“Word of the Week” is a biweekly column by Allie Gruber about the joy of language. Every fortnight, she will choose one unusual word that tingled her ears and widened her eyes. She advises readers to pepper their day-to-day conversations with her selections. Everyone likes a bit of seasoning.
Few things in life are more satisfying than bickering with a sibling. Nothing can quite compare to the sweet, potent tang of decimating lispy little Freddie in a verbal joust. The sibling can be old or young, eloquent or inarticulate, body-built or wobbly-kneed as a lamb. The fact remains: everyone loves a sibling jostle.
And yet! Only a handful of words do justice to the agreeably disagreeable task of fighting a pesky sibling. “Argue” is too banal. “Dispute” is too formal. “Brawl” evokes a 16th-century rowdy tavern, and “quarrel?” Well, this isn’t Romeo and Juliet. No. Only one word captures this peculiar blend of aggression and levity, cattiness and play: wrangle. Tell a friend that you fought with your sister, and she will color with concern. But tell her that you and Lucinda spent the entire car journey to Uncle Ronnie’s in Rhode Island wrangling, and expect nothing less than a grin, a cheeky tut-tut, and the lively interjection, “Deary me, Cassandra. Not again!”
When I picture two people wrangling, I imagine two sphinx cats swiping at each other. “Hey, that’s my Nerf N Series Infinite Blaster,” cries six-year-old Benny, spittle drooling onto his beige cargo shorts. Cat 1 strikes at Cat 2. Benny’s pig-tailed sister holds her ground. “Well you used my Playmobil set without asking!” Cat 2 latches onto Cat 1’s tail. “Then I’m going to tell Mummy that you drank chocolate milk yesterday!” Cat 1 snarls, extending his talons. Benny’s sister flashes her gappy teeth: “If you do, I’m going to tell Daddy that you snuck into Mr. O’Keohene’s garden and got shouted at!” Cat 2 sinks her nails into Cat 1’s belly. “You broke into Mummy’s bedroom!” They tussle. “You plucked a peony from its stem!” They scuffle. “Did not!” Swipes. “Did too!” Pounces. A short silence. Then, with bloodcurdling menace: “Just wait ‘til Mummy hears about this!” Round and round they roll.
But, you readers might be wondering, what if I’m naturally docile? What if I’m never involved in cat-fights, or verbal jousts, or fraught car rides? What if I find no occasion to use “wrangle” in my day-to-day life?
Fear not, meek reader. I come bearing good news. Anyone—and I mean anyone—can learn to instigate a nice long wrangle. With just a little patience and just enough audacity, even the most pacifistic readers can learn to drive others up the wall. “Ragebaiting,” as modern readers call it, is an art. Like all arts, it takes practice.
Spitting is a safe bet. Next time you’re sauntering down Chapel Street and spot a friend approaching, you might try spitting instead of waving. “Hey you! Amalia!” you ought to shout. Then, aiming your spit directly at her left cheek, “Take that!” Amalia will not be pleased. “What’d you do that for?!” she’ll cry, clenching her fists in combat. That’s your cue. Straighten your neck, broaden your shoulders, and prepare to yank her hair. “I fancy a wrangle. Square up!”
Or perhaps you’d prefer a more civilized approach. The fiercest wrangles begin with passive aggression. The British do it best. They’ve got that wry snideness, that cutting wit. Tea parties are the ideal setting for such wrangles. Slurping tea, chewing with an open mouth, dropping scone crumbs on the floor, spraying saliva onto others when you talk—if you behave discourteously enough, a wrangle is sure to ensue. The host will rise from the parlor table and clear her throat. Then, with stiff civility, she’ll say: “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve just noticed the time.” Even more meticulously: “Funny how the time passes when you’re having fun.” Or she’ll look out the window and say in a high-pitched, stilted voice, “Golly gosh, it’s dark already! English winters, I suppose. They get worse every year.” But you must hold firm. “No, Mrs. Laversham. My carriage isn’t set to arrive for two hours. If you want me to leave, you must make me.” For a moment, Mrs. Laversham will be speechless. She’ll gape at you, googly-eyed. “And how do you suppose I do that?” Slowly, portentously, you curl your lips into a thin grin. “By wrangling.”
Make no mistake: “wrangle” is not a beautiful word. Even if it had a graceful meaning—even if it meant “glide” or “float” or “drift”—you just couldn’t describe a young princess as “wrangling elegantly down the palace staircase in her billowy satin robe.” No! Nor would “wrangle” suit a pleasant meaning like to praise or to complement. “Professor Garfield wrangled me the other day, and I’m awfully flattered. I’ve been basking in the glow of it ever since.” No again! Absolutely not! Never! The appeal of “Wrangle” lies precisely in the fact that it’s un-beautiful. The word announces itself, loud and proud. There’s something alluring about the way the “-ang” sits at the back of the tongue and engages the soft palette. Few words in the English language exhibit such delightful correspondence between sound and meaning. In this way it’s a sort of paradox. If “wrangle” sounded any lovelier, it would be less lovely. And that’s where its magic lies.
