Word of the Week: Monocoque

monocoque

\ˈmä-nə-ˌkäk\

Every now and then a copyeditor stumbles upon an unexpected gem. A few weeks ago, I was working on a coffee-table book depicting various scale model vehicles made of LEGO. On a two-page spread featuring a lovingly crafted Ferrari 312T4, I came across the following: 

...the model strips down to the bare driver's monocoque.

This snapped me out of my serial-comma trance. Stripping models? Bare drivers? Monocoques?? Call me juvenile, but it all sounded just a teensy bit suggestive.  

Time to consult with some real juveniles: I asked my children. What was going on here? What did they think a monocoque was? Grimbert said, “Er… Whatever it is, there’s only one of them?” and looked uncomfortable. 

Arwulf wasn’t sure either but (ever ready to sling the hypotheticals, bless the child) suggested I subvert the phallocentric implications by replacing the term with hemipenis, this being the word for the copulatory organs of male lizards and snakes. These organs are usually referred to in the plural--hemipenes, which sounds to me like a rather unfortunate kind of pasta--because lizards and snakes in fact have two of them, with each one making up half of the total equipment (hence hemi-).

(Snakes and lizards do not, you may be interested to know, use both of their hemipenes at once but alternate between the two “when the interval between copulations is relatively brief.” (Thank you, Wikipedia.) I am, btw, sparing you the images of squamate porn which, while readily available on the Internet, are honestly a bridge too far for a family-friendly blog. Google it if you are curious.)

The children being of limited help, I gave in and looked it up. Turns out the monocoque originated as an aeronautical term for a fuselage structure that bears the stresses of flight. The OED cites 1919 airplane design manual that describes a monocoque as a frame “so constructed that it can withstand all the stresses which it is called upon to bear, without the necessity for longerons or cross bracing members.” When applied to motor vehicles (like race cars) a monocoque is a chassis built as a single unit, forming a reinforced cage that protects the driver. The word is a French portmanteau: mono (one) plus coque (shell or seed). Coque is related to the Latin coccum, which comes from the Ancient Greek κόκκος (kokkos), meaning “grain, seed, or berry.”

So the LEGO modelers were not describing some sordid scenario of squamate supermodels getting it on with the pizza delivery boy, but instead a model race car that could be partially disassembled to show the protective cage where the driver sits. It’s all about protection.

This is the kind of monocoque the LEGO folks were talking about. (By J.Smith831 (Lamborghini Aventador LP 700-4 chassis), via Wikimedia Commons)

Interestingly (to me at least), coque is also a milliner’s term for a small loop of ribbon used to trim a hat. The OED cites a couple of examples from 19th century English fashion magazines, including a description from 1873 of “A large bow…composed of mixed coques of velvet and grosgrains silk ribbon.”  Now no one knows hats like the English in my opinion, and in fact there are many fine examples of the current Royal Family sporting coques of every size, shape, and hue. Princess Beatrice had a particularly fine example at her cousin’s wedding.

Here is the lady in the hat By Surtsicna via Wikimedia Commons

And here is the schematic. Image created by User: Sodacan, via Wikimedia Commons

Much ink has been spilled about the Meaning of the Royal Hats. Is it an assertion of wealth and social primacy? A cry for attention? Épater la bourgeoisie? Performance art? After seeing round upon round of pseudo-scandals sweep through the tabloids (Diana’s secret daughter! Kate and Camilla at each others’ throats! Prince Harry Nude!) I myself wonder whether the coques may serve as a kind of monocoque:  a protective armature that deflects the stresses of public scrutiny. 

Just look at this:

By Carfax2 (Own work), via Wikimedia Commons

To my eye, this scene is all about the hats. Prince William and Princess Anne may be ablaze with medals and gold braid and military splendor but it seems almost redundant behind the smiling vanguard of royal women, coques en garde. From the Queen’s blue and white IKEA wine bucket to Princess Eugenie’s paper shredder tangle, the hats trap the observer’s gaze, cross-bracing the family, protecting the vulnerable human flesh within.

Though actually Princess Anne reminds me a bit of my tax lady.