Of all the words in the English language, umbrella is perhaps my favorite. Say it now, aloud but quietly, to yourself—it bubbles so cheerfully from your lips, the airy “e” encased in our language’s only liquid consonants, r and l. Add the contented ummm and, as an afterthought, the light a, and the word can only be improved by bumbling, benevolent b.
Since umbrella is my favorite word (although Bangladesh is a close second), I wanted to know where it came from. Words are like people: if you’re interested in them, you want to know everything about them. Where did they come from? Who are their relatives? Their ancestors? In their spare time, where do they go, what do they do, how do they mean? What, in their personal histories, changed them and made them the wonderful things they are now? I asked umbrella all these things, but only received those three delicious syllables in reply. The dictionary was more informative.
Umbrella comes from the Latin umbraticus, “of or pertaining to shade.” With this background, as you can imagine, umbrella has some dark relations: umbraticus begat both umbrage and somber, which sound more like the rain than protection from it. But the younger cousins are jollier: Americans nick-named the canopy contraption bumbershoot, and Brits sometimes call it a brolly or an umbrellery. These are words you can get to know, words you’d want to hang out with when you’re feeling down, embraced in their warm friendship.
The word parasol, and this point, cannot be ignored, although it is related by function instead of by from. A parasol is like the ancient, snobbish maiden-aunt to umbrella, frilly and frail and pretentious. Parasols establish rank and languor, a certain coolness, instead of warmth and comfort and necessity. They are more selective than umbrellas: they block out the sun only (para means shield, sol sun) and are too delicate for wet weather. Parasols separate rather than connect people: on a hot, sunny, parasol sort of day, nobody would cuddle up closely like they would under an umbrella in the rain.
But despite their differences, I cannot deny that parasols and umbrellas are related, and closely. Their resemblance makes me uneasy about my beloved umbrella. I start to rethink my word—or, if not my word, at least the thing it represents. I have said that umbrellas make us friendly: and, in theory, they are. The image of friends or lovers under an umbrella is heartwarming, but in reality it isn’t very warming at all. Walking with two people under an umbrella is more of a struggle than a romantic stroll. Your steps get out of sync, your elbows bump together, and the left side of your face and the right side of your friend’s face get wet, while the right side of your face and the left side of your friend’s face stay dry, as does the space between you. Inevitably, the umbrella toter apologizes and heaves the umbrella back over his own head, leaving the other half of the couple literally out in the cold.
But whenever I’m the one left in the cold, I find it hard to complain. There is something marvelous about being in the rain, hair slicked to face, your crown as wet as your feet.
