dictionary, and I couldn’t resist buying a few additional language books (e.g., a Japanese grammar, an Indonesian phrasebook, a Filipino [Tagalog] phrasebook). When I got to the checkout counter, a big, Hawaiian-shirted, Hawaiian-looking salesperson named Max looked at the books I was buying and asked if I was going to be traveling in Southeast Asia.

I said: “Naw, I’m just learning their languages.”

At which point he asked–in Japanese–if I understood Japanese.

I replied that I understand a little Japanese, and I apparently said it fluidly enough that his eyes got a little big (his surprise probably magnified by my customary cowboy attire) and he said, continuing in Japanese, that I was quite good.

I replied that I was not very good (the customary thing to say when given such a compliment in Japanese), and then added, switching to English, that I’m just starting out. He said, in English, that he was still impressed.

After paying for the books, we switched back to Japanese and I thanked him politely and we bade each other farewell.

So there you have it: proof of the effectiveness of the Pimsleur Method! Just 24 hours after starting to study Japanese and after only two half-hour lessons I successfully held my first unplanned, real-world conversation in the language. Yee-haw!

Given my previous post, you’ve no doubt encountered the word “skosh,” meaning “a little bit.” As in:

PERSON 1: Do you want some ketchup for your hotdog?

PERSON 2: Just a skosh.

You may never have encountered the word in writing, but you likely know it in its spoken form skosh.

What you probably don’t know is its origin: It’s Japanese.

In my previous post, I gave you what you needed to decode several Japanese words. One of them was skoshi, which is a popular contraction of sukoshi, which means “a little bit,” and that is where we get “skosh” (however you spell it).

That takes care of the word skosh. But what about ketchup?

It turns out, ketchup isn’t either an English word or a Japanese word. It’s a Malay word–that is, a word from Malaysia.

In Malaysia they make a sauce for food that is called kechap, and this sauce is remarkably similar to what we in the West call ketchup (not completely similar; it’s somewhat different from ketchup). That’s where the name comes from.

So what do I want on my hotdog (in a low-carb bun)?

Just a skosh of ketchup.

Was in the bookstore today and couldn’t resist picking up a starter pack for Pimsleur Japanese. Had been thinking about getting one since I’ve been going to the Mitsuwa Market lately to get Japanese low-carb noodles and have had a need to ask basic questions of salespeople who aren’t always totally fluent in English.

As soon as I got back to my pickup, I eagerly popped the first lesson into my CD player and heard the following conversation (NOTE: all spellings are phoenetic, and there are other ways to say the same things):

MAN: Sumima-sen, Aygo ga wakarimas ka?

WOMAN: Iyeh, wakarimas-sen. Nihonggo ga wakarimas ka?

MAN: Hai, skoshi wakarimas.

WOMAN: Anata wa Amerikajin dess ka?

MAN: Hai, watashi wa Amerikajin dess.

The CD then started to teach me what I needed to understand this conversation, starting with sumima-sen. I knew immediately what this would mean: “Excuse me.” That’s the first thing you get taught in every Pimsleur langauge course, for a very good reason: You’ll need it a lot!–both to start conversations with people and to apologize for the mistakes that you (as a beginner) will make at first.

You keep learning for the next twenty or so minutes, and then they play the conversation that you heard at the beginning over again. Suddenly, you realize that you understand everything being said in the conversation. Translated, it’s:

MAN: Excuse me, do you understand English?

WOMAN: No, I don’t understand it. Do you understand Japanese?

MAN: Yes, I understand a little.

WOMAN: Are you an American?

MAN: Yes, I am an American.

Of course, I’d know what it says even without the lesson. Every Pimsleur set starts with the same conversation adapated to whatever language you’re learning. So far, I’ve been through this same conversation in (modern) Hebrew, (modern) Greek, (Syrian) Arabic, (Mandarin) Chinese, Spanish, German, and maybe one or two others. Whenever I start a new Pimsleur course, I have a nostalgic “I’m home” and “Here we go again” feeling because of the initial conversation.

It’s a handy little conversation to know. The things that get said are things that you’ll need to know how to say and understand in the new language.

The genius of Pimsleur language courses is that they tell you want you most need to know first and start you directly on how to speak conversationally, without memorizing lots of grammar and paradigms first. How many other language programs do you know that will have you understanding complete, if short, conversations like this one in less than thirty minutes?

I’m looking forward to trying my hand at Pimsleur Japanese. Every language has its own genius, and Japanese will be interesting. Unlike some Asian languages (e.g., Chinese, Vietnamese), it does not have an extensive tonal system. The main tone we have in English is raising our voice at the end of a sentence to form a question, but in Chinese virtually every word has a normal, high, rising, falling, or dipsy-doodle tone that functions basically like an extra consonant in the word and completely changes its meaning. It’s part of what gives Chinese English-speakers their musical accent, but it’s so hard for English-speakers to master that when I first started studying Mandarin I had trouble distinguishing individual words out of the stream of sound and tone. Fortunately, Japanese is like English in that it rarely uses tones. That will make it easier.

Another thing that will make it easier is that Japanese (like Chinese) is not a heavily inflected language. That means that the words don’t change their forms as often as in some languages (like Latin, which has a bugbear system of inflection for nouns, or Arabic, which has a bugbear system of inflection for verbs). Japanese is a low-inflection language so, for example, it doesn’t normally distinguish singular nouns from plural nouns. For example, the word jidosha can mean either “car” or “cars.” Thus there are no plural endings to memorize.

Also–as in Latin–there are no articles (a, an, the) to memorize, so jidosha can mean “car,” “a car,” “the car,” “cars,” “some cars,” “the cars.”

The bugbear for Japanese will be its word order. Japanese is what linguists call a “head-last” language, where as English is a “head-first” language. This concept is a little hard to explain (it has to do with where you put the most grammatically important part of a phrase), but the upshot is that the word order in Japanese often will be backwards of what English word order will be. Other times, it will seem pretty scrambled from an English perspective.

But that’s part of the fun! I’m trying, over the course of time, to try learning one of every major kind of language. Studying Mandarin, for example, helped give me some exposure to a tonal language. Studying Japanese will help give me some exposure to a head-last language. Ultimately, I want to get around to aggultinating languages like Swahili or some of the American Indian languages, which have monster huge verbs that can encode all of the information of a whole sentence in just the verb. (Klingon is another agglutinating language.)

Isn’t it cool how God designed the human faculty for language?

Fortunately, in Pimsleur, you don’t need to know or learn all the grammar I just described. You get the grammar you need by osmosis from conversation–the same way you did when you learned English as a baby (or whatever you learned as a baby)–without having to study a grammar book.

In the end, it’s pretty simple. In fact, I bet that you can use just the information from the Japanese and English conversations above to figure out what the title of the post means. Here’s a clue in case you need more help (the stuff in parentheses represent what the untranslatable particles ga, ka, and wa mean):

MAN: Excuse me, English (<--subject) understand (question)?

WOMAN: No, understand not. Japanese (<--subject) understand (question)?

MAN: Yes, a little understand.

WOMAN: You (predicate–>) American are (question)?

MAN: Yes, I (predicate–>) American am.

Armed with this knowledge, can you translate the title of this post?

IRONIC NOTE: After I left the bookstore, I discovered that the main kind of Japanese low-carb noodles are now available at the ordinary Vons grocery store across the street from me. Sheesh! Well, it won’t dampen my interest in Japanese. Languages are cool, and there’s still all those other Japanese low-carb products to get at Mitsuwa.