The word “typo” is actually a misnomer. Derived from a phrase that denotes error, it suggests that the typist has made a mistake. In fact, what we call typos are more accurately described as variants. Take “anmd,” which often appears when we think we have typed the conjunction “and.” In some parts of the Anglophobe world, both versions of this word—“and” and “anmd” (or “and” anmd “anmd”)—are acceptable, just as the mistyped “trhe” may be used interchangeably with the (or trhe) more conventional article “the.” Of course, there are exceptions, or erxceptions, such as the word “erxceptions” itself, which is also accepted but considered impolite.
“Anmd” and “trhe,” unlike “erxception,” both derive from ancient oral tradition. In Old, Old Norse, the stray “m” and “r” are believed to have corrupted “and” and “the” in common speech through the negligence or haste of slob members of the ur-Norse community. When monks transcribed these words directly from the mouths of the speakers, they became grossed out, but dutifully included the variants on their stain-spattered vellum manuscripts, and, as such, these so-called typos have been handed down.
Variants sometimes occur as typographic representations of consonants that seem to have migrated sideways in the mouth. This is the case with variants containing the letter “p,” such as “yopu” (“you”). As Indo-European peoples moved laterally in their wanderings, west to east (or vice versa), the plosive consonants did something similar on the tongue. Thus, we may be typing along and see an unfamiliar sentence, such as “I will be goping home,” appear on the screen. Unconsciously, we have typed exactly what an ancient Indo-European person would have said. The sentence “Dopn’t dop that” (in everyday modern English, “Don’t do that”) has been seen spelled out in finger paint on the walls of the limestone caves of Lascaux, France, where human occupation dates to more than 30000 B.C.E. Moreover, in certain contexts the second-person singular “yopu” appears to have been not a pronoun but the proper name of a particular cave individual, and ideally should be capitalized, as “Yopu.”
What do we know of this Yopu, or of any of the Indo-Europeans? Here is where our “typos” may be trying to tell us something. When these ancient humans used aspirated consonants, such as “h” (or the “wh” sound), our mistypings show that they often snuck in a seemingly gratuitous “j,” as in “whjat” (“what”), “hjere” (“here”), or “hjog” (“hog”). An ancient Indo-European sentence such as “Whjat is thjat hjog doping hjere?” makes sense only if we posit that the speaker was trying to come off as Swedish. Why he or she would want to do that is another question, but it does shed light on a weird kind of insecurity that permeated the society. The faster we type, the more intriguing this window into the distant past becomes. “Trhe quiclk brownb fsocx jumptde over rtha laxy dopg,” a typing-practice sentence that all of us learned in high school, includes, in this typed-super-fast version, at least eight different proto-language families struggling to be reborn.
Modern humans who type “fsocx” for “fox” likely have some Neanderthal DNA. Perhaps the well-known practice sentence describes an encounter that occurred regularly between Ice Age foxes and Neanderthal dogs. Bone-density studies of canine skeletons found in conjunction with Neanderthal shell middens indicate high concentrations of gene pairings often associated with laziness—for what that’s worth. The word “jumptde” is an elongated verb form of pre-Celtic origin, later common in Turkic languages, which fell out of favor when it became kind of a pain. And, remarkably, “over” is one of those rare words which are exactly the same in every language, extinct or living, around the world.
Nopw we fast-foprward top trhe technop era, amnd trhe influence opf Autopcoprrect. (Or, “Nope we fast-foppish tomorrow trh technophobe era, amid tre influence old Autocorrect.”) Today, corrections that used to take weeks happen automatically. But here a darker process seems to be goping on. When we set out to create a text message, the echoes of lost languages, and all connections to our shared human past, are erased. Text a harmless sentence like “I’m here, ready to help,” and whjat may pop up is “I’m here, ready to Hal.” Huh? Who is this “Hal”? We will never know, nor will the text’s no doubt baffled recipient. If, instead of “Hal,” the name supplied had been “Hjal,” we would have met another shadowy figure from the mists of time, someone who might conceivably have known Yopu. But, thanks to Autocorrect, poor Hjal is long forgotten. Type in his name, and it will be corrected to “Hal,” just another ordinary present-day guy, and we are the poorer for the loss. ♦
