The Cambridge Handbook of Sociolinguistics
The most comprehensive overview available, this handbook is an essential
guide to sociolinguistics today. Reflecting the breadth of research in the
field, it surveys a wide range of topics and approaches in the study of
language variation and use in society. As well as linguistic perspectives,
the handbook includes insights from anthropology, social psychology, the
study of discourse and power, conversation analysis, theories of style and
styling, language contact, and applied sociolinguistics. Language practices
seem to have reached new levels since the communications revolution of
the late twentieth century. At the same time, face-to-face communication
is still the main force of language identity, even if social and peer networks
of the traditional face-to-face nature are facing stiff competition of the
facebook-to-facebook sort. The most authoritative guide to the state of the
field, this handbook shows that sociolinguistics provides us – in tandem
with other brands of linguistics and the social and natural sciences – with
the best tools for understanding our unfolding evolution as social beings.
is Professor of Linguistics in the Department of
English at the University of Cape Town, holding an NRF research chair
in the area of Language, Migration, and Social Change. He served two
terms as President of the Linguistics Society of Southern Africa. He has
published widely in the fields of sociolinguistics, with special reference to
language contact in South Africa. Among his publications are Introducing
Sociolinguistics (2nd edn. 2009, with Joan Swann, Ana Deumert, and
William Leap), Language in South Africa (Cambridge, 2002, ed.), and World
Englishes (Cambridge, 2008, with Rakesh M. Bhatt).
R AJEND MESTHR IE
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C A M BR I D GE H A N DB O OK S I N L A NG UAGE A N D L I NG U I S T IC S
Genuinely broad in scope, each handbook in this series provides a complete
state-of-the-field overview of a major sub-discipline within language study
and research. Grouped into broad thematic areas, the chapters in each
volume encompass the most important issues and topics within each subject,
offering a coherent picture of the latest theories and findings. Together,
the volumes will build into an integrated overview of the discipline in its
entirety.
Published titles
The Cambridge Handbook of Phonology, edited by Paul de Lacy
The Cambridge Handbook of Linguistic Code-switching, edited by
Barbara E. Bullock and Almeida Jacqueline Toribio
The Cambridge Handbook of Child Language, edited by Edith L. Bavin
The Cambridge Handbook of Endangered Languages, edited by
Peter K. Austin and Julia Sallabank
The Cambridge Handbook of Sociolinguistics, edited by Rajend Mesthrie
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The Cambridge Handbook
of Sociolinguistics
Edited by
Rajend Mesthrie
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C A MBR IDGE U NI V ERSI T Y PR ESS
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town,
Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Tokyo, Mexico City
Cambridge University Press
The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK
Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York
www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521897075
© Cambridge University Press 2011
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 2011
Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press, Cambridge
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data
ISBN 978-0-521-89707-5 Hardback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or
accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in
this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is,
or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
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Contents
List of figures
List of tables
Contributors
Preface and acknowledgments
Abbreviations
1
Introduction: the sociolinguistic enterprise Rajend Mesthrie
Part I Foundations of sociolinguistics
2 Power, social diversity, and language John Baugh
3 Linguistic anthropology: the study of language
as a non-neutral medium Alessandro Duranti
4 The social psychology of language: a short
history Peter Robinson and Abigail Locke
5 Orality and literacy in sociolinguistics Lowrie Hemphill
6 Sign languages Ceil Lucas and Bob Bayley
page vii
viii
ix
xi
xii
1
15
17
28
47
70
83
Part II Interaction, style, and discourse
7 Conversation and interaction Cynthia Gordon
8 Pragmatics and discourse Jan Blommaert
9 Style Nikolas Coupland
103
105
122
138
Part III Social and regional dialectology
10 Language, social class, and status Gregory R. Guy
11 Language and region William A. Kretzschmar, Jr.
12 Language and place Barbara Johnstone
13 Language, gender, and sexuality Natalie Schilling
14 Language and ethnicity Carmen Fought
157
159
186
203
218
238
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vi
CONTENTS
Part IV Multilingualism and language contact
15 Multilingualism Ana Deumert
16 Pidgins and creoles John Singler and Silvia Kouwenberg
17 Code-switching Pieter Muysken
18 Language maintenance, shift, and endangerment Nicholas
Ostler
19 Colonization, globalization, and World Englishes Edgar
Schneider
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259
261
283
301
315
335
Part V Applied sociolinguistics
20 Language planning and policy James W. Tollefson
21 Language and the law Diana Eades
22 Language and the media Susan McKay
23 Language and education Christopher Stroud and
Kathleen Heugh
355
357
377
396
Notes
References
Index
430
440
523
413
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Figures
6.1a The ASL sign DEAF, citation form (ear to chin)
6.1b The ASL sign DEAF, non-citation variant 1 (chin to ear)
6.1c The ASL sign DEAF, non-citation variant 2, in the
compound DEAF CULTURE (contact cheek)
10.1 Class stratification of (r) in New York City
10.2 Australian questioning intonation by class and sex
11.1 Columbus and Fort Benning
11.2 Levels of agreement about the South
11.3 Rates of /l/ vocalization
13.1 The cross-generational and cross-sex patterning of
Ocracoke /ay/
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page 87
87
88
172
182
189
195
196
230
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Tables
6.1
6.2
6.3
15.1
15.2
15.3
15.4
15.5
16.1
17.1
17.2
17.3
17.4
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Variability in spoken and sign languages
Internal constraints on variable units
Outcomes of language contact in the Deaf community
Immigrant-language diversity for selected countries
Language shift in Australia: first and second generation
language shift for selected communities
Domains and language choice in the Vietnamese
community in Melbourne, Australia
Addis Ababa’s multilingual markets
The language of signage in three types of Israeli
neighborhoods
Multi-generational scenario of creole genesis
Potential diagnostic features for different types of
language mixing
Lüdi’s typology of interactions
Schematic comparison of code-switching and -mixing
typologies in three traditions
Jakobson’s functional model as applied to code-switching
page 84
86
91
264
272
274
275
277
290
303
305
310
312
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Contributors
John Baugh, Margaret Bush Wilson Professor in Arts and Sciences,
Washington University in St. Louis
Robert Bayley, Professor, Department of Linguistics, University of
California, Davis
Jan Blommaert, Finland Distinguished Professor, Linguistic
Anthropology, University of Jyväskylä
Nikolas Coupland, Professor and Director, Centre for Language and
Communication Research, Cardiff University
Ana Deumert, Associate Professor, Linguistics Section, University of
Cape Town
Alessandro Duranti, Professor of Anthropology, UCLA College of
Letters and Science
Diana Eades, Adjunct Associate Professor, School of Behavioural,
Cognitive and Social Sciences, University of New England
Carmen Fought, Professor of Linguistics, Pitzer College, Claremont,
California
Cynthia Gordon, Assistant Professor, Department of Communication
and Rhetorical Studies, Syracuse University
Gregory R. Guy, Professor of Linguistics, New York University
Lowrie Hemphill, Associate Professor, Department of Language and
Literacy, Wheelock College
Kathleen Heugh, Senior Lecturer, English Language, University of
South Africa, and Division of Education, Arts and Social Sciences,
School of Communication, International Studies and Languages,
Magill Campus, Australia
Barbara Johnstone, Professor, Department of English, Carnegie
Mellon University
Silvia Kouwenberg, Professor of Linguistics, University of the West
Indies (Mona)
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x
CONTRIBUTORS
William A. Kretzschmar, Jr., Harry and Jane Willson Professor in
Humanities, Department of English, University of Georgia, Athens
Abigail Locke, Reader in Psychology, Human and Health Sciences,
University of Huddersfield
Ceil Lucas, Professor, Department of Linguistics, Gallaudet University
Susan McKay, Senior Lecturer, School of English, Media Studies and
Art History, University of Queensland
Rajend Mesthrie, Professor, Linguistics Section, and Research Chair in
Migration, Language and Social Change, University of Cape Town
Pieter Muysken, Academy Professor of Linguistics, Centre for
Language Studies, Radboud University Nijmegen, Netherlands
Nicholas Ostler, Director, Foundation for Endangered Languages, Bath,
UK, and Research Associate, Department of Linguistics, University of
London
W. Peter Robinson, Professor of Social Psychology Emeritus, University
of Bristol
Natalie Schilling, Associate Professor, Linguistics Department,
Georgetown University
Edgar W. Schneider, Chair of English Linguistics, Department of
English and American Studies, University of Regensburg
John Singler, Professor, Linguistics Department, New York University
Christopher Stroud, Professor, Linguistics Department, University of
the Western Cape
James W. Tollefson, Professor, Graduate School of Public Policy and
Social Research, Department of Media, Communication and Culture,
International Christian University, Tokyo, and Professor Emeritus,
University of Washington
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Preface and
acknowledgments
This handbook is aimed at students who have studied some linguistics
and sociolinguistics and who need an advanced and up-to-date account of
the field. The contributors, who were all chosen for their special contributions to the field of sociolinguistics, were charged with the task of providing authoritative and detailed, yet accessible, overviews of significant
branches of the subject. It is not expected that readers will wade through
the entire work, for this is obviously not an introductory textbook, but
rather read specific chapters depending on their needs and areas of interest. The chapters will be of use to academics and researchers outside
sociolinguistics who wish to keep up with newer developments in a field
that is becoming increasingly central in the humanities.
I would like to thank the following persons whose role in seeing the
handbook through different stages has been salutary: Rowan Mentis, my
main assistant on this project, for working on the bibliography and index
and managing the chapter files; Alida Chevalier for secondary assistance; and Walt Wolfram, who worked with me in the early stages of this
project and recruited many of the contributors on language variation
and change. I would also like to thank all contributors for their cooperation and sparkling contributions, and my editors, Andrew Winnard and
Sarah Green, at Cambridge University Press for their patience over delays
in delivering the final product. Finally, I am grateful to the University
of Cape Town, and the Humanities Faculty in particular, for creating a
supportive research and editing environment.
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Abbreviations
1P
AAE
AAVE
AS
BAE
BSL
CA
CAT
CDA
CEF
CL
CODA
COE
COMP
CON
CONSEC
COP
CVCV
DA
DEF
DEM
DET
EC
EFL
EL
ELF
ENL
EROs
ESL
EU
9780521897075pre_pi-xiv.indd xii
first person plural
American Asian English
African American Vernacular English
American Sign Language
Bureau of American Ethnology
British Sign Language
conversation analysis
communication accommodation theory
critical discourse analysis
Common European Framework of Reference for Languages
noun class
child of a Deaf adult
Council of Europe
complementizer
conjunction
consecutive
copula
consonant vowel sequence
discourse analysis
definite
demonstrative
determiner
Estate Class
English as a foreign language.
embedded language
Endangered Language Fund
English as a native language
Environmental Recycling Officers
English as a second language
European Union
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Abbreviations
F
FEL
FLA
FTA
FV
HABIT
ICE
ICHEL
IMF
INDIC
INF
IS
JLU
LCM
LIS
LL
LOC
LPLP
LWC
M
MC
MDA
MEXT
MFY
NEC
NSF
OBV
OECD
P
PA
PRES
RECIP
RECP
REL
S
SASL
SC
SEC
SEE
SES
SIL
SL
SLA
SSENYC
9780521897075pre_pi-xiv.indd xiii
xiii
feminine
Foundation for Endangered Languages
first language acquisition
face-threatening acts
finite verb
habitual
International Corpus of English
International Clearing House for Endangered Languages
International Monetary Fund
indicative
infinitive
interactional sociolinguistics
Jamaica Language Unit
Linguistic Category Model
Italian Sign Language (Lingua Italiana dei Segni)
linguistic landscape
locative
language planning and language policy
lower working class
masculine
middle class
multi-modal discourse analysis
Japanese Ministry of Education, Culture, Science, Sports and
Technology
Mobilization for Youth
non-Estate Class
National Science Foundation
obviation marker
Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development
preposition
past
present tense
reciprocal
recent past
relative
singular
South African Sign Language
social scale
socioeconomic class
Signing Exact English
socioeconomic status
Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL)
sign language
second language acquisition
Social Stratification of English in New York City
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xiv
ABBREVIATIONS
TMA
TOP
UNDP
UNESCO
UWC
WH
9780521897075pre_pi-xiv.indd xiv
Tense, Modality, Aspect
topic marker
United Nations Development Program
United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural
Organization
upper working class
question word
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1
Introduction: the
sociolinguistic enterprise
Rajend Mesthrie
1.1
Sociolinguistics within linguistics
This handbook focuses on the wealth of research undertaken by sociolinguists concerned with language variation and use in society. The core
of this specialisation comes from those working within linguistics, especially the field of language variation and change. Other theoreticians
coming from backgrounds integral to this focal area are anthropological
linguists, social psychologists, specialists in the study of discourse and
power, conversation analysts, theorists of style and styling, language
contact specialists, and applied sociolinguists. It was once customary for
such scholars interested in language and society to defend their scholarly
pursuits in the face of more hegemonic approaches in linguists (see e.g.
Labov 1963; Hymes 1972b). Chomskyans in particular sought to define
the essence of language in mentalistic grammars of so abstract and broad
a nature that they could capture the entire human capacity for language
(see Chomsky 1965). Whilst Chomskyan linguistics remains set in its
task of describing human competence of “I-language” (as internally represented in the mind), other scholars of the twentieth and twenty-first
centuries have gone about their business of describing concrete language
use rooted in peoples’ actual experiences, needs, and exchanges (E- or
external language for Chomsky, “real language” for others). Chomskyan
linguistics seems better aligned with the fields of robotics and artificial intelligence: the business of computer scientists, robot designers,
automatic translation experts, and so forth. And gains in these fields
have been impressive since the second half of the twentieth century. It is
thanks to the Chomskyan revolution that we have learned an impressive
amount about how humans acquire language, store it in the mind, and
process it.
As Chomskyan linguistics unfolded after the 1960s, it also quietly
incorporated more “messy” facts about human languages. The theory of
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parameters drew on work outside the field interested in the ways that
languages varied in their syntax. This work – initially cross-linguistic –
opened up the way for related studies of dialects within a language.
Theories of competence also accepted the idea of a pragmatic component
that made the ideal speaker–hearer automaton a lot less inhuman. When
the automatons wish to turn human, they will need to learn about individual and communal language identities, relations of status, gender, and
age between humans, and the rules of social interaction. They will also
need to learn to handle a system that is not just open-ended, but fuzzy
and changing in time, and liable to merge with other quite different subsystems. Truly, linguistics is a fascinating subject in both its sociolinguistic and non-sociolinguistic (cognitive-biological) aspects. This linguistics
would embrace the dialectics of langue and parole (Saussure 1959) and
competence and performance (Chomsky 1965). Indeed, scholars of style
and interaction already use “performance” (an enactment of a particular
genre, style, or facet of identity) in a way that challenges Chomsky and
reinforces Hymes’ notion of communicative competence (see Coupland
2007a). Finally, just as genetics and sociology are involved in an increasing degree of rapprochement in recognizing both as crucial dimensions
of human behavior, so too it is possible to imagine a socio-biology of language that reconciles different branches of linguistics. This handbook
provides a practitioner’s overview of the multifaceted field of sociolinguistics that is an integral part of that linguistics.
1.2
Sociolinguistic foundations
Chapters 2 to 6 survey the foundations of the discipline of sociolinguistics.
John Baugh (Ch. 2) examines the linguistic bases of power and the role of
language in social diversity. He draws on a range of research traditions
that offer the student of sociolinguistics important pointers: approaches
from ethnography of language, language ecology, power, interaction and
accommodation, and variationist studies. As Baugh emphasizes, despite
the focus in sociolinguistics on societies and their subgroups human
beings are individuals as well. Linguistic analyses must therefore also
consider dissimilarities within speech communities and languages. He
further stresses the need for developing local strategies to promote the
acceptance of linguistic diversities. In this context he surveys linguistic
work in the field of education as well as his own research on the linguistic basis of discrimination in housing allocations in the United States.
Alessandro Duranti (Ch. 3) emphasizes the approach taken to the study
of language by anthropologists interested in linguistics. Their ontological commitment (or programmatic interest in the essential nature of
language) ranges over three basic properties of language: (a) as a code for
representing information, (b) as a form of social organization, and (c) as a
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Introduction: the sociolinguistic enterprise
3
system of differentiation. Duranti identifies an overarching commitment
that perhaps distinguishes the field of anthropological linguistics from
most branches of linguistics, namely, the insistence that language is a
non-neutral medium. This view is best articulated in the Sapir–Whorf
hypothesis of linguistic relativity (that nature is segmented by language,
hence there can be no neutral non-linguistic context and the “outside
world” is shaped by the lens of our specific language). Duranti takes us
through a range of topics and approaches to the social in language in
which this ontological commitment is central: conversation analysis, the
study of genres and registers, language ideologies, narrative structure
and honorifics. At the same time, the chapter affords an overview of the
role of language in understanding and characterizing changes in localized social contexts in the modern world.
W. Peter Robinson and Abigail Locke (Ch. 4) provide a perspective from
the social psychology of language. Given the pervasiveness of speaking,
signing, reading, and writing in peoples’ lives, it is surprising how little
attention was paid to language by social psychologists prior to the 1960s.
Social roles have a large linguistic underpinning. As the authors show,
the way speakers address each other, the manner in which they regulate the behavior of others with requests, the speech acts people engage
in beyond communication (e.g. pronouncing judgment or issuing a command) all contribute to a richer social psychology. Above all, communication accommodation theory examines how language affects relations
between people in dynamic ways, via accent, tone, and syntax.
The next two chapters pay attention to the different modalities of
language. Lowrie Hemphill (Ch. 5) provides an overview of the contrasting yet overlapping nature of speech and writing. The chapter adopts
a bottom-up perspective, namely, that of a child acquiring the spoken
norms of his or her community and having to match these against the
more formal requirements of writing. As the author emphasizes, speech
and writing are not easily relatable: each modality requires immersion
in a different set of social practices and a gradual absorption of a distinct
set of language values. Ethnographic research in the home and school is
accordingly a continuing desideratum, an overview of which is provided
within the chapter.
Robert Bayley and Ceil Lucas’ chapter (6) on sign languages focuses
on the other important modality. They discuss the relationship between
sign languages and social structure, showing that this is parallel to the
interrelationship between spoken language and social structure. Both
modalities serve not only to communicate information, but to define or
redefine the social situation between interlocutors. It would have been
possible not to treat sign language separately in his handbook, but to
cover its sociolinguistic aspects in the different thematic chapters covering regional variation, social hierarchies, language contact, etc. However,
editor and authors were agreed that more was to be gained in treating
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RAJEND MESTHRIE
sign in a unified way, showing the different facets of its sociolinguistics
and relating them to the social and applied aspects of the topic (language
attitudes, language planning, etc.). Sign language study has the greatest
potential in helping us understand the essence of language, and of teasing out the differences of the “channel” (speech versus sign). So too it will
help us understand the influences of the channel of communication upon
sociolinguistic variation. One intriguing difference is in the number of
basic articulators: the authors explore – inter alia – the consequences of
having one tongue for the spoken modality as against two hands for sign
variability. But as the authors indicate, there are other pressing issues of
a more applied nature facing Deaf communities, notably the demands of
having to interface with speech communities, the moral dilemmas faced
by cochlear implants, which might enhance this interface but weaken
the bonds within the Deaf community, and so forth.
1.3 Interaction, style, and discourse
Cynthia Gordon’s chapter (7) on conversation and interaction examines
the speech modality more closely, emphasizing three related traditions
of study that can be considered “sociolinguistic”: conversation analysis
(or CA as it has come to be better known), ethnography of communication
(which is also covered in Duranti’s chapter on linguistic anthropology),
and interactional sociolinguistics. These approaches also overlap with
discourse analysis, which has a narrower meaning in linguistics than
in the humanities generally. As the author emphasizes, the approaches
summarized in this chapter stress conversation as culture and/or conversation as action. In the first instance, there is a wealth of shared
cultural (not just semantic) understandings behind any conversation
between members of the same speech community; these are of a “taken
for granted” nature but surface strongly between speakers who might
share a language but do not belong to the same speech community,
in so-called intercultural miscommunication. But as sociolinguists are
aware, it is not just a matter of language being a non-neutral medium,
but that interlocutors may also use linguistic means to exert power (consciously or unconsciously) or build solidarity. There is thus a potentially
strong interface between the social psychological approach (Ch. 4) and
the conversational-ethnographic-interactional approaches.
Jan Blommaert’s chapter (8) on pragmatics and discourse focuses on
aspects of language use that go beyond conversation: discourse, written texts, and multi-modal discourse. These approaches are as much
“pragmatic” as “sociolinguistic.” In the linguistic sense, pragmatics is a
sub-discipline that has a functional view of language that goes beyond
grammatical structure: interaction is socially, culturally, and politically constituted. The study of speech acts within philosophy integrated
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Introduction: the sociolinguistic enterprise
5
the study of the shared linguistic code with context and human activities. Co-operativeness is not a stable condition for communication, and
texts themselves can be decontextualized and recontextualized. There is
thus – as Blommaert emphasizes – a pragmatics of using texts, practices
which are socially and culturally organized and regulated. Blommaert
provides a short history of the school of critical discourse analysis (CDA),
with its interest in power and how it is reproduced by – inter alia – linguistic means. Not surprisingly, many practitioners of this field, or scholars
who have been influential within it, emanate from outside linguistics –
from sociology, political science, and cultural and literary studies. As
Blommaert notes, this approach is being overtaken by newer multimodal approaches (MDA) which stress that patterns of textuality have
been radically changed by the new technologies. The “communicative
shape” of language is changing, texts are no longer merely “read,” and
the marriage of the visual, tactile (clicking buttons), and orthographic
modes results in a new modality, requiring semiotic, not just linguistic
or sociolinguistic, analysis.
Nikolas Coupland’s chapter (9) on style magnifies the human element in conversational and discourse analysis. Whereas style was once
characterized as relatively undimensional (something added on to basic
language use), current approaches in sociolinguistics highlight its dynamism. Style is intrinsic to language use: it has no neutral manifestation.
As such, the focus shifts to “styling”: the active, socially meaningful
deployment of linguistic resources. Style goes beyond even the close
relation to an audience (whether a physically present authorized interlocutor, an eavesdropper, an absent “referee”) as carefully theorized by
Alan Bell (2001). In the characterization by Coupland and others, it links
to the social roles open to or achievable by an individual. Style, in this
view, links to a persona, to having multiple social identities and being
open to hybridity, rather than conformity to set roles. Coupland aligns
this view of humans with the interactionist school of sociology (see
Haralambos & Holborn 2000; Mesthrie et al. 2009) which sees social categories as largely constructed from local experiences via language and
meaning making, rather than inherited from top-down. The concept of
“communities of practice,” popularized in sociolinguistics by Penelope
Eckert and Sally McConnell-Ginet, foregrounds the “mutual engagements of human agents” (1992: 462, cited by Coupland, this volume)
and the relative instability of identity categories like class or gender. In
this regard “multiple voicing,” as stressed in the Bakhtinian view of language, is particularly important: the speech of an individual carries and
projects echoes and traces of disparate identities, that is, the voices of
other individuals or social groups. Ben Rampton’s notion of crossing is
also relevant here: the playful but also challenging use of elements from
a language variety that a youngster is not traditionally associated with
(e.g. Turkish-influenced German by a youngster of “traditional German”
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RAJEND MESTHRIE
background and parentage). But the term “traditional” here is a fraught
one: from the long lens of history, flux is as common as stability. Hence
the view of Le Page and Keller (1985) of language history involving alternations of periods of diffusion and subsequent focusing is an important
one for the field. In their words, language involves a series of “acts of
identity in which people reveal both their personal identity and their
search for social roles” (p. 14). Coupland makes the point that a dialect
itself may become stylized to signify certain aspects attached to a local
identity. It will often do so in relation to other dialects, other styles in its
social or geographic proximity. Above all, the impinging of facets of culture from outside in a globalizing, multiethnic, semiotically saturated
locality make multiple styling inevitable.
1.4
Social and regional dialectology
The next section covers five major topics within the variationist school
of social and regional dialectology. Gregory Guy’s chapter (10) on class
and status covers a central topic in sociolinguistics, since class remains
at the heart of social organization in most societies. As Guy emphasizes,
differences of status and power are the essence of social class distinctions. Guy contrasts Marxist approaches to class with those of functionalists. Marxists emphasize conflict and inequality in social organization,
arising from unequal control of and access to the resources or means
of production. The existence of class dialects (which Guy notes exist
everywhere we look) hinges on divisions and conflicts between classes.
The functionalist view from which much of variationist sociolinguistics
stems emphasizes societal cohesion, which might be temporarily disturbed by conflict. Class is therefore conceptualized as a linear scale,
depending partly upon birth as well as personal achievements via education, occupation, etc. Status (which is downplayed in Marxist structuralist analysis) is therefore seen as a significant part of social classification
in fuctionalism. The work of William Labov is “operationalized” more
on the functional model but is not incompatible with the idea of longterm confl ict and class division. Labovian studies stress shared norms
and common evaluations of accent markers within a speech community.
The model, which takes social class as basic and style as a significant
indicator of the linguistic prestige of individual sounds, shows a gradient
that illuminates the nature of social and linguistic stratification. As Guy
emphasizes, within this model of variation the nature of class differences hinges on whether the stratification is fine or sharp. In fact, most
urban studies show both, suggesting that neither the consensual nor
conflict view is fully applicable. Other themes explored by Guy concern
(a) the nature of stratification further in relation to language change, (b)
the use of one code over another in creolophone societies, (c) gender as
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a cross-cutting variable, and (d) related differences according to social
class that have been raised by educational sociologists.
Bill Kretzschmar (Ch. 11) gives an account of the notion of region in
sociolinguistics. Drawing on modern cultural geography, he argues that
a region is not an arbitrary tract with geographical delimitations, but
rather a location in time and space in which people behave in relatively
cohesive ways. People are less limited by geographical location today
than in the past, in terms of speed of travel, resources afforded by new
towns, and incomes that give people some freedom in their choice of
residence. Kretzschmar notes the growth of “voluntary regions” to which
people move because they can and are attracted by particular aspects of
a region: a coastal location, a college town, and even a settled military
community. Class and income can overcome some of the limitations of
geographical accidents of birth.
Barbara Johnstone (Ch. 12) emphasizses the sociolinguistics of traditional dialect study. Like Kretzschmar, she notes how geography is
increasingly becoming akin to a social variable. Social networks, popularized in sociolinguistics by the work of Lesley Milroy (1987a), are largely
geographically circumscribed; though again the higher the social class,
the greater the geographic mobility. In this sense Hazen (2000, cited by
Johnstone, this volume) is able to distinguish between a “local” and an
“expanded” geographical identity. A local identity correlates with dialect
loyalty, while the latter is more open to style shifting. Johnstone’s chapter discusses relatively recent work on “linguistic landscapes,” in which
a sense of place is reinforced by visual and orthographic signage. This
line of enquiry links to the social semiotic dimension of sociolinguistics
emphasized in the chapter by Blommaert. Finally, Johnstone shows how
post-industrial changes can affect firstly one’s sense of and degree of
spatial belonging, and secondly one’s sociolinguistic repertoire.
Natalie Schilling’s chapter (13) provides an overview of one of the
central concerns of variationist sociolinguistics and sociolinguistics
generally – the relation between language, gender, and sexuality. As the
author notes, this subfield has matured from the earlier nexus of linguistic deficit – difference – dominance to researching and characterizsing
gender not so much as an attribute but as an interactional achievement,
via our relations to others, including – crucially – our use of language.
Variationists once sought simple unitary explanations for consistent
gender differences in their sociolinguistic surveys – e.g. Trudgill’s (1972)
much contested belief that in the absence of real power women are
forced to project status via language. Schilling points to complications to
this idea in Labov’s research: women conform more than men to norms
that are overtly prescribed, but less so when they are not prescribed (e.g.
with a new variant that has not yet been accorded overt evaluation).
Furthermore, scholars like Eckert and Labov note how significantly class
intersects with gender: “interior classes” show the greatest difference in
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gendered variation, the lower-working and upper-middle classes less so.
In gender studies, above all, the variationists’ emphasis on the vernacular has been complemented by examination of communities of practice,
which also are forces of linguistic variation and change. Schilling also
reports on studies that tease out the effects of gender by emphasizing
other factors like patterns of employment, nature of interactions with
outsiders, etc. These were implicit in Labov’s earlier work, notably the
account of variation in Martha’s Vineyard. Current work on communities
of practice stress multiple group memberships and the co-construction
of individual and group identities. Finally, the chapter points to the significance of work from gay (or “queer”) studies in aiding our understanding of identity and contestation of linguistic and other hegemonies.
Chapter 14, by Carmen Fought, forms a bridge between the preoccupations of variation studies in a monolingual setting where one language is
dominant, and studies of language use in multilingual settings. Ethnicity
is one more category that is being critically re-examined in cultural studies, sociology, and sociolinguistics. We are less certain about the validity
of terms like race and ethnic group than scholars of a century ago: these
categories are as much dependent on the nature of human interactions
as on any biological proclivities. Geographical separation for long time
spans which gave rise to language, cultural and racial characteristics is
increasingly breached in modern cities, especially in the West. As Fought
shows, speakers can sometimes be “re-raced” within a community – i.e.
considered a community member on grounds of interaction and participation in events, ignoring salient physical characteristics of birth. Here
matters of class are again significant, and class may transcend ethnicity
in some instances. However, one cannot ignore the conflicting behavioral and linguistic pressures that individuals might feel between being
say middle-class and a member of an ethnic minority. Sociolinguistic
outcomes like bidialectism, style shifting, or accent neutralization come
into play. Other situations might lead to crossing (Rampton 1995) or
cross-overs (Mesthrie 2010). Fought explores the intersection of ethnicity
and gender as well: the demands of ethnic conformity may impact upon
males and females differently. In synthesizing studies of language form
and function, Fought gives a strong sense of the dynamic nature of ethnicity, something lived, achieved, and open to change and realignments.
1.5 Multilingualism and language contact
The next section deals with multilingualism in its own right. It is not
that multilingualism has to be singled out for its own sociolinguistics;
most analysts would agree that it is monolingualism that is the special
case. Many parallels can be found between monolingual and multilingual patterns of behavior: issues of class, ethnicity, gender, and local
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identities are played out in parallel ways. For example, style shifting
among monolinguals parallels language switching of multilinguals (see
Myers-Scotton 1993a). However, just as sign language is deserving of a
full treatment in its own right, some of the complexities of multilingual
choices and switching are better served by close attention to the details
on their own.
Chapter 15 on multilingualism by Ana Deumert ushers in a broader
view of sociolinguistics as a field that includes patterns of language use
that go beyond those found in a single speech community. Often called
the sociology of language, the broader field takes into account patterns
of multilingualism, determinants of code choice, overlaps between languages resulting from borrowing, mixing, switching, and convergence,
and language use across domains, including more official and bureaucratically controlled ones. In such a frequently sociohistorical view of language and societies, the effects of colonialism and the colonial linguistic
order are still with us. In addition, post-colonial migration to the West
and Australasia in an era of global technologies and high-speed travel
have also impacted upon the communicative economies of these territories. But as Deumert and authors of subsequent chapters show, there is
a significant impact for the field of language variation and change, this
time via the effects of language contact. Multilingualism and accelerated
language change via mixing have implications for all individuals and
societies.
Two chapters follow which cover central areas within language contact studies: pidgins and creoles, and code-switching. These chapters
deal with the radical restructuring and/or the formation of new languages under conditions of multilingual contact. Both fields can be studied outside of sociolinguistics (e.g. in terms of grammatical structure),
but contact linguistics is par excellence a cross-disciplinary field that
shows an integration of the social and the linguistic in a unified framework ( Winford 2003: 6). Silvia Kouwenberg and John Singler’s chapter
(16) on pidgins and creoles provides an update of this branch of language
contact. As the authors indicate, the field has moved on considerably
from early formulations of pidgins as structurally deficient and creoles
as necessarily requiring children’s acquisition and expansion of such
a pidgin. This view is still held by scholars with a generative linguistic bent, drawing on the influential (but ultimately flawed, the authors
argue) “bioprogramme” model of Derek Bickerton (1981). The continuing
debate between substratists and universalists is an important one for
sociolinguists, who have to work out how much of language is social
and how much internal to the human mind. Substratists lean toward
the influence of an earlier learnt language on a later one, even after the
original languages cease to be spoken. But this is not a purely acquisitional or cognitive matter, since new structures that emerge in language contact are negotiated via interaction. The attitudes and status of
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individuals also play a role. Universalists in linguistics follow Chomsky
(e.g. 1965) in arguing that the essence of language is biologically determined and that in the long run languages show structural regularity
irrespective of social variation. Bickerton (1981) argues that creoles show
overwhelming structural similarities and that these are due to their
special acquisitional circumstances in the elementary-pidgin to fulllanguage cycle hypothesized for the history of slaves on plantations in
former times. Bickerton’s position is thus one of modified universalism,
appealing to the human capacity to structure language in the absence of
“full” antecedent languages, yet seeing creoles as a class apart on historical grounds. As Kouwenberg and Singler argue, close studies of creole
languages are starting to dispute the notion of cross-creole similarity.
In particular, the broad differences between Atlantic and Pacific creoles
suggest an important role for the substrate. This is complemented by the
psycholinguistic process of nativization as adults and children who are
in command of a stable pidgin gradually expand it. These debates show
how important the sociohistorical context of language really is, without jettisoning the idea of language having a psycholinguistic, cognitive
dimension. The other major contribution of creolistics to general sociolinguistics is the notion of a creole continuum between basilect (older
creole forms) and acrolect (variety close to the colonial language), with
a series of subvarieties between these poles, which speakers command
to different extents and deploy as stylistic resources to express community solidarity, informality (or their opposites), and so forth. Social status
(including educational level in the colonial language) may be implicated
in the degree of variation.
The next chapter (17) also deals with structural outcomes of language
contact with due regard to the social setting, with data entirely from the
African continent. Pieter Muysken points out that code-switching is a
key topic within the field of multilingualism: why do people, especially
in some urban communities, use more than one language during communication, and how do people manage to keep more than one language
syntactically active in such cases. The degree of bilingualism (or multilingualism) is a relevant factor in code-switching. So too are sociohistorical
relations between languages, or rather speakers of languages. Muysken
points out that individual switches can be accounted for by theories of
interaction. One such model is provided in Myers-Scotton’s (1993a) work
that uses notions like negotiations in interaction, the need for a balance between rights and obligations in a community, and a markedness
scale for switching. The latter refers to the expected occurrence of one
code over the other in particular domains, with speakers of particular
languages, or with particular roles and relations between interlocutors.
This work was highly successful in teasing out the social and pragmatic
rationale for switching between localized languages, the more widely
used and statusful Kiswahili, and English in East Africa. However, as
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Muysken indicates, when switching becomes extremely frequent (codemixing to some linguists) interactive accounts become less useful. Here
the mixed medium itself is the message. Indeed mixed languages can stabilize as one code, as shown by the language Michif whose noun phrases
come largely from French (historically speaking) and verb phrases from
the indigenous Canadian language, Cree. European scholars, notably
Peter Auer (1999), have looked for other explanations of code-switching
drawing on the tradition of conversational analysis.
Nicholas Ostler (Ch. 18) gives an overview of the field of language
maintenance, shift, and endangerment. Although linguists had long
been aware of language obsolescence, particularly in the Americas,
the realization came in the 1980s and especially the 1990s that a fairly
large number of the world’s languages were dying out on all continents
and that linguists had a duty to record as much as possible about them,
and to assist communities to sustain their languages. Governments and
other bodies like the United Nations have become involved in projects
that support this applied linguistic endeavor. As Ostler writes, linguists
have a double duty in this regard: firstly to prevent the loss (beyond
all retrieval) of the very items that constitute the basis of their field,
as well as a sympathetic solidarity for communities mostly forced by
circumstances beyond their control to give up one language in favour
of another more powerful or prestigious one. Ostler’s article discusses
language documentation and revitalization, showing that these are not
straightforward tasks. For example, a community might have a puristic
view of their culture and its associated language, and not wish to accept
loanwords that are in habitual use. Or they might have their own views
on the most desirable orthographical conventions that might not accord
with the linguist’s more global view. Linguists in the field wishing to
give something back to the community will have to face these dilemmas.
Finally, Ostler examines the motives for language shift, positing that it is
not so much population movements or social and linguistic competition
that endangers languages, but language attitudes. We would also have to
factor in community realignments, which make the very notion of community (and hence the link with the language associated with it) more
flexible than at some time in their past.
In Chapter 19 Edgar Schneider covers the topic of World Englishes, a
subfield of sociolinguistics that focuses on the role of English in globalization, and the ever-increasing variation in English as it spreads and
comes into contact with new societies, cultures, and languages. The use
of English, as Schneider emphasizes, results in new power and status
relations in those societies and a new communicative economy. The
overturning of the British colonial order in the middle of the twentieth
century did not result in a rejection of the English language. Rather,
it played an increasing role in the political and international affairs of
“new nations,” often gaining ground as a relatively neutral choice over
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any local language. At the same time, English was considered a vital tool
toward higher education, new technologies, and the flow of goods and
services across national borders. But at another level, English spread via
global media technologies and the popular culture it promotes. For the
first time in human history, a global language seems to be in the making:
it is this that differentiates English from French, Spanish, and Russian
(although all these “super-regional ” languages can fruitfully be studied sociologically and linguistically under the rubric of language spread).
Hybridity of language and culture is a salient theme in current World
English studies.
1.6
Sociolinguistics applied
James Tollefson (Ch. 20) provides an overview of the field of language
planning and policy, which is a major test and application of sociolinguistic theories and descriptions. In fact sociolinguists and applied linguists often sit on national and official government bodies tasked with
planning and policymaking. This field therefore requires linguists to
think about the practicalities and political implications of language use
beyond the ivory tower. Linguists have to balance issues of costs and
benefits related to specific language policies with their espousal of
“bottom-up” tolerance for language variation in speech communities.
They will also confront – as with language revitalization – the importance of language attitudes held by ordinary voting citizens, which may
not always accord with their own perspectives. Tollefson describes the
early challenges and successes of language planners from the 1960s
onwards. This was the time when newly independent post-colonial states
had to make major decisions about official and national languages, and
balancing top-down needs of the state for communicating easily with
all citizens with bottom-up linguistic diversity. The choice of writing
systems and spelling reforms would also be on the agenda, as would the
need to stimulate the growth of all languages, especially those chosen as
official ones. Tollefson discusses a second phase of critical examination
of the field as it had developed for being too closely aligned to specific
models of modernization and development, often dictated by Western
developments. These often neglected the perspectives of the “masses,”
whose lives were not seriously touched by these models. More critical
models of language planning developed in the 1990s aligned to a critical
turn in sociolinguistics and discourse analysis. These pay attention to
world systems theory (the idea of a core and periphery in modern politics), the ecology of language, and “governmentality” or the use of language policy as a means of social regulation. Both discourse analysis and
ethnography, described in earlier chapters, find important applications
in this field.
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Diana Eades’ chapter (21) on language and the law shows that to a considerable extent the law is a semiotic and sociolinguistic edifice. Almost
all the subfields of sociolinguistics surveyed in Chapters 2 to 19 have
considerable relevance to the understanding, practice, and use of language in the legal system. Ethnographic issues pertaining to powerful
and powerless styles come into consideration, and court interactions
afford particularly good illustrations of interaction, convergence/ divergence, and politeness in action. Conversational analysis illuminates how
the ability of ordinary citizens to communicate might be affected if their
conversational rights of digression and indirectness are curtailed. These
might contrast with the more strategic and powerful pauses of lawyers.
Issues pertaining to the sociolinguistics of gender, ethnicity, and class
dialects are also relevant. Eades discusses the double marginalization of
the Deaf in court. In relation to societal multilingualism, sociolinguists
and applied linguists have paid attention to the role of interpreters and
translators, who are in a potentially powerful position and may participate at much more than the level of a neutral translating machine.
Forensic sociolinguistics is concerned with the expert testimony given
by linguists in courts of law in respect of accent recognition, dialect differences, analysis of discourse conventions, and so forth. There has been
recent work on the sociolinguistics of asylum-seekers, who must prove
their bona fides to the satisfaction of the legal system. Here sociolinguists and discourse analysts have played a role in stressing the fluidity
of language use and the effects of language contact, shift, and so forth
in making the language repertoire of individuals look less typical than
the bureaucratic enumeration of state languages in official records or in
language textbooks.
Susan McKay’s chapter (22) shows that while media studies have
grown, to the extent that they are an independent discipline in many
universities, there are strong connections to sociolinguistic interests.
Rather than being passive neutral recipients, media audiences are
often required to be active interpreters: connotation is as important as
denotation. Hence, approaches from branches within linguistics and
applied linguistics such as conversation analysis, critical discourse analysis, genre and register studies are of great relevance to students of the
media. Phone-in programs and talk shows are a great deal more interactive than the media of earlier eras, and need to be understood in terms
of not only themes and content but their semiotic packaging. Of current
research interest is the rise of new media and genres like “netspeak”
which appears to bring new dimensions to the traditional speech vs writing dichotomy. At the same time, new dimensions of personal and social
identity are being formed, especially the emergence of a broader identity
than that dictated by speech community and social network via speech.
The final chapter by Christopher Stroud and Kathleen Heugh (23)
emphasizes the changing nature of communication and knowledge in
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late modernity and argues that educational systems have yet to come
terms with this semioticallysaturated age. They also discuss pressing
educational problems of a more traditional sort pertaining to the choice
of language in education systems, with special reference to Africa.
1.7
The future
Language practices do seem to have reached new levels with the communications revolution of the late twentieth century. At the same time,
face-to-face communication is still the main force of language identity,
despite some competition from electronic social networking modes. It
is reassuring that sociolinguistics provides us – in tandem with other
brands of linguistics and the social and natural sciences – with the best
tools for understanding our unfolding evolution as social beings.
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Part I
Foundations of
sociolinguistics
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2
Power, social diversity,
and language
John Baugh
2.1 An overview of seminal studies on
language, power, and diversity
In organizing power dynamics in French language usage, Brown and
Gilman (1960) brought, specifically regarding the usage of tu or vous, early
attention to differences in communicative styles as well as differences in
interpersonal solidarity. Many languages – French, in addition to Spanish
and Russian – employ distinctive pronouns to convey formality, intimacy, and other interpersonal hierarchy during face-to-face conversations.
A decade later Bickerton (1971) described a continuum of familiarity, solidarity, and power among Guyanese Creole speakers; the pronouns speakers used tended to vary based on their social class: where members of
the upper classes tended to use the formal (i.e. standard) renditions, and
those of lower social classes tended to use informal (non-standard) references. Many Asian languages, including Korean, Japanese, and Chinese,
utilize formal honorific references in order to acknowledge disparities in
power, age, sex, or social status. As children we acquire language under
social circumstances unique to each of us, and it is those individual circumstances that place each of us within one or several of the thousands
of communicative communities worldwide. Most frequently we think
of speech communities in terms of mouth-to-ear communication, but
native sign language users are members of speech communities that are
another form of natural language acquisition; that is, utilizing gestureto-eye communication. My focus here is comparatively simple, devoted
only to circumstances affecting a single language within a speech community. Speakers of a single language vary in many ways; they differ
in class, sex, ethnicity, voice quality, and other idiosyncratic traits that
reflect their unique personal experience with language(s).
Sociolinguists in different parts of the world have examined language usage in alternative ways. In England, Basil Bernstein (1971, 1973)
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JOHN BAUGH
evaluated class differences in language based on distinctions between
elaborated codes and restricted codes of the same language. He observed
that children who were members of the upper classes tended to have
expanded linguistic exposure, whereas children from working-class
backgrounds had a more limited use of language, hence the reference
to either elaborate or restricted varieties of the same language. By extension, speakers who held social power were fluent users of the elaborated
code, while less affluent speakers were, at least initially, portrayed as
socially constrained due to constraints upon their linguistic dexterity. At
that time research on power dynamics in the United Kingdom rarely considered racial diversity, despite the emergence of British Black English
(Cheshire 1982).
Although class differences in language usage among British speakers during the 1970s did not highlight racial diversity, studies of sociolinguistic diversity during that same period in the United States were
explicit in their racial demarcation. For example, based on racial comparisons of standardized test scores, Arthur Jensen (1969) asserted that
black children were cognitively and educationally inferior to white
children. William Labov challenged Jensen and other uninformed
social psychologists who presumed that African American Vernacular
English (AAVE) was incoherent, ungrammatical, and illogical. Labov
ultimately provided defi nitive evidence in a seminal article, titled “The
Logic of Nonstandard English,” that such claims were grossly biased.
His insights regarding the logic of AAVE (Labov 1969) still have practical social and educational relevance in arenas where the speech of
Blacks is devalued. In the United States, Labov demonstrated that AAVE
is a logical and coherent grammatical system that is neither flawed
nor the result of laziness. These important observations first attracted
me to the intricacies and potential importance of linguistic science.
At the same time, I was also exposed to flawed social science inquiries; more specifically, to Jensen’s (1969) highly controversial hypothesis
that, based on differences in IQ test results, African- Americans are
genetically inferior to European Americans. In addition, Bereiter and
Engleman’s (1966) apparent lack of linguistic understanding led them
to false cognitive conclusions that proved to be quite harmful to Black
students and the Black community in general (Baugh 1983; Labov 1972;
Smitherman 1977).
Although Labov’s (1969, 1972a, 1972b) AAVE studies have obvious educational relevance, his observations about African-American language
usage are relevant to any socially stratified speech community; communities wherein speakers of non-dominant dialects are disenfranchised
from a society’s loci of power and influence. Goffman’s (1959) observations in his influential The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life confi rm that
social differentiation can be defi ned in various ways. In order to frame
communicative contexts for these remarks, we must appreciate that
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Power, social diversity, and language
19
ordinary people typically take the following into consideration when
speaking: (a) differences in public vs. private discourse, (b) differences
in formal vs. informal speech that take place among interlocutors who
share equal status, and (c) speakers who fi nd themselves in a superiorto-subordinate position with respect to others who are co-present during a communicative event. Conversations among friends and family
members in private settings, then, are usually thought to be more colloquial than language used in more formal speaking circumstances,
say, in public during official proceedings. It is also important to note
that sexual differences could easily add another dimension to the relative formality of any given speech event. For example, some speech
events take place exclusively among women, while others are exclusive
to men, and – of course – there are many circumstances where men and
women share conversations (Tannen 1990). These contrasts and comparisons are not comprehensive; for example, we will not consider sarcasm, anger, or the expression of joy as embodied in speech. Nor will we
devote much attention to important communication conveyed through
highly expressive and meaningful gestures. Rather, by confining our
inspection of the relevance of language to power and social diversity,
we explore the elastic impact of power on the social life of living (i.e.
spoken) languages (Sankoff 1980; Weinreich 1953). Sociolinguists and
historical linguists have demonstrated that linguistic evolution has
been shaped by many forces, including political circumstances that are
not egalitarian. Although a fundamental tenet of linguistic science is
that all languages and their dialects are of equal linguistic worth, history has repeatedly confirmed that some languages and dialects lack
comparable or superior political clout and are therefore subjugated by
others.
Haugen (1972) examined language usage in ecological contexts where
the circumstances surrounding linguistic behavior are routinely taken
into account. Fishman’s formulation of the “sociology of language” is
also highly contextualized and observes language usage as a sociological
construct. Together, they confirm that the social and historical circumstances among groups of language speakers who differ can themselves
affect conflict that includes and exceeds language usage in different (but
often adjacent) speech communities.
Hymes’ (1974) depiction of “communicative competence” is also relevant to examinations of language, power, and solidarity, because perceptions of skilled oratory are always subjective according to the person
who hears the speech being judged. For Hymes, the ways in which people
communicate share universal characteristics. For example, every communicative event must be initiated by a “sender” who has an intended
“receiver,” or audience (Bell 1984). Drawing substantially upon the
insights of linguistic and anthropological pioneers such as Jakobson
(1962), Sapir (1921), and Kroeber (1948), Hymes was ever mindful that
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JOHN BAUGH
human language always operates in a contextual milieu. Moreover, who
holds power over whom in any given conversation, from Hymes’ perspective, owes much to Jakobson’s (1962, 1978) influence and research. A
person who is considered eloquent in one (sub)culture can also seem dimwitted or cognitively deficient when he or she lacks the necessary knowledge or fluency to carry on normal conversations with native speakers
of another language or speech community, especially if those conversations take place between people who are not coequal, as frequently
occurs on the job or in the military. Indeed, some of these observations
are inherent to Bernstein’s (1971) observations regarding contrasting
codes among speakers of the same language.
2.2 Language usage and its ecological
setting within a speech community
Einer Haugen (1972, 1987) promoted the study of language within its
ecological context, drawing heavily upon his own bilingual background;
he was a native speaker of Norwegian who learned English as a second
language. He was particularly sensitive to various forms of linguistic discrimination between native speakers of American English, and those
speakers who, like him, spoke English with a strong “foreign” accent,
thereby evoking myths and stereotypes that were reinforced during dayto-day conversations. Haugen spoke to language scholars with deep and
abiding conviction about what he saw as an urgent need to draw inspiration from biological research. More precisely, he wanted scholars to see
the ways in which language studies related to the ecological contexts
wherein linguistic behavior thrives; he demonstrated that strong social
forces within and beyond dialect communities frequently reflect differences in social power, wealth, and unequal access to education. Haugen
resisted attempts to study language devoid of its ecological context. He
recognized early on that linguistic evidence that is gathered and observed
in an existing social setting might differ considerably from linguistic
evidence that is produced experimentally, especially if the experimental
data is socially dislocated from ordinary discourse. By drawing explicit
attention to the social and ecological contexts wherein language is used
for different purposes, Haugen set the stage for a robust and empirical
linguistic science that strives to avoid what Labov has (1972b) portrayed
as “the observer’s paradox,” more commonly referred to as “the experimenter effect,” meaning that biases in the results may be unwittingly
triggered by the analyst.
By carefully heeding who spoke with whom, and the circumstances
under which their conversation took place, Haugen has shown the everpresent significance of the social standing and corresponding linguistic
skills of an interlocutor in any given speech event.
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2.3
21
Some dimensions of social diversity
Some critics of quantitative variationist sociolinguistics have noted that
scholars who classify speakers based on preordained social categories –
like race – may miss important nuances in linguistic behavior that defy
easy circumstantial classification (Gumperz 1982a, 1982b; Hill and Irvine
1993). Goffman’s (1964) discussion regarding the “Neglected Situation”
echoes many of the same concerns raised by Haugen (1972), albeit from
a sociological perspective. Goffman’s (1959) formulation of “players” on
different “teams” during day-to-day interactions in public and private
settings demonstrated that employers and their workers have a shared
“team” mentality, and that membership on that team implied, for
example, that arguments among co-workers would usually take place in
private settings, away from public scrutiny. Indeed, your own personal
sense of linguistic decorum is likely to reflect some of the situational criteria that Ervin-Tripp (1973) observed as “co-occurrence rules.”
For example, when people interact with others who hold positions of
institutional authority, such as a judge, it is – in all likelihood – imprudent to use profane language during court proceedings where he or she
has legal authority. Profane language is more likely to occur in private
settings among interlocutors who know each other well enough so as
to not be offended by what might otherwise be considered vulgar language. Both Goffman (1959, 1964) and Ervin-Tripp (1973) have shown
that people are keenly sensitive to their immediate social circumstances
during ordinary conversation, and brief personal reflections by you – the
reader – can further emphasize the point. Are you a man or a woman,
and, under what circumstances, if any, do you find yourself speaking to
members of your sex? Do you tend to use the same form of speaking style
when you interact with members of the same sex, and does this vary
depending upon the formality or informality of the occasion?
Alternative contrasts regarding age, level of education, and occupation
(e.g. blue collar vs. white collar), as well as residential location (e.g. urban
vs. rural) can all impact language usage, as can situational and cultural
relevance to language usage norms (Baugh and Sherzer 1984). Goffman
(1964) noted, with some exasperation, that situational criteria are frequently overlooked in language studies because “situations” are difficult
to define with empirical precision. He nevertheless confirmed that many
social and cultural criteria influence language usage among speakers
who are more-or-less coequal in social status.
2.4
Power in communicative context
Hymes (1974) affirmed that communicative events demand a high degree
of communicative competence as related to language usage throughout
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JOHN BAUGH
the world. In addition, Hymes’ formulation of communicative competence encompasses both oral and written communication. Thus far,
our attention has been devoted to speech (and to a lesser degree sign
language usage among the Deaf). Hymes recognized various universal
components that exceed “speech events” per se; rather, his observations
proved relevant to all forms of human linguistic communication. In any
communicative event he begins with the interlocutors; that is, the person producing the discourse as the sender in any given communicative
event, and one or more people representing the intended audience or
receiver(s) of that event. Bell’s (1984) formulation of “audience design”
focused substantial attention on linguistic behavior that was influenced
by intended receivers of speech via radio; that is, where the announcer
or disc jockey engaged in a one-way monologue with an unseen audience who could tune into the sender’s radio broadcast. Bell (1984) demonstrated that radio personalities shaped their language according to their
impression of their audience, and that they designed their language
usage to suit the tastes of their anticipated receivers.
Hymes also noted that every communicative event demands employment of one or more code(s) and that (partial?) knowledge of the code(s)
is essential to effective communication. Moreover, communication will
take place in a setting, and that setting will in turn be employed for the
duration of the event as a human communicative exchange. Every communicative event will contain one or more topics. The communicative event
must also simultaneously employ a channel of communication, such as a
face-to-face or telephone conversation, or a printing process (e.g. newspapers, the Internet, or a book). Face-to-face conversation is the most basic
of human communicative events, where the channel of communication
takes place during spoken conversation, with the exception of those who
are profoundly deaf. Fluent users of the sign languages – there are many
in addition to American Sign Language (ASL), which is most commonly
used in the United States – share membership in communicative communities where speech is not the medium of linguistic content.
Although Hymes’ communicative universals are relevant to every
human communicative event, they do not inherently imply either
coequal or unequal statuses among interlocutors in any given conversation. Nevertheless, when utterances are produced by a sender who also
happens to be your employer, the importance of what is said may be
more relevant to the power differential that exists between those who
can hire or fire someone and those who can be hired or fired. Moreover,
if a speech event between a boss and worker takes place “in private,”
away from other members of the same on-the-job “team,” the content,
tenor, and tone of that conversation could differ greatly from a similar conversation that occurs in the presence of fellow co-workers or one
that takes place in public (e.g. a construction worker who is admonished in view of passing public pedestrians). Stated in other terms, the
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ethnographic context that pertains to every communicative event will
also encompass power dynamics between the corresponding parties, be
it an adult speaking to a child or a judge sentencing a prisoner. Austin
(1975) and Searle (1979) have provided outstanding illustrations of various speech acts throughout the world, which show how the power to use
language corresponds directly to the official standing, or lack thereof,
of the sender of the communicative event. For example, although many
people might possess the linguistic capacity to state, “I now sentence
you to six months in jail,” only bona fide judges making that remark in
an official capacity has the legal authority to truly act upon such a statement. Everyday conversations where “promises” or “threats” are delivered will reflect differences in the social power between the senders and
receivers of such highly specialized speech acts.
2.5
The social stratification of language
in global perspective
For the sake of illustration and simplicity, let us conceptually place
speakers into two broad residential categories; namely, urban versus
rural dwellers. At the outset I recognize that we should be contemplating a continuum of residential patterns, that is, in contrast to the polar
extremes offered by the proposed dichotomy; however, the corresponding impact of language usage in context owes much to the recent significant trend of urban linguistic dominance norms throughout the world.
Most major urban cities in Africa, Asia, Australia, Europe, and North and
South America produce nationally acknowledged dominant linguistic
norms in striking contrast to less influential (if not subordinate) rural
linguistic varieties of the same language. Labov’s (1966) extensive study
of the social stratification of English speakers in New York City is illustrative of urban linguistic stratification. In contrast, Kurath (1972), McDavid
(1979), and Cassidy (1983) have taken great pains to identify American
English usage in rural settings, far from the influence of urban perceptions of language usage in regards to power and prestige. Some parallel
trends can be found in Paris, where native French speakers of African
descent residing in the suburbs feel a strong sense of social dislocation
that defies simplistic linguistic or racial categorization. In Rio de Janiero,
the dialects of Portuguese that are spoken by the educated, wealthy elite
differ substantially from the speech of less well educated African slave
descendants who reside in urban slums where social opportunities pale.
Throughout the world, there is a pattern of linguistic dominance that
has strong economic and political relevance. That is to say, dominant
dialects of dominant languages usually reflect political circumstances
that have nothing to do with language per se. In some instances this
power coincides with nationalistic or provincial linguistic loyalties.
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JOHN BAUGH
In other instances linguistic domination is imposed externally upon
people who lack control over their own political (and therefore linguistic) plight. Immigrants in diverse speech communities throughout the
world are often judged based on their (in)ability to speak the dominant
local language fluently. For example, Africans who live in Russia and
have learned Russian as a second language are subject to discrimination,
as are many Latinos who immigrate to the USA and learn English as a
second language.
In the vast majority of speech communities throughout the world,
those who hold the greatest wealth are also those who set the indigenous standard linguistic norms. Trudgill’s (1983) studies in England and
Chambers’ (1975) linguistic analyses in Canada indicate local patterns of
linguistic prestige and loyalty along class lines. Mesthrie’s (2002) sociolinguistic research in South Africa identifies diverse instances of political power juxtaposed with linguistic dislocation for South Africa’s
non-white citizens, reflecting strong linguistic ties to their heritage
cultures as Afrikaner, black, or colored citizens, among others, including those of Indian and British ancestry. Post-apartheid South Africa is
a nation with eleven official languages, including languages spoken by
most white South Africans; that is, Afrikaans and English.
South Africa’s extraordinary national recognition of its multilingual
heritage is the product of political compromise, one that concedes that
black South African languages should not supplant English or Afrikaans
as official languages. Rather, by adding nine additional official languages
to the existing dominant languages (i.e. English and Afrikaans), South
Africa’s extensive multilingual language policy has become symbolic
of a new sociopolitical philosophy, one that strives for fuller cultural
inclusion of all South Africans, free of racial taint or apartheid’s cruel
legacies. The “Truth and Reconciliation” trials in South Africa stand as
a testament to a multicultural and multilingual effort to overcome past
atrocities (Gibson 2004).
The United States still wrestles with the historical and linguistic consequences of slavery and the impact of various historical military excursions that have simultaneously inspired and appalled people throughout
the world, including many US citizens. This chapter has been written
several years after the flooding of New Orleans during hurricane Katrina,
an event that showed the entire world that America still has strong racial
disparities with a disproportionately high number of impoverished
African-Americans. Scenes of the disaster showed incontrovertibly that
the majority of those people who suffered most during the floods in New
Orleans were US slave descendants.
Attention to linguistic heritage further illustrates the nature of cultural diversity among African-Americans. For example, Barack Obama’s
political ascendancy has made it clear that not all African-Americans
trace their ancestry to former slaves. Whereas Michele Obama is a slave
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25
descendant, with linguistic and cultural roots in that tradition, Ralph
Nader criticized Barack Obama for “talking White” (Rocky Mountain News
2008). Again, Barack Obama has no direct lineage to the historical culture of enslaved Americans, and yet Nader’s remarks mistakenly conflate
President Obama’s linguistic style(s?) of speaking with that of AfricanAmericans who trace their ancestry directly to Africans who were once
enslaved in the United States.
2.6
Some implications for future research
and public policy
Although a great deal of sociolinguistic research has focused heavily on
the plight of US slave descendants, much of the controversy pertaining
to black people in the United States, Brazil, France, and South Africa is
generally portrayed as simplistic racial strife. When affirmative action
programs are based solely on race, they frequently miss serving the very
populations they seek to assist. This is relevant to diverse groups that
are linguistically, and often economically, disenfranchised. As such, the
relevance of future linguistic research will need to be grounded in local
culture, experiences, and circumstances. Some evidence that illustrates
this trend exists through interdisciplinary studies where linguistic
observations support practical or legal considerations (Smalls 2004).
Research on linguistic profiling (Baugh 2003; Smalls 2004) provides
a combination of legal, experimental, and observational evidence that
confirms the existence of socially prohibitive linguistic discrimination
in speech communities throughout the world. These differences emphatically reflect local differences in language, power, and social opportunity. Within the USA, for example, access to housing, schools, and other
public services are directly correlated with a person’s education, income,
and frequently race. Although heritage and language usage rarely figures
in policies pertaining to equal access to housing or employment, fluency
in dominant linguistic norms, here Standard English, is often indicative
of the likelihood that one will obtain excellent employment.
In both experimental and legal contexts, scholars have observed various forms of linguistic discrimination. Massey and Lundy (2001) confirmed that prospective landlords in the Philadelphia area were far
more likely to rent an apartment to someone who was a well-educated
white speaker of Standard English than to African-American women
who used AAVE. The results amplified experimental results that were
first observed by Purnell, Idsardi, and Baugh (1999) when they employed
different dialects while seeking apartments, in this instance in the San
Francisco Bay area.
The essential findings of the 1991 and the 2001 studies were striking in their similarity. Prospective landlords used the telephone as a
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gate-keeping device; that is, those who spoke Standard English were usually granted an appointment, whereas those who spoke non-standard
English were either denied appointments, or never had their telephone
calls returned, despite leaving messages on answering machines. Many
of the better-documented cases of linguistic profiling have gone to court,
where judges and juries were able to judge for themselves if defendants
could be believed when they claimed that they simply did not hear or
notice that the plaintiff had “an accent” or “dialect” that was “racially
distinctive.” Yet it is common for many Americans to refer to someone,
as Ralph Nader did with President Obama, as “talking White,” or “talking Black.”
Thanks to carefully crafted experimental studies, we can now begin to
expose instances of prohibitive, if not illegal, linguistic discrimination
that has frequently gone undetected throughout the world. For example,
former President Nelson Mandela, when speaking of his own linguistic
experience, once referred to the fact that he learned English as a second
language. He drew specific attention to his own lack of Standard English
proficiency while recalling one of his first political altercations as a college Freshman.
the upperclassmen were not so easily subdued. They held a meeting at
which one of them, an eloquent English-speaker, said, “This behavior
on the part of the fresher’s is unacceptable. How can we seniors be
overthrown by a backward fellow from the countryside like Mandela,
a fellow who cannot even speak English properly!” (Mandela 1994: 45)
Unlike Mandela, Barack Obama, Colin Powell, and Condoleezza Rice are
all native speakers of English, and they are all fluent speakers of standard, mainstream, American English. Indeed, they have all been accused
of “talking White,” as if dialects in America (or elsewhere) could (or
should?) be classified on the basis of race. Speakers who are highly educated tend to be fluent in the dominant linguistic norms. Thus, although
these highly influential politicians share the same race, a close examination of their linguistic behavior confirms that their power lies, in part,
in their eloquent command of the dominant linguistic norms; in this
case, standard American English.
Many language policies throughout the world are ill conceived because
they tend to be distorted by well-intended but misguided linguistic
stereotypes and loyalties. For the past six years, I have examined various
forms of bias against black speakers in the United States, Brazil, France,
and South Africa. Each country has a history of racial bias against black
people, and each country has adopted different political strategies that
have had significant linguistic repercussions.
Each nation, and each person within that nation, is different, and one
should be careful not to impose a “one size fits all” approach to how
linguistic analyses might enhance the promotion of equality and equal
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27
access to justice, education, and employment opportunities for people
who come from (dis)similar speech communities and languages. In addition, it is important, whenever possible, to develop local strategies to
promote the acceptance of linguistic diversities. Replacing an attitude
of intolerance – “those who differ from us” – with acceptance (not mere
tolerance) of all social, cultural, economic, political, and linguistic contributions in a society has the potential to transform many different
communities; that is, regardless of the political proclivities of the corresponding government in power.
In the context of the current global economy, the interconnected
nature of world trade and employment prospects can be greatly enhanced
through greater ease of communication. Whinnom (1971) observed that
a combination of “ethological” and “ecological” barriers frequently inhibited communication during language contact situations. Ethological
barriers frequently were associated with attitudes among members of
different groups. Those who dislike each other tend to be more intolerant, linguistically and otherwise, than is the case among groups that
are either neutral or favorable in their attitudes toward each other. For
Whinnom, ecological barriers represent the structures within languages
themselves that might pose special difficulties depending upon the ways
in which the languages may be (dis)similar. If a language does not make
a distinction between the “r” and “l” sounds, as is the case with Chinese,
then those who have learned Chinese as a first language may have difficulty making the distinction between the pronunciation of rock or lock
in English. Speakers who are used to saying la casa blanca in their native
Spanish may inadvertently say, the house white as they learn English as
a secondary language. Other ecological barriers exist between dialects
within a single language and often trigger a recognition of differences in
education, class, sex, and age, among other demographic traits. In different communities, a scientific examination of language and society will
identify diversity with considerably more precision than will racial classification. As we seek new ways to promote and enhance opportunities
in our respective societies, two simultaneous efforts will reinforce these
prospects. By increasing greater access to the dominant linguistic norms,
policymakers will enhance the economic prospects of those people who
lack fluency in the language of the dominant marketplace (wherever that
marketplace might be). And second, those who already hold the reins of
linguistic power must acknowledge their inherent linguistic advantages,
accrued, typically, into well-educated residential neighborhoods where
the parents and teachers are already fluent speakers of the dominant
dialect(s) by the mere accident of birth.
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3
Linguistic anthropology:
the study of language as
a non-neutral medium
Alessandro Duranti
Language is not a neutral medium that passes freely and easily into
the private property of the speaker’s intentions; it is populated –
overpopulated – with the intentions of others. Expropriating it, forcing it to submit to one’s own intentions and accents, is a difficult and
complicated process. (Bakhtin 1981: 294)
3.1 Introduction
Linguistic anthropology was born in the late nineteenth century out of
early efforts in the United States to document North American Indian
languages and establish anthropology as a professional discipline dedicated to the holistic study of what makes humans distinct from the rest
of the animal world. For the German-born Franz Boas, who played a key
role in the shaping of North American anthropology, the empirical study
of unwritten aboriginal languages was just as important as (and in some
respects even more important than) the study of human remains, dwellings, past and current rituals, classificatory systems, and artistic productions. From its inception then, linguistic anthropology arose as one of
the four subfields of the US tradition of anthropology, with the other
three being physical (now biological) anthropology, archaeology, and
ethnology (now sociocultural anthropology). This conceptual and institutional organization is found nowhere else but in Canada.
Boas’ fascination with American Indian languages played a major role
in his decision to leave the field of geography and embrace anthropology. Sponsored by John Wesley Powell at the Bureau of Ethnology (later
renamed the Bureau of American Ethnology or BAE), Boas taught himself
Special thanks to Anjali Browning and Jennifer Guzman for their editorial assistance and
comments on an earlier draft of this chapter.
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linguistic methods and managed to produce and encourage first-rate
grammatical descriptions of the native languages of North America (e.g.
Boas 1911; Stocking 1974). He used his knowledge of Kwakiutl and other
Native American languages to argue against a Eurocentric view of grammatical categories (Boas 1911: 35).
Through Boas and his students, linguistics as a distinct field in the
United States became at first almost indistinguishable from the study
of grammars and vocabularies of American Indian languages (Mithun
2004). This fact alone may explain the stereotype – very common until
a few decades ago – of the linguistic anthropologist as someone primarily dedicated to the study of the sound system and morphology of some
“exotic language” and uninterested in theoretical issues, with the exception of the so-called “linguistic relativity” issue (see below).
However, over the course of the last 120 years, the range of topics
and issues covered by linguists within anthropology departments and
by other researchers interested in language from an anthropological
perspective has been, in fact, empirically and theoretically rich (Duranti
1997a, 2001a, 2001b, 2004). Linguistic anthropologists have made important contributions to our knowledge of many of the languages of the world
and have reshaped our understanding of what it means to be a speaker
of a language. But the wealth of empirical and theoretical contributions
made by linguistic anthropologists is often hard to grasp for those outside
the field.
In an earlier article (Duranti 2003), in order to make sense of the
diverse approaches and contributions within linguistic anthropology, I
proposed thinking of the discipline in terms of three distinct paradigms.
In this chapter, I carve a different path. Here I take on the challenge
of conceptualizing the field of linguistic anthropology in terms of one
general criterion: ontological commitment. I will argue that despite considerable differences across generations and schools of thought, linguistic anthropologists share some core ideas about a small set of essential
properties of language, all of which are centered upon one basic assumption, namely, that language is a non-neutral medium. The ways in which this
basic assumption has been interpreted and transformed into particular
research projects gives linguistic anthropology its unique identity within
the social sciences and the humanities.
3.2
Ontological commitments
If we understand the ontology of language to be a theory about what it is
that makes language into the kind of entity that it is, then we can use the
term ontological commitment to mean the programmatic interest to pursue
topics and questions that are generated or justified by a particular ontology of language.
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If we examine the full spectrum of disciplines interested in human communication, we find a variety of both explicit and implicit assumptions that
researchers make about the essential qualities of language. For example, an
assumption commonly made by many authors is that language is designed
primarily to serve the purpose of communication. A less common assumption is that the essential property of language is not its communicative function but, rather, recursion1 (Hauser, Chomsky & Fitch 2002). In this chapter
I focus on three essential properties of language that are usually assumed
by linguistic anthropologists: (1) language is a code for representing experience, (2) language is a form of social organization, and (3) language is a
system of differentiation. To each of these three properties corresponds
a different ontological commitment, but when we examine the contributions made by linguistic anthropologists across these three commitments,
we find that they all stem from a higher-order ontological commitment,
namely, a commitment to language as a non-neutral medium.
3.3 Commitment to the study of language
as a non-neutral code
It is common to think of language as a sign system, that is, a system of
correspondences between expressions and meanings. The expressions
may be particular sequential combinations of linguistic sounds (e.g. /
si: t/), written symbols (e.g. seat), or gestures (e.g. the signs used by the
Deaf in particular communities to represent ‘seat’), organized in particular sequences. In this view, linguistic expressions stand for meanings or
they carry meanings. Exactly what “meanings” are or how they could be
described is not something that is agreed upon by all linguistic anthropologists. Some analyze meanings in terms of intentions, others in terms
of conventions. In some cases, meaning is seen as something formed in
a speaker’s mind, to be captured by the notion of cognitive frame. In
other cases, meaning is seen as an emergent structure, an interactional
achievement or an embodied predisposition. It would be impossible to
get all linguistic anthropologists to agree upon one definition of meaning. At the same time, I think they would all concur that by linguistically
encoding human experience, speakers submit to particular ways of categorizing and conceptualizing the world. As we shall see, exactly what
this means varies across authors and theoretical implications. The extent
to which or the contexts within which the encoding possibilities offered
by each language guide or constrain our thinking and doing remains an
important and yet still largely unresolved empirical question.
3.3.1
Classificatory biases
The idea that in using a given language speakers are forced into interpretations of the world that they cannot quite control dates at least as
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far back as the writings of Johann Gottfried Herder and the diplomat
and linguist Wilhelm von Humboldt (see Bauman & Briggs 2003: Ch. 5).
Humboldt provided one of the first clear statements on the relationship
between language and worldview, coupled with the suspicion that one
might never be able to be completely free from the worldview of one’s
native language:
Each tongue draws a circle about the people to whom it belongs, and
it is possible to leave this circle only by simultaneously entering that
of another people. Learning a foreign language ought hence to be the
conquest of a new standpoint in the previously prevailing cosmic attitude of the individual. In fact, it is so to a certain extent, inasmuch as
every language contains the entire fabric of concepts and the conceptual approach of a portion of humanity. But this achievement is not
complete, because one always carries over into a foreign tongue to a
greater or lesser degree one’s own cosmic viewpoint – indeed one’s
personal linguistic pattern. (Humboldt [1836] 1971: 39–40)
It is very likely that Boas’ way of looking at American Indian languages
was influenced by this German anthropological tradition (Bunzl 1996).
Without adopting the nationalist discourse that characterized the writings of Herder and Humboldt – for both of whom each language expresses
the “spirit of a people” or “of a nation” – Boas pointed out that languages
differ in the ways they routinely classify experience or divide up the natural and cultural world that humans inhabit. For example, whereas in
English the idea of WATER is implied by completely different and etymologically unrelated words such as liquid, rain, dew, river, lake, brook, etc.,
in American Indian languages, Boas pointed out, the words for those
very same referents may all share a root or stem meaning something
like ‘water’ or ‘liquid,’ thereby making their common nature an explicit
part of the lexicon (1911: 25). Similarly, some categories that speakers
of European languages assume to be a necessary part of nouns, like, for
example, number or gender, may not be encoded in other languages. As
Boas wrote, “It is entirely immaterial to the Kwakiutl whether he says,
There is a house or There are houses … the idea of singularity or plurality
must be understood either by the context or by the addition of a special
adjective” (1911: 37).
Although Boas did not claim that these differences in the linguistic
encoding of experience have an impact on what speakers think or say
(we need to get to the next generation of linguistic anthropologists for
explicit statements about this issue), he did recognize the influence of
the sounds of our native language on the ways in which we can hear and
appreciate sound distinctions used by speakers of other languages. In a
short but influential article entitled “On Alternating Sounds,” Boas (1889)
pointed out that when listening to the sounds of a language that is new
to them, even expert fieldworkers (as he was) are not immune from the
influence of their native language, as well as from the influence of other
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languages they previously studied, on their ability to perceive sound distinctions they are not familiar with.
3.3.2
The principle of linguistic relativity
Boas’ discussion of the influence of one language on the ability of an
individual to hear subtle differences in the sounds of another language
is the first explicit statement of the ontological commitment to thinking of language as a non-neutral medium. His student Edward Sapir
expanded this line of thought to include the idea that there are unconscious patterns hidden in the arbitrary ways in which languages classify
the world and that these patterns, like the scales used in Western music,
establish the range of choices that are available to us for expressing our
thoughts and getting things done (Sapir 1927). However, as John Lucy
(1992a) explains, Sapir never fully developed these ideas or a method for
testing their implications. This task was left to his student Benjamin Lee
Whorf, an engineer working as an inspector for an insurance company,
who provided more precise guidelines for establishing in which ways
language, thought, and behavior are interconnected. Whorf unequivocally stated that by speaking a given language, we are “parties to an
agreement” to organize experience in the way in which it is codified by
that language and that “we cannot talk at all except by subscribing to
the organization and classification of data which the agreement decrees”
(1956: 214). It is on these premises, that Whorf articulated the principle
of linguistic relativity:
no individual is free to describe nature with absolute impartiality but
is constrained to certain modes of interpretation even while he thinks
himself most free. The person most nearly free in such respects would
be a linguist familiar with very many widely different linguistic systems. As yet no linguist is in any such position. We are thus introduced
to a new principle of relativity, which holds that all observers are not
led by the same physical evidence to the same picture of the universe,
unless their linguistic backgrounds are similar, or can in some way be
calibrated. (Whorf 1956: 214)
One way in which the principle of linguistic relativity operates is
through the use of analogy. For example, having the same word for a
variety of objects or experiences encourages speakers to categorize those
referents as the same or as experientially related to one another.
As suggested by Lucy (1992a, 1996), a superficial reading of Whorf’s
writings could easily lead to questionable generalizations based on
flawed logic or defective methods. Some of the claims often associated
with Whorf or attributed to him are also factually wrong, including the
infamous example that Eskimos have a very high number of words for
‘snow.’ Not only is this not true (Martin 1986), but even if it were true, it
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would not say much about the power of words over their speakers’ perception of the world. It would tell us only that languages vary in how
rich their terminology is for specific domains of experience. The issue is
whether the range of semantic distinctions recognized in the vocabulary
of a language has an effect on its speakers’ ability to recognize distinctions that are not present in their language.
A number of experimental studies have addressed this issue over the
years with mixed results that have generated a number of controversies regarding methods and epistemological assumptions. After a careful review of the existing evidence on linguistic relativity, Lucy (1992b)
produced some compelling results through experiments that became
a model for subsequent studies carried out by fieldworkers at the Max
Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics (Levinson 2003). Lucy (1992b)
tested whether the fact that Yucatec, a Mayan language, marks number
(plural) much less often than English influences Yucatec speakers to pay
less attention to number than English speakers. The results showed that
this was indeed the case. He also tested whether the fact that Yucatec –
like Kwakiutl (see above) – tends to classify nouns in terms of substance
(e.g. nouns tend to have classifiers that indicate the type of material or
substance involved) and English tends to classify in terms of shape (e.g.
river and lake highlight the difference in shape but not the similarity in
substance, i.e. water) had an impact on speakers’ attention to substance
or space. A series of experiments supported Lucy’s prediction about a
different bias in the two groups of speakers. “Yucatec-speakers showed a
strong tendency to group objects on the basis of common material composition and English-speakers showed a strong tendency to group objects
on the basis of common shape” (Lucy 1992b: 157).
These results, together with the results of similar experiments that
were carried out in the 1990s (Gumperz & Levinson 1996; Levinson 2003),
have provided badly needed evidence to counteract the harsh criticism
and ridicule expressed toward Whorf and his followers by some formal
grammarians (Pinker 1994; Baker 1996).
3.3.3
Habituation
Another aspect of the Boas–Sapir–Whorf connection that is important
for the commitment to the study of language as a non-neutral medium
is the idea that our language is a habit. First, this means that, as Whorf
(1956: 138) argues, our language is for us non est disputandum, that is,
something we do not question. Second, it means that we experience language use as something automatic, that is, as “highly probable” or “virtually unavoidable” (Hanks 1996: 238). Habituation includes a routine and
unconscious monitoring of the position of our body, which constitutes
what the German philosopher Edmund Husserl (1989) called “the zero
point of orientation” and is thus crucial for understanding how spatial
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and temporal deixis (e.g. here, there, now, then) functions in any given language (Hanks 1990).
There have been two main trends in dealing with the habitual quality
of language use. In one trend, the routine aspects of linguistic encoding
are made sense of in terms of mental representations. A popular concept
in this approach has been the notion of schema (plural: schemata), an
abstract construct with some basic, sketchy elements that allow for the
recognition and interpretation of a potentially infinite number of cases
(D’Andrade 1995: Ch. 6). Schemata are sometimes conceived of as involving scenes or part-whole relationships that provide background information that is crucial for understanding what is not being made explicit.
For example, the schema for going out for dinner in the USA minimally
includes a restaurant, a certain number of people (which cannot be too
high otherwise it becomes a different event, e.g. a banquet), a range of
menu choices, a price, a transaction in which a bill is requested, provided, and paid, etc. This explains why when someone says to a friend
I went out for dinner last night, the friend can ask questions about who went,
to which restaurant, what food was ordered, and how much it cost. The
availability of this information can be explained by the activation of the
“going out for dinner” schema. Schemata are highly cultural, that is, specific to a given community. Even within the USA, the schema for going
out for dinner in a large metropolitan area might be different from going
out for dinner in a small rural community.
A second and quite different approach to habituation could be described
through the notion of habitus, already understood in medieval philosophy
as derived from Aristotle’s notion of hexis and meaning ‘disposition’ (e.g.
in Duns Scotus’ writings; see Vos 2006). The concept was later adopted by
Edmund Husserl, who used it at the beginning of the twentieth century
to mean “habitual modes of behavior … acquired peculiarities (e.g. the habit
of drinking a glass of wine in the evening)” (1989: 289). These habitual
ways of acting constituted for Husserl “the total style and habitus of the
subject” (1989: 290), a particular kind of practical knowledge connecting a
person with familiar objects (e.g. tools) and activities. It is a way of being
that is experienced passively, whereby I find myself acting in the same
way again and again. In so doing I recognize myself as the same person,
over time (Husserl 1960: 66–67).
A closely related notion of habitus, was made popular in the social sciences by the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1977a), who borrowed
from phenomenology but was also critical of it (Throop & Murphy 2002).2
Bourdieu reframed the notion of habitus as a system of dispositions, “that
is, virtualities, potentialities, eventualities” (Bourdieu & Wacquant 1992:
135) that operate within particular “fields” or historically determined
forms of social organizations (e.g. academia, the law, the movie industry, state bureaucracy) and must be understood with reference to such
fields. Thus, “the powerful producer,” the “demanding director,” or “the
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unreasonable star,” for example, must be understood within the context
of the contemporary movie industry in the USA as a “field.”
Transferred to the analysis of language, this approach allows us to
view language itself as a set of unconscious dispositions rather than
rules, which include attitudes toward particular linguistic choices
(Hanks 2005). For Bourdieu (1991), these choices must be understood
within particular sociohistorical conditions of domination or power
asymmetries. In exhibiting a certain regional or class accent or in choosing a particular lexical description, we are involved in the reproduction
of a communicative system that is anything but neutral. For example,
Bourdieu saw the symbolic capital provided by the ability to use a given
dialect as directly linked to the access that social agents have to particular institutional resources (e.g. who is accepted to certain schools or to
certain professions).
Ochs, Solomon and Sterponi (2005) argue that a given habitus can be
limiting in terms of the range of new communicative situations to which
people can adapt. In particular, they suggested that Euro-American habitual ways of communicating with children, which include “face-to-face
body orientation, speech as the primary semiotic medium for the child,
and caregivers’ slowed speech tempo and profuse praise” (p. 573) may
make it difficult to find effective ways of communicating with children
who have certain kinds of neuro-developmental conditions such as
severe autism.
Implicit in this line of work is that the notion of habitus has become
associated with a conceptualization of language as a practice that is quite
different from the ways in which language has been conceived of in the
literature on linguistic relativity as discussed above. In this new perspective, which characterizes what I have elsewhere called the “third paradigm” in linguistic anthropology, language is viewed as being composed
of more than just lexicon and grammar. It also includes communicative
resources such as prosody, tempo, volume, gestures, body posture, writing tools and conventions, and visualization (see, e.g., Goodwin 2000;
Finnegan 2002).
3.3.4
Overcoming the linguistic bias
An important question implicitly raised by the vast body of literature
on language as a non-neutral medium for representing experience is
whether it implies that speakers could never overcome whatever biases
or predispositions are implicit in the language to which they were socialized as a child. I believe that there are theoretical and empirical grounds
to answer unequivocally no to this question.
Theoretically speaking, there are two properties of language as a
human faculty that provide us with the means to overcome, at least
under certain special circumstances, the linguistic biases that we inherit
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or assume by the very act of adopting a particular language (in the broad
sense mentioned above). One property is reflexivity, that is, humans’ ability to reflect upon their own actions, including language use. Reflexivity
is a fundamental property of the human condition that includes the ability to reflect on the meaning of our actions and to see ourselves through
the eyes of an Other. The first ability is implied in Husserl’s (1931) notion
of “bracketing” of our everyday experience and in any kind of problemsolving, including the mundane problem-solving found in collaborative
storytelling (Ochs, Smith & Taylor 1989). The second ability is presupposed in Hegel’s notion of “double consciousness” (Hegel ([1807] 1967:
251; see also Du Bois [1903] 1986: 3), in Husserl’s notions of intersubjectivity (Husserl 1960), and in subsequent developments in European and
North American philosophy (e.g. Heidegger 1962; Merleau-Ponty 1962;
Taylor 1991).
Reflexivity is routinely manifested through language (Lucy 1993), as
shown by the fact that the language faculty includes a metalanguage
faculty, that is, the possibility of making language itself an object of discussion and speculation (Silverstein 2001). We ordinarily use language to
talk about language (That was a great speech! I am not sure what you mean by
“democracy”) and all natural-historical languages offer a variety of ways
of framing reported speech (e.g. I said “no”; I said that I didn’t want to do
it; I said “I don’t want to do it”). Reflexive speech is a crucial resource for
problem-solving and for moral evaluation.
The second property of language that helps us overcome linguistic
biases is the ongoing nature of language socialization (Ochs & Schieffelin
1984). The fact that we continue to be receptive to new socializing agents
and activities in our adult life is something that is often ignored when
people talk in terms of worldview or other concepts that are meant to
capture the language–culture connection. New life experiences continually affect our ways of seeing, hearing, and doing. We not only have the
ability and the chance to acquire new habits, but we also have the opportunity to reflect on our past, current, and potential ways of being. The
temporal quality of our social life implies an inner life of reflection in
which what we are now can be seen from the point of view of what
we might have been and from the point of view of what we might in
fact become. This temporally unfolding “inner life” is often expressed
through speech and other symbolic means.
Empirically speaking, there are observable conditions that show how
ordinary people can and do move in and out of sociohistorically determined and interpretable ways of speaking. For example, many children
in the world grow up multilingual and therefore must manage different ways of representing experience. These children are more likely to
become aware of the differences in how languages classify experience
and favor certain ways of thinking, feeling, and acting. Adults can also
learn a new language and sometimes even think in their second (or third)
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language, showing that one can adopt other ways of speaking and thinking later in life. Under special circumstances, which need more attention
from researchers, we can also train ourselves (or be trained by others) to
become aware of the sociocultural and political implications of our ways
of speaking. While recognizing the difficulty of overcoming communicative habits, we must not be blind to those cases in which individuals do
manage to change. For example, while making their general points about
the limits of the habitus, Ochs, Solomon, and Sterponi (2005) examine
the case of a mother in the USA who managed to overcome her previous
communicative habitus and acquire a new one in order to communicate
with her autistic child.
Speakers can devise new linguistic practices (including new expressions) to overcome prejudice or other negative social attitudes that might
be embedded in the language they have been speaking or writing. This is
evident in the current movement to change the default use of the masculine pronoun he in English and the increase in the adoption of the plural
they. In some cases, the experience of reading an article about the racist
implications of certain linguistic choices can also have an impact on individuals and their language habits – this has been true for some readers of
Jane Hill’s (2001a) discussion of the negative stereotyping implicit in the
use of Spanish words like macho in the midst of English sentences.
The above discussion suggests that if we want to overcome language
biases, we need a double commitment. On the one hand, we need to move
beyond the naïve view that by simply making people aware of their language habits, they will be able to get them to change them or that speakers can easily become aware of the social and cultural implications of
their language habits. We know that such habits are strong and resistant
to change for both personal and institutional reasons. Giving them up
requires particular social circumstances and individual life experiences
and skills. On the other hand, we also need to overcome the deterministic, fatalistic, and cynical version of linguistic relativity, whereby our
language is indeed our “prison” from which we cannot escape. This is not
empirically true and our task as researchers is to better understand the
contexts under which this happens.
3.4
Commitment to the study of language
as a form of social organization
An intellectual revolution took place in the 1950s and early 1960s regarding how language was conceptualized and studied. After the publication
of two posthumous works of two philosophers – Ludwig Wittgenstein’s
(1953) unfinished Philosophical Investigations and J. L. Austin’s (1975) lectures How To Do Things With Words – an increasing number of scholars
began to see language predominantly as action rather than mostly (or
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exclusively) as a code to express ideas or represent events. Austin argued
that when we use words we are engaged in a “field of actions” (1975: 76)
and we must distinguish the “meaning” (sense and reference) from the
“force” of an utterance, that is, what an utterance is meant to accomplish
or, informally speaking, do. Wittgenstein conceptualized language use
as a “form of life” and said that the meaning of words must be understood within particular activities (Duranti 1997a: Ch. 7). To illustrate this
approach, he used the notion of “language game,” to be understood as a
primitive or basic way of using language. Examples of language games
include elliptical exchanges such as that between two builders while
involved in physical labor (e.g. slab! Mortar!) and a series of utterances
such as (a) all men are mortal, (b) Socrates is a man; and (c) Therefore Socrates
is mortal used by logicians to argue about meaning and inference. For
Wittgenstein, no one language game is more important than the others
for understanding how language works.
The idea that language is not only a way of encoding knowledge but
also a way of acting in the world had already been articulated by other
scholars before the publications of Wittgenstein’s and Austin’s writings. In anthropology, the Polish-born, British anthropologist Bronislaw
Malinowski published an important essay in 1923 where he claimed that
among “primitive” people (e.g. the Trobrianders he lived with and studied during World War I), language was more an instrument for action
than for intellectual reflection. He later revised his position to claim that
it was true for all people that “[w]ords are part of action and they are
equivalents to actions” (Malinowski 1935: 9).
Building on these insights and in interaction with a number of innovative scholars (e.g. Kenneth Burke, Erving Goffman, John Gumperz,
William Labov), starting in the mid-1960s Dell Hymes began to alter
the object of study of earlier generations of linguistic anthropologists
by shifting the attention from “language” (a system, e.g. a grammar) to
“speaking” (an activity, e.g. telling a story). Building on Roman Jakobson’s
(1960) notion of the “speech event,” Hymes initiated a new way of doing
linguistic fieldwork and collecting linguistic data. The choice was no
longer between writing grammars (for linguists) and writing ethnographies (for cultural or social anthropologists). It was instead to write
about what is left out of both, namely, the ways in which our ways of speaking
organize our social life.
A crucial concept employed in this effort was the notion of the
speech event understood as an event that is predominantly defi ned by
the use of language (Hymes 1972b). Examples of speech events abound:
greetings, compliments, requests, excuses, lectures, phone calls, interviews, and so on. The world over, humans are constantly interacting,
trying to get things done, through language. If we removed talk from
our daily life, we would be removing much of what we actually “do.”
In this sense, language use is constitutive of our social life, that is,
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speaking does not just happen in social interaction, speaking itself is
social interaction.
Through our engagement in certain types of speech exchanges, our
lives get organized in particular ways and not in others. When someone
gives a lecture, others are expected (and in some cases required) to be an
audience. This is a social commitment that binds participants and makes
them accountable for how they behave. For example, audience members
are expected to listen quietly to a lecture and react under appropriate
circumstances, e.g. laugh when the speaker makes a joke or raise their
hands when the speaker asks for a show of hands. Similarly, when someone greets us, we need to pay attention and respond in appropriate ways
(ignoring a greeting is definitely an option, but an option that has social
consequences!) (Duranti 1997b). As in the case of lectures or greetings,
when we want to ask for a favor or argue a case in front of the law or any
kind of state or local institution, the language that we use is not added
to our request or to our plea. It is an essential part of it. If you remove
speaking, the event would not be one. This is true of a long list of social
events in our lives, probably in a great majority of them.
3.4.1
Conversation analysis
In the 1960s no one could have agreed more with the idea that language is a form of social organization than a group of sociologists who
became known as “conversation analysts.” This explains the inclusion
of articles by Harvey Sacks and Emanuel Schegloff in Gumperz and
Hymes’ (1972) edited volume Directions in Sociolinguistics: The Ethnography of
Communication. Sacks and Schegloff were arguing within sociology that
one should study conversation as a prominent site of social organization. They showed that conversational turn-taking is rule-governed and
at the same time sufficiently flexible to leave room for individuals to
engage in different kinds of activities, from establishing one’s identity
to telling a story, from fixing a potential misunderstanding to making
requests. In addition, turn-taking leaves room for individual and contextual variation. For example, while the ways in which two people start or
end a telephone conversation is highly predictable, each time they do so
they must take into consideration contextually relevant information and
must not sound too abrupt or unmotivated. In other words, the openings
and closings of conversation must be achieved by the parties involved in
the conversation (Schegloff 1968, 1986; Schegloff & Sacks 1973).
Conversation analysts started from the study of telephone conversations to arrive at generalizations about the underlying principles (or
rules) that allow speakers to collaboratively engage in any conversation.
From the observation of the ways in which speakers coordinate their
actions in conversations, Sacks and Schegloff identified a number of principles through which turn-taking is managed. They argued that these
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principles govern any kind of social action done through talk, including greetings, opening and closing a conversation, making, accepting, or
rejecting requests, offers, compliments, and so on.
Although their methodology went against several of the methodological assumptions made by linguists at that time, William O. Bright,
a linguistic anthropologist and then editor of Language, the prestigious
journal of the Linguistic Society of America, nevertheless accepted for
publication the first major article on the organization of turn-taking in
English conversations (Sacks, Schegloff & Jefferson 1974). A few years later,
Bright published another article by the same authors on the organization
of self- and other-correction in conversation (Schegloff, Jefferson & Sacks
1977). Conversation analysts’ finding on the sequential organization of
speaking in spontaneous conversation inspired linguists and psychologists who were interested in discourse and language use (or “performance” as Chomsky called it) and who did not want to limit themselves to
taking the sentence as the largest unit of analysis.
Since then, the insights of conversation analysts have been adopted
by a growing number of grammarians and discourse analysts (e.g.
Thompson & Couper-Kuhlen 2005) and have made it into the core of linguistic anthropology, originally through the work of researchers like
Charles Goodwin (e.g. 1981, 1994) and Marjorie H. Goodwin (e.g. 1990,
2006) and through the study of children’s discourse and language socialization (Ochs & Schieffelin 1979, 1983, 1984).
In his dissertation work, Charles Goodwin showed that the type of
speech act that speakers perform is sensitive to the type of recipient they
end up securing through eye-gaze (Goodwin 1981). The observable fact
that within the same turn an utterance that started as an offer of information may end up being transformed into a request for confirmation
shows that speakers are very sensitive to their interactional context and
adjust their social moves accordingly. From the point of view of language
as a non-neutral medium, the analysis of conversational interaction demonstrates that any kind of previously conceived goal held by speakers
must adjust to the contingencies of the here-and-now as mediated by the
principles of conversational turn-taking.
3.4.2
Genres
The category “genre” was one of the components of Hymes’ (1972b)
SPEAKING Model3 and became a major object of inquiry among ethnographers of speaking who looked at native categorizations of speaking genres (e.g. lecture, lesson, sermon, prayer, speech, story, joke) and
at the social functions of different genres within a variety of events.
Researchers focused on the structural properties of genres (e.g. Bauman &
Sherzer 1974; Sherzer 1983) and on their emerging features (e.g. Hanks
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1987; Briggs & Bauman 1992). Like the events in which they are used
(Irvine 1979), it was shown that genres themselves differ in the ways in
which they allow for variation and multiplicity of voices and positions
(Bakhtin 1986; Briggs & Bauman 1992; Bauman 2004). Ethnographers of
communication went beyond the older conceptualization of poetic genres in terms of texts and studied them in terms of performance (e.g.
Keenan 1973; Bauman 1975; Duranti 1992a). An awareness of the interactional demands and consequences of the performance of a given genre
is also important for our understanding of the role of genres as organizing principles of social action.
The study of genres offers the opportunity to study how verbal performance is also linked to other modalities, including music, and how
the “poetic” function of language (Jakobson 1960) is pervasive in human
communication (Banti and Giannattasio 2004; Alim 2006).
In the documentation and analysis of Samoan village councils or fono,
I discovered that the organization of speaking, with its aesthetic canons
and its long turns (which I called “macro-turns”) sequentially organized
in terms of status and relative rank, allowed for social control of the
expression of anger and other negative emotions and favored a limited
exchange of information about the circumstances or causes of a given
confl ict or problem (Duranti 1994). In the Samoan fono, speakers are
expected to embed the discussion of the issues of the day within long
sequences of esoteric proverbs and metaphors that recognize the special (or “sacred”) nature of the occasion and the special status of the
participants (all of whom are title-holders in the community). By the
time a speaker gets to say what he thinks about the issue at hand, much
has been said to establish a mood of reciprocal respect and to stress the
importance of social harmony. The language used in the Samoan village
councils I documented shows that the verbal organization of the event
(e.g. order of speakers, length of turns, internal organization of each
macro-turn, indirect discourse, use of metaphors and proverbs) is an
instrument of control for what is debatable and who can talk about what
and when. This does not mean, however, that traditional oratory always
reproduces the status quo and makes logical argumentation impossible
(Bloch 1975). Some of the general principles that underlie the different
positions taken by participants are sometimes made explicit, like when
someone says that what is being debated expresses a confl ict between
tradition and modern institutions, for example in the choice between
secret ballot and decision by consensus in a general election.
In sum, ethnographers of communication have shown that the variety
of genres found within and across societies corresponds to the variety of
social contexts that those genres help establish and control. As originally predicted by Hymes, ways of speaking organize ways of being in the
world.
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3.4.3
Registers
Registers are another example of a class of linguistic phenomena that
are shaped by and at the same time organize social interaction. A register is a publicly recognized cluster of linguistic features (e.g. pronunciation, specific words, syntactic constructions, morphology, intonation
patterns, sometimes also gestures) associated with particular cultural
practices and types of people who engage in them (e.g. radio announcers,
waiters, medical doctors, school teachers, street vendors, fl ight attendants). Each individual has a repertoire of registers or a “register range”
that provides him or her with a corresponding range of identities and
access to specific activities and institutional roles (Agha 2004, 2007).
In some cases a given register implies (and selects) a particular type of
listener. Thus, for example, “foreigner talk” is a type of simplified register used in some speech communities to talk to foreigners (Ferguson
1975). Similarly, “baby talk” is the way in which parents speak to infants
in some countries (Ferguson 1964), but not in all (Ochs & Schieffelin
1984). “Baby talk” (or “Motherese”) is characterized by simplification
of phonology, morphology (e.g. syllable structure), and syntax, slowing down of speech, exaggeration of intonation and positive affect. The
basic principle of this register is that adults adjust to what they believe
to be the cognitive and linguistic capacity of the infant. In the abovementioned article by Ochs, Solomon and Sterponi (2005), baby talk is
re-analyzed as a type of register that is ill-suited for communicating with
children affected by severe autism because these children have a harder
time decoding words whose sounds are being stretched out and tend to
withdraw when presented with an intense stimulus like the exaggerated
positive affect displayed by the therapists. This kind of research provides
strong evidence for the hypothesis that ways of speaking have an impact
on what participants in the interaction can accomplish cognitively and
interactionally.
More generally, this line of work shows that in addition to being a
medium for representing experience, language plays a crucial role in the
constitution of the social context in which it is used.
3.5 Commitment to the study of language
as a system of differentiation
Starting in the 1950s, and partly under the influence of the work done
by Charles Ferguson and John Gumperz in multilingual communities in
India, linguists started to focus on diversity within the same community
of speakers and to question the ways in which languages had been studied within structuralist linguistics. Ferguson and Gumperz (1960) introduced the notion of variety as a way to rethink the traditional notions of
language and dialect. They proposed a number of hypotheses regarding
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how language varieties are used to perform certain social activities
including the expression of solidarity and the communication of the
perceived status of one’s interlocutors.
This new focus on language varieties was groundbreaking. Instead
of thinking about linguistic diversity in terms of cognitive categories or worldviews (the way in which Humboldt or Whorf would have
done), Ferguson’s and Gumperz’s discussion of multilingualism in India
brought to the forefront the linguistic bases of social prestige and the
differential access that speakers have to socially prestigious linguistic
varieties.
William Labov’s research on New York City as a speech community
built on Ferguson and Gumperz’s work – as well as on work in dialectology and historical change – and established the foundations of quantitative urban sociolinguistics (Labov 1966). The following decades saw a
fluorescence of sociolinguistic research on linguistic differentiation and
on its implications for the ways in which members use language, mostly
unconsciously, to establish and negotiate their status in society (see the
chapters in this book).
Meanwhile, linguistic anthropologists continued to carry out fieldwork
in (mostly) small communities focusing on how language is used to establish, maintain, and, more rarely, challenge, social differentiation. At first
by using participant observation and interviews with native speakers
and later by integrating these traditional anthropological methods with
audio (and, eventually, visual) recordings, linguistic anthropologists
documented ritual as well as everyday interactions to establish ways in
which linguistic choices were used to negotiate social status or rank (e.g.
Irvine 1974; Brown & Levinson 1978), social identities (e.g. Zentella 1990;
Morgan 1994; Errington 1998; Bucholtz & Hall 2004a), and the construction of gender roles (e.g. Philips, Steele &Tanz 1987; Goodwin 1990; Ochs
1992; Kulick 2003).
3.5.1
Language ideologies
The commitment to language as a system of differentiation was further
solidified in the 1980s with a focus on the study of language ideologies
(Woolard & Schieffelin 1994; Kroskrity 2000). Building on the work of
Michael Silverstein on language ideology and metapragmatics (e.g.
Silverstein 1979, 1993), a number of linguistic anthropologists explored
the practical implications of speakers’ beliefs about how their own language is structured and used. They found linguistic purism across a number of communities and the utilization of linguistic choice as a weapon
for discrimination (Schieffelin, Woolard & Kroskrity 1998).
As summarized by Judith Irvine and Susan Gal (2000), the basic
assumption made by those working on language ideologies is that there
is no “view from nowhere” and, instead, any perspective on language
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is positioned, that is, is imbued with sociopolitical as well as personal
investments. Irvine and Gal discuss three recurring semiotic processes
through which ideology is manifested in language: iconization, fractal recursivity, and erasure. They argue that speakers interpret certain
linguistic features as indications of particular qualities of persons or
groups (iconization), project the difference at one level (e.g. between two
different groups) into differences at another level (e.g. between registers
within one language) (fractal recursivity), and ignore or reduce complexities through “erasure,” as when linguistic homogeneity is assumed or
predicated despite widespread linguistic heterogeneity.
Research on language ideology is closely related to but still distinct
from Pierre Bourdieu’s (1991) concept of symbolic domination. In his view,
the social value of the language varieties that we speak (e.g. the dialect or
dialects we are comfortable with, the register range) is given by the place
of such varieties within a linguistic market that the individual cannot
control. Therefore, for Bourdieu, as users of particular language varieties
we are the victims of a system of social discrimination that has profound
consequences for our chances to succeed in society.
3.5.2
Differentiation through narrative activity
An important development of the 1980s in linguistic anthropology was
the broadening of the area of inquiry to include, in addition to elicited
speech (e.g. through interviews) and the language of ritual encounters,
spontaneous everyday conversation (e.g. Tannen 1981; Gumperz 1982a;
Brenneis 1984; Haviland 1986). A few pioneering scholars extended the
use of video recording from the controlled context of laboratory experimentation into the homes of the people to examine the role of language
in the daily construction of identities and social differentiation. A successful example of this type of analysis is the work on spontaneous
multiparty narrative activity among family members carried out by a
team of researchers directed by Elinor Ochs at the University of Southern
California in the 1980s. After coding the narrative segments in terms
of the roles that family members assumed within a narrative activity,
the researchers showed that fathers tend to be the preferred recipients
of narratives of personal experience and they are also the most likely
problematizers, that is, the ones who question the actions reported in a
narrative. At the same time, fathers are the least likely and mothers are
the most likely to be problematizees, that is, in the role of those who have
their actions questioned and scrutinized by other family members. Ochs
and Taylor (1995) interpret these findings as evidence of the collective
construction, within the family, of the father as the judge or evaluator
of family members’ actions. Taking inspiration from the work of Michel
Foucault on social surveillance, they claim that, through narrative activity, the father is co-constructively positioned “to be the ultimate purveyor
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Linguistic anthropology
45
and judge of other family members’ actions, conditions, thoughts, and
feelings” (p. 438).
Another important context for the study of narrative activities has
been classroom interaction. For example, Patricia Baquedano-Lopez
(2001, 2004) studied how the story of the apparition of Nuestra Señora
de Guadalupe is told during religious instruction in a Catholic parish in
Los Angeles. She shows that the teachers use questions and a number of
other contextualization cues (Gumperz 1982a) to establish parallelisms
between the characters in the story and the children in the class. The
ways in which the telling of the narrative is organized provide an opportunity for students to learn literacy skills and for teachers to provide the
students with alternative social identities.
3.5.3
Honorifics
Given the interest in social stratification within anthropology at large,
it is not surprising that linguistic anthropologists have always been
attracted to the study of “honorifics,” understood as the language used to
talk to, about, and around people of high social rank (Agha 1994; Irvine
1998). This theme had been discussed under the rubric of “social deixis”
in pragmatics (Levinson 1983) and covered such phenomena as the use
of alternative address forms (e.g. tu and vous in French), verbal morphology in Korean and Japanese, and special lexical items in Javanese and
Samoan (Errington 1998; Duranti 1992b).
The major change to this interest in the 1980s was an attention to the
use of honorifics in interaction and their role in mitigating social conflict or re-defining social identities. For example, the use of the Samoan
respectful words (`upu fa`aaloalo) was shown to be both context-sensitive
and context-creating (Duranti 1992b). The same individuals in the same
setting shifted from using ordinary words to respectful words and then
back to ordinary words depending on whether they were speaking
before, during, or after the meeting of the village council ( fono). In some
cases, the use of respectful words could be used to evoke particular positional identities and social relations regardless of whether the person
being addressed or talked about actually held the official status typically
indexed by the term used. This suggests that linguistic features (e.g. lexicon, morphology, syntax) are not just indexes of qualities of individuals
but also indexes of qualities of activities. Certain members of a given
community are linguistically marked as distinct and worthy of special
respect only in certain types of interactions and only when they locate
themselves in certain places (see, e.g., Keating 1998). The variability
found in the use of honorifics in spontaneous interaction highlights the
fact that participants have opportunities for negotiation and manipulation of social differentiation through the linguistic resources they have
available to them.
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ALESSANDRO DURANTI
3.6 Conclusions
By thinking about language as a non-neutral medium, we can see both
continuity and discontinuity in the history of linguistic anthropology.
The continuity is represented by what I referred to as an “ontological
commitment” to language as a non-neutral medium, that is, a tool that
plays a role in the ways in which speakers think and act as well as in
the ways in which an activity is socially organized. The discontinuity
is represented by different concepts of language, from a coding system
(e.g. for classifying the surrounding world as well as the experience that
people have of such a world) to a form of social organization (e.g. a way
of doing things that defi nes the activity as well as the roles and relations
of the participants), and, finally, to an instrument of differentiation,
capable of reproducing inequality and discrimination. Each concept is
the product of different theoretical and methodological perspectives.
Of the three, the third, namely, language as an instrument of social
differentiation, is the closest to past and current concerns within sociolinguistics. At the same time, all three concepts and their respective
ontological commitments are crucial for understanding language as a
medium for the constitution of society and culture.
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4
The social psychology of
language: a short history
W. Peter Robinson and Abigail Locke
4.1
Introduction
Systematic study of the social psychology of language and its utilization
is still in its youth and consequently displays some of the turbulence as
well as the vigor and enthusiasm of early adolescence. There were no
books or journals dedicated to the subject until the second half of the
twentieth century. Even now, academics specializing in the field are to
be numbered only in the low hundreds, but they can use the work of
many others for its advancement. The slow rate of expansion of interest
is a disappointment to those pioneers who were astounded originally at
the almost universal neglect of language and its use in social psychology
courses and textbooks. Still, the field attracts no more than a handful of
citations in most standard social psychology texts. Given the pervasiveness of speaking, listening, reading, and writing in the real lives of real
people, it remains astonishing that so many students of human behavior
and experience can continue to neglect its relevance. In much of the data
they collect and work with, they treat it simply as a channel through
which the thoughts, feelings, and attitudes of participants are transmitted transparently.
Nevertheless, much more has been achieved in advancing knowledge
in the area than can be accommodated in a single chapter, and the
coverage here may be justly criticized as inadequate and unfortunate in
what it omits. Attention is paid to perceived desirable correctives for the
future as well as to the successes of the past. Some of the hazards and
difficulties which have beset us preface the body of the review. Learning
from the mistakes and weaknesses of the past is a healthy recipe for
doing better in the future, especially since some of those mistakes have
led to continuing unnecessary and stultifying conflicts, whereas in fact
they could have encouraged constructive articulation and integration
rather than exclusion and rejection. Many of these conflicts have been
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methodological and relate to theoretical orientations, terminological
and conceptual matters, the comparative usefulness of different methods, disagreements as to what can constitute data to be explained, and
the tightness of the relationships between processed results and the
explanations offered for these. Some of the weaknesses are more readily
addressed than others.
Fortunately, delimiting the substantive language topics that need to
benefit from a social psychological perspective is not problematic. Most
topics require a multidisciplinary approach for their eventual understanding, and if sociolinguistics can be agreed as the term to cover the
overall scope of such concerns, the social psychological perspective has
to be articulated with and juxtaposed by contributions from anthropology, sociology, and other sociocultural disciplines on one side, those
from linguistics on a second side, and perhaps personality and general
psychology on a third – with language and its utilization as the uniting
focus of the triad. Such different levels of analysis and perspectives are
probably always necessary for comprehensive explanations of human
behavior and experience. It is just wrong-headed to view either reductionist perspectives down to brains and genes or wholly sociological analyses as being more basic or important than these others.
Of the branches of linguistics, pragmatics shares most concerns with
social psychology, and it has been desirable for some years now to work
out just how this sharing is to be most fruitfully exploited. In what ways
are their explanations alike, and in what ways different? If pragmatics
is at the same level of analysis in linguistics as phonology/graphology,
grammar, and semantics, then is it the case that pragmatics is social
psychology conducted by linguists, whereas social psychology of language is linguistics studied by psychologists? Even more serious is the
need to relate both to semiotics and communication studies.
Mundane in comparison is the question of when there will be agreement on the connotations of technical terms. Should discourse analysis
include text analysis or should the latter retain its written distinctiveness?
It would be helpful if those social psychologists who confuse language
and speech as technical terms would follow the usage of linguists. French
has the advantage of the three terms langage, lanque, parole, but English
does separate “speech” from “language.” (In this chapter S will serve for
“Speaker,” L for “Listener,” and O for “Other.”) It is unfortunate too that
W for “Writer” and R for “Reader” do not figure more often, when what
is written about frequently refers to both modes. Historically, keeping
populations illiterate has been a major means employed by power elites
to ensure the maintenance of their wealth, power, and status – and it
still is.
More worrying as barriers to progress are the methodological issues.
Of these those of epistemology are perhaps the deepest. Whilst disciplines may have to differ as to what can count as sound and reasonable
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The social psychology of language: a short history
49
evidence when evaluating putative descriptions and explanations, for
any discipline it is essential to achieve a consensus on the criteria to
be applied. In the early 1950s, linguists wasted much time arguing
whether or not Chomsky (1957) was writing a “transformational grammar” whose utility depended upon brains functioning in accordance
with its implications or not. More generally, we can ask what are to
count as raw data? Which methods of data collection are to be treated
as yielding reliable and valid data: from whom, where and when, following what kinds of procedures with what kinds of materials? How
are data to be coded and subsequently processed? To what extent can
defensible generalizations and explanations be inferred from the processed results?
For social psychologists each of these questions has caused difficulties. To excuse British social psychologists somewhat, their history has
witnessed a Darwinian struggle. They adopted experiments prematurely as their dominant modus operandi in order to gain acceptance by
physiologically grounded psychology departments. Hence, case studies
and observations of “natural” everyday behavior and people’s reports of
their experiences were bypassed because they did not yield objective,
quantifiably processed results with tightly supported interpretations.
Much later, when some academics began to look at naturally occurring
conversations, including such phenomena as turn-taking and adjacency
pairs, there were no social psychology journals which would accept their
articles; they had to set up their own. In part this political history is
responsible for one of the polarized binary oppositions among social
psychologists of language. On the one hand are experimenters collecting highly constrained answers to constraining questions and processing the results with parametric statistical packages; and on the other
hand text analysts working bottom upwards with cautious insights and
complex grounded theory and other interpretive techniques to move
toward plausible understandings. Eventually both sets of stories have to
be consistent with each other; they are dealing with the same human
activities.
From whom and where can reliable and valid materials be collected?
To pose this question as a challenge, can analyses be generalized if the
data are provided predominantly by unilingual middle-class Englishspeaking 18- to 23-year-old undergraduate students of psychology fulfilling grade requirements? Fortunately, many of the studies reported here
did not and could not use the speech of student participants. However,
for their social psychological explanations, psychologists have relied on
variables and theoretical frameworks derived in the main from students
with prosperous backgrounds in some of the world’s most individualistic, oligarchic, capitalist cultures. What is worse is that instead of accepting that other cultures might follow alternative ways of thinking and
feeling, members of those cultures are either squeezed into our frames
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PETER ROBINSON AND ABIGAIL LOCKE
of reference or treated as deviant or abnormal. The same can happen to
subcultures in our own societies.
Decisions about which methods of data collection are to be used have
to be evaluated against a “fitness for purpose” criterion applied in relation to the research questions posed. When investigators are exploring a
new field of inquiry, one would expect them to observe persons engaging
in the relevant kind of activities and to talk with them and others about
these activities. William James is alleged to have commented that to
examine religious behavior, it was sensible to start with very religious
persons at their most religious moments rather than hand out questionnaires to atheists. Surveys, field studies, and experiments should be
introduced only after a considerable provisional understanding of the
issues has been developed. What this means for data processing is that
initial coding systems need to be comprehensive and detailed, and subject to revision and rejection. Necessarily complicated systems for dissecting phonology and grammar are available for those two branches
of linguistics, and semantics and pragmatics are following comparable
aspirations. In any later synthesizing descriptions and explanations, the
whole range of suitable methods should generate mutually consistent
results, with multiple methods being used whenever possible.
It is a false dilemma to oppose quantitative versus qualitative statistics. There is no quantitative method which does not rely on qualitative distinctions of variables, and any qualitative technique requires
a potential incidence of at least one case for any variable. Both kinds
have parameters to be met by the data. Suitability and fitness for purpose have to be criterial in deciding which to employ. The logic of inference is also the same in all observational studies. If A, then B. Observe B.
Therefore A could be causally related to B. While people see the hazards
of causal inferences from correlational studies, they are prone to delude
themselves about the power of experiments, which cannot escape the
backwards inference from effect to cause. A more recent delusion is that
structural equation modeling has causal implications in excess of its
mathematical properties.
With the rise of the data-processing capacities of PCs and their even
more powerful relatives, the easiest, fastest, and cheapest form of empirical study in social psychology requires participants to complete Optical
Mark readable questionnaires made up of strongly constrained questions
with multiple-choice options. These can be pushed through statistical
packages such as SPSS (Statistical Package for the Social Sciences), with
subsequent attention being paid only to associations and differences
achieving some lowish level of departure from chance expectation.
Questions about non-linearity of associations, non-compliance with
guidelines about levels of measurement, narrowness of variable range,
non-normality of distributions of scores are seldom posed. Wondering
about participants in “the error variance” to see how and why they
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51
might not be conforming to any sociolinguistic hypotheses being tested
is rare, although, along with appropriate debriefing, this used to be a useful means of developing ideas and reasons for theoretical revisions and
future investigations.
Theoretical considerations have been left to last because they occasion
the deepest and most difficult conflicts. It is true that human sciences
have limitations which other branches of pretending knowledge do not.
If one credits human beings with some measure of apparent free will
as well as having genetic and sociocultural heritages, then the extent
of predictability of behavior and experience is thereby constrained. If
one accepts that human beings can and do modify their behavior in
the light of new knowledge and understanding, then linguistics, psychology, and sociology have complications that plants and panthers do not.
Predictability is certainly more problematic.
A further difficulty is that both psychology and sociology suffer from
too much diversity in their basic theoretical orientations. It may be
healthy to have more than one theory about as yet ill-understood constructs, but to have texts reviewing thirty-two theories of personality
(Engler 2003) looks to be conceptually profligate and deserving of some
Oscar Wilde witticism. Such diversity renders it very difficult for sociolinguists to use personality and individual differences as a level of explanation to account for some of the variance in the use of some features
of language. What to do about types of human motivation will emerge
as a particular difficulty in this chapter. Social psychology has fewer
core theoretical frameworks, but those it has are set at levels of abstraction and generality that render hypothesis testing a ritualistic device
rather than a serious discriminating activity. Between them, attribution
theory, social categorization theory, the social cognition approach, and
social representations have spawned hundreds of empirical studies that
do not appear to have accumulated established enduring reliable predictive capacities.
Linguistics has long accepted that languages change and their uses
change (Crystal’s [2003] encyclopedia gives a general summary, and his
Stories of English [2004b] a fascinating account of English in particular).
The Herculean seven volumes of Orton, Sanderson, and Widdowson
(1978) will be durable as history but not as present-day descriptions.
Dictionaries are revised periodically to include innovations and changes
in meanings and uses of old words. The grammatical roles of words
can change. Grammatical and phonological “rules” change. Arguments
about correctness typically have more to do with the vested interests
of conservative and revolutionary forces than with correctness per se
(Crystal 2004b). As will be illustrated later, changes can be quite rapid if
the culture is ready to accept those changes and they are backed by government legislation. In the last half-century the most dramatic change
has been in the reduction in gender and sex discriminatory language
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and its use in those countries most concerned with greater equalization
of opportunity for members of certain social categories. As with all sociolinguistic changes, however, there can still be subversion of the progress
at the level of action. The more general theoretical principle remains
intact: that the existence of discriminatory language is invariably being
a marker of behavioral significance. When certain social groups change
their social status, others can remain marked.
With these methodological difficulties aired, they can be held backstage, but not out of mind. We can switch into the some of the positive achievements in the social psychology of language, with the regret
that there have been too many to do more than offer apt illustrations
of a few. Within each of these and within a general context of how and
why people are doing whatever they are doing where and when with language, attempts will be made to answer up to five questions:
1. Which language units and structures are selected in which sequence?
2. What do these particular selections mean (semantics) and what are
their significance for interpretation and reaction/action (pragmatics)?
3. Why are these selections being made?
4. How does context of situation as expressed in Hymes’ (1967) SPEAKING
mnemonic relate to selections? (Setting, Participants, Ends – objectives and outcomes, Act sequence – characteristics in respect of both
topics and form, Key – tone and manner, Instrumentalities – channels
and codes (language, dialect, etc.), Norms of interaction and interpretation – conventions and rules, Genre, e.g. sales pitch, prayer.
5. How does the culture and language set limits to what it is obligatory,
feasible, and possible to express?
The particular topics selected are:
1. Terms of address and reference;
2. Regulating the behavior of others with commands and requests;
3. Regulating the behavior and beliefs of others about causation and
blame;
4. Marking personal and social identity and regulating social relations,
particularly in respect of social distance and power;
5. Organizing everyday conversation and capturing its subtleties.
Most of the studies included here focus on units and structures at or
below the grammatical level of the sentence (free clause) or at the level
of generalized and pervasive features of speech such as “accent,” but in
the last section the perspective of extended discourse re-integrates the
bits and pieces into the everyday talk that we produce and experience,
and without which the bits and pieces would have no useful existence. It
is appropriate and necessary to ask about units and structures, but there
has to be a reuniting with talk and other forms of communication as
they operate in the real world.
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Regrettably, almost all the studies cited will be about English, mainly
because it has been the most common language of participants and
social psychological investigators. It is important, however, not to forget
that English is only one of 5,000 or so languages extant, and it is used in
societies that have lost many of the complicated, socially differentiating
rituals associated with more feudalistic societies and their archaic but
powerful social elites. Even so, the British Prime Minister is still required
to walk backwards with eyes floorwards as he leaves the monarch’s presence, after “we” have terminated the conversation.
Speaker addresses Listener or refers to Other
Hi, reader! How’s it going?; Hello! I’m Amanda. How can I help you?; Good morning and a warm welcome to all you sinners. Each of these greetings has its
time and place for particular persons in particular contexts of situation.
English affords a variety of greeting words. It offers a number of common
identifiers of S and L, and the relationship between them. Books of diplomatic etiquette continue to list large numbers of terms of address and
reference for persons occupying titled social positions. In fast-moving
societies, it is common to add an apparent enquiry about L, which convention prescribes should not be taken literally. These three units or
micro-structures commonly occur in the sequence presented here, but
occasionally the name might be uttered first, possibly indicating surprise
and pleasure. The syntagmatic choices are conventionally contingent on
each other. Given the context of situation, the choices made have semantic value and pragmatic significance, as have deviations from expected
patterns.
To explore the semantics and pragmatics, it is simplest to use the bestworked historical example of forced choice in all the Standard Average
European languages except English, namely the T/V distinction for you,
e.g. tu/vous, du/sie. As Brown (1965) observes, there are many methods of
data collection. There are massive and diverse written archival materials, including letters, records of meetings, plays and poems, speeches
and histories. Now there are films, tapes, CDs, and DVDs. Researchers
can check diachronic changes within societies and synchronic variations across societies and across people of socially differentiated groups.
It is not difficult to make unobtrusive recordings of usage for field studies. People can be asked about their usage via interview surveys and
questionnaires. Finally field experiments can be conducted, to observe
or otherwise assess reactions to deviant use. All three variants occur:
T <-> T, V <-> V, and T <-> V (< means receives, > means gives). In medieval
Europe, mutual V marked the interaction of the elites. Mutual T marked
the rest. The elites addressed the lower orders with T, but received V.
Currently the rules of use vary somewhat across languages and countries, but in many countries mutual V between strangers is now likely to
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shift more quickly to mutual T for same age peers in informal situations.
The asymmetric form is retained in formal situations and in hierarchical organizations – and between generations in some languages in some
countries.
While the use of the asymmetry of T/V may have reduced generally,
the differentiation can be realized and marked still with titles (proper
nouns), and switches in the use of these can occur within situations,
e.g. from First Naming to Title + Last Name. In a variety of contexts,
individuals can attempt to change the quality of the social relationship
by switching forms of address. The two most common are probably the
switch from asymmetric names to symmetric First Name use, and an
increase in the number of nicknames and private names in increasingly
intimate relationships. Switching among private names can also signal
the current temporary state of a relationship as seen by S.
Changes in the names of jobs have been a significant feature of many
societies over the last fifty years. One set of changes has been the proliferation of already extant higher-status titles. Another has been the invention of more impressive titles. British universities are now littered with
unmodified “Professors,” and dentists with no specific doctoral qualifications now have “Dr.” on their shingles and notepaper. Management
consultants have become an expensive component of organizations.
Clerks have become Secretary Generals, Secretaries have become PAs or
Executive Assistants, and Managing Directors CEOs. Rat-catchers have
become Environmental Health Officers and persons who decide what
you can do to trees in your garden may be Arboriculturalists. Bin emptiers have become EROs (Environmental Recycling Officers).
It used to be asserted that reductions in asymmetric address and
changes in reference terms that upgraded job titles were gifts from
superiors, but more recent evidence has shown demands from below are
active and effective too.
More generally in societies, terms of reference have been purged of
sexist, ethnic, and other identifiers of social identity, both to reduce discriminatory policies and practices in job selection and to reduce derogation. In the United Kingdom, recruitment advertisements cannot use
terms that mention any social group identification. Racist reference is
now a criminal offence whether made in formal or informal situations.
Most dramatic has been the de-sexing of job titles. The switch to firefighters was easily afforded by English. How to refer to members of the
police with a non-sexist title has been more problematic. Singular sex,
unmarked pronominal reference remains a mess, as speakers and writers adopt the various possibilities of they, he/she, she/ he, and so on.
In respect of personal or social derogation, negro is now wholly
taboo, and in the USA, preferences for variations around “AfricanAmerican” are still unstable. The PC declines to print the most derogatory term. Comedians now have great difficulty with all the jokes that
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The social psychology of language: a short history
55
used to be based on members of some social group being stupid in
some “amusing” way or on mother-in-law and other negative derogatory stereotypes. What well-meaning and right-minded authorities fail
to appreciate, however, is that within many informal groupings, probably most youthful and male, competence at trading insults has been
a competitive bonding game (Labov 1966). The right to be insulted and
to insult is part of a cohesive bond and a sign of acceptance as a group
member.
Given the injunctions offered in the introduction, it is appropriate to
note that evidence and interpretations of data about terms of address
have come from anthropologists, historians, linguists, philosophers,
social psychologists, and sociologists using a diversity of materials and
methods, and using both “qualitative” and “quantitative” analyses. The
results are consistent. Usage has been found to vary across long time
periods, across and within situations, both in the extent and nature of
the differentiation and differentials. Choice and sequence have both
been shown to vary systematically. Texts such as those of Wardhaugh
(1994) illustrate the international variety and intra-language complexity,
respectively.
In terms of explanations, perhaps the first point to be made is trite,
but too often forgotten. Language was devised as a system of communication. For it to function efficiently, its users need to share the meanings
and pragmatic conventions of words, utterances, and discourse. The distinctions achieved in forms of address and reference exist only to mark
personal and social identities and to regulate the statuses and social relationships among participants and observers. It is hardly surprising, then,
that we as people can explain what is going on in particular exchanges.
As social psychologists, however, we require more abstract and general
levels of interpretation. Brown (1965) postulated two underlying dimensions, which he labeled as the power and solidariness semantics. The
nature and operation of these have needed elaboration, but the basic
distinction stands. The power semantic is the simpler one: asymmetry
in terms of address and reference replicates differences in power. This
asymmetry does not indicate what kind of power is involved, which may
vary from expecting subordinates to make coffee to an expectation that
they will advance to be shot at by an enemy. Social positions and roles
occupied have explicit or implicit rights and obligations associated with
them, and a knowledge of the particularities is necessary to define the
parameters within which the asymmetry of use of terms is operating.
Symmetry in terms used does not mean that there is no power differential, but only that if it exists, it is temporarily in abeyance or that it
is being marked in other ways. Hence, the relevant generalizing proposition would be that if asymmetry in address or reference terms exist,
then this marks a difference in power in respect of some social rights
and obligations.
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Brown was right not to select a single term from everyday English
to refer to his orthogonal dimension, although it could be argued that
“social distance” would be better, so long as overtones of hierarchy are
not implied. It is used here in view of the concept’s general utilization
in social psychological work unrelated to terms of reference specifically.
With the pronouns, mutual T minimizes social distance. With names,
languages and cultures have devised specific affectionate diminutives, as
they are labeled, and/or shifts from titles, title with last name, through
last name only, to first names, and thence to nicknames and multiple
naming. As already mentioned with the nigger example, apparently abusive terms may be used by in-group solidarity members. The summarizing proposition would be “The less the social distance, the further along
the conventional linguistic marker series people move,” and this captures the link between function and social relationship.
Much more could be and has been written about the functioning of
terms of address and reference elsewhere, and how the functions relate
to particular units and structures of languages. The instruments for
marking of personal identity, social identity, and the nature and states
of social relationships and the negotiation of changes in these have been
very successfully investigated and documented (see Holtgraves 2002;
Robinson 2003). The relevance of the concept of politeness as a pervasive
consideration has not been included here, but is in the next section. This
is one example of a means of trying to regulate the behavior of another
person with speech – or writing.
4.2
Regulating the behavior of others with requests
Two general and one specific source can be credited with initiating work
in this area. Grice (1975) generated a wealth of research with his paper
about “implicature” in conversation. Given that S breaks one of Grice’s
maxims of Quantity, Quality, Manner or Relation in a cooperative conversation, what is implicated? S is meaning either more or less than has
been said, and one major set of reasons for doing this involves a perceived need to be polite, a ubiquitous matter about which cultures have
strong conventions. Among Goffman’s (1959, 1969) many theoretical and
methodological contributions to the study of social interaction was his
elaboration of the concepts of “face-wants” and “face-work.” He proposed
two general propositions about motives: the wish not to be impeded by
others in pursuing one’s goals, and the wish to preserve positive face,
where face is determined by the respect which significant others pay.
Whatever a person says to and does with others is face-threatening for
both S and L. Soskin and John (1963) used borrowing a host’s coat to keep
warm going home as a request. What are the differences among the following: Lend me your coat!; It’s cold tonight; I’m cold; That looks like a nice coat
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you’ve got there; Brrh; I wonder if I brought a coat. They did not mention Might
I borrow your coat please?, and of course there are many other ways of asking, with and without modifying and qualifying reasons. Only two of
the ways cited are transparent: the imperative and the interrogative. The
others present an array, differing in degrees of indirectness and likely
misunderstanding, but affording L the possibility of avoiding the facethreat of a direct refusal and enabling L to be polite.
Brown and Levinson (1987, original work 1978) combined these considerations into a theory of politeness and generated an algorithm with four
binary decision-taking nodes that set out the choices of face-threatening
acts (FTA) available:
Do the FTA bald on record without redress.
Do the FTA with either positive or negative politeness.
Do the FTA off record.
Don’t do the FTA.
As an oversimplified précis, the first is realized as a command with an
imperative or a direct request with an interrogative. Positive politeness
focuses on positive gains of face for L, while negative politeness is apologetic or excuses L if L refuses. “Off record politeness” involves violating
one of Grice’s maxims.
What does L say and/or do? Brown and Levinson offer a formula that
takes into account three factors: the power differential if any (P), the
social distance (D), and the burden of the imposition of the request on L
(R for request). The selection made will be driven by L’s perceived optimal
resolution of the conflicts induced by these three.
The strengths and weaknesses of the model have been discussed in the
light of many empirical studies in reviews by Brown and Levinson themselves (1987), Coupland, Grainger and Coupland (1988), with Holtgraves’
(2002 – but especially pp. 38–63) update testifying to the fruitfulness of
the lines of inquiry initiated.
As with terms of address and reference, the research has followed a
variety of methods and has included a number of different societies and
languages. Certainly some of the earlier simple generalizations have not
been upheld. The simple additive effect for P, D, and R was too simple,
and the interaction of the three varies greatly across Hymes’ categories.
Imposition is harder to quantify than social distance and power. As with
other variables, the perceived burden can differ for particular Ss and Ls,
and a culturally omniscient O cannot be brought forward as an adjudicator. The constituents of both negative and positive politeness are debatable,
as is the alleged greater politeness of the negative forms. That aside, the
substantial body of empirical data can be integrated into the conceptual
framework, but this needs to include the relevance of Hymes’ factors.
There are at least two explicit parameters of conversation included
by Grice that have been neglected. He stated that he was writing about
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cooperative conversations. In fact, many two-person and small-group
verbal interactions include competitive exchanges with prospective winners and losers, and the rules for such talk are not as benign and clear
as those for entirely cooperative conversations. Just as with competitive
sports, the cooperative ground rules defining the spirit of the genre may
be sacrificed successfully by winners. In fact, breaking the Gricean maxims by utilizing one or more of the many types of inadequate arguments
would appear to be dominant in many discussions and debates on and in
the mass media, for example.
The second reservation is the two assumptions of the second maxim:
Say only that which you believe to be true and for which you have evidence. This maxim is clearly relevant to the cooperative versus the competitive contrast, but additionally assumes that statements made are
true or false and that the pursuit of truth is the primary objective of the
talking. This is much less frequently true than some social psychologists
are disposed to presume. The representative (or referential) is just one
function of language use, and when any of the more obviously social
functions are of primary relevance, truth-values are not.
As the next section discusses, there is more to language than its capacities for representing possible physical and social worlds.
4.3 What people are doing when they are
using language
Speech act theory is usually dated from Austin’s (1962) christening of five
acts of speech or writing as “performatives,” utterances which achieve a
non-verbal effect in the physical and social world. By virtue of their being
employed by duly authorized persons in duly authorized settings with
appropriate participants, they have “illocutionary” force and change
a non-verbal reality: “I name this ship Endeavour.” Searle (1969, 1975)
listed a different five and specified different ways in which they related
to the world and which persons were affected: assertives, commissives,
declaratives, directives, and expressives. He suggested that speech acts
themselves were one level finer than these but did not specify their number. Wittgenstein wanted to promote the idea that the number of types
of speech act was as many as there were speech-specific verbs with different connotations. Sinclair and Coulthard (1975) used twenty-two for
their analyses of classroom discourse.
It may be possible eventually to generate a general purpose taxonomy,
whether structurally, semantically, or even pragmatically based. But
just as Mendeleev’s or Linnaeus’ systems for chemistry and botany were
original and brilliant inventions and remain useful, subsidiary and alternative classifications of elements and plants have to be developed for
specific purposes, and “fitness for purpose” becomes the criterion of
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evaluation. At the level of illocutionary force, Searle’s classification has
its uses. However, insofar as competent users of any language can see and
exploit the distinctions among what will be hundreds or thousands of
verbs in any international language, they can communicate successfully
with others as competent as themselves.
Robinson’s (2003) preference for following some of the criteria used by
other social psychologists such as Bales (1950) does not appear to have
served colleagues as a useful framework for thinking, and perhaps that
is because his functional/structural framework was not marketed with
the necessary vigor. The principle of asking how structures of language
mapped onto functions in the social world seemed to be a sensible one.
Reducing the number to a scheme that could be carried in the head without overloading the brain seemed to be sensible too. It had the advantages of Searle’s scheme in that it distinguished between the possible foci
of any utterance, e.g. S, L, or S in relation to L. It distinguished between
marking and regulating, between personal and social identity, between
emotional/motivational states, beliefs and attitudes, and behavior, and
noted that there were everyday verbs that could be used to refer to
examples in the categories. A few general and pervasive functions were
added, such as conformity to norms of silence versus speech and to social
norms related to situations, along with the avoidance of or escape from
boredom and/or discomfort in the absence of external stimulation.
Although this scheme captures social psychological categories at a
highish level of abstraction and generalization, most social psychologists
working in the language field have operated at the level of processes
(what these do or do not achieve and how and why), or social relationships, either inter-group or inter-individual.
There are constructive reviews of contemporary claims to knowledge
for many nameable activities. To avoid repetitiveness, references from
the key handbooks of social psychology are given with superscript notation, with 1 referring to Giles and Robinson (1991), 2 to Robinson and
Giles (2001), and 3 to Weatherall, Watson, and Gallois (2007):
Accounting (Buttny & Morris?2)
Arguing (Antaki 1994, Billig2, Robinson 2006)
Attributing causes (Slugoski & Hilton2)
Controlling (Ng & Bradac1, Ng & Reid2)
Deceiving (Friedman & Tucker1, Robinson 1996, Vrij 2000)
Gossiping (Emler2)
Interviewing (Bavelas et al. 1990)
Narrating and storytelling (Sunwolf & Frey2)
Negating (Horn 1989)
Negotiating (Bazerman & Neale 1992; Wilson, Paulson & Putnam3)
Patronizing (Hummert & Ryan2)
Persuading (Petty & Cacioppi 1986)
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For each of these, descriptions and explanations include answers to questions about language units and structures that are relevant. There are
assessments of their pragmatic value and differential efficacy across the
range of Hymes’ categories. Further, most of these topics involve more than
monologues or very brief exchanges and have required the utilization of
specially developed coding systems of some complexity and often a consideration of the micro-sociological work initiated by Sacks and Schegloff.
Their analyses paved the way for detailed examinations of turn-taking in
conversations (Sacks, Schegloff & Jefferson 1974), summons-answer, side,
insertion, and closing sequences, along with the idea of adjacency pairs
(Schegloff & Sacks 1973). Such work was complemented by detailed charting of the non-verbal communication features relevant to turn-taking
(Duncan & Fiske 1977; Capella & Palmer1). There has been less concern
with ways in which the language or the culture constrain the thinking
and norms of what is acceptable in these situations.
Not all research has taken the action itself as its point of departure.
The dynamics of friendship (Sahlstein & Duck2) and marital interaction
(Roberts & Noller2) have been two interpersonal relationships attracting
many successful investigations. Likewise the characteristics of intergroup communication involving age (Coupland & Coupland2), ethnicity
(Augustinos & Every, Bourhis, El-Geledi & Sachdev3), and gender (Coates &
Johnson2, Murachver & Janssen3) have been extensive. Political speeches
(Atkinson 1984) and interviews (Bull3) have been studied, as have interactions involving health workers (Fitzpatrick & Vangelisti2, Street2, Watson
& Gallois3), the legal profession (Danet1), and the police (Giles et al.3).
It is unfortunately not possible to discuss at any length the insightful
work of Cerulo into how verb voice can be used to shift focus and responsibility for actions, and the much broader and comprehensive Linguistic
Category Model of Semin and Fiedler (1991). The latter relates how the
use of adjectives and three variants of verbs differing from events in
inferential distance help to explain how a wide range of social psychological phenomena are influenced by such selections (see Fiedler 2008 for
the most recent commentary). What cannot be omitted is some consideration of answers to some of the “why” questions about selection best
exemplified in communication accommodation theory and the kind of
natural speech into which all analyses must eventually fit, best related
currently to discursive approaches.
4.4 Communication accommodation theory (CAT)
With CAT having served to inspire more than several hundred journal
articles and chapters, it can be safely cited as the most fecund heuristic
framework so far for research into language and its functioning from
a social psychological perspective. CAT has been developed to cover an
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increasing range of settings, participants, ends, channels and codes,
and norms of interpretation, whilst retaining its core concern with
motivation. It grew out of Giles’ initial interest in the judgments made
about British Ss speaking with a variety of regional accents. What is
termed Received Pronunciation was rated as the most prestigious and
communicatively effective, and its speakers were seen to be high on
competence. The lowest prestige accents were those of the large urban
cities and those speakers were seen as trustworthy (Giles & Powesland
1975). Shifts in the strength of accents were shown to occur as a function of the speech of the other person in two-person situations, and
this was the lead into the concept of accommodation. Shifts in certain
features of speech can be toward the other person’s speech – convergence, or away – divergence. There may be no shifting – maintenance.
The empirical investigations of just which features change under what
conditions have established numerous associations, and the theoretical framework has been developed to incorporate the fi ndings. Gallois
et al. (1995) synthesized research up to 1994, with Shepard, Giles, and
LePoire2 producing an update, and Giles et al.3 reviewing the latest state
of the game.
For any social encounter, the sociocultural context of situation along
with the cumulative experience, habits, competence, and immediate
goals of the interactants will set the opening non-verbal and verbal markers of relevant personal and/or social identities, and adjustments to these
will arise out of the progress or otherwise of the talk toward the desired
goals of the participants. There are sufficient studies to render Hymes’
mnemonic a useful basis for listing the coverage:
●
●
●
Setting: The spectrum of fourteen or more countries in which published research has been conducted ranges over a diversity of the
world’s cultures. At an institutional level, settings have included consulting rooms, courtrooms, hospitals, theaters, and workplaces, as
well as the streets and university classrooms.
Participants: University and school students have taken part, but so
have members of the general public, legal and medical personnel,
workers, and police. The behavior of bilingual people has figured
strongly, as have inter-group encounters: inter-ability, inter-age, interethnic, inter-gender, and inter-generational.
Ends: In earlier studies the interest was geared mainly to ratings of
personality and attitudes toward individuals as individuals, but with
the expansion of work into the inter-group domain, the emphasis
moved to individuals as group members and to groups as groups.
Many studies looked at the effects of accommodative speech on the
reduction of stereotyping. Ratings have also been taken of the effects
of accommodating behaviors on self-evaluation and reactions to the
interaction itself.
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●
●
●
●
●
Art characteristics: Squeezing both topic and form under this heading
was an idea too far, given the importance of each. CAT has been used
to explain such accommodations as participants finding topics congenial for each other, and tailoring explanations to the requirements
of different audiences.
Key: Shifts in humor and seriousness have been investigated.
Instrumentalities: Channels have been mainly face to face, but email,
radio, tannoy, telephone, and television have been used. Codes have
included Chinese, English, French, Japanese, Korean, Spanish, and
Welsh. The bilingualism in Canada has figured strongly in the application and development of CAT.
Norms of interaction: While the influence of sociocultural norms of
beliefs about others and their groups have figured as starting points,
a major interest has been on observing how the style of interaction
can affect stereotyped beliefs and evaluations.
Genre: Types of speech event that may be formally distinguished, e.g.
a sermon, prayer, folk tale, etc.
This oversimplified summary omits comments on the features of communicative behavior which can and do change and why people might
converge or diverge. In respect of the questions to be answered here,
sequences themselves have not been figured as being of primary concern, and distinctive units per se likewise. At one extreme, the matching or otherwise has targeted smiling and gaze, and turn-management,
and at another, topics selected, opinions and attitudes expressed, idioms
used, lexical diversity, and information density. It was the features of the
“how” rather than the “what” that stimulated the original and appropriate adoption of “style” as the umbrella term for adjustments of length
of utterances, rate of speaking, incidence of pausing and interrupting, phonological variants, and shifts in accent, dialect, and language
itself. In everyday English “voice quality” would be a good summarizing
term for the eleven or more features linguists include under that term.
Without commitment as to whether or not the shifting is intentional
and conscious, these stylistic features are noteworthy for being pervasive
and readily detectable. It was the attraction paradigm of Byrne (1971) and
its stress on perceived similarity as a basis for liking another that was
seen as providing a general explanation for the adjustments. Wanting to
be liked and/or wanting to be approved of were then assumed to be the
main motivating forces operating for convergence. Indifference would
occasion maintenance, with divergence indicating social distancing of
some kind from the other person. Later, additional reasons were found to
be operative, such as people finding the interaction itself more enjoyable
as similarity of style increased.
To return briefly to the original study in which accents were seen
to be indicative of competence or trustworthiness, Giles did note that
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speakers wishing both to be trusted and to be seen as capable faced a
dilemma. They could be seen as untrustworthy experts or trustworthy
incompetents. Have the advisers to the British financial service industry
read about this research and chosen Scots with clear articulation as ideal
promoters of their wares? Such a tactic exploits the stereotype of Scots
being canny and careful with their cash – and by implication with yours
as well. Possibly the selection has been a shrewd optimization of likely
perceived expertise and trustworthiness. Politicians are another group
that has problems of credibility, likeability, and perceived competence,
and it has been illuminating to observe changes to their body language
and speech following training by impression-management experts. Giles
is quite correct in his assertion that CAT has paid more attention to
the motivation behind accommodative communicative behaviors than,
for example, either of the other two explanatory systems advanced to
account for selections of terms of address and reference and tactics to
be adopted to gain compliance for wanted goods or services. The issue of
motivation certainly needs further consideration, a matter to be taken
up briefly in the final discussion.
With the example of CAT, Ss and Ls have advanced from selecting particular units and structures in single utterances and extended exchanges
to the adoption of adjustments that pervade their total communicative
performance. In so doing, they are marking their presented personal and
social identities and regulating certain qualities of their social relationships at a very general level. However, this does not carry us back to
the subtleties of social interaction or the dramatic suggestion that social
psychology itself would benefit from a discursive approach.
4.5 Discursive approaches in social psychology
Building on the ideas of Austin (1962), and combining this with the ideas
of Garfinkel (1967) and his ethnomethodology, discursive approaches
came into their own in the late 1970s with, among others, the work of
Potter and Wetherell (1987) who suggested applying the methods of discourse analysis to the subject areas of social psychology. Through doing
so, they argued, social psychology topics such as attitudes and attributions could be re-evaluated. In particular, with the traditional study of
attitudes, the discrepancies between attitudes and their ability to predict
behavior had always been problematic. Not so, however, from a discursive approach, whereby attitudes became some kind of interactional currency or evaluative practice to use in talk in order to account for one’s
self, or to comment on or draw inferences about the behavior of others.
The application of discourse analysis, and its more detailed incarnation of discursive psychology (Edwards & Potter 1992; Potter, Edwards &
Wetherell 1993) led over the next decade to a thorough reworking of
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social psychology’s topics, including attitudes, attribution theory, emotion, and memory. Thus, such topics, rather than being studied as a way
of uncovering some internal mental phenomena, were understood for
the role that the invocation of such references to these mental states
played in the interaction.
This notion will be demonstrated with an example, taken from Locke
and Edwards (2003). The data is from Bill Clinton, who at the time was
President of the United States of America, and is drawn from his crossexamination testimony by the Grand Jury that took place in 1998. Q
refers to one of the Grand Jury prosecutors and C is Bill Clinton.
Extract (1) Clinton testimony, p. 31.
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Q:
C:
C:
Now on the morning of the sixth (0.5) Monica
Lewinsky uh came to the Northwest gate (0.8)
and found out that (.) uhh you were being
visited by: (.) uh Eleanor Mondale at the time
(0.5) and had an extremely angry uh reaction.=
You know that sir now don’t you.
(5.0)
I hav- (.) I hav- I know that Monica Lewinsky
(0.6) came to the gate (.) on (.) the sixth,
(0.5) and uh (.) apparently directly (.) called
in and wanted to see me (.) and couldn’t, (.)
and was angry about it.
(0.9)
I know that.
There are many points that can be made from this section of data. A
more detailed analysis is provided by Locke and Edwards (2003). What is
of interest here are the ways in which discourses of emotion and memory are operating in the text, and what the effects of their deployment
are. In the opening sequence, Q is referring to the unexpected arrival of
Ms. Monica Lewinsky (a White House intern with whom President Clinton
had been accused of having an affair, and later of attempting to influence her testimony in a case against him). Q claims that Ms. Lewinsky
had an “extremely angry reaction” (line 5) that Clinton was in a meeting
with Eleanor Mondale, the inferred category here is of anger at his having a meeting with another woman, and another further inference that
Monica had a vested interest in Clinton, because of a prior affair. How
Clinton deals with this turn at talk, and the inferences it contains, is
what is of interest. We can see that Clinton answers in non-emotional
terms, in direct contrast to Lewinsky’s “angry reaction.” He deals with
what he “knows” (lines 8 and 14) and documents the events from the day,
that she was “angry” (line 12) about that. Note also, that whilst Clinton is
not denying that Lewinsky was emotional or angry that day, indeed witnesses would have been able to collaborate that, this “extremely angry
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reaction” (line 5) is downgraded to “angry” by Clinton. Furthermore, as
Edwards (1997, 1999) notes, one rhetorical use of emotion is to claim that
it as an understandable reaction to an event, therefore in the case of the
data here, that Clinton had done something in order to evoke such an
“extremely angry reaction.” As has also been noted elsewhere (Edwards
1997, 1999; Locke & Edwards 2003), one way in which to sidestep such
an inference is to set up a character as having an emotional disposition,
rather than as reacting to your behavior, and Clinton also sets up Monica
as having such a disposition elsewhere in his testimony.
The subtle nuances of this example, from the downgrading of emotion, to its rhetorical setting up of an emotional response rather than
having an emotional disposition, something that one could regard as
pertinent to understanding the complex strategies at work in the interaction would have been missed if one were taking a more quantitative,
traditional approach to language.
This example is one from the application of discursive psychology
to a topic within social psychology’s subject matter. In more recent
years, discursive approaches to data analysis within social psychology
have become increasingly popular, particularly those drawing heavily
on conversation-analytic principles (Sacks 1992). Conversation analysis
offers, among other things, a way of looking at the micro-organization
of a conversation, and we saw some of these principles in practice in the
Clinton example above, such as turn-taking (between the prosecutor Q
and Clinton C), and adjacency pairs (such as question–answer sequences).
What the advent of discursive approaches, including discourse analysis,
discursive psychology, and conversation analysis have done within social
psychology is to offer on the one hand a re-evaluation of psychology’s
topics areas, but more so, on the other, a new perspective on the role of
language in social psychology and its methods of data collection and analysis. Such discursive work has questioned the place of interview research
within social psychology (e.g. Rapley 2001; Potter & Hepburn 2005) and
instead suggests that, if it is the social world that we wish to understand
and document, then it is actual, naturalistic data that we should use.
From this perspective, we have obtained a greater understanding of the
ways in which interactions are organized and thus the ways in which we
communicate with each other.
4.6 What next and how to avoid the probable future
Although academic texts quite rightly pay most attention to matters academic, when the focus is of relevance to the societies of the future, political and economic factors loom large as determinants of what is likely
to happen. Universities in the UK are increasingly being run on what is
called a business model, although in fact it is a very short-term kind of
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model, balancing its cash-flow on an annual basis and not having their
own capital resources to adopt longer-term planning. As a consequence,
staff are expected to maximize university income by meeting rates of
publication and gaining research grants that achieve maximal government funding. As rehearsed in the introduction to this chapter, both considerations act to deter academics from long-term projects that require
extensive piloting and the development and application of complex coding schemes to be used with appropriate members of the community.
Likewise, postgraduate students have to meet tight deadlines, and undergraduates are unlikely to have been grounded in linguistics and social
psychology. The situation in North American and other countries may
be healthier, but until the market forces and financial arrangements of
universities are changed, social psychology of language will continue to
be a rare and very risky option for young persons to pursue.
It is not necessary to repeat the worries about methodology expressed
at the beginning of the chapter, other than to make a plea for much
greater interdisciplinary coordination of terminology, theoretical orientations, and criteria as to what counts as evidence to be explained. What
to do about motivation as an explanatory level is problematic. Why are
people doing what they are doing? At one level, everyday explanations
clearly suffice, even when what is being done is not transparent, explicit,
or honestly expressed. A case might be made that the array of motivational reasons for participating in speech and writing with other people
is infinite, and that we had best accept that. Another reason for being discouraged about psychologists achieving consensus about a single theory
of personality is exemplified in the already mentioned thirty-two ways
of conceptualizing personality presented by Engler (2003). The ways in
which motivation is classified in these varies: simple lists, hierarchical
pyramids with a core motive at the top, and progressive hierarchies, to
name but three. Are motives to be seen as needs or drives from inside,
or pulls from outside, or a combination of the two? Certainly psychologists have treated motives as being manifested in goal-directed behavior,
energetically pursued, often with persistence if frustrated. Deficit needs
with a biological basis, such as food, drink, or oxygen, do exist and are
expressed in language. Speech is involved in sexual interactions, and it is
tempting to see Maslow’s (1951) scheme as an initial candidate for incorporating the language use described here, in that his level 3 category of
needs for love and to belong, and his level 4 need for respect from others
and self-respect are explicit or implicit as motivators in each of the sets
of results discussed here. The concern for positive social identity straddles levels 3 and 4.
However, the pursuit of two of the sociological trio of power, wealth,
and status does not map easily onto the Maslow scheme. There is no
mention of wealth, and that is odd for a personality theory generated
in a crowded society whose dominant public concern is with increasing
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or at least maintaining wealth and income, and strongly endorses commitment to the value of vertical social mobility via the pursuit of each
and all of the sociological trio. Power and status differentials are clearly
marked in languages and are frequently used. Although the research
reported has been implicitly slanted toward reducing social distance, in
reality in a competitive and crowded society, many people are also striving to distance themselves from others, where distance is seen as having
a superior/inferior dimension as well as a scale of decreasing or increasing interdependence. Social categorization theory (Turner et al. 1987)
stresses the importance of members of in-groups denigrating outgroups
as a means of enhancing positive social identity, and in Giles’ CAT the
most extreme divergence is to break off all interaction.
Without developing this line of argument too far, by focusing on the
hows and whys of primarily cooperative social interactions, and quite
appropriately so, social psychologists have not attended so much to conflict talk, and when they do the persons are still talking to each other
(e.g. Grimshaw 1990). There is then a place for studying the reasons why
people talk about other people that they do not talk with in the way that
they do – and what motives are served by this. As the discourse example
illustrated, rhetorical devices are readily exploited to powerful effect.
This power is greatly magnified when the rulers and mass media of societies are involved.
Although the so-called Western democracies legislate to prevent and
punish derogatory speech about certain social groups, ironically, the
rhetoric of their governments and mass media is replete with attributing
madness and/or badness to those citizens or foreigners who are defined
as not like themselves and/or as threatening to their life styles. The “hate
speech” forbidden to citizens is permitted in their rhetoric. Throughout
the latter half of the twentieth century, the label “communist” was
applied as a term of abuse not just to regimes that claimed to be communist. It was applied to economically and politically oppressed peoples
who were trying to gain control of their own countries in Africa, Asia,
and Latin America. Within countries, it was applied to workers who made
wage demands that were not met by their much better paid employers.
More recently “axes of evil” and “terrorists” are being demonized. Any
bomb going off nowadays is quickly attributed to Al-Qaeda well before
the evidence of direct association has been obtained. Ironically, but not
surprisingly or even inaccurately, Britain is now viewed by the US government as the most fertile breeding ground for terrorists. Many of us
would see this as a direct and tragic self-fulfilling prophecy, arising out
of the wars promoted by the British Prime Minister and his supporters in
parliament on the basis of what were clearly false conclusions based on
inadequate and massaged evidence. This is mentioned here as a dramatic
example of the persuasive rhetoric of one powerful person initiating a
seriously debilitating effect on the quality of life of millions of people for
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an unspecifiable number of years. He is not the first or the last, and perhaps social psychologists need to investigate how enough of the people
can be fooled enough of the time into beliefs and actions that will cause
unnecessary suffering to both themselves and more so to others. The
speeches of Blair and Bush may differ significantly from those of Hitler
or Mussolini, but they have already led to thousands of innocent people
being killed, and they have provoked inter-group confl icts on a scale that
will not be resolved for years to come.
4.7 Policies and practices founded on sound social
psychology of language and its use
In contrast to the tragic social consequences of the hate speech and
aggressive actions referred to above, much recent research has led to
changes in societies toward more defensibly ethical and efficient discourse, which in turn has brought greater satisfaction to those involved.
Weatherall, Watson, and Gallois (2007) present reviews of several institutional orders and inter-group interfaces where the qualities of interaction
have changed for the better: health provision, the law, and the police, to
name but three orders, and inter-ethnic, inter-gender, and inter-age, to
name but three interfaces.
In healthcare, social advances range from more satisfying and efficient
interdividual encounters between patients and providers across a variety
of professionals to enhanced communication within teams of professionals in hospitals and operating theaters. Law courts have changed procedures to reduce the intimidation of vulnerable witnesses. Police have
found they learn more from witnesses and potential suspects if they
use non-directive questions and prompts to elicit narratives rather than
assertive accusations. More generally, police who can accommodate convergently to members of the public can increase trust in the force.
In terms of inter-group interfaces (and group referencing), women
have been the great beneficiaries. The detailed cataloguing of gender
asymmetric and exclusive language use in speech and writing in education, work, and domestic activities has been associated subsequently
with a considerable reduction in discriminatory talk and discriminatory
practices in those countries that recognized the equality of rights of the
two sexes. For non-dominant ethnic groups, the elderly, the mentally ill,
and the physically disabled, there have been reductions in diminishing
stereotyping, but to a lesser extent. What is reassuring from an ethical
and realistic perspective, is that there are no signs of backlashes and
regression to the earlier discriminatory rhetorics.
Sadly, there is one glaring exception to this positive picture: education
and socioeconomic status, a fact that will not surprise sociologists. On
the last day of 2007, The Times newspaper provided some statistics about
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socioeconomic status (SES) differences in school achievement in England
and Wales: At age 7 the academic performance gap between the top and
bottom deciles of the population (by wealth of area) was 20 per cent. At
age 16, it was 43.1 per cent. These gaps are almost certainly larger than
those of the 1960s, as are most of the other differences in life-chances
related to quality of life. Why this should be so will not be answered
here, but there is no need for governments to appear to agonize over
feasible reforms and pretend that more research is needed. For years UK
governments have ignored relevant research-based evidence, much of it
related to language use and skills.
4.8 Conclusion: a cautionary story
From 1960, the linguists, psychologists, and sociologists in Bernstein’s
Sociological Research Unit in the University of London (Bernstein, 1971,
1973, 1975) collected longitudinal samples of the speech of initially
5-year-old children from the dockland area of East London and a prosperous middle-class suburb of South East London. There were also test
scores of various kinds. Teachers rated the children. Mothers were interviewed about child-rearing practices with particular reference to communication with their children. Two psychologists designed, discussed,
and implemented a year-long program to enhance the language skills for
a selection of the dockland schools.
In the reports sent to the authorities and in the multi-volume series
of books produced, there was a mass of firmly based evidence about the
parents, the schools, and the children that could have informed the policies of any government sympathetic to the provision of constructive
and efficient education for working-class children, probably at very little
cost. Nothing was done, and nothing has yet been done. In contrast in
the USA, the contemporary and more comprehensive Ypsilanti Project
of Weikart (Schweinhart & Weikart 1980) was carried right through the
schooling of comparable low SES children, and the benefits to the health,
the well-being, and the prosperity of the children were still present at
the age of 27 (Schweinhart, Barnes & Weikart, 1993). The cost savings
to the community were also considerable. This is not the place to offer
explanations as to why governments do not make adequate provision for
the most needy children, but it will be interesting to see if Turkey succeeds where England continues to fail. For the last decade, Turkey has
been running a national program to offset social class effects on early
educational progress of children (Bekman 1998; Kagitcibasi 1997).
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5
Orality and literacy
in sociolinguistics
Lowry Hemphill
5.1 Introduction
Both research and theorizing about the contrasts between spoken and
written language are situated within the broader sociolinguistic project of mapping the effects of context on the diverse manifestations of
language in use. The oral–written contrast has roots in both cultural
psychology and anthropology, for example in Luria’s classic research
on schooled and unschooled peasants in Central Asia, and has been
associated from the start with controversial claims about the cognitive
advantages of written language over oral communication as modes of
representation and reasoning. The contrast between oral and written language has proved to be especially productive in educational linguistics,
particularly for understanding the enormous task that speakers face as
they become fully literate in their first language. Finally, because access
to literate modes of communication is not distributed equally, contrasts
in oral and written modalities have been a central theme in educational
sociology, beginning with Bernstein’s notion of restricted and elaborated
codes (1971, 1981).
5.2 Characteristics of speech and writing
Written texts differ from oral discourse in numerous dimensions that
reflect both the real-world contexts of language production and comprehension and the conventions that have become associated with
particular written and spoken genres over time. Bent over a word processor or clenching a pen or stylus, the writer has opportunities to plan,
reflect, and revise while engaged in composing. Speakers, in contrast,
may take the floor in brief turn transitions, often interjecting talk into
an extralinguistic context that is rich with both non-verbal referents
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that support communication and with distractions that disrupt it (Ong
1982). Because of the improvised nature of spoken discourse and multiple constraints on its smooth production, oral discourse is marked by
frequent false starts, disfluencies, and redundancies (Chafe 1982; Chafe &
Danielewicz 1987).
The contexts of written and oral language production have consequences for both lexical and syntactic choice. As a result of both reduced
opportunities for discourse planning and the presence of a potentially
disambiguating non-linguistic context, oral texts typically employ more
nominal deixis and ellipses, and include fewer explicit and elaborated
noun phrases than written text (Chafe & Danielewicz 1987; Biber 1988
1995). In contrast, lacking a physical context shared with the reader and
with greater ability to build complex text structures, writers select decontexualized referential strategies that build a linguistic context for representing their intended referents: full nominals, complex noun phrases,
chains of anaphoric reference. Multi-constituent noun phrases, passives,
and other sentence constructions that require greater planning are
characteristic of written text but are much less common in spoken discourse. Miller and Weinert (1998), for example, examining large corpora
of written and oral texts across languages, documented a wide variety of
complex clause types that were virtually absent in spontaneous oral discourse. In Miller and Weinert’s corpus analysis, oral texts contained high
proportions of pronouns or zero subjects, while complex noun phrases,
especially in subject position, were ubiquitous in written text.
Unlike a listener whose comprehension of speech occurs nearly simultaneously with its production, in making sense of a written message,
the reader can preview, backtrack, and reread; these capabilities support sense-making with written texts that are dense with information.
Writers capitalize on these reader capabilities, introducing new information at a rate higher than is communicatively effective in spoken
communication where verbal memory constraints limit the listener’s
information-processing abilities (Ong 1982). Unlike the social contexts
of much oral communication – conversations among familiars, phatic
exchanges – that often favor recycling of information that is known to
both participants, written communication prototypically involves the
presentation of new information, orienting to what Jakobson ([1960]
1990) has called the referential function of language.
A communicative focus on information transmission, characteristic of
a wide range of written genres from instruction manuals to news articles
to textbooks, guides writers to a range of linguistic choices that specify
and elaborate upon new content. In an analysis of large and varied written and oral language corpora, for example, Biber (1986, 1988) found that
a syntax-based measure of information density discriminated between
most written and oral genres, with official written documents clustered
at one end of an informativeness scale and face-to-face conversations
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at the other end. Independent of genre, highly informative texts were
marked by characteristics like diverse lexical choices, frequent use of
relative clauses and prepositional phrases, and a high ratio of nouns to
other classes of words.
Spoken texts of most types have a known audience and as a consequence display characteristics of “recipient design,” such as nominal references that draw efficiently upon shared knowledge between particular
speakers and listeners (Clark & Wilkes-Gibbs 1986). Using interactional
resources that are available in face-to-face talk, speakers can tailor the
amount and type of information they report to the needs of a very specific
audience. Conversational sequences that begin with a speaker’s rising
intonation or question to the listener followed by verbal and non-verbal
signals of speaker uptake (Hemphill 1989) can serve to match the speaker’s referential strategy with the listener’s need for particular kinds of
information. As in this excerpt from an adolescent’s personal narrative,
in oral conversation speakers draw upon shared understandings and
audience feedback to either use a more compressed and efficient reference, Central, which involves absent uptake from the listener, closely specifies the intended referent: “it was the Central Square subway station,
the subway stop where coming from my home in Dorchester you would
change to the Watertown bus, the subway station where the stairs up to
the bus stop are so slippery.”1
Deniece: We were, um we were all going to Watertown to the mall.
And um we were going up the stairs in um Central? Central
Square?
Lowry: Oh yeah.
Deniece: And so we was just walkin upstairs and jokin around and
they go, okay, everybody hold hands so we won’t fall.
And we’re like o:kay.
So then we keep walking up the stairs and then I fall down the
stairs?
And I couldn’t get back up, no matter how much I tried.
And it was like right after she had said that.
And they still … [
Lowry: [Those shiny marble ones yeah.
Deniece: I’m always fa:llin.
They still tease me about that.
The presence of this type of interactive routine in conversation, operating most effectively when the speaker addresses a known audience,
allows speakers to effectively select less explicit forms of reference, such
as pro-forms and simple noun phrases. More than simple efficiency motivates speakers to employ these kinds of interactive referential strategies,
however. Such strategies also function to align the affective perspectives
of speakers and listeners. In the case of this narrative, mutual uptake of
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“Central” confirms that narrator and audience both know the hazards
of this particular subway station and, from the viewpoint of the story in
progress, are likely to sympathize with the narrator’s plight. Writers, on
the other hand, are biased toward the selection of multi-element noun
phrases and elaborating prepositional phrases since the writer has only
imperfect knowledge about the kinds of information that are already
known to the reader and has no effective mechanism to check reader
understanding. Even in contexts where discourse content and audience
background knowledge are roughly equivalent, for example comparing
written course syllabi and spoken classroom lectures, the written context is associated with a much lower percentage of pro-forms and simple nouns and a higher proportion of elaborated, multi-constituent noun
phrases (Biber 2006).
Oral discourse is frequently dialogic or multiparty instead of monologic. Thus, rather than take sole responsibility for message construction, participants in a conversation may design their speaking turns to
allow for collaboration by their interlocutors (Edelsky 1981; Hemphill
1989; Lerner 2002) as in this example of adolescent girls’ discussion of
gender differences:
Cary: I think it’s … I think it’s just (3.0) … maybe I’m wrong but I’ve
known parents that tried ve:ry hard not… to expose their kids to
any of those you know disgu::sting things like G.I. Joe:: or let them
watch obno:xious [programs on TV [or play with
Dara: [Sta:r Trek Anna: [He Man vi:deo games or anything like that
and the little boys are sti:ll violent.
Lauren: Yeah.
The back-channel responses by Dara and Anna in this discussion excerpt
contribute to the message that is begun by Cary, offering specific
examples of the entities she has introduced without taking on separate
speaking turns. Dara’s and Anna’s contributions appear to be prompted
by a list-like structure in Cary’s turn and by Cary’s elongated syllables:
disgu::sting, obno:xious, which may also serve as invitations for listener
collaboration. Significantly, conversation offers many opportunities for
this type of participation in the roles of listener or ratifier, often distributing responsibility for meaning construction across multiple participants. Speakers’ use of listener-oriented interactive devices: markers of
emphasis like really, and expressions like you know, directly elicit listener
response and reflect the speaker’s involvement with the audience (Chafe
1982; Chafe & Danielewicz 1987). Speaker strategies to promote listener
collaboration in message construction are especially evident in conversational storytelling where evaluative elements, clusterings of stylized
repetition, reported speech, and prosodic emphasis can serve as signals
to the listener of the narrative’s high point (Labov 1972;Polanyi 1985;
McCabe & Peterson 1991):
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Julian: I was, my mum, at the time she worked in University Travel in
the art department.
And since it was in the graphic arts department they had lots of
Exacto blades lying around. And all sorts of other art supplies.
And I was only about six or seven at the time.
And I started cutting up things on the desk with an Exacto blade.
And I slipped and I cut my thumb through the knuckle.
→And first thing I remember getting up and screaming “Bloo::d!”
Screaming out “I’m dy::ing!” “I’m dy::ing!”
“Does anyone ca:re?”
“I’m blee:ding to death!”
Significantly, these evaluative elements occur much more frequently in
narratives told to a familiar rather than a less familiar audience (Leith
1995) because they are designed to elicit a particular hearer’s understanding of the meaning of the reported events.
While participation in a conversation can be collaborative, multiparty
conversations are frequently marked by considerable turn competition
(Hemphill 1989; Schegloff 2000). Speakers must often wait to make a contribution to a conversation in progress and turn initiations do not invariably result in successful turn transitions for the new speaker. Because
multiple speakers may vie to make rather similar points, multiparty
conversational discourse is often fragmented, repetitive, and incoherent. The author of a written text, in contrast, has an extended, uninterrupted opportunity to frame the intended message. The challenge for
the authors of monologic written texts is anticipating and gauging the
degree to which the text is engaging, adequately informative, and persuasive, lacking an audience that can respond to the work as it is being
produced (Nystrand1986).
Unlike most oral discourse, written texts can be accessed by multiple,
even unintended, audiences in settings far removed from the original contexts of text production. The “displacement” of written texts in space and
time (Chafe 1994; Hockett [1951] 2003) provides a motivation for greater
explicitness and elaboration because writers cannot always assume an
informed and fully cooperative audience. Similarly, the absence of a
physically present and interacting audience contributes to the detached
quality of many kinds of written texts, evident, for example, in greater
use of subject-less passives and nominalizations (Chafe 1982; Chafe &
Danielewicz 1987). Since non-verbal contextualization cues available
to speakers and listeners in face-to-face interaction – gesture, tone of
voice, body posture (Gumperz 1982a, 1992a) – are not available for disambiguating written text, writers make use of specialized textual units to
serve similar kinds of orienting and focusing functions for their readers
(Nystrand 1986; Tolchinsky, Johansson & Zamora 2002). Discourse signals like firstly or to digress, graphical features like boxes, headings, and
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sidebars, and genre-specific discourse structures like thesis statements
and narrative coda serve communicative functions in writing, similar
to contextualization cues in speech. A related characteristic of academic
written text is the use of signaling nouns (Flowerdew 2003), nouns like
process, structure, or problem, that signal thematic links among successive
units of discourse. Comparing a science textbook with oral lectures in a
college course using the text, Flowerdew found a greater use of signaling nouns in the written text for the course, despite almost identical
content presentation across the two modalities. The effectiveness of signaling nouns in written discourse appears to depend upon the resources
that readers can uniquely call upon, including the ability to scan larger
units of text, review, and forecast. Like contextualization cues in face-toface communication, discourse signals in written text operate effectively
when both communicative partners share conventionalized understandings of their interpretation.
Written text has a quality of permanence that significantly affects writers’ roles in relation to the information they present. Assertions made in
writing are “on record,” indisputably linked to the author, and lack the
deniability of many verbal claims. As a result, writers, much more so
than speakers, mark the reliability of the information they report, using
a variety of evidentials (Chafe 1985; Conrad & Biber 2000). Chafe notes
that academic writers, unlike speakers, mark shades of reliability, using
qualifying constructions like in some respects and generally.
A final characteristic of written text is its greater formality. Lacking
information about the social identities and language values of potential
readers of a text, writers may choose a neutral or polite register rather
than a register selected for a particular face-to-face audience, flattening
out the range of register options that are typically available to a speaker
in face-to-face communication. Academic written texts, for example, use
a much more formal and specialized vocabulary than oral talk in academic settings (Biber 2006). For writers of languages that require honorific marking, like Korean, the absence of a specific audience for academic
and official writing may result in writers’ selection of unmarked or neutral registers (Biber 1995).
While many of the observed contrasts in oral and written texts can
be traced to characteristics of the circumstances of text production and
comprehension for speech and writing, the social purposes and stances
associated with particular oral and written genres make independent
contributions. As Bauman has argued, genres function as “conventionalized orienting frameworks” (2004: 3) representing idealizations of specialized communicative purposes. Analyzing a wide range of written and
oral texts across languages as dissimilar as Korean and Somali, Biber
(1995) found broad similarities in the linguistic features associated with
oral and written styles as well as oral and written style features that were
both genre- and language-specific.
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5.3 Complicating the picture
Although the dimensions of “involvement” and audience orientation have
been identified as distinctive properties of oral communication (Chafe
1982, 1985), newer analyses have identified structures that are used to
accomplish similar audience-oriented interactional functions within
written texts. Communicative goals of speakers and writers in relation
to their audience are broadly similar across genres and modalities: the
task of securing the interactant’s commitment, interest, and uptake is
an overriding concern in the production of even prototypically written
register texts like academic articles. As Brandt has argued along with
others who complicate the picture of oral–written contrasts, the writer
of academic discourse both acknowledges and constructs an active role
for the reader (Nystrand 1986; Brandt 1990; Hunston & Thompson 2000).
The stances that are constructed in academic discourse may contrast
markedly with those in face-to-face conversation, but in both contexts
the writer/speaker works to craft a message that meets the needs of the
communication partner.
Hyland (2001) has reclaimed the term engagement to describe academic
writers’ effort to invoke the reader, address the reader’s questions, direct
the reader’s attention, and bring the reader into the process of meaning
construction. In accomplishing the goals of reader engagement and comprehension, academic writers adapt lexical and syntactic patterns from
face-to-face interaction such as first and second person pronouns (as we
will learn), questions (what is the result?), identification of shared knowledge
(it is clear that …) and reader-addressed directives (see Figure 2). Academic
writers also use questions to their readers with a high degree of frequency, embedding these in exposition of content in proportions similar
to those used by lecturers in face-to-face situations (Camiciottoli 2008).
Undergraduate authors of research reports make use of many of these
reader-oriented rhetorical strategies, although typically with less frequency and confidence than professional academic writers. Apprentice
writers appear not to have fully acquired the disciplinary expertise and
established relationship with a community of scholars that underlie the
self-assured use of audience-involvement strategies in professional academic writing (Hyland 2006). Expressions of “unattributed mental and
verbal processes” (Thompson 2001: 66) like it may appear, that indirectly
reference a reader’s subjectivity and upgraders like of course that imply a
reader’s judgment are particularly common in written academic prose.
Both of these rhetorical strategies, earlier noted by Chafe as characterizing a written academic register (1985), indirectly invoke a committed
reader who is judging or weighing particular assertions and finds them
persuasive or the opposite. Prepositional phrases that carefully qualify or calibrate a writer’s assertions, on the whole, in most cases, are much
more common in academic writing and journalism than in everyday
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conversation where speakers prefer lexical qualifiers like really, actually,
and kinda (Conrad & Biber 2000). Collectively, across a work of professional writing, these print-adapted engagement strategies serve an orienting and guiding function, bringing the reader toward the author’s
intended conclusion.
5.4
Learning about written discourse: reading
As Hockett points out in an early formulation of the dichotomy ([1951]
2003), speech always precedes written language both in the lives of individuals and in human history. In literate societies, written language
supports a kind of second consciousness that develops alongside and in
contrast with oral language. Skill in oral language provides a critical
foundation for developing literacy, however competence in reading and
writing are acquired slowly.
The differences between writing and speech underlie important developmental processes within individuals. Children’s encounters with print
promote a shift in their experience of language because, as Olson argues,
access to writing as a physical manifestation of language “brings speech
into consciousness” (Olson 1996: 146). Early literacy instruction in alphabetic writing systems includes considerable attention to phonological
awareness, the reanalysis of the speech stream into distinct words, syllables, and phonemes that supports the ability to decode written text. As
children begin to compose and read written text, they develop heightened awareness of the morphological units that make up words (Nunes,
Bryant & Bindman 2006) and of the syllable structure within words
(Ehri 1985). Research suggests that this new awareness does not necessarily develop naturally through a maturing of language competence
but is in large part a product of successful literacy instruction and the
school-based literacy practices that surround it (Ehri et al. 2001). The full
development of phonological awareness appears to require the kinds of
specific, teacher-mediated experiences with print that form part of literacy teaching and learning. Unschooled adults, for example, perform
like preschool children on the ability to segment spoken words into
phonemes and delete phonemes from words that are presented orally
(Cardoso-Martins, Rodrigues & Ehri 2003). Non-literate adults also perform like preschoolers on tasks that ask them to identify words within a
stream of speech (Ramachandra & Karanth 2007).
Learning to read involves not simply the transfer of oral language
skills to written contexts but requires, in addition, a reassessment of language units and their communicative functions (Ehri 1985; Olson 1991;
Olson & Torrance 2001). The concept of a word, for example, becomes
clearer for children as they learn to decode written text where the visual
boundaries between words are strongly signaled and the reading process
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requires sequential, word-by-word processing. Conventions for representing words as distinct units in writing are not acquired all at once but
emerge first in specific genres of children’s early writing, such as lists
and description, and within sentences or phrases with specialized communicative functions, such as reported speech (Tolchinsky 2001).
More than learning a technology, the acquisition of literacy requires
immersion in social practices and a gradual absorption of the language
values associated with the new modality. School-age children’s developing metalinguistic abilities arise in the context of learning about the
different status of words and text in face-to-face and written communication. Within the culture of school literacy, as many have observed
(Greenfield 1972; Luria 1979; Vygotsky 1983), words are the object of
special attention and analysis. Words do not just reference objects or
processes in the world of direct experience, they come to represent classificatory schemes that detach from and generalize beyond specific cases
(Luria 1979).
Ethnographic research on home and community literacy practices
suggests that these may be especially influential in shaping children’s
understandings of the specialized functions of written text and distinctive norms for its interpretation (Heath 1983; Scollon & Scollon
1981). Parent talk about text to very young children marks important
distinctions between the functions of written and oral communication
(Robins & Treiman 2009). Among other lessons that children can learn
through early experiences with text, home literacy practices can orient
children toward particular kinds of reader–text relationships, such as
the “contracts of literacy” that develop for middle-class preschoolers in
parent–child book reading interaction (Snow & Ninio 1985). Children’s
out-of-school experiences with written text vary in ways that are often
independent of adults’ broad levels of literacy. Detailing practices in a
rural, white working-class community in New York State, for example,
Brandau showed that despite fully adequate levels of formal literacy, most
community members used literacy in very limited and situation-specific
ways, preferring face-to-face communication, apprenticeship, and other
non-literate strategies for exchanging information in most out-of-school
contexts (Brandau & Collins 1994; Brandau 1996).
Early literacy instruction in school includes teaching children the special status of the written text in meaning construction through what
Baker and Freebody have called the “teacher–text partnership” (1989:
267). In an urban second grade classroom, for example, children and
their teacher discussed a reader passage that included the phrase, “as
thick as pea soup”:
Teacher: What about pea soup? Have you ever had pea soup?
Students: Yes.
Students: No.
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Teacher: Who’s had it? What’s it like? Frankie?
Frankie: It tastes good.
Teacher: Tell us what it’s like. What color is it?
Frankie: (shrugs)
Teacher: What color is it?
Frankie: I don’t know.
Teacher: What color are peas?
Students: Green.
Teacher: Green, so it’s kind of a greenish color. Has anyone else ever
had it? What kind of a soup is it – how would you describe pea
soup?
Darren: (shrugs)
Teacher: Hard to describe, huh? What does it look like?
Shana: It’s like it’s a bunch of peas inside a pan with water?
Teacher: And the water’s called broth and broth is real real thick.
Have you ever had it? It’s real thick.
Using a child-oriented strategy, the teacher, Ms. Woods, tries to guide
students to understand the problematic phrase through commenting on
their own direct experience outside the text: Tell us what it’s like. As is
often the case in such reading-focused exchanges, students’ lived experiences failed to align closely with the intended interpretation of the
specific referent in the text. When students offered, “it’s a bunch of peas
inside a pan with water,” Ms. Woods, drawing on a strategy described
by Baker and Freebody, substituted her own, text-aligned experience,
“it’s real thick.” What children learn from these exchanges is really the
opposite of what is intended by Ms. Woods’ initial gambit: direct experience is often an imperfect guide in making sense of the worlds represented in written text.
Schooled conventions for interpreting written text include a limited role for the reader’s personal experience. When personal experience and the message of the written text do not align, as in the case of
“thick as pea soup,” school socialization practices focus on the reader’s
responsibility to reason inside the world of the text. Not all children,
however, experience similar kinds of apprenticeship in schooled literacy (Bernstein 1996), and beliefs about the primacy of the written text
may clash with community beliefs about knowledge construction (Heath
1983). Examining the standardized reading test responses of middleclass white and urban African-American and Latino children, Hill and
Larsen (2000) identified divergent reader strategies for resolving textual
ambiguity. Confronting ambiguous texts, urban children drew on their
own world knowledge outside of the text to bridge information gaps in
a written passage, while middle-class children more often attempted
to uncover the writer’s intent, closely re-reading details in the passage
while considering different writer intentions.
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5.5 Learning about written discourse: writing
When children first become authors of their own texts, the language
norms they draw upon are largely those of oral talk in face-to-face communication (Dyson 1997), although for middle-class children, some
written genre features may appear quite early (Hemphill & Snow 1996).
Speech-like deictics such as this or here is and pronouns without an antecedent are common in children’s early composing, as in this text composed by a middle-class five-year-old (this is an ice cream cone):
THES A ISC
CRSI KEDO
Commenting on the trajectory of children’s writing development in a
cross-sectional comparison of spoken and written texts across languages,
Berman argues that early written texts are “largely anchored in the spoken language and hence largely speech-like in register” (2004a: 347).
There appears to be an extended apprenticeship in learning the appropriate use of the more sophisticated grammatical constructions characteristic of written expository discourse. University students, for example,
approach but still do not reach the norms of published academic writing
in their use of syntactic subordination (Neff et al. 2004), and older adolescents use complex grammatical constructions at times inappropriately
in academic writing (Berman 2004a; Ravid & Berman 2009).
For earlier acquired grammatical features of a written language register, however, such as multi-constituent noun phrases and prepositional
phrases, children by about age 10 appear to have moved toward the frequencies of these forms in published professional writing and away from
the lower frequencies characteristic of their own oral communications
(Sampson 2003). Children’s ability to use constructions that are part of
their linguistic repertoires in very different proportions in particular
spoken and written genres reflects emerging understandings of not only
formal genre features but also the different statuses and social roles of
specific text types.
Generalizing from largely experimental and interview studies among
literate working- and middle-class British children, Bernstein made the
critical observation that middle-class children begin school with some
understanding of the principles underlying autonomous message production and with insights into the different social valuing of literate and
vernacular discourses (Bernstein 1971, 1981). In particular, he argued
that children from middle-class families develop a sensitivity to communicative situations which require discourses with the properties of an
elaborated code: these situations include most school-like elicitations of
displays of knowledge.
Children and adolescents who grow up in vernacular speech communities show challenges in taking on the stances and associated discourse
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81
strategies of canonical written discourse, importing discourse forms into
academic contexts from community contexts of oral communication. Ball
(1992), for example, found that African-American adolescents showed a
strong preference for expository texts that were organized around vernacular macro-structures such as “circumlocution,” a culturally based
oral discourse structure that implicitly links several related topics. In
research on high-achieving adolescents’ literary essays, working-class
students elaborated on the narrative content in literary essays using elaboration strategies that closely resemble those in their oral narratives, in
contrast to more privileged classmates who focused on literary theme
abstracted from the narrative content of the literary work (Hemphill
1999). Creole-speaking college students from the English-speaking
Caribbean use creole-based conjunctions for linking propositions in academic writing, a pattern that is particularly marked for basilectal speakers of West Indian creoles (Clachar 2004).
5.6
Speaking a written language
Although the relationships between oral and written language are commonly thought as unidirectional, with oral communication affecting
written language, in the timespan when children are becoming literate, features of their oral communication shift toward written language
norms, with older school-age children making a greater use of passives
and complex nominals in talk (Jisa 2004; Jisa & Viguié 2005). For children who speak a vernacular, such as African-American English, the
early years of schooling typically result in a shift toward bi-dialecticism.
Awareness of contrasts between and the appropriate contexts for school
language and community language varieties appears related to success
in early reading and may be driven by exposure to written texts that
represent school language’s phonological and syntactic patterns (Craig &
Washington 2006; Charity, Scarborough & Griffin 2004).
Another context for the influence of written language on oral communication comes through children’s exposure to new words and grammatical structures in written text. Abstract nouns, for example, begin to
appear in greater frequencies in the oral narratives of older children and
adolescents, compared to younger children (Ravid 2006). Both vocabulary and syntactic development appear to be heavily driven by written
text exposure so that the language development of children with different amounts of reading exposure begins to diverge markedly after about
age 6 (Cunningham 2005).
In the age span when children are becoming exposed to the conventions of school literacy, oral discourse patterns also show shifts toward
the norms of written text-types. Middle-class children’s oral picturebook narratives, for example, lose many of the features of face-to-face
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LOWRIE HEMPHILL
storytelling by ages 8–10 and take on some of the genre characteristics
of written narrative: a distanced author/narrator, a fi xed time perspective, and the use of types of nominals that do not assume that the listener has access to the pictures in the text (Griffin et al. 2004). Over the
developmental span of beginning literacy instruction, oral picture-book
narratives (frequently elicited through “frog stories”) begin to show the
disappearance of many features of oral, face-to-face narration such as
deictic pronouns, direct address to the listener, and shifts in time perspective (Berman & Slobin 1994; Griffin et al. 2004; Hickmann 2004). The
experience of becoming literate, especially in middle-class cultural contexts that value schooled speech styles, appears to shift some characteristics of oral language toward the norms of written discourse.
5.7
Conclusion: reframing the dichotomy
Claims about a simple dichotomy between oral and written language
as modes of representation (Olson 1977; Ong 1982; Tannen 1982) have
inspired three decades of empirical work on diverse oral and written
genres, on the psychology of text production and comprehension, and
on the acquisition of literacy. Inevitably the research has complicated
the picture of a highly involved, interpersonally oriented oral style and
a distanced and cognitively complex written style. Work comparing features of varied oral and written text-types has identified multidimensional continua along which particular genres may be located, including
dimensions such as a focus on audience involvement versus an information focus (Biber 1988, 1995). One key finding is that written genres
differ markedly from each other along many of these dimensions, and
written genres may in fact share key features with genres of oral discourse (Biber, Reppen & Conrad 2002).
Early on, Scribner and Cole’s (1981) research on Vai and Qur’anic
literacy acquired without Western-style schooling drew attention to
the particular social practices that surround the acquisition and uses of
different types of literacy. In subsequent investigations, largely of children’s literacy learning in different social settings, social practices have
been demonstrated to be critical in shaping what we think of as literate
modes of thought and expression. Thus, while it appears to be the case
that factors in the speech situation (known audiences, access to listener
feedback, online planning, etc.) shape many features of oral discourse,
written communication is much more varied and context-dependent
than earlier formulations of the dichotomy suggested. The most productive newer work on orality and literacy addresses audience design and
other “oral” features in diverse genres of written discourse and seeks to
document the factors supporting young people’s acquisition of different
genres of written communication.
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6
Sign languages
Robert Bayley and Ceil Lucas
6.1
Introduction
Natural sign languages are autonomous linguistic systems, independent of the spoken languages with which they may coexist in a given
community. As sign languages are full-fledged autonomous linguistic
systems shared by communities of users, the sociolinguistics of sign
languages can be described in ways that parallel the description of the
sociolinguistics of spoken languages. That is, the sociolinguistics of sign
languages concerns the interrelationship of sign languages and social
structure, just as the sociolinguistics of spoken languages concerns the
interrelationships of spoken languages and social structure. And, as is
true of spoken languages, sign languages are used both to communicate information and to define the social situation, i.e. to make statements about individual identity, group loyalties, and one’s relation to
one’s interlocutors. Indeed, rather than appearing in a separate chapter,
information about the sociolinguistics of sign languages might well be
included in each chapter in this volume. The sociolinguistics of sign
languages includes the study of regional and social variation, bi- and
multilingualism and language contact phenomena, language attitudes,
discourse analysis, and language policy and planning (Lucas 1995, 2001).
However, while each of these areas has relevance for Deaf communities, the sociolinguistics of sign languages is a new area of inquiry and
some subfields have received much more attention than others.1 In cases
where there has been a great deal of work, for example lexical variation,
our discussion is necessarily selective. In areas where there have been
few studies, we discuss those studies. In a concluding section, we outline several suggestions for future research in areas that seem to us to
be most promising.
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Table 6.1 Variability in spoken and sign languages
Variable unit
Example
Spoken languages
Features of individual
segments
Individual segments
deleted or added
Syllables (i.e. groups
of segments) added
or deleted
Part of segment, segments,
or syllables rearranged
Variation in word-sized
morphemes or
combinations of
word-sized morphemes
(i.e., syntactic variation)
Variation in discourse units
Sign languages
Final consonant devoicing, Change in location,
vowel nasalization, vowel
movement, orientation,
raising and lowering
handshape in one or
more segments of a
sign
-t,d deletion, -s deletion,
Hold deletion, movement
epenthetic vowels and
epenthesis, hold
consonants
epenthesis
Aphesis, apocope,
First or second element of
syncope
a compound deleted
Metathesis
Metathesis
Copula deletion, negative
concord, avoir/ê tre
alternation, lexical
variation
Null pronoun variation,
lexical variation
Text types, lists
Repetition, expectancy
chains, deaf/blind
discourse, turn taking,
back channeling,
questions
Reprinted with permission from Lucas, Bayley, and Valli (2001: 25).
6.2
Regional and social variation
Sign languages, like spoken languages, exhibit both regional and social
variation. This variation has been described mainly at the phonological
and lexical levels, and to a much lesser extent at the morphological and
syntactic levels. (The term phonology is used in sign linguistics to describe
the same area of linguistics that it refers to in spoken language studies,
that is, the study of the basic units of the language, in this case the handshape, location, palm orientation, movement, and facial expressions.)
Table 6.1 provides a comparison of spoken and sign language variability
and shows that the same kinds of variation found in spoken languages
can also be found in sign languages. Specifically, the features of individual segments of signs can vary, individual segments and whole syllables can be deleted or added, and parts of segments or syllables can be
rearranged. There can be variation in word-sized morphemes (i.e. lexical
variation) or in combinations of word-sized morphemes (i.e. syntactic
variation). Finally, there can be variation in discourse units. Phonological
variation can be seen in the production of the component parts of signs
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such as handshape, location, palm orientation, number of articulators, non-manual signals, and segmental structure. For example, the
American Sign Language (ASL) signs FUNNY, BLACK, and CUTE might
be produced with the thumb extended or with the thumb closed; the
ASL signs BORED and DEAF might be produced with the little finger
extended or with the little finger closed; the ASL sign WEEK might be
produced with the palm of the dominant hand facing upward or the
palm facing downward; the ASL sign KNOW might be produced on
the forehead or on the cheek. Note that English glosses of ASL signs are
typically written in upper case. KNOW, for example, refers to the ASL
sign rather than the English word.
Sign languages, then, demonstrate the same kind of variation found
in spoken languages. However, two kinds of variation in sign languages
seem to be artifacts of a language produced with two identical articulators (i.e. two hands as opposed to one tongue). That is, sign languages allow
the deletion, addition, or substitution of one of the two articulators. Twohanded signs become one-handed (CAT, COW), one-handed signs become
two-handed (DIE), and a table, chair arm or the signer’s thigh may be
substituted for the base hand in a two-handed sign (RIGHT, SCHOOL). In
addition, one-handed signs that the signer normally produces with the
dominant hand (i.e. the right hand, if the signer is right-handed) can be
signed with the non-dominant hand. Research has shown that signers in
different regions tend to favor different variants. For example, in Boston
signers tend to favor the one-handed variant of signs that are traditionally produced with two hands, like DEER or WANT. Signers in California,
Kansas, and Louisiana, however, tend to favor the two-handed variants
(Lucas et al. 2007). Variation is also allowed in the relationship between
articulators, as in HELP, produced with an A handshape (fist with thumb
on the side of the index finger) placed in the upward-turned palm of the
base hand. Both hands can move forward as a unit, or the base hand can
lightly tap the bottom of the A handshape hand.
Also important are the constraints that operate on variation, constraints that can be either linguistic or social. The linguistic constraints
on spoken and signed variation can be seen in Table 6.2. Constraints may
be of a compositional nature, that is, having to do with some feature of the
variable sign itself, such as movement of the fingers or the number of fingers extended. For example, the sign FUNNY may allow the thumb to be
extended, but the fact that the fingers oscillate and that both the index
and middle fingers are extended may influence whether the thumb gets
extended. Sequential constraints are those that have to do with the immediate linguistic environment surrounding the variable sign, such as the
handshape, location or palm orientation of the sign immediately preceding or following the variable sign. Sequential constraints have always
been very important in explaining variation in spoken languages and
have been assumed to be as important in sign language variation as well.
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Table 6.2 Internal constraints on variable units
Constraint
Example
Spoken
Signed
Compositional
Phonetic features in nasal
absence in child language
Sequential
Following consonant, vowel,
or feature thereof
Morphological status of -s in
Spanish -s deletion
Preceding or following
syntactic environment for
copula deletion
Emphasis
Other parts of sign in question
(e.g. handshape, location,
orientation)
Preceding or following sign or
feature thereof
Function of sign as noun,
predicate, or adjective
Syntactic environment for
pronoun variation
Functional
Structural
incorporation
Pragmatic
Emphasis (e.g. pinky extension)
Reprinted with permission from Lucas, Bayley, and Valli (2001: 29).
Many examples of handshape, location, and palm orientation assimilation are seen, such that the 1 handshape in the first person pronoun
PRO.1 (‘I’), with the thumb and all fingers except the index finger closed,
may become an open 8 handshape (all fingers open, pads of the middle
finger and the thumb almost touching) in the phrase PRO.1 PREFER (‘I
prefer’) or an F handshape (all fingers open, thumb tip and index tip contact) in the phrase PRO.1 CURIOUS (‘I’m curious’), by assimilation with
the preceding handshapes of the predicates PREFER and CURIOUS. The
same appears to be true with the variation in number of articulators
described above, whereby the variable sign may be two-handed or onehanded depending on the number of hands in the preceding and following signs (Lucas et al. 2007).
Functional constraints pertain to the role that the grammatical category of the sign plays in the variation. These functional constraints
are being found to have a very strong role in sign language variation
(Lucas & Bayley 2005; Lucas 2007).For example, the sign DEAF varies in
its location, such that it can be produced starting at the ear and ending
near the chin, starting at the chin and ending at the ear, or as a single
contact on the cheek. Figures 6.1a, 6.1b, and 6.1c illustrate the main
variants of this sign. Earlier analyses explained this variation simply in
terms of assimilation, that is, the location of the preceding or following sign conditioned whether the sign DEAF would start at the ear or
at the chin or contact the cheek. Recent research (see, e.g. Lucas et al.
2001a) has found that the grammatical category of the sign DEAF itself
plays a central role in the variation, such that DEAF as a predicate
(‘I am deaf’) tends to take the ear to chin form, while DEAF as a noun or
adjective (‘Deaf [people] understand,’ ‘deaf cat’) can be either the ear to
chin or chin to ear form, and the sign DEAF in a compound sign such as
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Figure 6.1a The ASL sign DEAF, citation form (ear to chin)
Figure 6.1b The ASL sign DEAF, non-citation variant 1 (chin to ear)
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CEIL LUCAS AND BOB BAYLEY
Figure 6.1c The ASL sign DEAF, non-citation variant 2, in the compound
DEAF CULTURE (contact cheek)
DEAF-WAY or DEAF-CULTURE tends to be the form that contacts the
cheek. Finally, structural incorporation has to do with the preceding or
following syntactic environment surrounding the variable and pragmatic features such as emphasis may help explain the variation being
observed.
Sign languages are also differentiated internally according to social
criteria, in the same way that spoken languages are. That is, varieties of
sign languages exist and the social factors that help define these varieties
include both those that play a role in spoken language variation – region,
age, gender, socioeconomic status, race – and others that are unique to
language use in Deaf communities, such as the language policies implemented in deaf education, the home environment (e.g. Deaf parents in
an ASL-signing home vs. hearing parents in a non-signing home), and
the sightedness or not of the signer, as in the variety used by Deaf-Blind
signers. This variety is known as Tactile ASL, used by Deaf-Blind people
with the genetic condition Ushers Syndrome I. Individuals with this syndrome are born deaf and later, usually in their teen years, start losing
vision in varying degrees due to retinitis pigmentosa. Crucially, most DeafBlind people in this category grow up using ASL and are fluent signers
by the time they begin to lose their sight. A variety of ASL has emerged
in this community that accommodates the loss of sight at all linguistic levels: phonological, morphological, syntactic, and discourse. One of
the consequences of the loss of sight is that Deaf-Blind people no longer
have access to the numerous ASL grammatical and discourse markers
produced on a signer’s face. Remarkably, these non-manual (facial) markers are produced on the hands in Tactile ASL. For example, the raised
eyebrows required for yes/no questions or the nodding required for backchanneling are produced manually (Collins & Petronio 1998; Collins
2004). In addition, research has demonstrated the existence of tactile
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varieties of other sign languages such as Swedish Sign Language (Mesch
2000) and Norwegian Sign Language (Raanes 2006).)
Lexical variation concerns different signs for the same concept.
Regional differences have been described in British Sign Language (BSL),
for example, between Reading and York for the signs LEARN, SUNDAY,
and WHO (Deuchar 1984: 131). Lexical variation has been studied in
many languages including BSL (Kyle & Woll 1985), New Zealand Sign
Language (McKee, McKee & Major 2008), Italian Sign Language (Radutzky
1992), Dutch Sign Language (Schermer 1990), Swiss German Sign
Language and Swiss French Sign Language (Boyes-Braem 1985), Brazilian
Sign Language (Campos de Abreu 1994), and Australian Sign Language
(Auslan) (Schembri and Johnston 2004, 2007; Schembri, Johnston &
Goswell 2006). Starting with the publication of the Dictionary of American
Sign Language by Stokoe and his colleagues in 1965, all researchers and
community members whose goal has been to prepare dictionaries of
their respective sign languages have had to confront significant lexical
variation. This variation has most often been due to the isolation of
signing communities even within the geographic boundaries of a recognized country.
In addition, Woodward (1976), Aramburo (1989), Lucas, Bayley, Reed,
and Wulf (2001), and Bayley and Lucas (forthcoming) have examined
ethnic variation, with a specific focus on differences between AfricanAmerican and white ASL signers in the United States, while Smiler and
McKee (2006) have studied differences in white and Maori signing in New
Zealand. Researchers have also examined gender variation in ASL and
Irish Sign Language (LeMaster 1991, 2006). Finally, Lucas et al. (2001a)
examined the effect of social class on variation, with class defined
according to Deaf community norms.
6.3 Bilingualism and language contact phenomena
Deaf communities contain examples of many types of bilingualism. Ann
(2001: 43), for example, enumerates seven types of Deaf bilinguals:
●
●
●
●
●
native signers of xSL2 who are fluent in a spoken languages (reading,
writing and speaking);
native signers of xSL who read and write a spoken language fluently
but do not speak it;
native signers of xSL who are fluent to varying degrees in reading and
writing a spoken language;
deaf signers of xSL as a second language who read and write a spoken
language;
second language xSL signers who first learned a signed version of a
spoken language;
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CEIL LUCAS AND BOB BAYLEY
●
●
native signers of xSL who learned another sign language as a second
language;
first/second language xSL signers who speak a spoken language.
In addition, bilingualism is also characteristic of hearing children of
Deaf parents (or CODAs, children of Deaf adults), who typically acquire
both a spoken and a sign language during the usual period of language
acquisition (Bishop & Hicks 2005, 2008; Bishop 2006). Finally, many hearing people choose to acquire ASL and other sign languages. Indeed, in
the United States, enrollments in ASL classes at colleges and universities
are increasing rapidly. However, the bilingualism of hearing people who
choose to acquire a sign language is beyond the scope of this chapter.
Regardless of their degree of bilingualism, most deaf people have at
least some exposure to the spoken language of the majority community
in which they live. This exposure may be primarily to the written form
of the majority language, although in many countries a signed code to
represent manually the spoken majority language has been devised, with
signs invented to represent the bound morphemes of the spoken language. Following Ann (2001), however, people whose only sign language
is a manual version of a spoken language are not considered bilingual,
any more than people who can read and speak one spoken language are
considered bilingual.
A discussion of bilingualism in Deaf communities necessarily requires
a re-examination of the term bilingual as it has been used to describe
spoken language communities. This is because many Deaf people with
a firm command of the written version of the majority spoken language
choose not to use their voices because they are not able to hear themselves
and hence monitor the volume or pitch of their speech. Bilingualism in
Deaf communities does not necessarily include speaking the languages in
question, at least not in the way that linguists generally understand the
term speaking. It does, however, require the use of more than one linguistic code, for example, written English and Australian Sign Language or
Mexican Sign Language and American Sign Language.
Given the prevalence of various types of bilingualism (and multilingualism in some cases), there are numerous occasions for contact
between spoken and sign languages in Deaf communities. Lucas and
Valli (1989:13) offer a partial list for the US Deaf community:
●
●
●
●
●
●
●
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Deaf bilinguals and hearing bilinguals
Deaf bilinguals with Deaf bilinguals
Deaf bilinguals with hearing people who speak only English
Hearing bilinguals with deaf English signers (i.e. signers who use a
form of signed English rather than ASL)
Deaf bilinguals with deaf English signers
deaf English signers with hearing spoken English monolinguals
deaf English signers with hearing bilinguals
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Table 6.3 Outcomes of language contact in the Deaf community
Between two sign languages
Between a sign language and a spoken language
Lexical borrowing
Foreigner talk
Following spoken
language criteria
literally
Interference
Pidgins, creoles,
and mixed systems
Unique phenomena
Fingerspelling
Fingerspelling/sign
combination
Code-switching
Lexical borrowing
Mouthing
CODA-speak
TTY conversations
Code-switching
Contact signing (code- mixing)
Reprinted with permission from Lucas and Valli (1992: 26).
●
●
●
deaf English signers with deaf ASL monolinguals
Deaf bilinguals with deaf ASL monolinguals
Deaf ASL monolinguals with hearing bilinguals
In addition to these types of language contact, we may add contact
between users of different sign languages, such as the contact between
users of ASL and Mexican Sign Language in the Texas–Mexico border
region (Quinto-Pozos 2002).
In examining language contact in Deaf communities, a fundamental
distinction is made between a situation involving contact between two
sign languages and a situation involving contact between a sign language
and a spoken language, a distinction necessary because of the difference
in modality between sign and spoken languages. Naturally, the situation
is not entirely straightforward, as two sign languages may be in contact,
both of which may incorporate outcomes of contact with their respective spoken languages, outcomes that may then play a role in the contact
between the two sign languages (see Quinto-Pozos 2002, 2007a). Table 6.3
summarizes some of the possible outcomes of language contact in Deaf
communities.
As can be seen in Table 6.3, the outcomes of contact between two sign
languages parallel the outcomes that have been described for contact
between spoken languages, namely lexical borrowing of various kinds,
code-switching and code-mixing, foreigner talk, interference, pidgins and
creoles, and mixed systems (Supalla & Webb 1995; Quinto-Pozos 2007b).
There is much anecdotal evidence for many of these outcomes, but empirical studies of the outcomes of contact between two sign languages are
just beginning to appear (Quinto-Pozos 2002, 2008; Yoel 2007). Signers
borrow the signs from another language into their own; bilinguals may
code-switch and code-mix elements from two sign languages; signers
may alter their signing and simplify it when signing to a non-native,
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and signers may show interference from one sign language when using
another. Signers have been observed to have “accents.” In addition, as
Quinto-Pozos (2007a) observes, several unique features of sign languages
are likely to influence language contact in a visual-gestural modality. The
first concerns the relative prevalence of iconicity. Quinto-Pozos notes that
although iconicity is a characteristic of both spoken and sign languages,
visual iconicity is found much more commonly in sign languages than
auditory iconicity is found in spoken languages (see also Liddell 2002).
Second, signers make considerable use of gestural resources, some of
which may be lexicalized or grammaticalized over time. According to
Quinto-Pozos, one challenge for researchers is “to determine whether a
meaningful form is, in some cases, a sign or a gesture” (2007a: 16). Finally,
a number of scholars have demonstrated that sign languages examined
so far show greater similarity in their structural features than do spoken
languages (Lucas & Valli 1992; Newport & Supalla 2000). For example, sign
languages tend to use the signing space to indicate spatial relationships
rather than lexical items (Quinto-Pozos 2007a).
As concerns contact between a sign language and a spoken language,
a distinction is made between outcomes that reflect literal adherence to
the spoken language criteria defined for those outcomes. For example,
code-switching would mean ceasing signing and beginning to talk. This
is distinct from unique phenomena that occur, such as contact signing,
as observed in the American Deaf community: the simultaneous production of ASL lexical forms in English word order with mouthing of English
words, with the possible inclusion of inflected ASL verbs and ASL nonmanual signals. Some analyses have characterized this as a pidgin but
more recent analyses find the features of this kind of signing to be inconsistent with the features of pidgins (Lucas & Valli 1992). Fingerspelling is
also a unique phenomenon, because although the forms are part of the
natural sign language – i.e., the handshape, the location, orientation,
and the segmental structure – it is a representation of the writing system of the majority spoken language (Battison 1978). Signers in contact
with languages that use the Roman alphabet fingerspell, but signers in
contact with Arabic, Russian, Japanese, and Chinese also represent the
writing systems of their respective spoken languages (Ann 1998). Other
unique phenomena include the English sometimes produced by the children of Deaf adults (CODA-speak, Bishop & Hicks 2005), the English of
typed telephone conversations that often incorporates features of ASL
(Mather 1991), and the alteration of French place names in LSQ (Langue
des Signes Québécoise; Miller 2001).
6.4 Language attitudes
The same range of language attitudes found in spoken language communities can also be found in Deaf communities. The most crucial attitudes
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are those that pertain to the very status of sign languages as viable linguistic systems. These attitudes have always had a very direct effect
on the education of deaf children. As eminent a linguist as Leonard
Bloomfield stated that “gesture languages [were] merely developments of
ordinary gestures and that any and all complicated or not immediately
intelligible gestures are based on the conveniences of speech (1933: 39),
and further that “elaborate systems of gesture, deaf-and dumb language,
signaling codes, the use of writing, telegraphy and so on, turn out, upon
inspection, to be merely derivatives of language” (p. 144). More recently,
Griffey, an influential educator of deaf children in Ireland, has stated
that “sign language is quite dependent on concrete situations and mime.
Its informative power can be very limited without knowledge of a majority language such as English, French, etc.” (1994: 28).
Even though the education of deaf children started very promisingly
in France and in the United States with sign language as the medium
of instruction, opinions about the inherent superiority of spoken languages prevailed both in Europe and in the United States even before
the famous conference on deaf education held in Milan in 1880 where
it was resolved that speech should take precedence over signs in the
teaching of deaf children and, in fact, that the use of signs would interfere with the learning of speech and lip reading. As early as the 1840s,
the movement for the oral education of deaf children – using spoken
English, for example, as the medium of instruction and teaching them
to speak English to the exclusion of ASL – was rapidly gaining momentum, partly due to a cultural change in the United States involving
views on creationism and evolution. As Baynton states: “Most of the
former [teachers of the deaf] came of age before the publication of
Darwin’s Origin of the Species in 1859, and had constructed their understanding of the world around the theory of immediate creation. Most of
those opposed to the use of sign language belonged to a younger generation whose worldview was built upon an evolutionary understanding
of the world” (1996: 36–37). In this view, the use of spoken language
was considered to be more “evolved” than the use of sign language.
The Milan conference was followed by a period of over ninety years
(1880 to roughly 1972) during which sign languages were banned from
classrooms and oralism dominated educational policies. The resolutions of the Milan conference had a drastic effect on deaf education in
the United States and in other European countries that had begun to
implement it. Most deaf teachers lost their jobs. As Lane, Hoffmeister,
and Bahan (1996: 62) state, “In 1867 there were 26 US institutions for
the education of Deaf children and all taught in ASL, as far as we know;
by 1907 there were 139, and none did.” In the early 1970s, in light of
dismal educational performance by deaf students, so-called “combined
methods,” i.e. methods that combine talking and signing, began to be
introduced. In recent years, the situation has been improving, with
a number of organizations and governments fi nally recognizing sign
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languages as viable linguistic systems to be used in the education of
deaf children (see section 6.6).
Deaf people have inevitably internalized many of the attitudes of
the majority society, as Kannapell found in her pioneering 1985 study.
Through a survey and in-depth interviews, she found confl icting attitudes toward the natural sign language and the majority spoken language. That is, pride with respect to the sign language co-occurred with
an attitude that its use reveals a lower educational level or even lower
intelligence in the user, while use of a signed version of the majority
spoken language was viewed as evidence of good education and superior
intelligence. Pride with respect to the natural sign language also coexisted with the misconception that it is not a real language or is a deficient
form of the spoken majority language.
Similar perceptions have been found in Deaf communities in other
countries. Kyle and Woll (1985) found that when research on sign language began, deaf people had no label for their language other than
“signing” and did not realize that it was a language. In Ireland, Burns
(1998) found that only two-thirds of deaf subjects recognized Irish Sign
Language as a language and a number of labels such as “broken,” “ugly,”
and “telegraphic” have been used by deaf people to describe their language (Edwards & Ladd 1983). However, as with the use of sign languages
as the medium of instruction for deaf children, deaf perspectives on
the status of sign languages have slowly brightened, helped no doubt by
large international gatherings such as Deaf Way I (1988) and Deaf Way II
(2002), conferences and celebrations of Deaf culture and sign language
held in Washington, DC. Deaf Way I was attended by over 6,000 people
and Deaf Way II by 10,000 people from all over the world. One major
outcome of these events was widespread mutual recognition of worldwide Deaf communities and their sign languages. (One interesting result
has been the adoption into ASL and other sign languages of the signs
for countries used in those countries, as opposed to the already-existing
ASL signs for those countries.) Furthermore, very positive attitudes about
sign languages have also been expressed by their users, as Padden and
Humphries attest: “It is implied that good signing is like a beautiful
painting or sculpture: there is order in how the parts come together. The
result of correct signing is aesthetically pleasing and satisfying. Bad signing, in contrast, is jarring and unpleasant” (1988: 62).
Teachers of deaf children have of course also formed attitudes about
the languages in question. Training for teachers of the deaf has recently
begun to focus on the use of sign language as the medium of instruction
in conjunction with literacy in the majority language, training programs
even in the recent past did not require sign language skills and most
often required teachers to learn one of the various manual codes devised
to represent the spoken language. Examples of these codes include
Signing Exact English or SEE (Gustason, Pfetzing & Zawolkow 1975),
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Signed Swedish (Bergman 1979), and the Paget–Gorman Sign System
(Paget & Gorman 1976) in Britain. In a study of teacher attitudes toward
sign languages, Ward-Trotter (1989) found more positive attitudes toward
Signed English. La Bue (1995) provides a case study of a teacher trained
in Signed English, the method of communication required by school policy. La Bue documents the teacher’s struggle to reconcile the language
policy of the school with actual classroom practice and states that “The
rationale that supports current practices is circular, based upon the pretense that children who cannot hear can (emphasis in original) hear …
reform is not merely a matter of making conscious changes in language
practice. These changes include altering people’s beliefs and attitudes
about deaf people” (1995: 211). A recent study by Garate (2007) provides
evidence that changes in attitudes can result from effective instruction
and training. In a case study of an ASL/English Bilingual Professional
Development program for teachers of Deaf children in the United States,
Garate found that participants gained considerable understanding about
bilingual education as a result of the training. Specifically, by the time
they concluded training, participants believed that ASL was the foundation for bilingual education, that ASL and English must be separated,
that balanced use of languages should be planned, and that academic
functions must be developed for both languages.
The invention of manual codes for spoken languages by definition
includes the invention of new signs for concepts that in many cases
already have signs in the natural sign language in question. Quite predictably, deaf people usually have negative attitudes about these invented
signs, in part because they often violate the rules for sign formation
in the natural sign language but also because the codes of which they
are a part have been invented with the precise purpose of supplanting
the natural sign language. For example, in Britain, Lawson states that
“most native signers are opposed to the notion of hearing educationalists
inventing or creating signs specifically for classroom teaching, or borrowing words from English which are supposed to have no equivalent in
the BSL vocabulary” (1981: 33).
As a result of activism in Deaf communities, which have demanded
access to societal resources, and the work of scholars showing that sign
languages are fully equal to spoken languages, attitudes toward sign
languages have begun to change for the better, both within Deaf communities and in the societies in which they are embedded. However,
Deaf people and linguists who study sign languages are still often confronted by widespread ignorance, including, for example, the belief that
sign languages are universal and that sign languages are merely manual
versions of the spoken languages with which they coexist. Thus, despite
gains in the status of sign languages, it is evident that there is still a
great deal of work to be done to dispel widespread myths and negative
attitudes.
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6.5 Discourse analysis
As with spoken languages, the discourse of natural sign languages is
structured and subject to sociolinguistic description (Metzger & Bahan
2001), and there are as many discourse genres in sign languages – conversations, narratives, lectures, sermons, and so forth – as can be found
in spoken languages. In addition, the frequent need for sign language
interpreters has given rise to a genre of interpreted discourse, subject
to specific constraints. Some of these constraints are also very specific
to the legal, educational, or medical setting in which the interpreting is
taking place. Research on sign language discourse can best be described
in terms of the approaches to discourse outlined by Schiffrin (1994).
For example, with regard to speech act theory (Austin 1962; Searle
1962, 1969) and also pragmatics (Grice 1975; Levinson 1983), signers
use language to participate in conversations and to perform acts such
as asking, requesting, offering, complaining, and so forth. Celo (1996)
applied speech act theory to an analysis of interrogatives in Italian Sign
Language (Lingua Italiana dei Segni, LIS) and found that there is at least
one performative sign in LIS that can be used to indicate interrogative intention for yes/no questions. Roush (1999) and more recently Hoza
(2007) examined speech acts in ASL in terms of politeness and conversational style and challenged the stereotype that ASL signers are direct
while English speakers are indirect, demonstrating that indirectness is
as much a part of sign language discourse as it is of spoken language
discourse.
Interactional sociolinguistics has proven to be a fruitful lens through
which to view sign language discourse. Signers may show their loyalties
and how they perceive a speech event in a variety of ways: by choosing to sign ASL, by signing and talking simultaneously, by speaking
English with voice (with no signing at all), or by mouthing voicelessly.
Researchers analyzing interactions can readily observe these choices.
Sign languages are also used to establish or reinforce social relations and
to control the behavior of others. For example, Mather (1987; Mather et
al. 2006) has explored adult–child interaction in elementary school classrooms and also the discourse particular to TTY (teletypewriter) conversations between deaf interlocutors (1991). Roy (1989a, 1989b) and Metzger
(1999) have both applied the principles of interactional sociolinguistics
to interpreted discourse, to demonstrate that, far from being the stereotypical neutral “conduit” of information between a hearing and a deaf
interlocutor, the interpreter plays a pivotal role in managing the entire
interpreted event.
Researchers have also used the methods of conversational analysis
to analyze sign language discourse, which of course has internal structure and is governed by norms such as how many people sign at once,
how much one person should sign, what can be signed about in public,
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how a conversation should be entered or left, how turns should be allocated, how repairs should be undertaken, and so forth. The pioneering
work on conversational analysis in sign languages was done by Baker
(1977), who explored the role of eye gaze and head nodding in structuring turn-taking in ASL conversations. Dively (1998) found unique nonmanual strategies for effecting repairs in ASL conversations. Winston
(1993, 1995) examined cohesion in ASL discourse and specifically the
use of space to establish specific references to which the signer can
then return repeatedly. For example, in her examination of an ASL
lecture on poetry, Winston shows how the signer has established one
side of the signing space to refer to poetry as art and the other side
to refer to poetry as science. Once the ideas have been set up in this
way, the signer refers to one or the other side of the signing space and
the addressees can understand the signer to be referring to these ideas
and to previous comparisons. Remarkably, the signer refers to what
Winston calls this spatial map as many as 700 utterances after it has
been established. Topic and the world knowledge that individuals bring
to the discourse may also structure it (Roy 1989a, 1989b), and sign language discourse can be described in terms of register variation (Lawson
1981; Zimmer 1989).
The concept of language as skilled work is applicable to sign languages,
as skill is demonstrated both in everyday use of language and in special
forms such as storytelling and poetry (Winston 1999). Constructed dialogue (Tannen 1989) is a key element in sign language discourse and has
been researched extensively. Researchers such as Winston (1991) and
Metzger (1995) have found that in sign language discourse, actions are
also constructed in narratives. Winston (1992) describes the construction of action and dialogue by signers as performatives that use space
to build the narrative scene. Mulrooney (2006) has also demonstrated
that sign language narratives have consistent structure and has shown
that textual narration uses grammatical structures to focus attention on
past events, while perceived narration demonstrates these past events.
Finally, the approach of the ethnography of communication has been
used very fruitfully in relation to sign languages, particularly in examinations of language use in classrooms with deaf children. Johnson and
Erting (1989), for example, examined the role of social identity in a preschool for deaf children and found that, for at least some deaf people,
their sense of identity is comparable to that of many ethnic groups and
that this sense of identity is the natural outcome of the use of a visual
language in a visually oriented cultural environment. Ramsey (1997)
completed a year-long ethnographic study of a public mainstream
school classroom in the United States and showed that, despite the best
intentions of the public school system, the educational experience of
the deaf children is simply not equal to that of their hearing peers in
the same class.
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6.6 Language policy and planning
Language policy refers to the extent to which particular languages are
recognized in a community, a particular domain, or a nation state. To
cite one example of language policy, in 2007 the Ontario Provincial
Parliament took up Bill 213, which made ASL an official language of
Canada’s most populous province. Language planning refers to deliberate decision-making in response to language problems. Deaf communities have very often been perceived as the sites of language problems,
particularly in the education of deaf children, for the obvious reason
that deaf children do not have easy access to the majority spoken language as a medium of instruction (Ramsey 1989; Nover 1995; Reagan
2001). Since the 1970s some approaches have involved the invention of
manual codes to represent the majority spoken language and may involve
the simultaneous production of the spoken language and the sign language, referred to as sign-supported speech (Johnson, Liddell & Erting
1989). However, many Deaf communities are beginning to use the natural sign language of the community as the medium of instruction. In
addition, language policy and planning as it concerns Deaf communities
are affected by a number of issues that present serious moral dilemmas.
These include the development and widespread use of cochlear implants,
the increasing effectiveness of genetic screening, the mainstreaming of
children with disabilities, and even the definition of what constitutes a
disability. In many cases, developments that are often seen as unalloyed
instruments of good, for example the development of assistive technologies for hearing-impaired children or placing children with “disabilities”
in the least restrictive environment, present serious challenges to Deaf
communities.
In the largest sense, questions about language policy and sign languages
hinge on the issue of how deafness is defined (Reagan 2002). Do deaf
people form linguistic and cultural minorities or are they to be defi ned
as sufferers from a disability that society should seek to remedy and if
possible eradicate? Those who adopt the former perspective tend to view
issues of language policy and planning for sign languages as questions of
language rights. Those who subscribe to the latter view tend to take an
assimilative approach. They favor widespread adoption of assistive technologies, including cochlear implants, and attempts to “normalize” deaf
children through placement in mainstream classrooms with hearing
children. In recent decades, advocates of both positions have achieved
success in different areas.
The legal recognition of sign languages has increased in many countries and the use of sign languages has expanded in many domains.
The case of Ontario mentioned at the beginning of this section is only
one example. Many European countries including the Netherlands,
Norway, and Sweden have also recognized local sign languages (see
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Van Herreweghe & Vermeerbergen 2004 and Timmermans 2005 for
details about individual countries). In the United States, interpreting
services are now mandatory for deaf people in many public institutions including universities and law courts, although there are still
problems associated with the interpreting provided to deaf criminal
suspects (Miller & McCay 2001, 2002). In addition, ASL is now widely
accepted as a medium of instruction in residential schools (Lucas et al.
2001).
Along with the increasing recognition of natural sign languages, a
number of threats to the continued existence of viable signing communities have developed, particularly in countries with relatively small
deaf populations. Johnston (2004), for example, argues that the number of profoundly deaf Australians, that is, the people most likely to
use Auslan, has been greatly overestimated. Rather than the common
estimate of 15,000, on the basis of a rigorous examination of existing
records, Johnston concludes that the actual population is closer to 7,000.
Moreover, in Australia, and in much of the rest of the developed world,
cochlear implants are widely used and children are often implanted
before the age of one. Although exact numbers are difficult to arrive at,
in the same article, Johnston presents data that suggest that approximately 45 percent of profoundly deaf children in Australia are receiving
implants at a very young age. Presumably few of these children will be
raised as native signers of Auslan. Johnston (2004) also discusses the possible implications of advances in genetic screening. and suggests that at
least some potential parents will choose to terminate pregnancies when
they fi nd that their baby is likely to be born deaf, thus resulting in a
further decrease in the potential signing population.
As some of the responses to Johnston’s (2004) paper suggest (e.g. Carty
2006), the decline in the number of signers in countries with large deaf
populations like the United States or Britain is likely to be less severe
than in countries with small populations like Australia, New Zealand, or
Sweden. Nevertheless, the implications of new technologies – and reactions to those developments by both Deaf and hearing communities –
are likely to have profound consequences for the continued vitality of
many sign languages. And those consequences raise many issues of language policy. Specifically, if the signing populations of smaller countries
decrease, to what extent will the public support services such as residential schools and interpreting? In the United States, efforts to mainstream deaf students, which are presumably well-intentioned, have led
to a drastic decline in the number of state residential schools, a development that has impacted upon the transmission of ASL. Similar developments may well arise in other countries. A second question concerns the
unequal status of deaf people around the world. If Johnston’s predictions
are borne out and the deaf population of the developed world decreases,
deafness will increasingly become an issue for developing countries that
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have fewer resources to provide interpreting and other services to facilitate Deaf people’s full participation in society.
As Turner (2006) argues, however, the implications of the decline and
possible demise of what he terms “heritage sign languages” go beyond
the more practical consequences discussed in the preceding paragraph.
Turner outlines three main reasons why the potential decline of sign
languages should be of concern. Firstly, as with the potential loss of any
language, the loss of a heritage sign language is a loss of one means of
understanding the world. Turner quotes with approval Hale’s comment
that the “enabling condition [of stretching ourselves and our understanding of ourselves to the limits] is linguistic and cultural diversity. Only
with diversity can it be guaranteed that all avenues of human intellectual progress will be traveled” (1988: 3–4). Secondly, Turner observes that
when a community loses its language, it ceases to be a community. That
is, there are severe cultural consequences of language loss for any community, but particularly for signing communities, since Deaf culture is
inextricably bound up with the sign language in which it is expressed.
Third, Turner observes that the loss of sign languages would represent
the loss of one means of understanding our humanity. He notes, “The
possible prospect of a shift away from fully vision-based sign languages
has repercussions in relation to vision-based cultures and vision-based
cognition, and therefore to our understanding of what it can mean to be
human” (2006: 412).
Other aspects of language policy raise somewhat smaller concerns, but
those concerns are nevertheless critically important to Deaf communities. For example, although the use of invented manual codes is problematic, use of such systems has by no means vanished. And, although use of a
natural sign language provides better access to the curriculum (Johnson,
Liddell & Erting 1989), as in the case of other vernaculars that have not
previously been used in education, it may be necessary to expand the
lexicon of a natural sign language so that it can be used at advanced levels of education. Such expansion leads naturally to other language planning issues, such as whether signs should be invented for new concepts
or whether new concepts should be represented with fingerspelling.
Important as educational access may be, issues of access and hence
of language policy and planning are not limited to deaf education. For
example, providing deaf adults with full access to the business of the
majority language community – i.e. media, government, the law, medical care – entails decisions about how linguistic access will be provided.
Questions include whether closed-captioning is preferable for television
news to a sign language interpreter; whether a sign language interpreter,
if provided, should use the natural sign language or a signed version
of the spoken majority language; what the interpreting policy should
be in an international gathering of deaf people – the natural sign language of the location of the gathering or an international variety or both
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(Rathmann, Mathur & Boudreault 2000). These are all issues that are the
subject of debate in many Deaf communities around the world.
6.7
Conclusion
Recent years have seen great progress in the study of the sociolinguistics
of sign languages. Thanks to studies carried out or nearing completion in
the United States, Australia, and New Zealand (Lucas et al. 2001; Schembri
& Johnston 2004, 2007; McKee, McKee & Major 2008), for example, we
now know that variation in sign languages is subject to many of the
same constraints that linguists have long observed in spoken languages.
Despite progress, however, much remains to be done. Sociolinguistic
variation has been explored in only a few sign languages, and even in the
languages where variation has been examined most extensively, ASL and
Auslan, we do not yet have the kinds of studies of particular communities
that have long been undertaken in spoken language sociolinguistics.
The study of bilingualism and sign languages also presents a number of challenging areas for future research, particularly in the area
of language contact. For example, in situations of language contact, do
sign languages influence each other in the same ways that spoken languages do? Thanks to the studies of Quinto-Pozos (2002, 2007b, 2008),
Yoel (2007), and a few others, work has begun in this area. However,
more work is clearly needed before we fully understand language contact between sign languages.
Other areas of sign language sociolinguistics also offer rich opportunities for research. For example, in many countries attitudes toward sign
languages are changing. In the United States, for example, enrollment
in ASL at colleges and universities is growing rapidly and many universities now accept ASL to fulfill foreign language requirements. At the
same time, advances in genetic screening and assistive technologies like
cochlear implants appear to threaten the viability of a number of signing communities, a situation that presents policymakers with profound
moral dilemmas.
The rise of national sign languages has also led to policy issues that
merit further investigation. South Africa is a case in point. South African
Sign Language (SASL) developed in the nineteenth century from a number of different source languages used in schools for the Deaf founded by
Irish and German Dominican nuns and by the Dutch Reformed Church
(Reagan, Penn & Ogilvy 2006). With the inception of apartheid in 1948,
manual codes, based on spoken language, were developed for black deaf
schools. As a result, SASL exhibits great lexical variation, and some scholars have questioned whether SASL is one language or many (Aarons &
Akach 2002). Questions about variety choice in different regions and
vocabulary choice in education and other services for South African
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Deaf people raise complex issues of language policy. SASL is not included
among South Africa’s official languages but is nevertheless listed in the
South African Constitution as a language entitled to support. However,
the nature of that support and efforts to standardize the language present a wide variety of challenging questions.
This chapter has outlined a number of areas of sociolinguistic research
on sign languages. Clearly a great deal has already been accomplished.
Equally clearly, however, much more remains to be done in all areas of
sign language sociolinguistics. Given the increasing recognition of sign
languages and the rights of Deaf people in many countries around the
world, we remain optimistic about the future of this important area of
sociolinguistic research.
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Part II
Interaction, style, and
discourse
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7
Conversation and
interaction
Cynthia Gordon
7.1 Introduction
There has been an explosion of research in the area of conversation and
interaction in recent years. Conversational discourse is a topic of great
interest to scholars in fields as varied as linguistics, sociology, anthropology, communication studies, and psychology. This multidisciplinary interest explains the methodological and theoretical diversity of
published studies: because researchers of conversation and interaction
“set out to answer many kinds of questions about language, about speakers and about society and culture” (Johnstone 2002: xii), it is useful to
incorporate insights from a range of perspectives. Conversational discourse research examines topics as diverse as the structure of conversation, including the organization of turns and the structure of specific
discourse types (e.g. accounts, arguments, apologies); the linguistic
means by which interlocutors exert power and demonstrate solidarity;
causes of intercultural (mis)communication; the role of repetition and
intertextuality in meaning making; and the linguistic construction of
identities and social realities. Thus, it is not surprising that even studies
of conversational interaction that are viewed as essentially “linguistic”
(or “sociolinguistic”) emerge from not one but multiple robust research
traditions.
Primary among these research traditions are conversation analysis,
the ethnography of conversation, and interactional sociolinguistics.
These “approaches to discourse” (Schiffrin 1994) have diverse disciplinary origins and feature some differences in methods and primary theoretical orientations, but all involve collection and careful analysis of
actual talk-in-interaction (see Schiffrin 1994 for a detailed discussion
I am grateful to Deborah Tannen and Najma Al Zidjaly for their helpful comments on earlier
versions of this chapter.
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of these different approaches to interaction as well as sample analyses).
And, although scholars of conversational discourse may diverge in some
of the particulars of data collection methods, their preferred terminologies and theories, and specific analytical steps taken, they are more often
than not united in the exploration of key themes that stem from earlier theorizing about the self, interaction, and social life by sociologist
Erving Goffman.
This chapter provides an overview of approaches to conversation
and outlines key themes and methods of research. In section 7.2, I
briefly sketch out three approaches to conversational discourse in the
Goffmanian tradition: conversation analysis, the ethnography of communication, and interactional sociolinguistics. Section 7.3 outlines
major themes of research on conversational discourse. In it I refer back
to the approaches introduced in section 7.2, but because their themes
and concerns overlap, and individual researchers are not always clearly
identified with a discrete approach, I organize my discussion around
major research themes in the field: the exploration of conversation as a
structured and emergent phenomenon, as a collaborative endeavor, as an
interpersonal and social ritual, as a cultural phenomenon, and as a locus
of action. In section 7.4, I outline major techniques of data collection and
analysis. Section 7.5 provides a brief conclusion.
7.2 Approaches to conversational discourse
In this section I provide an overview of three approaches to interaction
that focus on analysis of “ordinary” verbal behavior. These are not the only
approaches to the study of conversation; however, they can be viewed as
primary research threads in the Goffmanian tradition. Although I introduce conversation analysis, the ethnography of communication, and
interactional sociolinguistics one at a time, there is not universal agreement on how to differentiate between approaches to discourse, how to
categorize the work of particular researchers, or how exactly to classify
particular studies. However, because these categories are commonly used
by researchers in the field as a means of classifying researchers and their
work, and as a means of delineating bodies of research across disciplines,
here I provide a general description of each approach.
7.2.1 Conversation analysis
Conversation analysis (CA) grew out of the sociological perspective of
ethnomethodology, which developed from the work of Harold Garfinkel.
Harvey Sacks, Emanuel Schegloff, and their colleagues (e.g. Sacks,
Schegloff & Jefferson 1974) brought Goffman and Garfinkel’s research
notions to the study of conversational discourse. CA investigates
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conversational structure and takes an interest in exploring how unfolding conversational structure (re)creates social organization. Because it
focuses on how social order is actually lived and recreated moment-bymoment in talk, research in this tradition can be viewed as a “bridge
between linguistic analysis … and the sociological investigation of sociality” (Drew 2001: 111).
Researchers whose work is situated within CA have investigated a
range of issues related to conversational structure. For instance, Goffman’s
(1981) concept of participation framework, or the idea that different interlocutors have different statuses vis-à-vis any given utterance, has been
extended by researchers in the CA tradition examining issues such as
the collaborative production of talk that is subordinate to the primary
communicative activity (Goodwin 1997), how the structure of talk shapes
its audience and reciprocally how the audience influences unfolding
talk (Goodwin 1996), and the structure of triadic exchanges (Kang 1998).
Goffman’s notion of production format, or the various alignments a speaker
takes up to what he or she says, has been taken up by conversation analysts looking at various kinds of reported speech (Buttny 1997; Holt 2000)
(which Tannen [2007] calls “constructed dialogue”). Such studies seek – in
general – to uncover universal rules for a system of conversation while
also investigating how members of a society create social order through
actual face-to-face interaction. Thus, CA researchers tend to claim “the
independence of the turn-taking system from various aspects of the
sociocultural context of speech” such as the speakers’ ethnicity, gender,
or socioeconomic class (Duranti 2005: 26), instead focusing on the unfolding interaction itself as the locus of context.
7.2.2.
Ethnography of communication
The ethnography of communication, which finds its roots in anthropology and linguistics, contrasts with CA in a number of ways. Perhaps most
important are its view of language as “constitutive of some portion of
social and cultural life” (Schiffrin 1994: 347) and its interest in uncovering and seeking to understand diversity across cultures and communities in terms of language use and the nature of what Hymes (1972a)
calls “speech events.” Thus, in key collections edited by Gumperz and
Hymes (1972) and by Bauman and Sherzer (1974), contributors explore a
variety of speech events in “foreign” cultures. For example, Frake (1972)
examines litigation among the Lakan (Philippine Moslems), while Irvine
(1974) investigates greetings in Wolof. Ochs (Keenan 1974) explores gendered speech among Malagasy-speaking community (in Madagascar),
while Philips (1974) considers “Indian time” as it affects a range of
speech events among the Warm Springs Indians (of Oregon). A number
of researchers working in the tradition of the ethnography of communication were students of Hymes. Whereas CA researchers tend to be
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oriented to sociology, scholars using the ethnography of communication
are often anthropologists.
While conversation analysts tend to have a strict understanding of
context as limited to discourse context, researchers utilizing the enthnography of communication consider much wider definitions of context to include information captured in Hymes’ SPEAKING framework.
SPEAKING (an acronym) is a useful heuristic and encourages analysts to
pay attention to the setting and scene of the interaction (S), the participants involved (P), the interactional ends (E), act sequences (A), the key or
tone (K), instrumentalities (or forms and channels of communication; I),
norms of interpretation (N), and genres (G).
Researchers taking the approach of the ethnography of communication have examined numerous intersections of language and cultural life.
For instance, Bauman (2004) explores various kinds of cultural performances across different groups with a focus on the notions of genre and
intertextuality, while Kuipers (1993) examines performance among the
Weyewa, investigating reported speech as a means of delineating voices
in the ritual context of divination. Such research addresses not only cultural aspects of interaction, but also the poetics of discourse, a theme
that emerges in some interactional sociolinguistic research as well (e.g.
Tannen 2007). Goffman’s (1981) notion of participation framework finds
new life in research in the ethnography of communication, such as in
Philips’ (1983) related idea of participant structures, which she explores in
the context of Anglo and Native American Indian classrooms.
An important idea in research in the ethnography of communication
is the idea of communicative competence, a notion introduced by Hymes
(1972b) to make the point that in order to use a language, knowledge
beyond grammatical rules is required. Research in the tradition of the
ethnography of communication has demonstrated how as children learn
grammatical constructions, they also learn how to use language appropriately in their community, across various contexts (e.g. Heath 1983;
Philips 1983; Schieffelin 1990). This points to an understanding of communication as a means of (re)affirming one’s membership to a particular
cultural group, and indeed of (re)creating the group itself, through everyday communicative practices.
7.2.3 Interactional sociolinguistics
Interactional sociolinguistics (IS), which developed at the intersection
of linguistics, anthropology, and sociology, has been described as having among the “most diverse disciplinary origins” among approaches to
discourse (Schiffrin 1994: 97). IS grew primarily out of the work of John
Gumperz, an anthropological linguist whose research is influenced by
a concern for social justice. The approach also shows strong influences
from the work Goffman and linguist Robin Lakoff, as well as significant
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developments by Gumperz’s students, such as Deborah Tannen, who
also brought research in this area to a wider audience (e.g. Tannen 1986,
1990).
IS, like the ethnography of communication, shows attention to linguistic structure as well as social and cultural contexts of talk. Also like
the ethnography of communication, it emphasizes diversity; the work of
Gumperz shows how people use linguistic and paralinguistic features –
what Gumperz (1982a, 1992b, 2001) calls “contextualization cues” – to
indicate how they mean what they say while emphasizing that uses (and
meanings) of these cues differ cross-culturally. Tannen (2005) develops
this idea in her research on “conversational style,” which demonstrates
the ways in which speakers of the same native language may use cues
quite differently, depending on various factors including participants’
racial and ethnic background, gender, class, geographic region of origin,
and cultural background. The work of Tannen (1986, 2005), Gumperz
(1982a, 1992b), and other interactional sociolinguists (e.g. Yamada 1997)
provides insight into various kinds of intercultural miscommunication;
it identifies a range of causative factors, including uses of address terms,
the structuring of information in discourse, and uses of pacing, pausing,
and intonation. IS also serves as a theoretical orientation drawn on to
investigate gender and communication (e.g. Maltz & Borker 1982; Tannen
1990), the interactional negotiation of power and solidarity (2003), and
the discursive construction of identities (Gordon 2006, 2007; Kendall
2003, 2007).
7.3
Conversation and interaction: key themes
Contemporary research on conversational discourse growing out of all
three of these approaches owes much to Goffman’s theorizing about
social interaction. Although Goffman did not analyze the specific details
of language, his work spans a range of topics central to the analysis of
interaction, including the presentation of self (The Presentation of Self in
Everyday Life, 1959) and management of identity (Stigma, 1963), participant
involvement (Behavior in Public Places, 1963), the ritualized nature of social
interaction (Interaction Ritual, 1967), the production of talk and the structure of interaction (Forms of Talk, 1981), the social construction of gender (“The arrangement between the sexes,” 1977; Gender Advertisements,
1979), and the joint creation of social realities (Frame Analysis, 1974). These
works take an interest in the qualitative analysis of different types of
encounters and delve into the complexity of social interaction; they provide not only topical inspiration but also theoretical orientations taken
up by, and greatly developed through, subsequent research. Such work
extending Goffman’s research tradition conceptualizes and investigates
conversation as a structured and emergent phenomenon, a collaborative
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endeavor, an interpersonal and social ritual, a cultural entity, and a locus
of action. Because many issues and concerns of CA, IS, and the ethnography of communication overlap, I organize my discussion around these
shared research themes.
7.3.1
Conversation as a structured and emergent phenomenon
Research on conversational discourse examines interaction as a structured and emergent phenomenon. Conversation is not random or chaotic; instead, it is highly organized and patterned. As Goffman (1967:
33–34) points out, “whenever the physical possibility of spoken interaction arises, it seems that a system of practices, conventions, and procedural rules comes into play which functions as a means of guiding
and organizing the flow of messages.” Indeed, Chafe (1994) observed that
spoken discourse is readily segmented into “chunks” of informational
and intonational organization. A number of researchers, primary among
them Tannen (2007) and Johnstone (1991, 1994a, 1994b), identify repetition and intertextuality as important means of organizing discourse.
Even small words and phrases, like oh, okay, and I mean – called “discourse
markers” – contribute to interactional organization on multiple levels
(Schiffrin 1987).
One the most fundamental structural aspects of talk is the complexity and systematicity of turn-taking. In a seminal article on CA, Sacks,
Schegloff, and Jefferson (1974) lay out what they call a “simplest systematics” of turn-taking organization. They argue that conversation is
co-managed by conversationalists, while also suggesting that there is
a minimization of simultaneous talk and of gaps (p. 705). Subsequent
research in the CA tradition has pursued these ideas (e.g. Ford &
Thompson 1996; Lerner 1996; Schegloff 1996, 2000). Building on and
extending such work, IS studies of turn-taking have taken a broader
view, questioning the idea that “one person at a time” is the conversational norm. For instance, whereas some speakers, such as Tannen’s
(2005) conversational participants from California, see simultaneous
talk as “interruption,” others, like Tannen’s New York Jewish speakers,
tend to perceive it positively, as a means of showing enthusiasm and
interest. In addition, research has also uncovered significant differences
across cultures in terms of preference of “gaps” between turns at talk
(e.g. Scollon 1985).
CA has also focused on the sequentiality of talk: conversation consists
of sequences, that is, of “little pairings,” “dialogic units,” and “two-part
exchanges” that are best studied by formal linguistic analysis (Goffman
1981: 6). The CA notion of “adjacency pair” (Schegloff & Sacks 1973)
has been widely influential and is akin to Goffman’s noticing of “twopart exchanges.” Adjacency pairs are sequences that consist of two
utterances that are adjacent to one another and that are produced by
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different speakers (Schegloff & Sacks 1973: 295); typical examples include
greeting-greeting, compliment-acknowledgment, and question-answer,
and our understanding of such sequences has been enriched through
CA research.
Research in the ethnography of communication has also delved into
the adjacency pair notion, finding that cross-cultural comparison suggests
that pairs of utterances differ across cultures in terms of appropriate
time lapse between parts. For instance, question/answer pairs can be
separated by five or even ten minutes of intervening talk in conversations among Warm Springs Indians (Hymes 1974, as noted in Goffman
1981: 25–26; see also Philips 1983). Thus, sequencing in conversation is
an important organizational phenomenon that actually stretches beyond
the immediately “local” and features different patterns across cultures
and groups.
Adjacency pairs provide not only order within a conversation but also
a sense of what is unmarked and expected from the point of view of
speakers. For example, Pomerantz (1984), working in the CA tradition,
examines features of second assessments, or evaluations of something
previously evaluated by another participant. She investigates how first
assessments shape the second assessments that follow and argues that
agreement is the “preferred” next action. An assessment of a day as just
gorgeous thus follows a first assessment of it as beautiful without interactional trouble. However, Pomerantz demonstrates how second assessments that do not match first assessments are delayed, downplayed, or
withheld in some way; for instance a speaker might preface a second
assessment that disagrees with a first assessment with a token agreement. This points to how assessment is a collaborative activity that not
only has a particular sequential structure, but also allows participants
to show their orientations toward topics of conversation and prior turns
of talk in particular ways.
In the tradition of IS, assessment sequences have been shown to go
beyond structuring conversation and showing speakers’ orientations to
actually building relationships and displaying identities in interaction.
Examining an interaction between the mother, father, and uncle of a
nearly 3-year-old child, Gordon (2007) demonstrates how, through assessment, the parents exhibit congruent understanding with the uncle as
he describes how the child misbehaved while he babysat her earlier
that day. The mother also takes the lead in building rapport among participants by positively assessing the uncle’s babysitting behaviors (her
husband provides second assessments); following Tannen’s (1996) use of
Goffman’s (1977) terms, the mother’s conversational contributions can
be termed “sex-class linked,” which means they fit in with those that
have come to be associated with women as a class. The mother’s talk not
only contributes to relationship-building but also to her own discursive
identity construction in the interaction. Thus, assessments here not only
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provide conversational structure, they also play a role in structuring the
participants’ social relationships.
7.3.2 Conversation as a collaborative phenomenon
Research in the Goffmanian tradition investigates interaction not only
as structured and emergent, but also as inherently collaborative. This
theme emerges in research produced by scholars in CA, the ethnography
of communication, and IS. For instance, Schegloff (1982: 73) captures
the theme of collaboration in noting that discourse is an “interactional
achievement”: “the production of a spate of talk by one speaker is something which involves collaboration with the other parties present, and
that collaboration is interactive in character, and interlaced throughout
the discourse.” Erickson (1986: 316) similarly emphasizes the influence of
speakers and listeners on unfolding talk: interacting with another person is not like “climbing a tree” but is akin to “climbing a tree that climbs
back.” In a study growing out of linguistics and education, McDermott
and Tylbor (1983) uncover the collaborative work teachers and students
do in classroom interaction to “hide” the illiteracy of one of the students.
Tannen (2007: 12), in her study of repetition, dialogue, and details in
the construction of conversational involvement, emphasizes the “interactive nature of conversational interaction,” noting that “both speaking
and listening include elements and traces of the other”; in other words,
interaction is what has been called “a joint production.” Even where
one speaker is producing most of the talk, others present are always
“co-authors” (Duranti 1986).
Goffman’s (1974) notion of framing has been particularly influential for
studies looking at interaction as a collaborative phenomenon. A “frame”
is a definition of a situation; Frame Analysis (1974) includes numerous
examples of ruses carried off through collaboration of two parties to
the exclusion of some third in conversational framing. The collaborative
nature of framing has been explored by subsequent research in the tradition of IS that builds on the work of Goffman and anthropologist Gregory
Bateson ([1955] 1972) (e.g. Hoyle 1993; Kendall 2006; Tannen 1979; Tannen
& Wallat 1986, 1993). For instance, Gordon (2002) demonstrates how one
mother and her preschool-aged daughter use language collaboratively to
create frames of pretend play.
In Forms of Talk (1981), Goffman addressed how a communicative activity subordinate to a primary communicative activity is accomplished
through a collaborative process called “collusion” between participants
(1981: 134); this notion is picked up by research in CA on participation
frameworks (e.g. Goodwin 1996; Goodwin 1997). Goffman’s (1971) concept of with, that is, the idea that people do not always act as singles but
behave in ways that show they are tied to others, has been an inspiration to research in the area of interactional teams by researchers in
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CA such as Lerner (1993), who considers how teams become relevant
in conversation, and Kangasharju (1996, 2002), who examines how
teams form in multiparty conversation characterized by disagreement.
Interactional teams have also been explored in the framework of IS
with a focus on the means by which teams are created in interaction
and how they are used to negotiate family relationships (Gordon 2003).
Such research clearly reveals the co-constructed nature of conversation
by showing how participants interact through a variety of collaborative means, including sharing turns at talk and using coordinated linguistic strategies such as word and phrase repetition. Other research
further demonstrates the collaborative nature of talk by focusing on
conversational storytelling, identifying co-telling as a means of not only
co-constructing unfolding talk but also jointly building a relationship
(e.g. Gordon 2009; Mandelbaum 1987).
7.3.3
Interaction as an interpersonal and social ritual
The connection between creating talk and creating relationships brings
us to a conceptualization of interaction as an interpersonal and social ritual: conversation is not simply a way to exchange information but a way
to create relationships and to construct, display, and negotiate identities.
Goffman (1981: 19) defines a social encounter as “a coming together that
ritually regularizes the risks and opportunities face-to-face talk provides,
enforcing the standards of modesty regarding self and considerateness
for others generally enjoined in the community.” He uses the term ritual
because talk – especially the everyday talk of simple exchanges like compliments, apologies, and so on – “represents a way in which the individual
must guard and design the symbolic implications of his [or her] acts while
in the immediate presence of an object that has a special value for him
[or her]” (Goffman 1967:57, emphasis added). That is, interaction is not all
about sequence and collaboration; it is also about building (or severing, or
negotiating) social ties and (re)defining the nature of social life.
An important component of this line of thinking is Goffman’s (1967: 5)
notion of “face,” “the positive social value a person effectively claims” in
interaction. In interaction, we make efforts to “save face” – for instance to
engage in “impression management” (Goffman 1959) if one makes a social
gaffe (see Schlenker 1980 for examples). As Goffman (1967: 12) remarks,
“To study face-saving is to study the traffic rules of social interaction”;
the social component of interaction is a key part of its structure.
Goffman’s thinking on “face” paved the way for Brown and Levinson’s
(1987) theorizing of face in the context of linguistic politeness theory
and Lakoff’s (1973b, 1975) rules of politeness, both of which are fundamental theories for research in IS and the ethnography of communication, among other approaches to discourse analysis, like pragmatics
(see Chapter 8, this volume). Politeness theory offers an explanation of
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why conversation includes indirectness and seems at times to develop
quite inefficiently: interlocutors make efforts to show that they are honoring two universal human desires – to not be impeded (negative face
needs) and to be approved of and accepted (positive face needs). In IS,
face and politeness are fundamental concepts to understanding conversational style differences (Tannen 2005), as well as for uncovering causes
of intercultural miscommunication (e.g. Tannen 1986; Yamada 1997;
Davies 2004). They are also key issues in studies in the ethnography of
communication that consider language acquisition and the development
of communicative competence (e.g. Clancy 1986). As Goffman (1967: 13)
points out, “Each person, subculture, and society seems to have its own
characteristic repertoire of face-saving practices. It is to this repertoire
that people partly refer when they ask what a person or culture is ‘really’
like.” Thus, face and politeness are concepts that link the social nature of
talk to the cultural context in which it is embedded.
7.3.4 Conversation as a cultural phenomenon
Researchers in the ethnography of communication and IS have a shared
view of conversation as a cultural phenomenon. As Schiffrin (1994: 139)
points out, “language is a system of use whose rules and norms are an
integral part of culture.” As Friedrich (1989) and Agar (1994) argue –
through their coining of linguaculture and languaculture, respectively –
language and culture should be viewed as fundamentally interconnected
and inseparable. Patterns of communication constitute part of cultural
knowledge; in order to participate in an interaction appropriately, interlocutors need an understanding of not only “universal” conversational
rules, but also culturally appropriate ways of acting and interacting
in various situations, hence the emphasis on the Hymesian notion of
“communicative competence” in the ethnography of communication. As
Heller (2001: 254) points out, the ethnography of communication “borrowed ethnomethodology’s respect for the routines and patterns of language use in interaction, but which went beyond that to consider those
patterns as embedded in complex cultural processes.” In a similar spirit,
IS also considers the interconnectedness of culture and discourse, for
instance in numerous studies of intercultural encounters (e.g. Gumperz
1982a). In addition, Gordon (2009) illustrates how, through patterns of
interaction including the repeated use of specialized words, address
terms, and paralinguistic features like pitch, members of two families
use language to create distinctive family “cultures.”
7.3.5
Conversation as a locus of action
Finally, research on conversation and interaction views interaction as
a kind of action, a way of not only talking about the world but of doing
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things in the world. This conceptualization of talk grows out of Goffman’s
(1967: 52) understanding of participation in interaction as “participation in social action” and out of speech act theory, which emerged from
philosophy and explains how it is that we “do things” with words (Austin
1962; see also Searle 1969). The theory itself was not originally developed as a means of analyzing actual interaction (Schiffrin 1994: 49); however, it has been used by a range of scholars interested in conversational
discourse. For example, nagging (e.g. Boxer 2002) and directives (e.g.
M.H. Goodwin 2006) are speech acts that have been investigated in the
context of family interaction.
As Ahearn (2001) points out, numerous linguists and linguistic anthropologists take up the view that language is a locus of agency. Indeed,
Scollon (2001) developed an analytical approach called mediated discourse analysis as a way of focusing on conversation as action. Using
language is a means of socializing other people, especially children
(Schieffelin 1986, 1990; Blum-Kulka 1997; Gordon 2004; Ochs, Pontecorvo
& Fasulo 1996); it is also a way of socializing with others and enjoying
their company (Blum-Kulka 1997; Tannen 2005 ; Holmes 2006) (this distinction is made by Blum-Kulka [1997] in her research on family interaction). Through conversational contributions, interlocutors also exert
dominance and show solidarity in various kinds of interactions (Foster
1995; Tannen 1996).
On a broader level, through language, interlocutors communicate and
enact societal ills, such as racism (e.g. van Dijk 1987; Wodak and Reisigl
2001). Research in an area known as critical discourse analysis (CDA)
makes efforts at addressing such social inequalities (e.g. Chouliaraki &
Fairclough 1999). CDA is a “type of discourse analytical research that
primarily studies the way social power, abuse, dominance, and inequality are enacted, reproduced, and resisted by text and talk in the social
and political context,” and rather than offering a separate approach to
analysis, it aims to provide “a different ‘mode’ or ‘perspective’ of theorizing, analysis, and application” (van Dijk 2001: 352). Thus, it can be easily
wedded to other approaches; Johnston (2003), in her analysis of United
States Immigration and Naturalization Service green card interviews, for
example, takes a CDA perspective while using methodology that largely
draws on IS.
An “action” that has received a significant amount of attention in
research of conversational discourse is how interlocutors use language
to present, repair, and negotiate identities in interaction (e.g. Bucholtz
1995, 1999a, 1999b; Hamilton 1996; Bailey 2000b; Gordon 2004, 2006,
2007; Kendall 2007; Wortham 2006; see also Chapter 8, this volume).
Such research builds not only on a conceptualization of language as a
form of action but also on a variety of theoretical frameworks regarding
identity construction. These include Goffman’s (1981) notions of alignment and footing, Ochs’s (1992, 1993) discussion of indexing through acts
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and stances, and Davies and Harré’s (1990) idea of positioning in discourse.
Recently, Bucholtz and Hall (2005) proposed a “sociocultural linguistic”
approach to identity that integrates and builds on these various theories.
A number of studies focusing on identity creation have highlighted the
construction of gendered and ethnic identities, identities that have traditionally been assumed to be fi xed but have more recently been viewed
to be two of many kinds of identities that are constructed through
social interaction (e.g. Bucholtz 1995, 1999b; Gordon 2006, 2007). For
instance, Bailey (2000b) elucidates the complex linguistic construction
of Dominican American identities. This body of research contributes to
our understanding of individuals as agents not only in their production
of talk, but also in their presentation of self.
7.4
Techniques of data collection and analysis
Researchers who view interaction as structured and emergent, collaborative, social, cultural, and as action use a variety of methods to gather and
analyze conversational data. Goffman himself gathered data in a range
of ways. For instance, he carefully observed and documented many different kinds of social situations in the tradition of ethnography (e.g. for
Frame Analysis, Forms of Talk, and Stigma); he read autobiographies (e.g. for
Stigma); and he collected artifacts like newspaper clippings (e.g. for Frame
Analysis) and advertisements (e.g. for Gender Advertisements). However,
Goffman did not consider the particulars of talk in ways that contemporary research in linguistics does.
Researchers of conversational discourse must make fundamental
choices at every step of the data collection and analysis processes. In the
subsections that follow, I discuss how researchers of conversation in the
Goffmanian tradition have answered such questions in their research.
7.4.1 Data and data collection
The question of what constitutes data is a basic – and extremely important – one. In studies of interaction, a general preference exists for
“naturally occurring” data, although there is also a robust body of work
examining interaction in other, less “natural,” kinds of encounters, like
sociolinguistic interviews (Schiffrin 1987, 1993). “Naturally-occurring”
interactions considered by researchers range from the relatively casual and informal – for instance Tannen’s (2005) and Coates’ (1996) analyses of conversations among friends, M. H. Goodwin’s (1990) study of
children playing in their neighborhood, Mandelbaum’s (1987) examination of couples’ talk during social visits, and various studies of family communication (e.g. Ochs & Kremer-Sadlik 2007; Tannen, Kendall &
Gordon 2007) – to the more formal and institutionalized – for example
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clinician–patient encounters (Tannen & Wallat 1986, 1993; Sarangi &
Clarke 2002; Maynard 2003; Hamilton 2004; Aldridge & Barton 2007),
service encounters (Merritt 1976; Bailey 2000a), interaction among teachers and students (Heath 1983; Philips 1983; Wortham 2006), workplace
exchanges (Drew & Heritage 1992; Holmes 2000, 2006; Holmes and
Stubbe 2003 ; Holmes and Marra 2004;), and courtroom interactions
(Gumperz 1999; Matoesian 1999, 2000; Eades 2003, 2005b). Such research
explores important issues such as the negotiation of authority, collaborative meaning-making, and the idea of institutional culture.
As in all social scientific research aiming to capture “naturalistic”
data, researchers of interaction necessarily face what Labov (1972) calls
the “observer’s paradox”: although researchers of language tend to be
most interested in learning about how people speak “naturally,” in order
to learn about language use, people must be observed, and people tend
not to speak naturally when they are being observed. Furthermore, it is
typically deemed unethical to collect language data without informed
consent (see Coates [1996] for an interesting discussion regarding surreptitious recording). Researchers have used a range of strategies to attempt
to minimize the effects of observation while simultaneously capturing
rich data for analysis. For example, consider the range of data collection
strategies used in various studies of family conversation: audiotaping
or videotaping “naturally occurring” events, like family dinners, either
with a researcher present as a guest (e.g. Erickson 1982, 1990; BlumKulka 1997) or with no researcher present (e.g. Ochs, Pontecorvo & Fasulo
1996; Tannen, Kendall & Gordon 2007); having the researcher audiotape
interactions among members of his or her own family (e.g. Simpson
1997; Gordon 2003); and performing relatively long-term tape-recording
(of approximately one week’s time) across interactional contexts, either
using audiotaping, with no researcher present (Tannen, Kendall & Gordon
2007) or videotaping (which necessitates the presence of videographers)
(Ochs & Kremer-Sadlik 2007). Because people frequently get used to and
forget the recorder as time passes, long-term recording tends to aid in
the collection of relatively “natural” conversational data, as does making
certain any researchers present are already known to participants (see
Goodwin 1990). Regardless, as Tannen (2005: 46) points out, “[a]s soon
as a conversation is recorded on tape, it becomes a new entity – a taped
conversation – that is different from the conversation that occurred.” For
example, a recording captures something that would otherwise be nonretrievable; further, it highlights some aspects while obscuring others
(e.g. an audio-recording highlights the verbal channel and obscures the
non-verbal channel) (Tannen 2005).
Ray Birdwhistell’s (1970) work on kinesics provides an impetus for
much linguistic research on non-verbal communication. In research in
the Goffmanian tradition, CA leads the way in the use of video-recorded
data (e.g. Kendon 1981; Goodwin 1996), although scholars utilizing other
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approaches have also contributed significantly (e.g. Erickson 1982).
Whether a researcher chooses to audio- or videotape depends on a number of factors, including the project’s focus, the significance assigned to
non-verbal communication, the practicality of both kinds of recording,
and the (potentially additional) imposition video- (as opposed to audio-)
recording might be on the participants.
Since many studies in CA, IS, and the ethnography of communication
are data-driven, there is also the question of the amount of data required,
or how much is maximally useful, but also manageable. Videotaping provides more data than audiotaping in the sense that the researcher has
access to both verbal and non-verbal communication at once. Quickly,
what initially seemed like a short conversation can convert to pages and
pages of transcription. In addition, the nature of the research question
affects decisions about how much conversation to tape, whether using
video- or audio-recording equipment. A researcher interested in discourse markers, for instance, might use a relatively large corpus of data
to count and classify various marker uses by a range of speakers (e.g.
Schiffrin 1987). In contrast, a single multiparty conversation can reveal
insights into individuals’ conversational styles (e.g. Tannen 2005).
In addition to recording – either video- or audio-, long- or short-term –
many studies of conversational interaction also involve some kind of
ethnographic component. For instance, through long-term participantobservation and engagement in the community under study in the
tradition of linguistic anthropology, researchers in the ethnography
of communication glean important insights into cultural beliefs and
everyday routines and rituals that aid them in outlining not only the
structure of conversation but also the nature of the speech events they
analyze. For example, in her study of children at home and at school
in two working-class communities in the Piedmont Carolinas, Heath
(1983) uncovered the different conceptualizations of childhood and parenthood that affect the kinds of talk parents provide children in each
community. Observation and interviews also gave her insights into the
literacy materials available to children.
Ethnography is also part of some IS studies, although it is not a required
component. In IS, ethnographic information is usually used to elucidate
transcripts, or to contribute to analytical interpretations. In a study
of family interaction (Tannen, Kendall & Gordon 2007), for example,
observation enabled the researchers to better understand certain everyday conversations (which family members recorded themselves, with
no researcher present) by becoming familiar with the physical layout
of the families’ homes and by noting the presence of particular material artifacts. For instance, while observing one family, Tovares (2005)
noticed the presence of numerous books on parenting, which helped her
identify some of the “sources” of the parents’ child-rearing beliefs and
strategies.
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In CA, information gained from ethnographic observation is a fundamental part of some studies (e.g. Goodwin 1990; Maynard 2003) but
plays no role in others (e.g. Sacks, Schegloff & Jefferson 1974). In fact, CA
pioneers Sacks and Schegloff argue that no ethnographic information
should be used that is not present in the discourse itself. Researchers
like Goodwin, who combine the CA method with in-depth ethnography,
consider both conversational organization and the role that culture or
sociocultural context plays in interaction.
7.4.2
Transcription and analysis
The primary data for the analysis of interaction in the Goffmanian tradition typically consist of one or more conversations, and yet, in order
to study the systematicity of interaction, these data must be not only
collected but also transcribed: a transcript actually “allows the taped
conversation to be studied” (Tannen 2005: 48). As such, it is a significant methodological – and, as Ochs (1979) so importantly points out,
analytical – step.
As Ochs (1979) argues, transcription is not a neutral activity; scholars
make fundamental choices when transcribing from what to transcribe,
how exactly to transcribe it, and how to arrange transcribed material on
paper. It is impossible to transcribe everything, and the level of detail is
one element that differentiates research traditions. For instance, CA has
developed a very detailed transcription system as a means of exploring
how interlocutors create discourse and their social worlds turn-by-turn
in talk; Gail Jefferson led in this effort and the system is often called
the “Jefferson system.” This system allows a very close micro-analysis of
talk, which is important for analysts exploring turn organization (e.g.
Ford &Thompson 1996; Schegloff 1996) or investigating the precise timing and features of simultaneous talk (e.g. Lerner 1996). However, certain
aspects of this approach – especially the use of “eye dialect” respellings
(e.g. b’cuz for ‘because’) – have been criticized for their readability, as well
as for possibly leading to stereotyping of speakers (Gumperz & Berenz
1993).
Because IS is interested in processes such as contextualization of utterances, transcription in this tradition is also quite detailed; it “set[s] down
on paper all those perceptual cues” that participants rely on, such as
“verbal and non-verbal, segmental and nonsegmental, prosodic, paralinguistic, and others” (Gumperz 2001: 223). The ethnography of communication uses relatively detailed transcripts too, although this varies
somewhat across studies and their foci. For transcripts in all traditions, it
is important that the level of detail be sufficient to explore the research
question at hand.
The layout of turns in transcripts can vary across research projects
even within approaches. As Edwards (1993, 2001) and Ochs (1979) point
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out, utterances can be arranged in numerous ways, each of which gives
different impressions of the talk. For instance, arranging the talk of different participants in separate columns “gives the impression of asymmetry between the speakers, with the leftmost speaker appearing to
be the most dominant” (Edwards 2001: 321); on the other hand, it also
reveals unequal amounts of participation quite clearly (through the use
of blank space). Arranging utterances like a script “gives the impression
of interdependence and equal dominance” (Edwards 2001: 321); as Ochs
(1979) argues, this may not be the best system for transcribing some
kinds of interaction, such as interactions between adults and young children. Edelsky (1993) offers an alternative transcription system that highlights the construction of conversational floors, while other researchers
use a system resembling a musical score (e.g. Eckert 1993; Ehlich 1993).
Importantly, many researchers – across traditions – analyze transcripts
in conjunction with recordings, so the analyst is constantly in touch
with the many features that are so difficult to capture on paper – like
emphasis, and changes in intonation – regardless of the transcript’s level
of detail or layout.
Analyses of conversational data in the Goffmanian tradition are typically qualitative, although quantitative analysis may come into play as well.
For example, Tannen’s (2005) research on conversational style focuses on
outlining particular linguistic devices used and demonstrating how they
function in particular exchanges; however, she also performs counts of
these devices by speaker to characterize the conversational style of each
in broader terms. As Tannen (2005) points out, discourse analysis is primarily a qualitative, interpretive, yet systematic process of analysis. It
involves identifying patterns, and explicating these patterns, connecting
form and function, structure and meaning. It also involves introspection
and intuition on the part of the analyst (Johnstone 2000).
Some researchers, especially those using IS, also perform “playback”
(Tannen 2005) as a follow-up analytical step. Analysts thus check their
own interpretations with those of the participants themselves and perhaps with other native speakers of the language variety under study,
usually by playing recorded interactions for them and asking for their
impressions in an open-ended way. This provides multiple perspectives
on interaction, which can be particularly insightful in cases of crosscultural (mis)communication, where analysts might have native speaker
insights into one side of the conversation, but not the other, based on
his or her own cultural and linguistic background (e.g. Gumperz 1982a;
Tannen 2005).
7.5
Conclusion
Research on conversation and interaction is as exciting as it is diverse.
It addresses a multiplicity of topics – from the exploration of particular
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linguistic features to the study of societal concerns like intercultural
miscommunication – and utilizes a range of methods and approaches.
Researchers have learned a great deal about conversation – not only about
the nuts and bolts of it, but also its emergent quality, its collaborative
character, and its power in our social and cultural worlds – by embracing
different methodological and theoretical orientations. Having access to
a whole toolbox of theories and methods has significantly contributed to
our understanding of conversational structure, the nature of conversation, and its role in our everyday lives. Conversation is structured, emergent, and collaborative; it is an interpersonal and social ritual; and it is
a place for humans to accomplish action. CA, IS, and the ethnography of
communication offer different perspectives on these themes; together
they enable us to integrate insights from various disciplinary origins to
consider the complexity and meaning of everyday talk.
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8
Pragmatics and discourse
Jan Blommaert
8.1
Introduction
A truly sociolinguistic theory of discourse does not yet exist. The reason
for that lies in the genesis of discourse analysis as a branch of linguistics, initially concerned with the study of linguistic utterances that
transcended the level of the single sentence (see Brown & Yule 1983).
Parallel developments in the fields of rhetoric, semiotics, and stylistics
(e.g. Enkvist 1973), narrative analysis (Labov 1972), often inspired by
anthropological approaches to performance (Hymes 1980, Sherzer 1987),
literary analysis and cultural theory (e.g. Bakhtin 1984; Williams 1977),
and other social-scientific domains (e.g. Foucault 1969) took a while to
be incorporated into mainstream discourse analysis, the focus of which
remained strongly textual, that is, focused on linguistic constructions
that are larger than a single sentence or single utterance (see Fairclough
2003; Blommaert 2005). Conversation analysis, on the other hand, was
incorporated into discourse analysis from the beginning, and the field as
currently constituted would encompass studies of textual structure, conversational patterns, intertextuality, mediation and rhetoric (including
speech acts) (Johnstone 2008). Two newer developments are often given
pride of place in recent surveys: multi-modal discourse analysis (MDA)
and critical discourse analysis (CDA) (Jaworski & Coupland 2006; Bhatia,
Flowerdew & Jones 2008). I shall return to them below.
In the 1980s and 1990s, pragmatics provided a forum for the integration of the various branches of discourse-related scholarship mentioned
above. It was in the context of big integrative exercises in pragmatics
that linguistic, literary, anthropological, and other approaches to discourse found a meeting point (e.g. Verschueren et al. 1995; Mey 1998).
This meeting point was a particular dynamic and functional view of language – of language as composed of more than just grammatical structures. Going back to clear early expressions in the work of, for example,
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Morris (1938) and Austin (1962), pragmatics maintained that language
needed to be seen as an agentive, active, and dynamic object which operates between people in particular activity patterns (the interactional
dimension), where such patterns are socially, culturally, and politically
constituted. Pragmatics, in short, shifted from language to “communication” as currently understood, or from a Saussurean langue to parole,
and the question guiding work in pragmatics was ( pace Austin) “what
do people do with language?” Such a view had obvious similarities with
almost all the existing definitions of discourse, and the outcome of this
integrative process was that discourse became the object of inquiry par
excellence in most branches of pragmatics. Connections with sociolinguistics, however, remained superficial. This article will first engage in a
discussion of the integrative effect of pragmatics in the field of discourse.
We will then direct our attention to CDA and MDA, examining the way
in which both approaches to discourse can be seen as the outcome of a
long pragmatic process. After that, we will turn to the question of the
integration of sociolinguistics and discourse analysis.
8.2 The integrative effect of pragmatics
In retrospect, pragmatics can best be seen as a movement that articulated (and developed) a particular perspective on language. Views of
pragmatics that define it as a “school” of linguistics, or as a particular
“level” of linguistics (like phonology, syntax, or semantics) are unproductive, because what is nowadays understood as pragmatics is a vast
and wildly divergent range of scholarly orientations and interests. These
interests, however, are tied together by a perspective which is shared
by most people whose work would qualify as “pragmatic,” and this perspective provides a meta-theoretical umbrella under which a baffl ing
diversity of scholarship can be covered, from work on logic and artificial
intelligence through philosophical work, to work in ethnography and
conversation analysis.
Notwithstanding this tremendous diversity, many scholars would recognize the early formative impact of modern philosophers such as John
L. Austin, John Searle, and H. Paul Grice. In the work of Austin (1962) and
Searle (1969), speech acts became a crucial concept that captured the fact
that language was a thing to be used, that real meaning was meaningin-use, and that such meaning-in-use also had important implicit dimensions, not encoded in grammar or syntax. Austin and Searle directed our
attention to the fact that asking was a different kind of act compared to
ordering or demanding; that talking was something different from shouting,
quarrelling, or arguing. In short, they directed our attention to the fact that
there was a level of meaning in language that resided in the activity of
using language in specific ways, not merely in the structure of sentences.
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Different speech acts (asking, ordering, etc.) produced different illocutionary meanings, meanings that derived from the structure of the act
itself, not from its linguistic form. In order to understand this process,
however, we need to consider “the total speech act in the total speech
situation” (Austin 1962: 148). We need to analyze the human activity (a
complex, contextualized, and situated activity) in its totality if we want
to decode its meaning. And this means that we need to look at interaction, because illocutionary meanings generate uptake and response,
and these are part of the speech situation. Searle (1969) further elaborated Austin’s speech act theory, emphasizing the importance of “felicity conditions” for the successful communication of the illocutionary
meanings of speech acts, and distinguishing sharply between pragmatic
aspects of a speech act (the “utterance act”) and its linguistic aspects (the
“propositional act”).
We see in the work of Austin and Searle already some central elements of the pragmatic perspective. We see that the linguistic concept of
language is considerably extended by emphasizing the crucial effects of
human activity, of context and implicitly shared codes in establishing
meaning (the so-called “explosion of meaning,” Brisard 2000). The latter
aspect was also addressed by H. Paul Grice, whose small paper “Logic
and Conversation” (1975) launched a generation of scholarship based
on his so-called “maxims.” Grice’s interests were primarily philosophical, focused more on intentionality and rationality in human meaningmaking than on the structure and patterns of human activity that concerned Austin and Searle. Extending the range of what within linguistics counted as “meaning,” Grice coined the term implicature to describe
the process whereby interlocutors can rationally infer specific meanings from an utterance. Thus, a statement such as It’s already seven can
be understood not as a declarative statement but as an indirect question
(when will dinner be ready?), and so lead to an answer such as the potatoes
are on the fire.. Such inferences are the retrieval of implicit, non-encoded
meanings in particular utterances, and our cultural and social skills
enable us to make such inferences with reasonable accuracy. They are
evidence, according to Grice, of the rational nature of human behavior
in conversational practices.
The tremendous success of his “maxims” is often an effect of apocryphal and superficial readings of his work, in which this concern with
human rationality has been sidetracked. The maxims, detached from the
philosophical issues that generated them, became a guiding framework
for a whole cottage industry of analyses of interaction. The four maxims were subordinate to the Cooperative Principle: “make your conversational contribution such as is required, at the stage at which it occurs,
by the accepted purpose or direction of the talk exchange in which you
are engaged” (Grice 1975: 45). On this Cooperative Principle depended
four maxims:
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1.
The maxim of Quality, concerned with the truth of an utterance:
Do not say what you believe to be false.
● Do not say that for which you lack adequate evidence.
2. The maxim of Quantity, concerned with the information contained in
an utterance:
● Make your contribution as informative as is required.
● Do not make your contribution more informative than is required.
3. The maxim of Relation, concerned with the relevance of an utterance:
● Be relevant in your contribution.
4. The maxim of Manner, concerned with the clarity of an utterance:
● Avoid obscure expressions.
● Avoid ambiguities.
● Be brief.
● Be orderly.
●
According to Grice, if a conversation develops within the Cooperative
Principle – that is, if the participants to the conversation share the
intention of arriving at an understanding of each other’s utterances –
adherence to the maxims would allow people to draw the appropriate
“conventional” implicatures from the utterances (i.e. to infer the “normal” implicit meanings of the utterances). If, however, the maxims are
flouted (i.e. if someone does not provide the canonical kind of conversational contribution), then this would warrant argumentation. People
would have to establish (rationally) the meanings that could not be
retrieved through “conventional” implicatures, and would depend on
“conversational implicatures” (i.e. context-specific inferences) to establish the meaning of utterances (Verschueren 1999: 32–33; Brisard 2000:
10–11). As said, this theoretical concern with rational reasoning in Grice’s
work was often not adopted in later work, in which people often used
the maxims to be a kind of cultural archetype of human interaction,
viewing the maxims as a definitional frame for “normal” conversational
behavior.
This interpretation of course proved to be untenable, but Grice’s
influence was deeper. His Cooperative Principle was adopted widely in
various branches of scholarship, and it shaped the beginning of the interactional paradigm in pragmatics. Conversation analysis adopted a view
of participants who were fundamentally cooperative in interaction, and
much of language philosophy did the same (speech act theory was, as
we saw, dependent on the same assumption). The fundamental idea that
communication is predicated on a cooperative mutual stance between
participants is still very widespread in the study of discourse, broadly
defined, in spite of debilitating critiques (such as Sarangi & Slembrouck
1992) that demonstrated that a lot of communication was not premised
on cooperativeness at all, and that cooperativeness would better be seen
as a variable than as a stable condition for communication. Such debates
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did not affect Grice’s own program: as mentioned earlier they were about
apocryphal versions of his work, and critiques often attacked the caricature that some scholarship had made of human communication on the
basis of a liberal reading of Grice.
The work of Austin, Searle, and Grice was influential in the definition
of the pragmatic perspective on language outlined earlier. It was in such
work that scholars found succinct and clear formulations of language
as an object that needed to be considered in its actual functioning, as
an interactional object, and as an object that produced more than just
linguistic meanings. Their work also spawned several decades of scholarship, implementing their theoretical frameworks as well as criticizing
them, and so provided material for clearer and more persuasive problem
formulations in pragmatics. It was around such insights that a dynamic,
interactional, and layered concept of discourse gradually took shape, and
that widely different approaches to that object could converge.
8.3
Linguistic bias versus cultural models
The biggest (and persisting) issue in this modern, pragmatic discourse
analysis was and is its restrictive scope. We will see later how MDA has
made suggestions to remedy this. In general, most discourse analysis
sticks close to textual material and also gives pride of place to the formal linguistic aspects of analysis. There is nothing wrong with that per
se; but it leads to a restriction in the way in which an object for discourse analysis can be delineated. The preferred target object becomes
an existing textual artifact, and this artifact is primarily linguistically
imagined. This can be seen from the prominence in discourse-analytic
research of topics such as discourse markers (Schiffrin 1987), coherence
and cohesion (Halliday & Hasan 1976; see the surveys in Schiffrin 1994
and Östman & Virtanen 1995), and the tendency to use a corpus in much
discourse analysis. This is a persistent feature of modern discourse analysis, as a randomly selected recent example can exemplify. Having specified that her study will be inspired by Bakhtin, Michele Dunne (2003: 7)
defines discourse as such:
I will treat discourse … as “utterances.” As Schiffrin (1994) notes,
this simple definition captures two important principles: first, that
discourse is above (i.e. larger than) other units of language (such as the
clause of the sentence), and second, that the smaller unit of which discourse is composed is the utterance (an actual instance of language use,
inherently contextualized) as opposed to the abstract sentence.
We see here a rather traditional focus on “units larger than the sentence”
as well as on actually occurring discourse (“utterances”), and Dunne is
consequently forced to work on a closed (and thus necessarily partial)
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corpus of texts. Discourse analysis in that sense often slides toward
investigations of the textual production of particular meanings. I emphasize this for reasons that will be explained in greater detail below: that
a sociolinguistic discourse analysis should also look at texts long before
they were produced as texts, and should also question the absence of certain texts. For now, it suffices to note the strong textual and linguistic
orientation of discourse-analytical approaches. Cultural models of text,
in which text is seen as a moment of cultural practice (Silverstein & Urban
1996), remain peripheral in discourse analysis. I shall come back to this
point below. Concepts developed in such cultural approaches remain on
the periphery of discourse analysis.
One such concept, of significant importance analytically and theoretically, is entextualisation (Silverstein & Urban 1996): the process whereby
pieces of texts can be successively decontextualized and recontextualized
so that it becomes a new “text.” “Text” here, however, stands for the complex linguistic, pragmatic, and metapragmatic composition rather than
for just the textual (linguistic) artifact. The artifact itself (the linguistic
“text”) is accompanied by a pragmatics – a particular use in human communicative practice, in other words a performance which is socially and
culturally regulated. And it is thus also accompanied by a metapragmatics: signals about the meaning of that particular performance – a “preferred reading,” so to speak. Such metapragmatic messages can signal,
for instance, whether a particular performance needs to be understood
as a joke or as a serious statement, as something that suggests masculinity or other particular identities, as something that invokes positive or
negative connotations, and so on. Such a metapragmatic layer, according
to Silverstein and Urban, is language-ideological; it revolves around the
indexical organization of meanings in actual communicative practice,
and such forms of indexical organization are socially and culturally regimented, they are not random and can be empirically investigated (see
Silverstein 2003; Blommaert 2005). The metapragmatic layer of texts is
here seen as another layer of textual structure, as something which alongside grammar and style structures and shapes the text and makes it into
the concrete communicative artifact that it is. What we understand by
“performance” strongly revolves around the production and reception of
such indexical patterns – another implicit (language-ideological) layer of
textual structure and meaning (see Bauman & Briggs 1990).
Similar cultural arguments were previously developed in ethnopoetics
(Hymes 1980). Ethnopoetics revolves around a conception of narratives as
primarily organized in terms of formal and aesthetic – “poetic” – patterns,
not in terms of content or thematic patterns. Narrative is therefore to be
seen as a form of action, of performance, and the meanings it generates
are effects of performance. Narratives, seen from this perspective, are
organized in lines and in groups of lines (verses, stanzas), and the organization of lines in narratives is a kind of implicit patterning that creates
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narrative effect: emphasis and insistence, narrative–thematic divisions,
and so on. Content, in other words, is an effect of the formal organization of a narrative: what there is to be told emerges out of how it is being
told. The metric that can be distinguished in narratives is linguistic, but
also cultural (indexical) and therefore semantic. According to Hymes and
other ethnopoetics scholars, the structuring patterns in narrative display
a cultural (indexical) logic. They reveal, thus, a form of “emic” organization which allows analysts to follow the narrator’s traces in organizing
relevance, epistemic and affective stance, desired effects, and so forth.
Thus, the analysis of these implicit – indexical – patterns in narratives
helps us distinguish more “meaning” in narrative, because like “grammar/
style” and “content,” ethnopoetic patterns form a distinct layer of meaningful signs in narratives. This theme, that ethnopoetic patterning is
a distinct pool of meanings, is what allows Hymes and others to claim
that ethnopoetics offers opportunities for reconstructing “defunct” narratives, reinstate their functions, recapture the performance dynamics
that guided their original production, and so on.
We see in both cases how scholars avoid defining texts as primarily linguistically organized, and emphasize that they should be seen as culturally
organized instead. They thus also signal that texts should not primarily
be analyzed linguistically but should be seen instead as elements of cultural practices. In both instances, we see that texts are situated in processes of performance and are conceptualized as inextricable from such
patterns of performance, from which they derive their meaning. The
concept of meaning, however, is stretched and now covers cultural meaning, meaning in terms of cultural and social frames that contributed to
the implicit structure of the text and made the text into a cultural artifact (not just a linguistic artifact). We should note that these traditions of
discourse study, in which scholars avoided linguistic bias and opted for
cultural models of discourse, developed alongside mainstream discourse
analysis and have had extremely little effect on the latter. We shall see
this when we next turn to consider CDA. But we shall see afterwards that
MDA in its own way circumvented a linguistic bias in its framework.
8.4
Critical discourse analysis
The textual and linguistic bias of mainstream discourse analysis is
strongly present in critical discourse analysis (CDA), perhaps the most
important and most influential development in discourse analysis of the
past decades. It is in the context of CDA that discourse analysis itself
became formalized as a domain of inquiry and programmatically formulated as a theoretical domain. In fact, the rise of CDA runs parallel to
the rise of discourse analysis in general, and it is important to note that
its origin lies in linguistics. In historical surveys such as Wodak (1995),
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reference is made to the “critical linguists” of the University of East
Anglia, who in the 1970s turned to issues such as the use of language
in social institutions and relations between language, power, and ideology, and who designed and advocated a critical (in the sense of left-wing)
and emancipatory agenda for linguistic analysis. The works of Kress and
Hodge (1979) and Fowler et al. (1979) are seminal in this respect. The
work of these critical linguists was based on the systemic-functional and
social-semiotic linguistics of Michael Halliday, whose linguistic methodology is still seen as crucial and definitional to CDA practices (notably
by Fairclough) because it offers clear and rigorous linguistic categories
for analyzing the relations between discourse and social meaning (see
e.g. Hodge & Kress 1988; Chouliaraki & Fairclough 1999;). Martin (2000;
Martin & Wodak 2003) reviews the usefulness of systemic-functional linguistics for CDA, suggesting that CDA should apply systemic-functional
notions more systematically and consistently, and Fairclough (1992b)
reviews CDA work in light of the amount of (Hallidayan) textual analysis
they offer.
Apart from Hallidayan linguistics, Slembrouck (2001) identifies another
profound influence on CDA: British cultural studies. The Birmingham
Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (headed by Stuart Hall) had
a noticeable influence because it systematically addressed social, cultural, and political problems related to transformations in late capitalist
society in Britain: neo-liberalism, the New Right headed by Thatcher,
racism, diaspora, the end of the welfare state, and so on. Some of these
topics have become foci of intense activity within CDA. The Birmingham
school also introduced French post-structuralist theory in its analyses,
and together with the delineation of a domain of analysis, this pool of
theories was adopted by Fairclough among others.
While the influence of Halliday’s social-semiotic and grammatical
work is often acknowledged and verifiable, references to other discourseanalytic precursors often seem more post hoc and motivated rather by
a desire to establish a coherent authoritative lineage than by a genuine
historical network of influences. One can note, in generalo, that the universe of mobilized sources invoked to support the CDA program is rather
selective. References to work done in American linguistics and linguistic
anthropology are very rare, as are references to some precursors who
have had a manifest influence on many other “critical” approaches to
language (e.g. Mey 1985; Dwight Bolinger 1980) and to critical work in
other strands of language studies (e.g. in sociolinguistics, notably the
works of Gumperz and Hymes).
Fairclough’s Language and Power (1989) is commonly considered to be
the landmark publication for the “start” of CDA. In this book, Fairclough
engaged in an explicitly politicized analysis of “powerful” discourses in
Britain (Thatcherite political rhetoric and “new economy” advertisements)
and offered the synthesis of linguistic method, objects of analysis, and
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political commitment that have become the trademark of CDA. Despite
the presence of such landmark publications and of some acknowledged
leading figures (Fairclough, Wodak, van Dijk, Chilton, among others),
the boundaries of the CDA movement are rather fuzzy. Scholars identifying with the label CDA seem to be united by the common domains and
topics of investigation, an explicit commitment to social action and to
the political left wing, a common aim of integrating linguistic analysis
and social theory, and – though in more diffuse ways – by a preference
for empirical analysis within a set of paradigms including Hallidayan
systemic-functional linguistics and social semiotics, conversation analysis, cognitive-linguistic approaches to metaphor, argumentation theory,
text linguistics, and discursive social psychology.
In general, power and especially institutionally reproduced power is
central to CDA.
The purpose of CDA is to analyze “opaque as well as transparent structural relationships of dominance, discrimination, power and control as
manifested in language” (Wodak 1995: 204). More specifically,
[CDA] studies real, and often extended, instances of social interaction
which take (partially) linguistic form. The critical approach is distinctive in its view of (a) the relationship between language and society,
and (b) the relationship between analysis and the practices analyzed.
(Wodak 1997a: 173)
CDA states that discourse is socially constitutive as well as socially conditioned. Furthermore, discourse is an instrument of power, of increasing importance in contemporary societies. The way this instrument of
power works is often hard to understand, and CDA aims to make it more
visible and transparent:
It is an important characteristic of the economic, social and cultural
changes of late modernity that they exist as discourses as well as processes that are taking place outside discourse, and that the processes
that are taking place outside discourse are substantively shaped by
these discourses. (Chouliaraki & Fairclough 1999: 4)
In that sense, CDA sees its own contribution as ever more crucial to an
understanding of contemporary social reality, because of the growing
importance in the social order of discursive work and of discourse in
relation to other practices.
CDA focuses its critique on the intersection of language/discourse/
speech and social structure. It is in uncovering ways in which social
structure relates to discourse patterns (in the form of power relations,
ideological effects, and so forth), and in treating these relations as problematic, that researchers in CDA situate the critical dimension of their
work. It is not enough to uncover the social dimensions of language use.
These dimensions are the object of moral and political evaluation and
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analyzing them should have effects in society: empowering the powerless, giving voices to the voiceless, exposing power abuse and mobilizing
people to remedy social wrongs. As part of critical social science, CDA
“may subvert the practices it analyses, by showing proto-theories to be
miscognitions, and producing scientific theories which may be taken
up within (and enter struggles within) the practices” (Chouliaraki &
Fairclough 1999: 33). But apart from (passive) subversion, CDA also advocates (active) intervention in the social practices it critically investigates.
Toolan (1997) even opts for a prescriptive stance: CDA should make proposals for change and suggest corrections to particular discourses. CDA
thus openly professes strong commitments to change, empowerment,
and practice-orientedness.
CDA’s preference for work at the intersection of language and social
structure is manifest in the choice of topics and domains of analysis.
CDA practitioners tend to work on applied topics and social domains such
as political discourse, that is, the discourse of politicians, and ideology,
a topic of considerable importance in CDA. Particular attention within
this study of ideology is given to racism. Van Dijk stands out as a prolific author (1987, 1991, 1993), but the topic has also been covered by
many others. Related to the issue of racism is a recent interest in the discourse on immigration (e.g. Martín-Rojo & van Dijk 1997; van Leeuwen &
Wodak 1999). The discourse of economics, including advertisement and
promotional discourses, is an important topic, especially in the work of
Fairclough (1989; 1995a: Chs. 5 and 6). Media language is related to this
topic (e.g. Fairclough 1995a; Van Dijk 1991), and the representation of
gender in the media (e.g. Talbot 1992). Institutional discourse is another
important topic in CDA, notably the role of language in institutional practices such as doctor–patient communication (e.g. Wodak 1997b), social
work (e.g. Hall, Sarangi & Slembrouck 1997), and bureaucracy (Sarangi
& Slembrouck 1996). Finally, education is seen as a major area for the
reproduction of social relations, including representation and identityformation, but also for possibilities of change. Fairclough and associates
have developed a Critical Language Awareness approach that advocates
the stimulation of critical awareness with students of pedagogical discourses and didactic means (see Fairclough 1992c).
CDA conceives discourse as a social phenomenon and seeks, consequently, to improve the social-theoretical foundations for practicing discourse analysis as well as for situating discourse in society. Fundamental
to CDA is its claim to take its starting point in social theory. Two
directions can be distinguished. On the one hand, CDA displays a lively
interest in theories of power and ideology. Most common in this respect are
the use of Michel Foucault’s formulations of orders of discourse and power/
knowledge, Antonio Gramsci’s notion of hegemony, Louis Althusser’s
concepts of ideological state apparatuses and interpellation. Works in which
connections between discourse and power processes are being spelt out
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are also widely cited, such as Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe (1985)
and John Thompson (1990). In Fairclough (1992a) these theories and
concepts are given a linguistic translation and projected onto discourse
and communicative patterns in an attempt to account for the relation
between linguistic practice and social structure, and to provide linguistically grounded explanations for changes in these relations.
The second direction that can be distinguished is an attempt to overcome structuralist determinism. Inspiration here is usually found in Anthony
Giddens’ theory of structuration, where a dynamic model of the relation
between structure and agency is proposed. Giddens serves as the theoretical background to CDA’s claim that actual language products stand in
a dialectic relation to social structure, i.e. that linguistic-communicative
events can be formative of larger social processes and structures. Obviously, when the relation between linguistic-communicative (or other
semiotic) action and social processes is discussed, frequent reference is
also made to the work of Pierre Bourdieu and Jürgen Habermas. Bourdieu’s
work is also influential in studies on educational practices.
The use of these theories can be partly traced back to the influence
of cultural studies on CDA. CDA still holds pace with cultural studies
in that it continually but critically engages with new research trends
in, for example, postmodern, feminist, post-colonial, and globalization
studies (see especially Chouliaraki & Fairclough 1999, a “rethinking” of
CDA that intends to ground it more firmly in social theory). It is nonetheless important to realize that despite the input from a variety of socialscientific angles, CDA should primarily be positioned in a linguistic
milieu, and its successes are measured primarily with the yardstick of
linguistics and linguistically oriented pragmatics and discourse analysis. Fairclough (1992b; 2003: 5–6) makes this explicit: discourse analysis is primarily textual-linguistic analysis, in which analysts draw on
Halliday’s linguistic toolkit. In that sense, CDA has not pushed the field
of discourse analysis beyond the boundaries of text analysis.
8.5 Multi-modal analysis
The same cannot be said of the second major recent approach, multimodal discourse analysis (Kress & van Leeuwen 1996, 2001; also Scollon &
Scollon 2003). Multi-modal discourse analysis starts from the assumption that traditional (linguistic) patterns of textuality have been fundamentally distorted by new technologies such as the Internet and mobile
phones. New forms of literacy have emerged in which the purely linguistic
structure of texts now are complemented by important visual, acoustic,
and other forms of structure – different “modes” – yielding a “multi-modal”
textual object. Such an object can no longer be addressed purely by means
of linguistic analysis. One also requires an analysis of the visual and other
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modes, and all of these aspects need to be blended because all of them
co-occur in the contemporary sign. A website is a prime example of such
multi-modal texts, but even an ordinary conversation can be conceived of
as multi-modal, because participants blend language with body posture,
gestures, intonation, and prosody. The “meaning” of such multi-modal
objects resides in the totality of their modes of occurrence – in their
“design,” as Kress and van Leeuwen call it.
The conceptual shift here is fundamental, because Kress and van
Leeuwen take us from a linguistic approach to text toward a semiotic
one, in which “traditional” text structures are just one mode in which
discourses can occur. There is a very strong emphasis on the materiality
of modern signs in MDA. Kress and van Leeuwen speak of the “semiotic artifact” rather than the “text,” and they stress the importance
of processes of material production and distribution of such artifacts.
“Discourse,” for them, is an abstract object that has to do with socially
constructed bodies of knowledge, topically organized (e.g. “nationalism”
or “racism”). Such discourses are turned into actual semiotic artifacts by
means of practices of design, and such practices involve the use of the
different “modes” (linguistic, visual, etc.) that can give actual communicative shape to discourses. Such practices of course require conditions of
production – one needs materials (e.g. a computer, a pen, paint) and skills
to produce a semiotic artifact – and influence patterns of distribution (a
painting has a different kind of distribution from a book or a newspaper)
(Kress & van Leeuwen 2001). In that respect, different modes have different “affordances.” Writing affords different kinds of meaning-making
from drawing or website design, and the craft of modern text-making
consists in blending the affordances of various semiotic modes, the textual with the visual and the acoustic, each with their own specific functions (denotational, affective, aesthetic, etc.).
The effect of MDA has primarily been felt in literacy studies, where
the notion of design and the different conceptualization of textuality
have been influential. But the central idea of MDA is that all human
communication is multi-modal, and studies of everyday spoken interaction have in the meantime also picked up elements of MDA (Kress
et al. 2006), thus creating a bridge with linguistic-anthropological work
on gesture and other visual tactics in spoken interaction (e.g. Goodwin
1994, 2002). Enlarging the scope of discourse analysis to include “nonverbal” elements of semiotic activity also enlarges the scope of examinations of the potential for power and control in institutional contexts.
Goodwin (2002: 34) speaks of the “public organization of interactive
practices,” and he points toward the collective, institutional organization of multi-modal communicative behavior; Jewitt and Jones (2008: 59)
mention the fact that MDA “looks beyond language at policies … that
show up or are reflected in many modes.” The critical potential of this
shift is therefore momentous.
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The methodological effect is important too, even if it remains largely
unexplored so far. One important methodological aspect of MDA is the
enlargement of what counts as “data.” Whereas traditional discourse analysis restricts itself strongly to textual data (i.e. orally produced or written material), multi-modal analysis expands the range of data to include
“material” processes in spoken communication, such as gesture, movement in space, spatial organization (e.g. of a classroom, as in Jewitt &
Jones 2008, and Kress et al. 2006), dress and body posture. In written language, multi-modal analysis would pay ample attention to writing style,
font size, colors, layout, illustrations, place of the texts in a larger whole,
etc. Most of these things would be “non-data” in traditional forms of (textually oriented) discourse analysis, while they are central in MDA. The
effect is that the notion of “co-text” (an important element, as we know,
of “context”) is greatly expanded, and that the work of interpretation
can now proceed on the basis of a richer field of semiotic elements. It
also means that a “corpus” becomes a far more complex notion. It is not
enough just to sample “texts” and compare them by reading. The sample now consists of “designed” semiotic artifacts of greater complexity,
more facets of which require attention and analysis. The work of MDA
thus becomes quite labor-intensive, but rewarding as well. And finally,
the issue of communicative resources is also profoundly reformulated.
Whereas in more traditional discourse analysis, the resources under
scrutiny are by and large linguistic ones, in MDA we get a wider field
of communicative resources – the modes – with very different features,
functions, affordances, and constraints attached to them.
While CDA has been an immediate and significant success in the
wider field of discourse analysis, multi-modal analysis is still very much
in its infancy, most significant work (apart from pioneering works such
as Kress & van Leeuwen 1996) having appeared in the present decade.
There is as yet no long list of work available, covering a wide range of
fields and exploring previously uncharted waters. But it is clear that MDA
holds many promises due to its paradigmatic reformulations of the field
of discourse. It is attractive as an empirical approach to communication,
and theoretically it presents many great challenges to other branches of
discourse-analytic scholarship.
8.6
Toward a sociolinguistic discourse analysis
I said at the outset that a fully sociolinguistic theory of discourse does not
yet exist. I also mentioned above that MDA reformulates the issue of communicative resources, and that point brings us inevitably into the field
of sociolinguistics. I shall conclude this chapter with a brief set of reflections on sociolinguistics and discourse analysis, and the point of departure is that every concrete discourse object does have a sociolinguistic
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dimension: the particular language variety in which it is produced.
Remarkably, attention to this elementary feature of any discourse object
is as good as absent. Evidence abounds. There is an extremely limited
amount of conversation analysis, for instance, in which linguistic variation and multilingualism are part of the data, and if we look at authoritative textbooks on discourse analysis, from Brown and Yule (1983) to
Fairclough (2003), we notice that language variation is hardly ever mentioned as a factor to consider in discourse analysis, and that non-English
examples are very rare. Key concepts such as cohesion, genre, or style are
invariably described as intra-language features of textuality. (I would like
to note, as an exception, the work done by Jane Hill on “mock Spanish”
insertions in US English speech – an extremely salient form of microshifting with interpersonal, discursive-structural, and political dimensions; see Hill 2001a).
Whenever we say that this text is in French, we should address that text
through the sociolinguistic specter of variation: what do we mean by in
French? Do we see sociolinguistic variation discursively deployed in the
text? And if so, what does it mean? If we take stock of some of the points
mentioned earlier, notably those that are related to the indexical (implicit) signals that are part of every discourse object, we can presume that
quite a bit of “meaning” should be lodged in the varieties in which a particular discourse is produced. This argument is general as well as practical. In general, we should all strive toward a better discourse analysis,
one that keeps abreast of developments in related branches of language
studies. In this case, drawing attention to the possibilities of incorporating sociolinguistic micro-variation into discourse analysis looks to me
to be a worthwhile goal in itself. The practical motive has to do with
the simple fact that globalization compels us to take multilingualism
as a rule rather than as an exception, and to address the phenomenology of non-nativeness in language usage as something that crucially
connects with social, political, and ideological processes characterizing
Late Modernity. Obviously, developments in the structure of societies
(in addition to the ones addressed by MDA) compel us to devote more
attention to issues of sociolinguistic variation in discourse, because features of such variation become ever more important to users. We are no
longer at ease when it comes to the monolingual default in discourse
analysis.
The point I make here comes late in the day, because sociolinguistics
(and especially interactional sociolinguistics, e.g. Rampton 2006) has
made plenty of use of discourse-analytic techniques (notably derived
from conversation analysis) to demonstrate the various ways in which
linguistic variation influences what goes on in discourse. Thus, we
know that the strategic deployment of accents has important discursive
effects – indexical effects that signal identities and speaker positions, for
instance (Rampton 2006; see also Blommaert 2007). And we also know
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(and have known since Gumperz 1982a) that “ethnic” or “working-class”
speech styles may trigger often unconscious patterns of social discrimination because they signal “migrant” and negative class identities. The
discourse-structuring effects of sociolinguistic variation are fairly uncontroversial within sociolinguistics, and work in that domain is currently
flourishing. Within mainstream discourse analysis, however, no such
interests can be discerned and scholars opt for sociolinguistically “easy”
and unproblematic data. Let us note that data (especially spoken data) are
often made easy and unproblematic by transcription systems that favor
standard orthographies, thereby eliding the accents and sound play of
the speakers (Bucholtz 2000). So the methods of discourse analysis themselves may not be sensitive enough to allow sociolinguistic accuracy in
the reproduction of speech. This, too, can be seen as an effect of the
linguistic bias in mainstream discourse analysis: there is a tendency to
eliminate the sociolinguistic “noise” in data and to replace it with a pristine and smooth textual image. The realism to which much discourse
analysis aspires suffers from this, and it is an issue that requires attention. Blindness to sociolinguistics is not good for discourse analysis, and
together with the strong linguistic bias that characterizes mainstream
discourse analysis, this is its second main problem.
That this is not restricted to spoken discourse should be clear. Writing
also always displays “accent” – a class, gender, regional, professional,
and/or other accent that influences what is written by how it is written.
Some attention to such forms of “accented” writing has been given from
within new literacy studies (Street 1995; Collins & Blot 2003; Blommaert
2008), and especially when one looks into the strange literacy worlds of
graffiti and Hiphop, it is hard to avoid serious consideration of sociolinguistic variation in the analysis of the written discourses that can be
found there (e.g. Richardson 2006). Here lies a vast terrain for future
empirically challenging and theoretically stimulating research.
8.7 Conclusions
The different approaches to discourse discussed in this chapter all share
what we outlined in the beginning as a “pragmatic” perspective. They
all emphasized the contextual connections that make texts into concrete communicative instruments; they all emphasized the interactional
and dialogical features of discourse, stressing that it cannot be understood as a purely linguistic object; and they all stressed the fact that
discourse needs to be seen as an active and activity-related object. In that
sense they all belong to the pragmatic tradition, and the development of
pragmatics in the 1980s and 1990s offered a platform for exchange and
mutual influence. Discourse as an object acquired its shape in large part
due to the integrative effects of pragmatics in that era.
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In spite of these considerable similarities, however, we have seen
important differences and two major problems. The first major problem
that I discerned in mainstream discourse analysis (to which we can add
CDA) is that discourse is still largely seen as a linguistic-textual object.
Scholars focus4 on the linguistic structures of discursive units larger
than the single sentence, and in that sense display continuity with the
text linguistics of an older academic generation. Interesting and important alternative traditions, in which texts are seen as cultural rather than
linguistic objects have so far not been fully integrated into discourse
analysis, in spite of the strong empirical and theoretical arguments that
have been adduced from within that corner of the field. The second
major problem is the scant attention paid to sociolinguistic features of
discourse objects in mainstream discourse analysis. While there is a lot
of attention to discourse analysis in sociolinguistics, the opposite is not
true, and to some extent assisted by a series of methods that emphasize
sociolinguistically “pure” text (such as transcription systems), we see
that mainstream discourse analysis displays a predilection for pristine,
monolingual discourse objects. So while we see that there are discursive
theories of sociolinguistics, sociolinguistic theories of discourse are still
wanting.
Both problems handicap developments within discourse analysis and
prevent, to a significant extent, theoretical innovation. At the same time,
developments such as multi-modal discourse analysis show a great theoretical and methodological dynamism and definitely belong to the most
exciting developments in the study of language in society nowadays.
The shift effected within MDA is paradigmatic, replacing the linguistic
bias with a semiotic one in which language is one mode of production
for modern signs. Theoretically, this insight destroys quite a bit of the
safe and solid foundations of mainstream discourse analysis, because it
raises critical methodological questions with respect to things such as
the nature of “data,” the corpus, and the work of interpretation. In that
sense, MDA addresses the first major problem of discourse analysis, its
linguistic bias. The absence of sociolinguistic attention is to some extent
mitigated by work in (interactional) sociolinguistics, where sociolinguistic variation is effectively absorbed into the data that are analyzed.
Such work, however, is still too often seen as belonging to a different
“world” from that of discourse analysis (not many people in CDA, for
instance, would refer to Rampton’s work). In that sense, the agenda of
the pragmatic movement has not yet fully been implemented in the field
of discourse analysis.
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9
The sociolinguistics
of style
Nikolas Coupland
9.1 Style, stylistics, and sociolinguistics
Stylistics, the linguistic study of style, has a long history both outside
and inside sociolinguistics. In the formative years of linguistics, it was
important to show that techniques of linguistic analysis could profitably
be applied to literary texts as well as to other forms of written language,
and of course to speech. Intuitive commenting on literary style had been
a mainstay of literary criticism, but early in the history of linguistics, linguists felt they could contribute more systematic and orderly commentaries, which would nevertheless be relevant to the aesthetic appreciation of
textual construction and flow (Jakobson 1960). The term general stylistics
(Sebeok 1960; Weber 1996) came to refer to the general application of linguistic analysis – phonological, grammatical, lexical, prosodic – to texts
of all sorts, distinguished from the subfield of literary stylistics.
Ideas surfaced in early general stylistics that, later, found their parallels in some approaches in sociolinguistics. For example, Martin Joos
(1962) wrote about The Five Clocks. Under that title he developed a simple
model of five styles or levels of formality in spoken and written English,
which he labeled “frozen,” “formal,” “consultative,” “casual,” and “intimate.” This was a rather loose account of degrees of familiarity/intimacy
between people which, Joos argued, were detectable across speech and
writing; it was developed mainly as a tool to sensitize language learners to language/context relationships that they might otherwise have
missed. It introduced the idea that linguistic styles might be arranged on
a single continuum in linear fashion, from “most formal” to “most casual.” Also, style could be construed as a linguistic index of a social situation, and for Joos, it was the relational configuration between a speaker
and a listener that was most important.
Another basic idea in general stylistics was to conceive of style as a
matter of choice – when a speaker apparently opts to use one linguistic
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form or configuration rather than another. Stylistic variants were held
to be, at least in one sense, equivalent – “different ways of saying the
same thing.” Popular uses of the term style often make this same assumption. For example, one person’s argument might be said to differ from
another person’s argument “only in style, not in substance.” Joos’s
“frozen” communicative style was a more austere way of delivering a
particular speech act, such as giving an instruction, which could have
been delivered in a more “consultative” way, and so on. However, there
was also a sensitivity to how styles are tied to particular social contexts,
where a particular style would be deemed “appropriate” to some particular communicative situation. So style appeared to subsume elements of,
on the one hand, communicative openness – a speaker making agentive
choices that “color” a communicative act – and, on the other hand, communicative constraint –when a speaker feels the weight of some social
norm, and even some possible sanction that attaches to “inappropriate”
linguistic behavior in a particular context. This tension runs through all
approaches to style.
Within sociolinguistics, the concept of style was for some decades
mainly associated with William Labov’s variationist program (e.g. Labov
1972). Variationist sociolinguistics is overviewed and discussed elsewhere in this volume (see Chapters 9 to 13), so we can be brief about it
here. But there are some clear parallels between the variationist treatment of style and the early frameworks of general stylistics that were
current in the 1960s and 1970s. For Labov, style referred to the regular
tendency for speakers in urban speech communities to adjust their own
speech in a linear fashion under certain social circumstances. Labov and
those who replicated his survey research were able to show that, by controlling the speaking tasks that interview informants undertook, and in
particular by engineering speech formats where informants paid either
less or more attention to their own acts of speaking than they might
have otherwise done within a sociolinguistic interview, it was possible
to elicit “more careful” and “more casual” speech styles quite systematically. The four or five “styles” that Labov and his followers were able to isolate in sociolinguistic interviews in some ways parallel Joos’ five “clocks.”
They are represented as positions on a linear scale of (in a very general
sense) formality, where speakers respond to particular contextual configurations. Although there is no theoretical discussion of communicative openness and constraint in the original variationist accounts, the
term constraint is widely used, implying that stylistic variation is indeed
a speaker’s response (and indeed a regular and predictable response) to
social circumstances imposed by the researcher. The underlying assumption is therefore that speech style is occasioned by the social situation,
and this is why Labov referred to “contextual styles.” More recently the
idea of style as an open and creative process has come strongly to the
fore (see below).
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For variationists, the linguistic indices of this careful-to-casual variation were the self-same speech variables that were of primary concern
in variationist surveys – the social dialect features that commonly distinguish the speech of upper and lower social classes, when frequency data
for individuals’ use of particular speech variants are grouped together.
To that extent, the variationist program has tended to approach style
as dialect style, when stylistics has of course always been interested in
language/ context relationships at all linguistic levels. Style is in fact
a multi-level phenomenon – a coordinated configuration of linguistic
features, designed and interpreted holistically. In its classical mode of
research, variationism treated style as an ancillary phenomenon. The
main patterns of co-variation between social class and speech variation –
the social stratification of language – could be shown to be qualified or
refined by this further “contextual” consideration. “Working-class men’s
speech” in a particular urban setting, for example, might be characterized quantitatively as a “style” or “level of dialect standardness,” different from the speech of “middle-class men.” But any generalization about
class stratification was subject to the constraining consideration that
their speech (again in aggregated statistical terms) would not be uniform across social contexts of speaking. So style mattered to variationists
mainly because it had the potential to skew the primary correlational
data; style was a methodological problem more than a theoretically
important issue in its own right. At the same time, the fact that speakers
would adjust their speech styles “upwards,” in the direction of prestige
speech norms when the speaking task was more subject to overt monitoring gave some indication that people within the speech community
shared an interpretive norm. This was a theoretically important observation. For example, those “working-class men” might share the perception that their own speech was, in relation to overt norms of judgment,
associated with low prestige. Findings in the stylistic “dimension” of
variation indicated something of the subjective and ideological climate
in which variation was being studied.
However, style is a far more elaborate and more theoretically important concept in sociolinguistics than this. In the main part of this chapter, I shall focus on two broad phases of style research outside of the
variationist perspective. (For a more elaborated discussion and critique
of style in variationism, see Coupland 2007a.) I shall focus mainly on the
contemporary scene of style research, taking in the various perspectives
that have moved on and away from Labov’s approach. The sociolinguistic
study of style has taken on considerable momentum and independence,
to the extent that it is possible to suggest that the Labovian approach
“has little if anything to do with modern studies on style in sociolinguistics” (Auer 2007a: 11). That is probably an over-statement, but we will see
that many of the core variationist ideas surrounding style have had to be
rethought. But before turning to this, I will comment on some important
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traditions in socially and culturally oriented linguistics that were established early in the history of linguistics but which laid the ground for
contemporary sociolinguistic emphases. My argument is that concepts
linked to style have in fact been of fundamental concern to understanding language in society throughout the history of the discipline, despite
a rather long interlude when, at least from the variationist perspective, it
was conventional to work with a very restricted concept of style.
9.2 Situation, register, and functional linguistics
Since Erving Goffman’s short article “The Neglected Situation” (Goffman
1964), there have been repeated claims that most branches of linguistics
have tended to overlook – or to be parsimonious in their appeals to –
social context. Goffman argued that we need to keep in mind the values
of situational factors for speakers, if we are to understand what he called
“the greasy parts of speech” – the dynamic, interactional, multi-modal,
and emergent aspects of how language fits into social contexts. “Your
social situation,” he said, “is not your country cousin” (Goffman 1964:
134), even if nowadays that seems to be a sociolinguistically insensitive
expression. He was implying that there is more sophistication in how
a social situation is constituted than is often credited. Over the years,
highly sophisticated accounts of context and of the contextualization of
speech have emerged, particularly in anthropological frameworks (e.g.
Hymes 1974, Bauman & Briggs 1990, Silverstein 1998), but also reaching out to other overlapping fields (Duranti & Goodwin 1992). These are
some of the landmark publications that came to underpin contemporary
approaches to style in sociolinguistics.
Michael Halliday (1978) developed the idea of context of situation, which
J. R. Firth (1957) and Bronislaw Malinowski (1923) before him had established as a key theoretical concept in linguistic anthropology. Context
of situation could be distinguished from context of culture, and the two
terms referred to how language betrays its contextual embedding in
more local and less local ways. The context of culture is a resource for communicative action because speakers bring their historical knowledge,
understandings, assumptions, and communicative resources to any particular communicative task. In a particular cultural context, there is
likely to be a reasonable level of agreement about what can meaningfully be said, or, to use a more typical Hallidayan expression, “what can
be meant” within that particular cultural network. Cultural knowledge
is in part a knowledge about particular social situations, because we all
have a generalized awareness of what can legitimately or unexceptionally be said by whom, to whom, when, and so on. The context of culture
therefore informs speakers’ actions in different particular contexts of
situation, but local situations selectively implement and refi ne (or resist
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and challenge) cultural norms. These are the “members’ resources” and
situated norms that, for example Gunther Kress (1985) recognizes as
part of his critical linguistic perspective. It is difficult to think of any
branches of sociolinguistics, critical linguistics or linguistic anthropology that do not nowadays acknowledge that social actors and social
activities are contextually organized in relation to forces (ideologies,
discourses, norms) of this general sort. Perhaps “the situation” was not
so neglected after all, or soon began to attract the degree of attention
that Goffman proposed.
Halliday’s argument was that language systems and both situational
and cultural systems were fundamentally interconnected. He viewed
a language as a resource, a complex set of potentialities for making
meaning, and he argued that linguistic resources are validated by social
situations and by cultures, which are themselves to be understood as
meaning-making resources. There is, he argued, “a systematic relationship between the social environment on the one hand, and the functional organization of language on the other” (Halliday 1985: 11). This
view is filled out in an earlier quotation:
From a sociolinguistic viewpoint, the semantic system can be defined
as a functional or function-oriented meaning potential; a network of
options for the encoding of some extralinguistic semiotic system or
systems in terms of the two basic components of meaning that we
have called the ideational and the interpersonal. (Halliday 1978: 79)
Halliday argued that fashions of speaking realize meaning choices that are
occasioned, but not fully determined, by social situations and, further
back, the culture itself. This presses us toward a radically semantic view
of style. Style is not at all a matter of alternation between semantically
equivalent and semantically neutral forms under the influence of situational constraints. It is the exercising of meaningful choices through
language, where those choices play a role in articulating the social situation. Halliday used the term register to refer to the interconnectedness
of situational and linguistic meanings, and he emphasized that register
is an inescapable organizing principle of every act of speaking. Register
could be analyzed in three dimensions: field – the thematic/topical constitution of a speech event; mode – the communicative modalities used;
and tenor – the relationships among participants. Leckie-Tarry (1995) provides a comprehensive review and elaboration of these concepts and of
Halliday’s general treatment of context and register.
There is a clear resemblance here to Dell Hymes’ famous taxonomy
of situational components, summarized in his SPEAKING mnemonic
(Hymes 1974), where each letter of the word points us to a particular
cluster of factors that is likely to be important in defining how any
given social situation is constituted: Setting; Participants; Ends (goals);
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Act sequence (message form and content); Key (tenor); Instrumentalities
(channels and forms of speech); Norms (of interaction and interpretation); Genre. Notice here how, similarly to Halliday’s approach, Hymes
lists “Act sequences” and “Instrumentalities,” which include the linguistic resources speakers use, as meaningful parts of the social situation, not
as separate from the social situation. The correlational perspective that
dominated the classical variationist approach set out to show that language use and social situation “varied together,” and in taking this line
it forced a theoretical separation between language and situation. But
it is important to recognize that other approaches made quite different
assumptions, and that strong theoretical arguments against a separatist
approach had been made as early at the 1970s.
Halliday for a while seemed to endorse the separation of language and
situation in his discussions of dialect and register. By dialect Halliday
meant all those aspects of language use associated with a speaker or
speakers’ social provenance and experience. Dialect, he suggested, is
“what you habitually speak”; register is “what you are speaking at a
given moment” (Halliday 1978: 35). But it is important to appreciate the
level of abstraction Halliday is using here. He makes the case that dialect
and register, once again, cannot be kept apart as concepts – they are “two
sides of the same coin,” and both are implicated in making meaning.
Because we know that dialect usage is not fully consistent at the level of
the individual, “the dialect comes to be an aspect of the register … the
choice of dialect becomes a choice of meaning, or a choice between different areas of our meaning potential” (Halliday 1978: 34).
In this discussion we are already encountering quite different conceptions of not only style but of sociolinguistics itself. In the variationist
paradigm, we see priority being given to linguistic systems over social
processes, and this view is naturalized in the central concept of variation.
Languages are seen as systems which subsume variability, particularly
dialect variability, in the sense that they can adopt different systemic
forms, and move over time from one form or state to another. This suggests a plan-view, a top-down visualization of language systems “in society,” where the explanatory movement is from society to language. The
social placement of groups of speakers and the situational configurations
in which they operate, seen “from above,” play a part in shaping language systems. This is consistent with the argument that (variationist)
sociolinguistics is above all a version of linguistics – one in which social
facts play an important part in reaching accurate descriptions of how
linguistic systems stand relative to others. Halliday and Hymes, in their
different but overlapping perspectives, defend a far more integrated
and holistic conception of sociolinguistics. Hymes (1974) lobbied for a
socially constituted linguistics, which would dissolve any simple distinction
between language and society. In a more recent account, Hymes suggests
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three central assumptions that need to be made in a socially constituted
linguistics:
●
●
●
that verbal means and the social matrices in which they exist are
interdependent;
that the organization of verbal means must be viewed from the vantage point of the social matrices;
that one must discover ways in which verbal means are organized
by virtue of social matrices (using “social matrices” here as a general
term for activities, institutions, groups, etc.).
(Hymes 1996: 102)
Several key themes emerge from this short review of early functional
approaches to language and social context. Firstly, the innocent-seeming
concept of style – if it refers to the contextualization of ways of speaking –
is in fact a foundational concern in sociolinguistics. “Doing style” or
“styling” is the active, meaningful deployment of linguistic resources in
cultural and more local situational frameworks. To understand this process, both at the level of general theory and at the level of the particular
instance, is arguably what sociolinguistics confronts as one of its most
basic tasks. Secondly, there is no necessary cut-off point around dialect for
the sociolinguistic analysis of style. Style is an all-encompassing notion,
even if we may choose (as in the variationist paradigm) to deal exclusively
with dialect phenomena as the locus of stylistic operations. When we do
attend to dialect, meaning can still take center stage, in the sense of what
social and relational meanings are transacted and how social contexts of
talk are constituted. Thirdly, there is an implicitly constructionist principle
in early conceptions of style and register, and in the Hymesean perspective on ways of speaking. Although social constructionism might appear
to be a relatively new emphasis in sociolinguistics, associated in particular with interactional sociolinguistics and (critical) discourse analysis (see
Coupland & Jaworski 2009; Jaworski & Coupland 2006 for overviews), it
is firmly rooted in early approaches to language and context. Fourthly,
there is a strong assumption in early functional accounts that stylistic
analysis should adopt as far as possible an “emic” orientation, rather than
an “etic” one. That is, we should endeavor to understand styling processes
for the values and meanings they have for participants in social interaction, rather than allow analysis to remain a descriptive enterprise, subservient to researchers’ aims and empirical designs.
When we look at sociolinguistic research that sought to expand the
variationist paradigm’s approach to style from around 1980 onwards,
what we see is a range of initiatives that can be construed as reinstating
some of the foundational emphases I have just summarized, as well as
developing new insights in relation to new types of data. In the rest of
the chapter, I pick out what are arguably the most significant initiatives,
in roughly chronological sequence.
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Audience design and related approaches to style
William Labov’s principle of “attention to speech” explained dialect style
variation in socio-cognitive terms. A speaker who paid more attention to
his or her own speech performance in a sociolinguistic interview would,
he argued, become more sensitive to the social meanings attaching to
his or her speech variety, and so would shift toward a prestige norm. In
the social psychology of language, Howard Giles proposed an alternative
explanation, but one that was still based on socio-cognitive processes.
Giles’ accommodation theory (Giles & Powesland 1975; Giles, Coupland &
Coupland 1991) modeled the role of speech in the negotiation of social
relations between interactants. One speaker accommodates (and more
specifically converges) toward the speech of another under specifiable subjective conditions – when he or she wants to increase the extent to which
he or she is perceived to be socially attracting to the other, and when he or
she wants communication to be more effective. Speech accommodation
theory therefore offered a distinctive interpretation of style-shifting in
sociolinguistic interviews. Giles’ argument was that attention to speech
was not the salient (or not the only salient) subjective process at work;
perhaps interviewees were converging to the speech characteristics of
sociolinguistic interviewers, who might often be speakers of more prestigious (accent/ dialect) varieties. Interviewees might be trying to shape
their social relationships with interviewers to present themselves “in a
better light.”
The basic idea of accommodation is well established in sociolinguistics. In fact, it has been proposed to be a central process in long-term
dialect change (Trudgill 1986), even if there are disputes about the
degree to which speakers are actually aware of their own and others’
accommodative adaptations, and whether we can securely invoke the
idea of social identity in this connection (Trudgill 2008). If we believe
that accommodation happens in many or most face-to-face encounters, then why shouldn’t it be an explanatory consideration in sociolinguistic interviews? Subsequent research established that it is indeed
an important factor. But the wider significance is that Giles’ theory
moved the analysis of style variation in the direction of relational processes – seeing style as playing a part in the sociolinguistic negotiation
of interpersonal distance. This can be seen as reasserting Hymes’
idea that speech events are in part constituted through relationships
between “participants” (“P” in his SPEAKING mnemonic), as well as
Halliday’s sensitivity to the “tenor” dimension of register. With hindsight, it seems surprising that an orientation to style could have been
developed that did not engage seriously with relationality, although
this is more understandable if we see the variationist enterprise as
focused on language-as-system rather than language-as-situationalachievement (see above).
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Two other sociolinguistic models of style adopted quite similar perspectives to accommodation theory in the 1980s. We will briefly consider one of
them, Le Page and Tabouret-Keller’s acts of identity framework, in the next
section. The other is Allan Bell’s (1984, 2001) audience design framework,
which substantially realigned the sociolinguistics of style. Two radio stations that Bell was recording in the 1970s were broadcast from the same
suite of studios and they involved the same individual newsreaders. This
allowed him to compare the newsreaders’ speech styles in two different
broadcasting modes – when they were working for National Radio, station
ZA, as opposed to a community station, ZB. Using quantitative, variationist methods and focusing on phonological variables, Bell was able to show
that there was systematic variation in some aspects of the newsreaders’
speech across the two contexts of broadcasting. Several variables were
studied, although results for one variable were particularly striking. The
variable (intervocalic t) has two salient variants. The voiceless stop consonant [t] is generally associated with “standard” usage, certainly in the
UK but tending that way in New Zealand too. An alternative variant is
a voiced stop or a flap, auditorily close to [d] – the variant that is in fact
“standard” in most US English. Bell found that “The newsreaders shifted
on average 20 percent in each linguistic environment between stations
ZA and ZB. Single newsreaders heard on two different stations showed a
consistent ability to make considerable style-shifts to suit the audience”
(2001: 140). Bell justifies his interpretation, that audience design produces
the variation effect, by saying that only the audience differed across the
two broadcasting contexts – the speakers, the broadcasting mode, the
speech genre (news reading), and even the studio setting are constant
across the two contexts. The implication is that the difference between
the two audiences, national and more local, must be occasioning stylistic
variation in the newsreaders’ speech.
The underlying assumption here, once again, is that speech style in
general is constrained by social context, which can be analyzed in terms
of different concurrent dimensions. Bell expects there to be at least four
potentially relevant dimensions – the four constant factors and the varying fifth factor, “audience.” Bell makes the point that another possible
factor, Labov’s attention to speech, is also not able to account for the
variation he finds. Bell is in fact very clear that he prioritizes recipiency
and relationality in the analysis of style in general. He sets out a series
of programmatic claims or principles for style analysis, as follows (italicized text and text in quote marks is direct quotation from Bell 2001:
141–48):
1.
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Style is what an individual speaker does with a language in relation to other
people. Bell says that “style focuses on the person. It is essentially a
social thing. It marks inter-personal and inter-group relations. It is
interactive – and active.”
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2. Style derives its meaning from the association of linguistic features with particular social groups. Bell therefore considers that socially meaningful
linguistic variation between social groups is primary, and that stylistic variation is the secondary use or deployment of such variation.
3. Speakers design their style primarily for and in response to their audience.
Bell says that style-shift “occurs primarily in response to a change in
the speaker’s audience. Audience design is generally manifested in
a speaker shifting her style to be more like that of the person she is
speaking to.” This is also the central idea within Giles’ accommodation theory. Bell emphasizes that that response is the primary mode
of style-shift, but that this responsiveness is also “active.”
4. Audience design applies to all codes and levels of a language repertoire, monolingual and multilingual. Although Bell’s original data were of a classical
socio-phonetic variationist sort, he wished to include other levels of
linguistic variation.
5. Variation on the style dimension within the speech of a single speaker
derives from and echoes the variation which exists between speakers
on the “social” level. Unlike the fourth principle, this principle refers
to conventional variationist conceptions of style, accepting that style
is a “dimension” of variation separate from “social” variation. Bell is
pointing to a common fact about the extents of “social” and “stylistic”
variation, when they are measured in the quantitative variationist
paradigm. “Social” variation seems to be greater than (shows bigger
numerical range than) stylistic variation. But his general point is that,
as in (2), style variation is enabled by “social” variation.
6. Speakers have a fine-grained ability to design their style for a range
of different addressees, as well as for other audience members. Some
research, including my own (Coupland 1988, 2007a), has been able to
demonstrate subtle patterns of co-variation in the speech of speakers and listeners, although Bell’s model conceives of several different
audience roles.
7. Style-shifting according to topic or setting derives its meaning and
direction of shift from the underlying association of topics or settings with typical audience members. Bell is making the interesting
claim that, although response to an audience is, for him, primary,
whole social situations can carry the imprint of how they are peopled, and that this is what makes them meaningfully different.
8. As well as the “responsive” dimension of style, there is the “initiative” dimension where the style-shift itself initiates a change in the
situation rather than resulting from such a change. Bell links the
idea of initiative style to Blom and Gumperz’s (1972) idea of “metaphorical code-switching.” In their well-known discussion of alternation between different language codes in Norway, they comment
on how a speaker can, for example, introduce a quality of informality or intimacy into a social event by switching into a local dialect.
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9.
10.
The idea of “initiative” style-shifting lets the audience- design model
break free from what would otherwise seem to be a very deterministic approach – that (as in principle 3) speakers’ style is essentially
responsive. As I suggested earlier, balancing response and initiation
(or constraint and openness) remains one of the key problems for
any theory of style.
Initiative style-shifts are in essence “referee design,” by which the
linguistic features associated with a reference group can be used
to express identification with that group. In this claim Bell tries
to link initiative or metaphorical style back into considerations of
audiences. Referees, he says, are third persons not usually present at
an interaction but who are salient for speakers and able to influence
their style of speaking, even in their absence. Style here becomes a
matter of identifying with potentially non-present groups. It therefore moves into the territory of identity management (see the next
section).
Style research requires its own designs and methodologies. This is Bell’s
pitch for giving style research its own theoretical and empirical
spaces, outside of variationist surveys where it was always a peripheral consideration.
While it is something of a truism to suggest that people design their
acts of communication for their audiences, there is an accumulation of
research evidence that shows accommodative/audience design effects,
and their importance for sociolinguistic theories of style. For reasons
of economy, I shall review only one of them here. (For a commentary
on several other instances, again see Coupland 2007a.) One of the most
meticulous and thought-provoking studies of audience design is John
Rickford and Faye McNair-Knox’s (1994) analysis of two interviews with
an African-American teenager, Foxy, from Oakland, California, aged 18.
In the first interview Faye McNair-Knox, an African-American woman
in her forties and a lecturer at Stanford University, was the principal
“interviewer,” although in fact the event was often chatty and involved
banter rather than a formal interview. Faye and Foxy knew each other in
advance of the tape-recorded event. Another interview with Foxy was conducted by Beth, a European American woman. In this way, the researchers had access to a pair of interviews in which the ethnic identity of the
interviewer differed, and they hypothesized that some accommodative/
audience design effects would be detectable as a consequence.
Rickford and McNair-Knox analyze quantitative differences in Foxy’s
speech across the two events in relation to five sociolinguistics variables.
Each variable is linked to African-American ethnicity, although the study
clearly shows that these are probabilistic tendencies and not categorical
(all-or-nothing) patterns. Three of the five variables show statistically
significant variation between the two contexts of talk, with regularly
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higher frequencies of the “non-standard” or African-American-associated
variants occurring in the first speech event. This means that Foxy uses
significantly more instances of features such as it seem like (rather than it
seems like), you pregnant (rather than you’re pregnant) and he always be coming
down here (rather than he always comes down here or he’s always coming down
here) in the interview with Faye than in the interview with Beth.
The authors look in detail at several variables, such as third singular
present tense -s absence, to check that linguistic-internal considerations
are not skewing the results. Findings for this variable show that regular
differences between the two speech events continue to appear even when
statistics are examined for particular subcategories. That is, the general
pattern of variation of -s absence shows up when they consider regular
verbs (such as walk) as a subcategory, and even when they consider the
individual irregular verbs have and do. Even individual verb forms such
as don’t show the same pattern of quantitative variation. There is still the
problem of assessing precisely what it is that Foxy is converging toward,
even if we assume that it is possible to partition off contextual factors
such as “the addressee” versus “the topic of talk” (in the way Bell did
in his original broadcast talk study). Rickford and McNair-Knox look in
detail at statistical differences in Foxy’s speech when speakers are dealing with different topics. To give just one example, in the Faye interview,
Foxy uses the “zero is” feature (he on the phone) far more frequently in
topics having to do with boy–girl conflicts (average 75 percent) or teen
pregnancies (60 percent) than when the topic category is drugs, thefts,
and murders (10 percent). Numbers like these are suggestive, but the
authors point to the difficulty of attributing stylistic tendencies to topics,
let alone to topics interpreted in the way that Bell’s principle (7) interprets them.
The authors give the following four examples (Rickford & McNairKnox1994: 261) from Foxy’s speech. The first two examples fall under
the topic “college/career,” one from each of the interview settings. The
second two extracts fall under the topic “wives/slammin partners,” again
one from each interview. The examples illustrate Foxy’s variation in
respect of the “zero copula” (absence of verb “to be”) variable and the
“invariant be” variable. I have italicized relevant variants:
1.
Miss R is the one that- [laughter] Miss R [zero] the one help me get into
this program, and my- and this guy name Mr O at our school, he’s
Chinese.
2. M., she goes to DeAnza’s nursing school. And R and T, they’re going
to, um,
CSM, and my friend A, she’s going to be going with me when I go
3. I be like, “for real?” I be going, “Tramp, you’re stu:pid. You [zero] just
DUMB!
Uhhh! Get away from me. You [zero] stupid!
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4. You be in your car with your friends and they be like, “hey, F, ain’t
that that
girl they- um- B slammed the other night?” You be like, “Yeah, that
IS her.”
The “wives/slammin partners” topic, as these extracts show, tends to
include a lot of direct quotes. These are often introduced by the be + like
quotative feature, which of course provides a lot of scope for variation
in the specific verbal “to be” features we are focusing on. Rickford and
McNair-Knox make the important point, vis-à-vis Bell’s seventh principle,
that “In the sections in which Foxy’s vernacular language use reaches
its peak … Foxy is not just behaving as if speaking to teenagers; she is,
through extensive quotations, dramatically reenacting the speaking of
teenagers” (Rickford & McNair-Knox 1994: 261).
This fascinating study is very suggestive about what audience design
and accommodation theories allow us to understand about sociolinguistic style. The fact that the two interviews (if we are happy to use
that term) are conducted by different people – Faye and Beth, but also
the fact that Faye and Beth are socially and sociolinguistically different people do both seem to be consequential for how talk proceeds
in the data. Foxy’s African-American-ness does seem to be facilitated
or validated in the interview with Faye, although their prior acquaintance as well as their shared ethnicity is very likely to have been a salient consideration. The main difficulty in the analysis, and in models
of the audience design type, is the difficulty of building causal interpretations. That is, how can we be sure whether particular “social factors” are responsible for the style differences we can observe in Foxy’s
speech. Taking one step further back, we might ask whether it is at all
necessary or possible to approach the analysis of style with the expectation of being able to show that “social factors” are causally related to
speech performance.
In Hymes and Halliday’s constitutive theories of language and context,
it would be more feasible and relevant to ask how Foxy’s and the interviewers’ language interfaces with the cultural and situational dynamics of their encounters to generate meanings – and meanings that are
relevant to them. Quantitative indices of style will inevitably reduce the
contextual specificity of analyses, and they will press us toward linear
accounts, such as observing that Foxy’s speech is “more versus less vernacular,” or that there is “more versus less similarity between participants’ styles.” They also tempt us to inspect only those aspects of stylistic
performance that we have pre-selected for detailed attention – in this
case a set of features deemed to be central to dialectal variation – and
potentially to miss out on more holistic accounts of how language and
non-verbal actions are contributing to the construction of the events
in question. Goffman’s “greasy parts of speech” are likely to remain
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inaccessible. Although studies of this sort provide the first steps in a
rich analysis of relational processes in social interaction, we are unable
to explain just what it is about the relationships between Foxy and her
interviewers that is most “emically” relevant to them.
9.4
Style, persona, and speaker identity
The link between language and social identity has perennially been
debated in sociolinguistics, although a new middle ground has emerged
in recent years. Sociolinguists reject essentialist accounts of identity,
where a person’s membership of a social group (e.g. male, Italian, old,
middle-class) is taken to explain their social or their sociolinguistic distinctiveness (Mendoza-Denton 2004). It is assumed that people have (or
live out or perform) multiple social identities (plural), and to think of
identities as being “hybrid,” or at least locally contextualized and therefore potentially ephemeral. The origins of these ideas are to be found
in sociological and anthropological critiques of colonial and majoritarian attitudes toward ethnic groups. They gain support from social constructionist and discourse analytic perspectives on group membership
(Antaki & Widdicombe 1998). This is where we find the argument that
the social categories that impinge on our social lives are largely constructed in communicative acts, rather than preordained. Arguments
about social change add the view that the relative fluidity that many
people experience around their social identities is “a sign of the times,”
more than simply a shift of analytic perspective. Globalization is leading
to far greater contact between linguistic and cultural styles, encouraging
more reflexivity and openness about identity (Giddens 2002).
A relatively early, explicitly constructivist formulation of language
and social identity in sociolinguistics is that of Le Page and TabouretKeller (1985). They saw “linguistic behavior as a series of acts of identity
in which people reveal both their personal identity and their search for
social roles” (p.14). Here is their famous dictum:
[T]he individual creates for himself the patterns of his linguistic
behavior so as to resemble those of the group or groups with which
from time to time he wishes to be identified, or so as to be unlike those
from whom he wishes to be distinguished. (Le Page & Tabouret-Keller
1985: 181)
There are clear echoes here of the speech accommodation model,
which the authors directly acknowledge, and it is inevitably the case
that identity-focused and audience-focused interpretations of style overlap. This is why I have used the expression the relational self (Coupland
2001a) to summarize the fusion of personal and relational meanings
that style negotiates. But Le Page and Tabouret-Keller stress identity and
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sociolinguistic identification with a target group, rather than the relational motivations that accommodation theory models. They suggest
that speakers engage in acts of self- projection which may or may not lead
to endorsement by recipients.
In my own research, I have used the concept of persona to refer to
the local identities that speakers are sometimes able to style, creatively
and ephemerally, by bringing recognizable “voices” into their speech
performances. I focused on media contexts such as radio DJing where
vocal play includes persona management – the motivated projection and
voicing of sociolinguistic stereotypes, to create local discursive effects,
also as part of the development of a broadcaster’s media profile or “personality” (Coupland 1985, 2001b, 2007a). This made it necessary to distinguish the concepts of a primary and a secondary stylistic repertoire.
As research by Labov, Bell and many others had amply demonstrated, all
speakers have a primary repertoire, even if this is restricted to undertaking relatively minor style-shifts in the marking of different degrees
of “standardness-to-vernacularness” in relation to audiences and other
aspects of a social situation. But style-shifting for some people clearly
includes the possibility of mobilizing a far wider range of vocal styles,
making up a secondary repertoire. The theoretical implications of this
sort of performance are complex, and I consider them in the next section. But through the 1990s, style research began to explore the ways in
which stylistic self-presentation could play a part in the construction of
personal and social group identities.
Important theoretical support here came from Penelope Eckert
and colleagues’ research developing the concept of communities of practice (e.g. Eckert & McConnell-Ginet 1992; Wenger 1998). The concept of
practice foregrounds “the concrete complexities of language as used
by real people” in local environments, the “mutual engagement of
human agents” and the co-construction of, for example, gender difference and dominance (Eckert & McConnell-Ginet 1992: 462). Practice is a
broadened-out conception of sociolinguistic styling, one where analysis
cannot be restricted to a set of particular linguistic features in isolation,
or even a particular repertoire, and where identity categories, such as
“femininity,” cannot be presumed. It also points to the need for ethnographic research methods that can capture the local constructive movements of discourse and their “emic” significance. Ethnography is usually
undertaken as a qualitative analysis of closely observed moments of
social interaction, in which the researcher is acknowledged to be a participant. A “communities of practice” approach therefore often breaks
away from quantitative variationist methods, even though Eckert’s own
research (e.g. Eckert 2000) has spanned both modes. The “community”
dimension points to the need to understand how particular groups of
people coalesce around shared tasks and goals, and how distinctive ways
of speaking come to be significant as symbolic resources distinguishing
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the whole community or its subgroups, like the Jocks and Burnouts in
Belten High (Eckert 2000).
Contemporary approaches to sociolinguistic style tend to foreground
the cluster of perspectives I have just described – multiple voicing, fluidity of social identification, social constructionist interpretation, an interactional perspective on indexical meaning, ethnographic analysis. Some
illustrative studies (among many others, some of which are mentioned
later) include Mendoza-Denton 1995; Kiesling 1998; Bucholtz 1999a;
Cameron 2000; Moore 2004; Coupland 2007b, 2009; Androutsopoulos
2007b; and Sebba 2007. The cultural and contextual range of this line
of research is impressive. Peter Auer summarizes it as a paradigm that
asks “to what extent can participants mobilize heterogeneity within or
across the linguistic system(s) of their repertoire – grammar, phonology,
lexicon – in order to symbolically express their social identities” (2007a:
3). It already constitutes a critical and interactional alternative to variationism. Once again though, current research on style is a reinstatement
of priorities associated with the early concepts of context of situation,
context of culture, and the socio-semantics of register, but more empirically detailed, more culturally diverse, and more critically attuned.
As the level of analytic and contextual detail increases in sociolinguistic approaches to style, so the concept of identity becomes less uniform.
It becomes necessary to specify various sub-processes that underlie “the
discursive construction of identity,” which itself starts to sound like a
rather trite caption. What I call targeting is the process of shaping the
personas of particular social actors, the speaker’s own persona or someone else’s. Although speakers inevitably shape their own social personas
through stylistic actions, they also ascribe identities to others (addressees or third parties) and to social groups that might include or exclude
themselves. Framing (Goffman 1974) determines how particular identities are made relevant or salient in discourse, and how others remain
latent as, in Halliday’s terms, unactivated meaning potential. The potential metaphorical transfer through which a linguistic feature comes to
stand for or to mean something social (ionization, see Irvine 2001) has to
be occasioned in a discourse. Voicing refers to how a speaker represents
or implies ownership (full, ambiguated, non-existent) of an utterance or
a way of speaking, and we cannot assume that people speak exclusively
in and through their own voices (see below). Keying refers to the tone,
manner, or spirit of a communicative act, for example serious or playful.
An act of identity projection depends crucially on its keying, because
key allows us to infer a speaker’s communicative motivation, such as
to parody a group’s social style rather than endorse or appropriate it.
Loading is an extension of keying, referring to the level of a speaker’s
investment in an identity being negotiated and the social consequentiality of a stylistic act. “Straight” or seriously keyed identity projections or
ascriptions can be light or even routine, as opposed to weighty or telling.
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(For a different taxonomy of “tactics of intersubectivity,” see Bucholtz &
Hall 2004a.)
I can mention only a few fragments of a few studies by way of illustration. Many recent studies pick up on Ben Rampton’s (1995) concept of
crossing, which refers to how speakers incorporate voices into their own
speech that are associated mainly with social groups other than their
own – their usage “crosses” into sociolinguistic styles with (at least in
conventional terms) outgroup meanings. Cecilia Cutler (1999) tracks how
a young, white, middle-class male, Mike, over time moved into (but eventually back out of) a black (African-American), hip-hop personal identity, partly through incorporating African American Vernacular features
into his speech. For a period of time, he regularly used [d] for [] and
schwa [] rather than [i] in the before vowels, for example, in expressions
such as dass de other side that fucks it up [dæs d sad dæt fks p].
Cutler says that Mike had little direct contact with gang culture, so he
was presumably targeting gangsta rap speech and social identity from
media representations. These seem to have been seriously keyed and significantly loaded style choices for Mike, who wanted to project a “real
self,” as opposed to playing intermittently with hip-hop style. Natalie
Schilling-Estes (2004) analyses ethnically salient variation in sociolinguistic interviews involving two people from Robeson County in North
Carolina, where a bi-racial (black/white) classification system has been
historically in place, but where Lumbee Indians (Native Americans) have
resisted being forced into this system, asserting their own independent
ethnic identity. Schilling-Estes relates variation in the speech of a black
(African-American) male postgraduate student, Alex, and a Lumbee male
undergraduate student, Lou, to the structured content of an interview
where Alex was positioned as the interviewer and Lou as the interviewee.
Although the speakers have sociolinguistic resources to index their different ethnicities, they are also able to find interpersonal consensus
and mark this through increasing linguistic alignment. Mary Bucholtz
explores the interplay of gender and ethnicity in her analysis of a white
Californian boy’s fight narrative (Bucholtz 1999b). The boy, Brand One,
voices his own utterances in the conflict episode but also his attacker’s
utterances. He makes symbolically rich stylistic distinctions between
his own voice (e.g. the “standard” grammar of what are you doing?) and
the attacker’s voice (e.g. the “non-standard” and African-American-like
what you gonna do?). This is stylistic work to construct Brand One himself
as non-confrontational and white, and his antagonist as confrontational
and black.
9.5
Style and stylized performance
The design feature I called “voicing,” above, allows us to recognize
instances where stylistic projections enter into complex relationships
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with social reality. The Brand One instance already shows some of this
complexity, because Brand One’s voicing of the antagonist is clearly not
a “realistic” representation of how the attacker spoke: it is constructed
dialogue. Even so, it takes its social meaning from the “real world” of
how white and black people often do speak, and Brand One’s momentary
projections of ethnicity are, we might say, “real for the moment of performance.” They evoke known indexical values and apply them to the protagonists in question. Further complexities arise in instances of stylized
performance (Coupland 2001b; Rampton 1995, 2006) where we are generally dealing with exaggerated styles but multiply layered and ambiguous
social meanings. Following Bakhtin (1981), Rampton (2006: 225) says that
stylization involves the puzzle of figuring out what “image of another’s
language” this is actually supposed to be. Stylization involves “as if”
voicing, when indexical relations are strategically obscured. There is a
strong element of reflexivity in the performance (Jaworski, Coupland &
Galasi ński 2004), when a speaker’s words carry a meta-message of the sort
“listen to this voice, and work out what I am doing with it.” Stylization
is strategic inauthenticity in self-projection, even though it can work to
construct significant social and personal reappraisals.
Ben Rampton’s (1995) study developed ethnographic interpretations of
the use of Panjabi, Creole, and stylized Asian English by young people of
Anglo, Asian, and Afro-Caribbean descent in the Midlands (of England).
He is interested in non-discrete “styles,” where fragments and vestiges of
speech varieties associated with ethnicity are worked into kids’ speech,
often in very complex and fleeting interactional contexts at school.
Stylized Asian English proved to be a resource used by kids of different ethnic origins to destabilize social arrangements at important transitional moments in school life. The (2006) book reports studies of social
class-related styling in London, again in school settings. These studies
are the most theoretically rich and empirically detailed contemporary
studies of style, and they raise many fundamental questions about sociolinguistic interpretations of identity.
Perhaps the most important of these questions relates to what I called
“loading,” above, or what Ochs (1996; Rampton 2006: 303) calls “indexical valence.” Rampton asks whether kids’ fleeting projections of “posh”
or “Cockney” voices in his data have to be interpreted as a “focal preoccupation” or an “up-front theme” for the speakers, or indeed for language and class relations in British schools. Rampton is concerned that
sociolinguistic appeals to social identity or to the projection of social
class personas are unduly “heavy-handed” (2006: 305), and he lobbies for
close ethnographic analysis that might find out what meanings are in
play in the detailed pragmatics of local instances. So, for example, he
finds moments when exaggerated stylization of posh voice undermines
(rather than reproduces) class hegemony by playfully exposing its supposed authority. Stylized posh is sometimes used “to express mock trepidation at a threat that is judged unmanly … and it was associated both
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with sexual restraint/inhibition … and with being gay,” while stylized
Cockney “was associated with bodily relaxation/freedom … passionate
indignation … and territorial assertiveness” (pp. 341–44).
These are highly particular social meanings for class – far more so than
those usually adduced. Cockney, as a dialect (as Halliday suggested), has
become an aspect of register – what the speaker is doing and “meaning”
in a specific act of linguistic contextualization. The sociolinguistics of
social class is certainly detectable as part of the “practical consciousness”
of the young people Rampton (2006) is studying. He supports Raymond
Williams’s view that class can be a structure of feeling that saturates people’s
lives. But how such “feelings” impinge on local contingencies, and what
they achieve interactionally, is something that we can only appreciate
by listening closely to the data. The real social inequalities of class are
not in any simple way erased in this perspective, but nor are we limited
to confirming preconceived notions of class identity.”The meanings of
class, which, overall, might well be shifting in globalized, multiethnic,
late-modern, semiotically reflexive societies, are to be discovered in the
details of sociolinguistic practice.
It is not surprising that sociolinguists’ recent interest in reflexive
performance and stylization have led them to focus on media data (see
Lippi-Green 1997; several of the studies collected in Auer 2007b; and particularly King 2009), and this is something that variationists rarely did.
The mass media tend to generate bright, dense, and repeated portrayals
of sociolinguistic types; they introduce sociolinguistic styles into many
different genres (songs, advertisements, animated cartoons, soap operas,
reality shows) and frame them in many distinctive and subtle ways.
The theoretical apparatus – a theory of the social contextualization of
linguistic diversity – that we need to read styling in face-to-face interaction is not different in kind from the resources we need to read media
portrayals. Once we recognize the need for a performance perspective on
the contextualization of language, we have necessarily given up any reliance on assumptions about “natural” and “authentic” speech. There is
no social context where language use proceeds “naturally,” free from
self-reflexive introspection, strategy, or design, even though different
qualities of performative framing will be detected and will influence
the meanings that are negotiated. Many people are sophisticated ethnographers of mass media performances, and social meanings increasingly
reach us in mediated forms. In these media-saturated days, media data
will need to fall within the remit of a critical social stylistics.
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Part III
Social and regional
dialectology
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10
Language, social class,
and status
Gregory R. Guy
10.1
Introduction
In all human societies, individuals will differ from one another in the
way they speak. Some of these differences are idiosyncratic, but others
are systematically associated with particular groups of people. The
most obvious of these are associated with sex and developmental level:
women speak differently from men, and children from adults. These two
dimensions of social variation in language are in part biologically determined (e.g. differences in laryngeal size producing different pitch levels
for adult men and women), but in most societies they go beyond this to
become conventional and socially symbolic. Thus, men and women differ by far more in language use than mere pitch. (In fact, even their pitch
differences are more pronounced than can be anatomically explained.)
Such sociosymbolic aspects of language use serve an emblematic function: they identify the speaker as belonging to a particular group, or
having a particular social identity.
In many societies some of the most important of these sociolinguistic
divisions are associated with differences in social prestige, wealth, and
power. Bankers clearly do not talk the same as busboys, and professors
don’t sound like plumbers. They signal the social differences between
them by features of their phonology, grammar, and lexical choice, just as
they do extralinguistically by their choices in clothing, cars, and so on.
The social groups at issue here may be harder to define than groups like
“men” or “women,” but they are just as real. They are the divisions of a
society along lines of social class.
Class divisions are essentially based on status and power in a society.
Status refers to whether people are respected and deferred to by others in
their society (or, conversely, looked down on or ignored), and power refers
to the social and material resources a person can command, the ability
(and social right) to make decisions and influence events. Differences
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of status and power are the essence of social class distinctions, and it is
these that we will have to examine in order to understand class differences in the use of language. The questions we will be addressing deal
mainly with how and why social classes differ in their use of language.
Such questions are often considered to be interdisciplinary, in that they
involve concepts and problems from more than one traditionally defined
academic field: class is the province of sociology and political science,
while language belongs to linguistics. A common response to such interdisciplinary issues is to define them out: some linguists will say these
questions do not fall within linguistics because they are primarily concerned with social structure, or because they appeal to extralinguistic
explanations, or, more subtly, because they involve performance rather
than competence. While such views may rightly be considered narrow
and sectarian, it is nevertheless incumbent upon us to show the relevance
of these problems to linguistic science and its theoretical concerns, and
also to other disciplines, and to society at large.
Writing as a linguist, I will focus primarily on the first issue, significance for linguistics, but the general social relevance of these questions
seems substantial. The linguistic data will help illuminate the structure
of our society and identify social divisions and points of conflict and convergence. They will illustrate the class-based nature of standard varieties
of language and the subjective nature of linguistic prejudice. And they
will help reveal the sources of social innovation and the motivations of
the innovators. The questions of what we as a society have in common,
what things divide us, and where we are going are vital ones for any
human society, and linguistic answers to these questions should be a
very useful source of insight.
The significance of class for linguistics is rooted in the fundamentally
social nature of language: language exists so that people can communicate, not for private, individual pursuits. So language is quintessentially
a social product and a social tool, and our understanding of any tool will
be immeasurably enhanced by a knowledge of its makers and users and
uses. If class is one of the main organizing dimensions of society, then
this fact should be reflected in the evolution and utilization of language.
And if the task of linguistics is to describe and explain language in all of
its aspects, then the issue of class will loom large in a number of ways,
as we shall see below.
10.2 Central problems
There are four central problems underlying current work on language
and class. One of these, the definition of class, is specific to this field,
and will be discussed at length in the next section. But the other three
each reflect general problems for linguistics. They are the description of
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language use, the explanation of language change, and the construction
of linguistic theory.
Class is involved in the description of language use for the most obvious of reasons: the existence of social variation in language. Linguists
have not yet achieved even a minimal observational level of adequacy
in respect of sociolinguistic variation, and class will be an important
dimension in the organization and explanation of these facts. Class is
involved in the study of language change because of the long-recognized
link between social change and linguistic change. Many linguistic innovations can now be shown to have been socially motivated, to have originated in a particular class, and to have spread through society along
predictable social lines. And class is relevant to the construction of linguistic theory because of the relevance of sociolinguistic variation to
the definition of the object of study and the competence–performance
distinction. The “orderly heterogeneity” which appears in class variation
in language use reveals a communicative competence which must be
incorporated on our theoretical accounts. These three areas, each a central problem for modern linguistics, will be the focus of the last three
sections of this chapter.
10.3
Defining class
One of the problems facing researchers dealing with these issues is the
definition of class. While our social intuitions about differences in status and power may enable us to distinguish professionals from unskilled
laborers, or white-collar workers from blue-collar, they are not adequate
for empirical research. More objective definitions of the categories are
required. While such definition is fundamental to our enterprise, it is
hardly uncontroversial. A variety of approaches to the problem have
been taken, using as measures of class such things as wealth, income,
education, occupation, place of residence, and so on. We cannot hope to
represent the full range of scholarly thinking on this subject, but let us
briefly survey two major approaches.
10.3.1
Marxism and class conflict
One of the most influential thinkers on the subject of social class is of
course Karl Marx (1906). Marx’s theory of class and political economy is
a rich and complex one, which we cannot hope to do justice to here, but
no discussion of class and language would be complete without at least a
brief consideration of some important points.
In Marx’s view, the basic dynamic of human history is conflict between
classes. Classes are groups of people who share common economic interests; that is, they are defined by their common role in the economic
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system, their “relationship to the means of production.” In a capitalist
economy, the principal class division is between those who own productive capital (the capitalists or bourgeoisie) and those who do not (mainly
the workers). Capitalists can live off the earnings of their capital – profits,
rents, interest – while workers can support themselves only by their own
labor. The confl ict between the two arises from exploitation: the capitalists’ earnings constitute an expropriation of some of the value produced
by the labor of workers.
The Marxist definition of class thus focuses on confl icting interests
and differences in power, and not on status. The bourgeoisie do not constitute a class because they occupy some uniformly high position of status and esteem in society, but rather because of their common economic
interests through the private ownership of capital, and their social and
political power to maintain and defend those interests against the conflicting interests of the many who do not gain similar benefits from the
system.
Although the basis of the class system is thus seen as economic, it has
direct ramifications in the non-economic social “superstructure,” including things such as public mores and standards, religion, and status.
Generally these areas of public life will reflect the taste and ideology of
the dominant classes. This is where the issue of language enters. While
a given sound, sign, or syntactic structure clearly bears no intrinsic relationship to class or the organization of the economy, the social evaluation
of language differences between people obviously depends directly on
differences of power, status, and class. The clearest instance is in the
notion of a “standard.” The belief in the existence of some “inherently
good” variety of their language is one of the most deeply held tenets of
public ideology in most Western countries. Yet a cursory inspection of
the facts will reveal that these standard varieties are nothing more than
the social dialect of the dominant classes.
Beyond the fundamental class division in Marxist thought between
owners and workers, other important distinctions are made which
will be relevant in interpreting sociolinguistic differentiation. One
is that people’s conditions of work deeply affect their ideology and
social outlook. “Conditions of work” refers to such things as whether
one works in isolation or as part of a group, whether one is relatively
autonomous or closely supervised, and whether one’s daily work routine is fi xed and regimented or varied and flexible. In the Marxist
view, industrial workers in modern factories are at an extreme on all
of these counts: they work together with hundreds of others, following
a rigidly prescribed and closely supervised routine. These life experiences should engender class consciousness and an ideology of solidarity and cooperation. But the same cannot be said of certain other
groups who are neither capitalists nor industrial workers: managers,
professionals, clerical workers – the groups that are commonly called
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the “middle class.”1 These groups benefit more from the system as it is,
have more autonomy and flexibility at work, and work in relative isolation. Hence they value an ideology of individualism and are politically
more conservative.
How does such a view of class relate to language? Many of the findings and debates of sociolinguistics are illuminated by these concepts,
as we will see below. An example is the very existence of social dialects.
These are not an a priori given of linguistics; in fact, Chomsky and many
others assume that the development of linguistics theory can proceed as
if they do not exist. But sociolinguistic studies reveal them wherever we
look. This needs explanation. From a Marxist viewpoint, the existence
of class dialects is a consequence of the divisions and conflicts between
classes. Social barriers and social distance give rise to class differences in
language in the same way that geographic barriers and spatial distance
generate geographic dialects.
Other problems which the Marxist view of class illuminates are
the social motivation of linguistic change, the continued existence of
non-standard forms, and the unity or disunity of the speech community. Generally, the important aspect of this theory for linguistics is the
emphasis on class interests and class confl ict. It sometimes provides a
more coherent explanation of language phenomena arising from social
division than the alternative definitions of class, to be discussed below,
which tend to emphasize social unity.
10.3.2
Class, status, and language use
The major alternative to a Marxist definition of class focuses on social
unity and status more than on confl ict and power. This view sees class as
a relatively continuous scale on which individuals are ranked according
to assorted personal characteristics such as level of education, income,
occupation, etc., which collectively imply a certain degree of social
esteem. Since the one-status hierarchy encompasses all of society, this
viewpoint emphasizes social unity, implying that all groups share common social evaluations in terms of prestige and behavioral norms, and
perhaps even common goals and aspirations, in the sense that everyone
knows what it means to get ahead (principally to make more money)
and how one is supposed to go about doing so (work hard, save money,
etc.). Class conflicts are minimized, individual competition is emphasized. The distribution of socially symbolic characteristics such as sociolinguistic variables should, from this standpoint, be relatively gradient,
finely stratified, without the sharp breaks in the social fabric that Marx
perceives.
This approach is common in Western sociology and has been a major
influence in sociolinguistics. Methodologically it has one clear attraction: it facilitates the development of objective, quantifiable measures
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of social class and allows us to rank everyone in an empirical study on
such a scale. Such methods were first introduced in linguistics (as far as
I am aware) by Labov in his classic pioneering study entitled The Social
Stratification of English in New York City (SSENYC, 1966b).
In this work Labov relies extensively on the class rankings developed
by Michael (1962) for a sociological survey called the “Mobilization for
Youth” (MFY), which was conducted in the same area that Labov studied
about one year before he began his research. Labov and Michael thoroughly discuss the problem of defi ning social class and emphasize the
importance of using criteria based on production rather than consumption. But most of Labov’s linguistic analysis utilizes Michael’s linear
scale of social rank – a hierarchy of status rather than a dichotomy of
power and interest: “most of the approaches which we will attempt will
involve the matching of linguistic variables against a linear social ranking” (1966 b: 208). As the title of the work states, SSENYC deals with social
stratification: the fi ne-scale linguistic layering of people along the “linear social” scale which in this book is usually termed “socioeconomic
class” (SEC).2
SEC is quantified by Labov on the MFY scale by “a ten-point socioeconomic index” which combines “three objective characteristics – occupation, education, and family income – into a single linear scale” (1966b:
171). Each individual studied was classified into one of four ranks on
each of the three dimensions mentioned. Thus, on the education scale a
person is at step 0 if he or she completed only primary school, step 1 for
part of high school, step 2 for completing high school, and step 3 for any
college-level education. The individual’s SEC score is simply the sum of
the rankings on the occupation, education, and income scales. SEC can
thus range from a low of 0, for those who rank at the bottom of all three
scales, to a high of 9, for those with the highest rankings in occupation,
education, and income.
Labov does not always attempt to discriminate all ten points of this
index in his analysis of the linguistic data in SSENYC. Classes 7 and 8 are
usually combined (due to the paucity of informants in class 8), and various other combinations are used, according to whether they illuminate
or obscure aspects of the overall structure of the data. The most common
groupings used are 0–1, sometimes labeled “lower class”; 2–5, labeled
“working class”; 6–8, labeled “lower-middle class”; and 9, the “uppermiddle class.” Furthermore, he also uses another 4-point scale called
“social scale” (SC, contrasting with the 10-point SEC), based only on education and occupation, and not income. For some purposes Labov contends that this organization of the data reveals regularities that the fi ner
scale obscures. To some extent this kind of redefinition of the groupings
from figure to figure can be criticized as forcing a desired result from the
data, but in the main it represents an admirable attempt to explore the
major social correlates of linguistic variation.
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For Labov, the question of whether class divisions are dichotomous or
continuous is reducible to the empirical problem of fine versus sharp
stratification:
If we think of class as a rigid series of categories, in which the marginal cases are rare or insignificant, then a proof of class correlation
with language would require equally discrete categories of linguistic
behavior (in our terminology, sharp stratification). Language traits characteristic of Negro and white groups in the United States, for example,
would [show this pattern]. If, on the other hand, we think of class as
a continuous network of social and economic factors, in which every
case is marginal to the next one, we would expect that language would
also show a continuous range of values, and the number of intermediate points of correlation would be limited only by the consistency and
reliability of the data (in our terminology, fine stratification) … It is clear
that class and language relationships will be somewhere between
these two extremes … The cutting points where the linguistic evidence shows the greatest internal agreement will be indicated as the
most natural divisions of the class continuum – to the extent that language is a measure of class behavior. (Labov 1966b: 235–37)
In his quantitative analysis of the New York City data, Labov finds both
kinds of stratification: post-vocalic /r/, and the vocalic variables (eh) and
(oh) show relatively fine stratification, while the interdental fricatives
are fairly sharply stratified: stop articulations are overwhelmingly confined to the lower and lower-working classes. The interesting social difference between the two types of cases is that (r) and the vowel variables
show evidence of being changes in progress, while the variation between
stop and fricative articulations of (th) and (dh) is a long-standing one
found in many English dialects. This correlation is an interesting one
which finds some support in other studies as well: changes in progress
in Norwich (Trudgill 1974a: 104–10) and Australia (Guy et al. 1986: 37) also
show relatively fine stratification.3 If this is a general pattern, it may shed
some light on the nature of class relations. Newly emerging variables
might separate people finely according to their social status, but when
the dust settles after the long haul, sharp and fundamental class divisions emerge. The long-established form acquires a firm, even indexical,
class identity, while the new form may be merely trendy.
Most sociolinguistic studies of the last two decades rely on some kind
of scalar index like Labov’s for their operational definition of social class.
Labov himself has continued to use this kind of approach in his work in
Philadelphia and elsewhere. Trudgill (1974a) uses an even finer scale in
Norwich: a 30-point composite of six separate scales (Labov’s three plus
locality, father’s occupation, and housing). The scale used in Sydney by
Horvath (1986) and Guy et al. (1986) is simpler, however, involving just a
3-point scale (MC, UWC, LWC) defined exclusively in terms of occupation,
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using, as is standard practice in such studies, a sociological scale of occupational prestige, in this case Congalton 1962. This is clearly the minimum scale for useful work on language and social class; a scale which
distinguishes only two groups is to be avoided, as it will not address
many of the important questions to be discussed below.
10.3.3
The linguistic marketplace
No matter what approach we use to define class, there is one way in
which it does not correlate simply and directly with linguistic variation
along the standard/non-standard dimension. That is that people in certain occupations tend to use more standard varieties of language than
other people at the same level of status, income, or education. The occupations in question are ones such as teacher, journalist, or receptionist,
which involve two kinds of activities: projecting a public image and linguistic socialization (promulgating norms). This has been clear in sociolinguistic studies since Labov’s department store survey, which showed
that behind-the-scenes employees like stockboys used far fewer prestige variants than employees who dealt with the public (1966b: 63–89).
Furthermore, the same study showed that speakers’ use of prestige variants also correlated with the prestige of the store they worked in, even
among employees doing the same kind of job and earning about the same
income! Facts like these suggest that the type of linguistic demands an
individual faces at work may involve other factors beyond the ones we
have used to define class.
Considerations such as these have led to the development by some
scholars of the concept known as the linguistic market, which is operationalized by Sankoff and Laberge as “an index which measures specifically
how speakers’ economic activity, taken in its widest sense, requires or
is necessarily associated with competence in the legitimized [or] standard … language” (1978: 239). This index was a composite of the subjective rankings which eight judges (all trained sociolinguists) assigned to
speakers based on descriptions of their “socioeconomic life histories.”
While open to some criticism on methodological grounds,4 this approach
nonetheless represents an interesting attempt to modify the definition
of social class so as to take into account these partly independent sociolinguistic requirements of occupation.
10.3.4
Defining class in non-industrial economics
The studies we have cited so far deal with speech communities in
advanced industrial countries, all characterized by similar capitalist
economies and class systems in which the major actors are an urban
working class, a professional/managerial/white-collar middle class, and
a capitalist upper class. What about countries with different economies
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and class profiles? How is class to be defined there and what relationship
does it have to language? These problems are not as well understood, but
some relevant work has been done.
The social and economic structures of the nations of the “Third World”
show several important differences from those that we have been considering. One is that most have a comparatively tiny industrial sector,
and a proportionately much larger agricultural sector. Socially, this
means there is a large class of peasants and landless agricultural laborers (most with little or no formal education), and a relatively small industrial working class. It also means that until quite recently most of the
population has lived in the countryside. In the last two decades, many
Third World countries have undergone explosive urbanization, but there
is still a much larger fraction of the population living on the land than
in the USA or Europe.
Linguistically these facts have a number of implications. In the first
place, the number of “non-standard” speakers is vast, typically constituting a large majority of the population. Secondly, urbanization is bringing together people who speak many different dialects (or even different
languages), creating a linguistic cauldron unparalleled in the industrial
world. Thirdly, the extremes of class (wealth and poverty) and the ethnic
diversity of many areas means that the range of sociolinguistic variation
(the degree of difference between standard and non-standard varieties)
is much greater than we are accustomed to working with in the more
homogeneous industrial nations.
These facts challenge some of our fundamental sociolinguistic notions.
For example, based on his work in the USA, Labov defines the speech
community partly in terms of shared linguistic norms. If we look at cities like São Paulo, Lagos, or Jakarta, where perhaps a majority of the
present population was born elsewhere and many may not even speak
the official language, let alone the standard dialect, it seems unlikely
that they will constitute speech communities in the same sense as New
York City.5 Like the community as a whole, the social classes might be
expected to be less cohesive, because of these pronounced ethnic and
regional divisions.
Another challenge is to our theories of language change. As we shall
see in section 10.5, Labov, Kroch, and others emphasize the role of the
working class in linguistic innovation in industrial countries. Is this also
true in nations where industrial workers are a tiny minority of the population? Studies of sociolinguistic variation in the Third World suggests a
somewhat different picture. For example, research in Brazil (Guy 1981;
Bortoni-Ricardo 1985; Guy & Zilles 2008) suggest that the main ongoing
change for working-class speakers is one of increasing standardization:
they are becoming more like the dominant social groups rather than
innovating and moving away from them. Bortoni-Ricardo demonstrates
that this results from urbanization; rural immigrants to Brasilia acquire
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more and more features of the urban standard the longer they are there.
This would seem to be a general consequence of the early stages of industrialization, urbanization, and improved education, all of which should
have standardizing effects. But other studies reveal that standardization
is not the only kind of change occurring. Cedergren’s data (1972) on the
lenition of /t∫/ in Panama show a change that has moved away from the
historic norm, beginning in the working class and lower-middle class –
the type of class distribution that Labov considers typical of change in
progress.
One overriding aspect of the social history of most of the Third World
which has had great impact on class and language is colonialism. The language problems of newly independent, mostly multilingual countries have
received a great deal of attention from linguists (Fishman, Ferguson & Das
Gupta 1968), and class issues are inherent in these problems.
Under colonial regimes the “ruling classes” in these countries were
foreigners, who spoke a language unrelated to those of the indigenous peoples. These colonialists drew national boundaries at their own
convenience, creating multilingual states, in which all administrative, legal, and educational functions were normally carried out in the
European language of the rulers. Among the virtues of this arrangement was that it centralized power in the hands of this social and linguistic elite, and excluded the other classes from access to even the
most elementary tools of political debate and institutional change: a
common language, literacy, education, etc. Interestingly, after independence this situation was often maintained, in that the emerging
indigenous elite adopted the language of the ex-colonial power and
maintained it in most of its previous social functions. In class terms
the colonial language serves the same exclusive purpose for the domestic dominant class as it did for the foreign one. As long as organizing
and governing is seen to demand fluency in a foreign language such as
French or English, how can mere peasants and workers hope to achieve
even a modicum of political power?
10.3.5
Pidgins, creoles, and class
One area in which all of these issues come together is the study of pidgin
and creole language. The very existence of such languages is derived from
class conflict and the capitalist economy: most arose from the enslavement of African or Melanesian peasants by European capitalists to produce sugar and other crops for the markets of an industrializing Europe.
Slave societies started out as multilingual and multiethnic communities
par excellence, in which a “standard language” and the development of
a speech community were imposed by force. Modern societies with this
history still exhibit the most extreme kind of sociolinguistic variation:
the post-creole continuum.
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As for the social origins of change, in their formative days such languages were changing at a phenomenal rate, and most of the changes
originated with the slaves, who constituted the working class in these
communities. But from the standpoint of the speakers, the general direction of change has been toward the European standard, which makes it a
kind of targeted change in which the highest status “acrolectal” speakers
are in the lead.
One scholar in this field whose work has led to substantial insights into
the problem of language and class is Rickford. In his work on Guyanese
Creole, particularly in the village of Canewalk (1979, 1986), he has
pointed out the inherent limitations of the multiscale index approaches
to social class and emphasized the necessity of “emic” (i.e. locally meaningful) definitions of class. In a small Guyanese village like Canewalk,
the classificatory scales of occupational status, education, and income
that were discussed above are basically irrelevant; if applied unaltered
they would probably put everyone together in one of the lowest categories. But this does not mean that local class distinctions do not exist.
On the contrary, Rickford demonstrates that people in Canewalk have
a lively awareness of class distinctions and identify two principal local
groups, which he calls the Estate Class (EC), who are mostly cane-cutters
on the local sugar plantation or “estate,” and the non-Estate Class (NEC)
made up of shopkeepers and tradesmen of the village, plus the estate’s
foremen and drivers.
Membership in these classes is thus defined in part by income, occupation, and so on, but also by rather dramatic differences in social attitudes and ideology. One instance is their views of standard language: the
NEC views language in a normative way, believing that use of standard
English helps one get ahead, while the EC members “see the assigned
value of English as just another aspect of ruling class ideology” (Rickford
1986: 218), which is irrelevant to self-advancement since the system is
stacked against them in any case.
These class differences are dramatically reflected in linguistic usage.
For example, the two groups show virtually non-overlapping distributions in their use of acrolectal (Standard English) varieties of personal
pronouns. Overall, EC speakers use only 18 percent of such pronouns,
while the NEC uses 83 percent. If we view this in stratificational terms,
as a community with shared norms but different levels of prestige or
achievement, we would obscure the fundamental conflict of goals and
interests which obtain in this community.
Findings of this nature lead Rickford to call for increased attention
in sociolinguistics to confl ict models of class such as those of Marx and
Weber. The issue is more than just a distinction between “fi ne” and
“sharp” stratification; the whole assumption of fundamental unity and
shared norms in a speech community is questioned by the fact of class
differences in ideology, especially their ideology of language.
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10.3.6
Class and other social dimensions
Another challenge that confronts us in defining class is the interaction
between this and other social dimensions, such as race, ethnicity, and
sex. Class involves differences in prestige and power. If men and women,
or blacks and whites, are differentiated by prestige and power by virtue
of their sex or race, then separating these effects may be difficult.
A number of studies now exist showing that men and women at the
same social class level do not necessarily behave linguistically in parallel ways. For example, in Guy et al. 1986, which describes the social
distribution of an intonational change, there is a sharp split between
men and women in the lower- working class (illustrated in Figure 10.2,
see p. 00). Women at this level show the highest rate of use of this innovation, higher than any other portion of the sample population, while
their male counterparts show a very low rate of use – not only less usage
than any of the female groups, but also substantially less than men from
the upper-working class.
Just assigning a class ranking may require different procedures for men
and women. The criteria used in an index scale – occupation, income,
education, etc. – would often assign very different class levels to husband
and wife in the same family, if applied individually. It would not be the
least unusual to find a male doctor at the top of all three scales whose
wife had only a moderate level of education and no occupation or income
outside of the home (which in these scales is usually taken as no occupation or income at all). The normal solution to this problem is to assign the
class ranking of the head of the family (usually the husband) to all members of the family, including spouse and children. So for many married
women, their class ranking on one of these scales does not depend on
their individual achievements, but instead is a family attribute. Defining
the class of two-income families, or of women who enter and leave the
labor force repeatedly due to childbearing, is still more complicated. In
any case it is clear that class and sex cannot be treated as entirely orthogonal social dimensions.
Similar problems arise in connection with race and ethnicity. Where
racism and prejudice exist, the power and status of an individual may
depend more on color or nationality than on personal achievements, in
fact one’s occupational and educational prospects may be greatly circumscribed by race. In the United States, as in many Western countries, the
class distribution of races is markedly skewed: blacks are far more likely
to be found at the bottom of the scale. And linguistically, many AfricanAmericans are set clearly apart from surrounding white communities
by the way they talk. So to try to treat race and class as independent
phenomena clearly misses some fundamental truths, as well as some
obvious historical facts. Under slavery, Africans were forcibly assigned
a position at the very bottom of society by virtue of their race, regardless of individual characteristics, and this situation continues, at least in
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part, because of ongoing racism. The linguistic differences, the existence
of Black English, reflect this history.
10.4
Class and language use: current trends
One of the principal concerns of sociolinguistics over the past decades
has been describing language in use. The study of sociolinguistic variation is essentially the description of the differential use of language by
different social groups – particularly social classes. A number of important concepts and findings have emerged from this work on class and the
use of language which now form part of the basic currency of the discipline. Accordingly, we will begin this section with a rapid survey of some
of these basic notions.
One of the most fundamental is the concept of the speech community.
This is the basic unit or object of study for a linguistics that is cognizant
of the social setting of language. It has been given many different defi nitions by linguists going back to Bloomfield 1933 and beyond, but these
generally converge on two main defining characteristics: density of
communication and shared norms. By density of communication is meant
simply that members of a speech community talk more to each other
than they do to outsiders; the boundaries of communities will normally
fall at troughs in the pattern of communication. This is a commonplace
observation in dialect geography: mountain ranges, dense forests, and
other barriers to communication are often the boundaries of dialect
regions.
The other, equally important, criterion – shared norms – refers to a
common set of evaluative judgments, a community-wide knowledge of
what is considered good or bad and what is appropriate for what kind of
(socially defined) occasion. Such norms may exist for all aspects of social
behavior, but our interest of course is in linguistic norms.
One reason that shared norms form part of the definition of the
speech community is that they are required to account for one of the
principal sociolinguistic findings regarding variation by class and style,
namely that the same linguistic variables are involved in the differentiation of social classes and speech styles. Study after study has shown
that variables stratified by class are also the object of style- shifting: a
variant favored by high-status speakers is used more by everyone in
the community in their careful styles. These points are illustrated in
Figure 10.1, showing Labov’s data on the pronunciation of post-vocalic
/r/ in New York City (1966b: 240). A consonantal realization of this variable is used more by the higher classes, and by all classes in their more
formal styles. (The (r) index equals the percentage of consonantal pronunciations, and the class groups are defined according to the SEC scale
explained above.)
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Class
80
9
6–8
4–5
2–3
1
0
70
(r) index
60
50
40
30
20
10
0
A
B
C
Style
D
D′
Figure 10.1 Class stratification of (r) in NYC
How can we account for the uniformity of behavior except by some
community-wide interpretation of the social meaning of this variable, a
shared norm? In this case the norm assigns high status to consonantal
pronunciations of (r). This has consequences in two dimensions at once:
high-status people talk this way all the time, and all strive to talk this
way when they are on their “best linguistic behavior.” Of course, this
means that a given level of consonantal pronunciation of (r) does not
equate directly to a speaker’s class; some lower-class (SEC 1) speakers use
this variant about as much in reading wordlists as the upper-middle class
(SEC 9) does in casual speech.
The pronunciation of (r) is thus a social marker for this community: an
arbitrarily defined feature of language that indicates something about
the social status of speakers and the situational context in which they
are speaking. Knowledge of these social facts marks membership of the
speech community; the social significance of a New Yorker’s pronunciation would be totally lost on Chicagoans (although they might be able
to locate it geographically).
But one question arises immediately: if everyone in the community
knows the norm, knows the high-prestige forms and can use them
in style-shifting, why don’t they all adopt them completely and thus
acquire for themselves the implied cachet of status? This harks back to
the problem of social unity versus social confl ict we discussed in connection with defining class. A linguistic norm is a unifying feature of a
community: everyone knows it and knowing it sets insiders apart from
outsiders. But even though everyone may know what the high-status
variants are, it is not necessarily true that all would want to adopt them
in their everyday speech. For working-class people with no expectation
of achieving higher social status, the use of such variants may be considered snobbish, effete, and an act of hostility to one’s family, friends,
and neighbors. A number of studies have shown that subjective reactions to sociolinguistic variables are thus differentiated by class and
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involve more than just a single scale of prestige (e.g. Labov 1972b; Guy &
Vonwiller 1984).
Labov (1972a: 249) makes a distinction between overt and covert norms.
The high-status variants we have referred to possess overt prestige: they
are associated with the undeniable social power of upper-class speakers, may be required for higher-status jobs and upward mobility, and
are promulgated by the agents of standardization in society, such as the
mass media and school teachers. But for many working-class or lowermiddle-class speakers, the “non-standard” linguistic variables associated
with their groups may also possess covert prestige. The basic social significance of these covertly prestigious variables is one of solidarity: a person
who uses them is considered to belong, to be “one of the boys,” to be
suitable as a friend, etc. Also for certain groups these forms may signify
toughness or masculinity: non-standard speakers were considered more
likely to win a street fight by respondents in Labov 1972b.
Emphasizing the unifying norms that appeal to overt prestige may
thus obscure important conflicts in the speech community. The fact that
non-standard speakers have not historically rushed to adopt the dominant linguistic norms shows that these do not have the same force for all
classes, and that different classes may have different social and linguistic goals.
The kind of systematic patterning of linguistic usage that we have seen
in Figure 10.1 is also an example of another important finding of sociolinguistics, which Labov has termed orderly heterogeneity. Viewed from
the standpoint of an asocial and categorical linguistics, these data would
constitute nothing but messy alternation between two realizations of
a single systematic unit – /r/. No rule could be given predicting which
variant would be used when, so the best one could do would be to call
such cases “free variation” or “optional rules,” and leave them alone. But
it is clear from the figure that the variation is highly structured and systematic, albeit in a quantitative, probabilistic way. Different classes and
different styles are finely differentiated and bear stable, uniform relationships to one another. These facts can be discerned only by systematic
study of the community, and of language in use, and would seem to form
part of the linguistic competence of each speaker. The implications of
this for linguistic theory, for the competence/performance distinction
and so on, will be discussed in the next section.
10.4.1
Stratification studies
What may be considered the “mainstream” of work dealing with language and class are the studies that look at the social stratification of
particular speech communities. The classic, seminal work of this type
is Labov’s monumental study of New York City (1966). This work is far
too multifaceted for us to do it justice here. As can be gathered from
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the foregoing discussion, Labov pioneers in it many of the methods that
are now considered fundamental in this field, and discovers or defines
many basic concepts and findings. We have already discussed a number
of these issues, so for the moment we will confine ourselves to two further points regarding class differentiation of English in New York City,
referring again to Figure 10.1.
The first point is that stratification is an apt term for the pattern.
Distinguishing six class groups here, we find that they maintain discrete
non-overlapping levels of (r) use across all but the most casual speech
styles. Only in style A is there convergence, and even here three discrete
levels can be distinguished. This implies a remarkable fine-tuning in
people’s linguistic behavior, an extraordinary sensitivity to the self- identifying social symbolism inherent in the pronunciation of this variable,
and the contextual constraints of different speech situations.
The second point about this graph is the one deviation from regular
ordering of the groups: the crossover by the second highest group in
the most formal styles. Labov has termed this “hypercorrection by the
lower middle class” (1972a: 122ff.) and demonstrates that it is associated
with a high level of linguistic insecurity. These are people who aspire to
social and linguistic mobility, are very conscious of their own linguistic
“shortcomings” (in terms of use of prestige variants), and overdo their
attempts to remedy them. Such a pattern is often repeated in this and
other studies.
Since SSENYC, Labov has gone on to do a number of other studies bearing on the question of language and social class. His work in Harlem on
Black English (Labov, Cohen & Robins 1968; Labov 1969, 1972b) explores
questions of class, status, and race. His work on sound change (Labov,
Yaeger & Steiner 1972; Labov 1980, 1981) illuminates the role of class in
language change, as will be discussed below. And his long-term study
of the Philadelphia speech community has revealed important new
insights into internal divisions in the speech community, social networks, and the interaction between class and sex and race (Labov 1994,
2001). A number of works (including several already cited) by Labov and
associates and students draw on this research, but the definitive work
has yet to appear.
Since Labov’s pioneering work, many stratification studies of other
speech communities have been carried out by other linguists. We have
space here to cite only a few of the most significant in regard to language
and class. One of these is Trudgill’s (1974a) study of Norwich which, as
we have seen, incorporates a very fine measure of class. It also looks at
several different neighborhoods and so explores the interaction between
class and residence patterns. Another major study is one of Montreal
French, undertaken by G. Sankoff, D. Sankoff, Cedergren, and a number of associates (Sankoff & Cedergren 1971; Sankoff & Laberge 1978;
Sankoff, Kemp & Cedergren 1980). This is important for being one of the
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first in-depth studies of a language other than English, and for examining what was historically the low-status language in a bilingual country.
Significantly for the development of sociolinguistic theory, this work
confirms the major findings we have cited above, such as orderly heterogeneity, style-shifting, etc., despite the different social and linguistic
history of this community. Further work of similar significance has been
conducted by Poplack in Ottawa (1989).
The work of Horvath and her associates in Sydney breaks important
new ground in dealing with problems of class ethnicity, and non-native
speakers (Guy et al. 1986; Horvath 1986). It includes a large corpus of
recent (first and second generation) immigrants and examines their linguistic impact on the sociolinguistic structure of the community.
Moving out of the industrialized world, we have already had occasion to mention the significant work done by Cedergren in Panama and
Rickford in Guyana, both of which shed new light on the class situation in
those countries. Other work of importance in the Third World includes a
number of studies in Brazil (Lemle & Naro 1977; Scherre 1978 ; Guy 1981;
Naro 1981; De Oliveira 1982), Modaressi’s work in Teheran (1978), and
a number of studies of creole-speaking communities (e.g. Bailey 1966;
Bickerton 1975).
10.4.2
Network studies
A somewhat different approach to the problem of language and social
groups is found in a body of studies focusing on personal networks.
Labov used this approach with adolescent peer groups in Harlem (Labov,
Cohen & Robins 1968), and has continued to use it in studying adult networks in Philadelphia, especially interracial ones. The method has been
particularly emphasized by Milroy (1980) in her work in Belfast. At a
first glance, these works might seem in opposition to the class approach
to sociolinguistic differences, in that they emphasize the uniqueness of
each individual’s life experiences and contacts.
The relations between people in a network lie at the core of this
approach. Network density refers to the number of connections or links
between members. In a low-density network, members know the central member but do not know each other that well. Some may not know
each other at all. By contrast, in high-density networks members know
each other well and interact with each other regularly. A second parameter in network theory pertains to multiplexity, or the content of those
relationships. When individuals are linked to each other in a network
in several roles (e.g. co-employee, relative or friend, neighbor, sharing
a leisure activity), we may speak of a multiplex network. By contrast,
in a uniplex network, members are linked by only one role (e.g. fellowworkers who do not associate outside the workplace). Anthropological
work since the 1950s shows that dense and multiplex networks act as
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norm-enforcement mechanisms, in respect of dress, behavior, leisure
patterns, and language use. Such networks are more typical of urban
working-class areas than middle-class suburbs.
Hence class and network can be related to each other – the difference
is merely one of scale. Network studies are micro-sociological in focus,
while class studies are macroscopic. Across a class there are incontrovertible similarities in economic circumstances and linguistic behavior,
but within it there are individual differences in experience and activity
which, if properly described, may lead to important new insights into
social processes in language, especially the process of linguistic change.
Loose-knit groups (linked internally by mainly weak ties) are more susceptible to innovation in language. Milroy (2001: 374) observes that this
is consistent with Labov’s claim that sound change is initiated by groups
located centrally in a class hierarchy (upper-working and lower-middle
class).
One important study that straddles both approaches to variation is
Penny Eckert’s (1989) study of Belten High, a pseudonym for a school
in Detroit. Using participant-observation as her main technique, Eckert
showed the polarity between two groups in the high school system,
the Jocks who invested time and energy in their studies and full participation in extramural activities, and the Burnouts who generally did
not. Membership of one group or the other was a result of social class
background (with minor exceptions). Jocks expect the school to prepare
them well for their next life-stage, college and its preparation for a professional career that is unlikely to be based locally. Burnouts, in contrast,
see school as a preparation for local employment of a non-professional
nature, for which the majority of extra-curricular activities are unsuited.
Hence they spend more time “hanging out” and becoming more familiar
with local places. By a study of vowel variants, especially those related to
the Northern Cities Vowel Shift, Eckert shows that Burnouts adopt more
local variants while Jocks are less tied to the local and regional markers
of accent. Eckert’s work is significant because it shows the sociolinguistic uniformity within the two dominant networks of the school, which
are ultimately linked to social class membership (or the social class that
children subconsciously expect to join in adulthood). There is a third
group which Eckert characterizes as “in-between,” not having as strong
an identity focus as the other two, and being defined by not belonging to
either of them. This group too would fit in rather well with the notion of
a lower-middle class to be.
10.4.3 Agency, identity, practice
A significant trend in contemporary sociolinguistic research has been a
turn toward looking at the relationship between language and society
from the perspective of the individual: What does it mean to a speaker to
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use a particular linguistic variant, or to talk in a particular way? Given
that all individuals command some kind of repertoire of varieties and variables, why do they make the choices that they do in particular settings?
What do they intend to signal, or to do, by those choices? This involves
an implicit shift from a structuralist approach to class and status – making the (possibly hidden) assumption that a person’s social position determines the way they behave (and speak) – toward a phenomenological
approach which sees social organization as imagined, constructed, and
performed. In this view, the social relationships that characterize class
and status are instantiated, maintained, and perhaps even created, by
the linguistic and other social behaviors of individuals as they interact.
So, for example, showing deference linguistically, by using polite terms
of address, honorifics, and the like, is one of the ways in which status
imbalances and class differences between individuals are established and
performed. The speaker is thus focused on as an agent, and the use of one
variant or another is a volitional act which may be intended to invoke
some identity characteristics, or assert a particular stance.
This perspective has been associated with several trends in sociolinguistic research, inspired in some cases by work in sociology and social
theory – see Eckert (1989); Bourdieu (1991); Bucholtz and Hall (2000a),
Mendoza-Denton (2004), and Mallinson and Dodsworth (2009). This set of
approaches to the social organization of language is sometimes treated
as constituting a radical departure in sociolinguistics, standing in opposition to work that examines class and status. But considering the complexity of the social processes at work, I would argue that the several
theoretical trends are actually focusing on different parts of the big picture. Any speaker’s behavior is determined by two things: their personal
linguistic repertoire, and their choices within that repertoire. I cannot
by a mere act of will assert a working-class Cockney identity in London,
because I have no knowledge of that variety. I cannot even effectively
perform by linguistic means any status identity other than “outsider” in
Chicago. Thus, my success as an agent, my capacity to perform effective
acts of identity, is limited by my repertoire. Any speaker’s repertoire is
determined in large measure by the opportunities and linguistic access
afforded them by their birthplace, family background, social class, race,
and sex. This is the way in which the regularities observed in linguistic
social stratification and change are developed and maintained. But within
their individual repertoires, speakers can, must, and do make personal
choices, which interpreted against the practice of their communities,
signal their intentions, index identities, and create social relations.
10.4.4
Bernstein
One scholar who has had a great deal to say about language and class is
Bernstein (1964 1971), who is also one of the most controversial figures in
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this field. He attempts to account for the linguistic differences between
social classes in terms of his concept of code, which encompasses many
features of language but is essentially a kind of semantic and pragmatic
style. There is an elaborated code relatively independent of context and
social roles and relatively explicit, and a restricted code, which is high
in context-dependency and leaves more meaning implicit in social relationships and situation. The basic difference Bernstein sees between
social classes is the range of codes they command: working-class people,
he thinks, tend to be confined to the restricted code, whereas middleclass speakers are also versatile in using an elaborated code. Since the
elaborated code is required for writing (because of its decontextualized
nature), and since it is also the variety preferred by the schools, working-class children start out in these arenas at an inherent disadvantage,
which might explain their relative lack of success in school, and in
subsequent social advancement.
This theory has proven to be open in a number of ways to both misuse
by its supporters and criticism by its detractors. Misuse of the theory
often begins by equating elaborated with “good” and restricted with
“bad,” and by losing track of the distinction between what people do and
what they can do. From there it is a short step to labeling working-class
people linguistically and intellectually deficient, incapable also of the
logical and rhetorical clarity of thought which is presumed to require
the elaborated code for its expression. Such propositions are rejected by
Bernstein himself, but they are not uncommon in work inspired by his
ideas (for a survey see Dittmar 1976: Chs. 1–3).
Criticism of Bernstein follows several lines. Firstly, he appears to
accord a rather exalted status to the social consequences of linguistic differences. It seems a perverse logic to imply that the class system is maintained by code differences between speakers; the reverse is far more
plausible. Secondly, the theory overlooks the importance of class conflict in linguistic differentiation. Bernstein implies that the restricted
code of the working class arises from the role-oriented social psychology
and family relationships he assumes characterize working-class people.
But as we have seen, language attitude studies show evidence (such as
covert prestige, the solidarity semantic of working-class linguistic markers) suggestive of class confl ict, which would provide a far simpler, more
straightforward explanation of class differences in language. Finally, the
whole theory is essentially based on a middle-class ideology. Learning
the elaborated code is portrayed as the ticket out of the working class.
This depends on two patronizing and erroneous assumptions: firstly,
that everyone in their right mind would want to move out of the working class, if they could; and secondly, that individual action is the way to
achieve this. The first is contradicted by a mass of evidence showing that
most people have a strong allegiance to their network, neighborhood,
and class, and the second is disputed by the historical fact that the lot of
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workers has mainly been improved by collective action (strikes, unions,
political parties, and campaigns). So in conclusion, although Bernstein
has been an influential thinker on language and class, his motives and
methods have been questioned by many scholars in the field.
10.5
Class and language change
One of the most important areas in class and language studies is the
description and explanation of linguistic change. Some of the oldest
questions in linguistics are how and why languages change, and the
best answers often come from outside a language, from the social
history of its speakers. The history of English cannot be understood
without reference to the Norman Conquest, nor the genesis of creoles
without reference to slavery. Thus, insofar as class is an issue in social
change, it is an issue for historical linguistics.
In linguistic theory, twentieth-century scholars have generally separated historical questions from the problem of synchronic description
and explanation. Following Saussure, the synchronic and diachronic
perspectives have been considered diametrically opposed. While this
division has led to great advances in our understanding of language, it
leaves unresolved the problem of integration. Most of our synchronic
theories are structural and static, and not very compatible with what we
know about language change. If we conceive of language structurally, as
an edifice built of phonemes and lexemes, features and rules, it is hard
to see how and why it could change. Buildings do not evolve into other
buildings, but languages change all the time, primarily because of changing social conditions within their communities of speakers. In order to
heal the Saussurean division of our discipline and construct a dynamic or
organic theory of language accommodating both structure and change,
we must address issues of social class and sociolinguistic variation.
10.5.1
Change in progress
Broadly speaking, social change seems to give rise to language change.
But the details of this historical interplay between language and society are not fully understood. One reason for this is that traditionally
historical linguistics has been concerned more with a broad sweep of
linguistic evolution across the centuries, rather than with studying
the social spread of particular innovations. Indeed, the latter is nearly
impossible to do given the usual limited data of historical linguistics: a
small selection of written documents surviving from earlier periods. To
adequately trace the social origins and motivations of linguistic innovation requires looking at change in progress, preferably in an environment where our access to data is, at least in principle, unlimited. Thus,
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such studies are ideally done on the language of the present, using spoken data gathered from the community around us, rather than on earlier stages of the language using written materials. Until this century
such research was difficult or impossible, but with the invention of
sound-recording devices, and modern developments in sociolinguistic
survey methodology, we are now in a position to address these questions empirically.
The essential questions are: “Which social groups originate changes?”
and “What is their motivation for doing so?” The first question presupposes one fact which should perhaps be made explicit: namely that innovations are not adopted uniformly and simultaneously across society;
rather, some groups are innovators or early adopters, while others lag
behind. This clearly means that linguistic change involves social variation: at a given point in time in the course of a change, there will be
some members of the speech community using the new form and some
using the old form.6 In fact, it is likely that many individuals will vary in
their usage, alternating between old and new forms, perhaps influenced
by audience, social context, etc.
Given these facts, who are the innovators? Most answers to this question have been phrased in terms of social class. One idea that received
a certain currency was that members of the dominant class originate
innovations, motivated by an elitist desire to set themselves apart from
the masses (the “fl ight of the elite”). Such changes would spread because
people with the highest status are the ones others are most likely to
emulate. This theory may account for some historical changes, such as
the spread of innovations from dominant social centers in medieval
European languages (e.g. the spread of Parisian French – the language
of the French court – across France). But in modern sociolinguistic work
one striking fact emerges: not a single case has been recorded of untargeted innovation originating in the highest social class! Those few cases
identified in the literature of changes in progress starting at the top
all involve the borrowing of some external prestige norm, i.e. targeted
change. An example of such a targeted change introduced from the top
is the consonantal pronunciation of post-vocalic /r/ of New York City,
discussed above, which is being imported into NYC English from the
socially dominant “General American” dialect. The agents of this change
are the upper classes. The important thing to notice is that this “innovation” does not bring anything new into the language but just involves
dialectal redistribution of variants.
Untargeted changes, on the other hand, internally developed and not
borrowed, do bring in something completely new and tend to originate
among the working class. Accounting for them has been a major concern of linguistics throughout its history. Modern studies of change in
progress appeal mainly to social class dynamics as the driving force of
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such innovation. Two main theories have been proposed, one focusing
on active innovation and the other on resistance to change.
The first of these theories is Labov’s, developed in a number of works
(1966, 1974, 1980, 1981; Labov, Yaeger & Steiner 1972). He calls this
“change from below the level of conscious awareness,” and in a series of
studies of changes in progress has found a social class distribution that he
believes characterizes this type of innovation. This is the curvilinear pattern, in which the innovation peaks in the “interior” groups (the working
class or lower-middle class), and falls off at either extreme. These interior groups are the innovators, and in Labov’s view they have a positive
social motivation to innovate, which is group solidarity or “local identity.”
As a sociosymbolic device, a marker of belonging to their locality, their
community, perhaps their class, emerging distinctive characteristics
of their local dialect are favorably evaluated and adopted and extended
by these groups. The changes serve a positive function of contrastive
self-identification: members of the group have them, and outsiders are
marked by their absence.
We might ask why just these groups are so motivated; why don’t
other classes innovate to mark their identity? In his early work Labov
allows such a possibility, but from his Philadelphia studies a more precise account has emerged: the interior groups lead because they are the
ones for whom this local solidarity is strongest. The lowest class (the
chronically unemployed, the homeless, etc.) have little or no local ties
or group allegiance, and the highest classes do not depend on locality or
group for their identity but move in national or international circles.7 We
might note that although Labov does not use these terms, this interpretation is in tune with the Marxist concept of class ideology: the solidarity,
cooperative ideology of the working class versus the competitive, individualistic ideology of other classes.
The other principal theory of class and language change has been articulated by Anthony Kroch (1978). Whereas Labov focuses on the question
of why some people are motivated to innovate, Kroch asks why others
resist innovation. He suggests that change is the natural condition of language, but that some social groups avoid or suppress innovation. The
motivation for this linguistic conservatism is the same as for political
conservatism: a favorable position in the existing status quo. In other
words, linguistic change should correlate directly with position in the
class hierarchy, generally beginning at the bottom and being adopted
only late, or never, at the top. This theory also has an interpretation in
Marxist terms. The conservatism of dominant groups stems from a need
to defend their favorable position against democratic demands, and insofar as their conservative standards for language use are publicly accepted,
their social status and power will be enhanced by their possession of the
“social capital.”
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0.8
Probability of AOI use
0.7
0.6
0.5
0.4
Female
0.3
Male
0.2
0.1
0.0
LWC
UWC
social class
MC
Figure 10.2 Australian questioning intonation by class and sex
The one substantial difference in these theories is in their predictions
about what should happen at the lower end of the class hierarchy. In
Labov’s view, as we have seen, the lower class lags in sound change, but
according to Kroch these people have the least investment in the status
quo and should innovate freely, probably even more so than the working class. These are empirically testable claims: what do the facts show?
In fact they show both patterns. A number of studies cited by Kroch
show a simple linear pattern with peak use of a new form at the bottom,
whereas Labov relies on another, quite substantial, body of work showing his curvilinear pattern. How can we resolve this contradiction?
The answer appears to lie in the difference in focus of the two theories.
They are looking at different sides of the innovation issue, Labov asking
what motivates people to innovate, and Kroch asking what motivates
them to resist an innovation. So the two theories are not inherently
contradictory, but rather complementary. The study of intonational
change in Australian English, mentioned above (Guy et al. 1986), makes
this point clearly. The social class distribution of this innovation, reproduced here as Figure 10.2, shows both the curvilinear and the linear
pattern separated by sex. Both men and women show higher use in the
working class than in the middle class, but in the lowest class the men
slope down while the women go even higher. Subjective reaction studies
in this community also show that the innovation in question has both
kinds of social significance: it is perceived as being unsuitable for highstatus occupations – the negative evaluation accorded the innovation
by the dominant classes – but simultaneously given favorable rankings
on solidarity scales such as friendliness – the positive symbolism of the
“interior” groups.
This suggests a synthesis of the theories of Labov and Kroch, in which
conflicts over the sociosymbolic significance of linguistic innovations
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are seen as a consequence of the conflicting interests of different social
classes. The working class (broadly defined to include the lower-paid and
lower-status levels of the middle class such as secretaries, clerical workers, bookkeepers, etc.) are the basic source of untargeted innovations,
and for many of them these new forms will acquire a positive symbolic
value as markers of group solidarity.
Higher-status groups, however, not belonging to the working class and
wishing to defend their social position, will naturally resist and denigrate such innovations. The ultimate outcome for any particular change
will depend on the balance of these social forces. In the end this comes
down to a common-sense view of social change. In our own everyday
experiences, no doubt we have all encountered situations where some
people attach themselves to an innovation and actively promulgate it,
while others, perhaps with something to lose, resist the change. While
perhaps greatly simplified, this would seem to be a basic dialectic of
human societies.
10.6
Class and linguistic theory
Class differentiation of language is ultimately of great importance for
linguistic theory. It is true, of course, that much of modern linguistic thought has disputed this position, taking as its object of study a
hypothetical object wildly at odds with linguistic reality. As Chomsky
formulates it: “linguistic theory is concerned primarily with an ideal
speaker-listener, in a complement homogeneous speech community,
who knows its language perfectly” (1965: 3). But if we wish to achieve
even a minimal level of adequacy for our theories, it is necessary to move
beyond this imaginary monostylistic idiolect and confront the problem
of sociolinguistic variation. There are three principal areas where this
will be an issue for linguistic theory. Firstly, there is the form of the
grammar, which should be designed so as to accommodate systematic
lectal differences. Secondly, there is the problem of variation in meaning. And finally, there is the fundamental distinction between langue and
parole, or competence and performance, which is called into question by
some of the basic findings of sociolinguistics.
One of the basic concerns of modern linguistics is writing grammars. A
grammar is supposed to be a formal account of the structure and workings
of some language. An adequate grammar must address the question of the
scope of its object of description, the language, in that it will have to define
the limits of the language community it is attempting to account for, and
to accommodate, at least some kinds of social differences in language. We
cannot write a grammar of English unless we are prepared to say what is
and is not English, or perhaps what is only partly English, and to account
for the linguistic differences which this great abstraction encompasses.
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Studies of language and social class help us to do this in several ways.
Firstly, they help delimit the language by identifying speech communities, dialects, and sociolects. An instance is the behavior of different
social classes within one speech community that we have considered
above. While these classes may differ linguistically in many respects,
they do so in an orderly, systematic fashion, all sharing the same norms
for language use, and all shifting the same way in more formal contexts.
Findings such as these are vital for the task of identifying the unity of a
language from among the enormous diversity of dialects (and idiolects?)
that we find in the world. If a group of lects displays this kind of “orderly
heterogeneity,” if a group of speakers displays this kind of common attitudes to language use, in a way that other lects and speakers do not,
then we have begun to identify the limits of what our grammar must
account for.
Furthermore, the very form of the grammar should be partly determined by the nature of such variation. As an example, suppose that we
had two competing theories of the syntax and semantics of negation in
English, both of which adequately account for the common intuitions of
their upper-middle-class authors, who only use single negation. Suppose
further that one of these theories fails completely if applied to structures
involving multiple negation (perhaps because it assumes that multiple
negatives cancel each other out, as in symbolic logic), while the other
theory, via some simple alternative setting of a parameter or feature, provides a straightforward account of multiple negation. Given our knowledge of class dialects of English, which tells us that multiple negation
is used every day by most working-class speakers of English, the latter
theory is obviously to be preferred, although a linguist who postulates a
fictional homogeneous speech community might easily choose the inadequate alternative.
The second problem for linguistic theory is variation in the meaning systems of language. Studies have shown class differences in syntax (Lavandera 1975, 1978), lexical choice (Sankoff, Thibault & Bérubé
1978), discourse (Horvath 1986), and intonation (Guy & Vonwiller 1984)
which could all affect the meaning of a text. This presents a challenge
for our theories of semantics and communication. Do such mismatches
in semantic systems lead to ambiguity and miscomprehension? If not, is
there some higher-level analysis which allows people to interpret semantic systems different from their own? Such questions can be addressed
only by looking at class differences.
Finally, there is the problem of langue and parole, recast by Chomsky
as competence and performance. Langue and competence are supposed
to incorporate the features of a language common to all speakers, the
knowledge they must share in order to use the language appropriately.
But as we have seen, speakers share more than mere grammaticality
judgments. They also have a passive knowledge which allows them to
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recognize and interpret other social class varieties of the language, and
an active knowledge which allows them to adapt their own syntax, phonology, and lexicon to different situations, audiences, topics, etc. In other
words they have a communicative competence, common to all members of
a speech community, which encompasses sociolinguistic variability. An
adequate linguistic theory should be able to account for this ability of
native speakers.
Ultimately this calls into question the very utility of the competence–
performance, langue–parole distinction. If these are oppositions between
unity and diversity, between design and execution, then they are difficult to maintain in the face of two fundamental findings of sociolinguistics. On the one hand we have orderly heterogeneity, which identifies
unity and system within parole/performance, and on the other hand we have
inherent variability, which is diversity within langue/competence. Thus, the
study of language and class may lead the way to an ultimate synthesis of
the second great Saussurean dichotomy.
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11
Language and region
William A. Kretzschmar, Jr.
The problem for sociolinguists about language and region is not the language but what to do with regions. Nothing could be more obvious, more
natural to talk about than the existence of regions which subdivide a
country (the United States in this essay, but really any country), and to
which we commonly attribute different cultural characteristics including language. And yet our normal reference to regions gets us in trouble. We can be puzzled when somebody puts Kansas in “the Midwest”
when we always thought that it was part of “the Great Plains,” or when
somebody denies that Virginia is really part of “the South.” As for language, we can be puzzled when somebody from “the South” does not
seem to have the accent to go along with their homeplace, or when we
realize that people from Michigan don’t all have the “Standard” accent
that Michiganders believe themselves to have (or don’t all have an accent
with the Northern Cities Shift, which is what American sociolinguists
say they have).1 We do all believe in regions and regional differences,
but it is one thing to accept them as a part of our cultural environment
and quite another to try to make regions work as a part of our sociolinguistic inquiries. This essay will examine what we mean by regions with
respect to linguistic systems, and how we can use them effectively in
sociolinguistics.2
When in doubt, ask an expert, in this case a cultural geographer.
Wilbur Zelinsky has written extensively about regions as culture areas.
He defines a “culture area” (1992: 112) as
[a] naively perceived segment of the time-space continuum distinguished from others on the basis of genuine differences in cultural
systems. The two characteristics that set it aside from other varieties of
My thanks go to members of the Sociodiscourse Workgroup at the University of Michigan for
useful comments on the ideas presented here.
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geographic region are: (1) the extraordinary number of ways in which
it is manifested physically and behaviorally; and (2) the condition of
self-awareness on the part of participants.
Thus, a region is not merely some arbitrary tract of geography, but
instead a location in time and space in which people behave in some
particular way, and in which we may fi nd physical evidence related
to that behavior. A place without people cannot be a culture area, if
it has only distinctive physical characteristics but not the interaction
of people with its environment. It is not Lake Woebegone that makes
Prairie-Home-Companion culture,3 but the (reported) behavior of the
people in their environment and among each other; it is not the tumbleweeds and cactus and Western landscape alone that make cowboy culture, but the cowboys themselves. Moreover, the participants
have to realize that they are participating in the culture of their area.
Garrison Keilor accepts his role in Lake Woebegone, and cowboys will
be cowboys, as the movie City Slickers (Billy Crystal, Jack Palance, 1991)
illustrates through the changes that occur to jaded New Yorkers after
they enact cowboy virtues. This is not to say that the culture of an area
must necessarily control individual identity. As Zelinsky says, “The recognition of the area and one’s affi liation with it can run the gamut
from a raging sense of nationhood to fleeting, unemotional perceptions
of small gradations of differences between one’s local way of life and
another” (1992: 113). But self-awareness, even “if it is present only at
the subliminal level” (p. 113), is required for the definition of a culture
area, as opposed to the arbitrary delimitation of some area by scholars
or others. Zelinsky points to the use of state boundaries in the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii do have their own cultures) as
examples of the creation of “spurious” or “synthetic” culture areas, having been created in nearly every case by political happenstance rather
than with reference to culture. The borders by themselves do not create a “Minnesota” culture, or a “Colorado” culture, even if people do
often refer to such a thing; again, we have to consider the descendants
of Scandinavian immigrants and cowboys, respectively, to put the culture into the places. Zelinsky mentions “Chicagoland” as a spurious
synthetic region having been created by advertisers. He also cites commercial attempts to promote tourism through creation of simulated
historical settings. As an example from my own experience, Stone
Mountain Park, near Atlanta, offers a collection of old houses moved to
the site and juxtaposed in a “neighborhood” as a historical attraction,
to entertain visitors until it gets dark and the Civil-War-theme laser
light show can begin. Zelinsky insists that a region be genuine, and
be recognized by its participants, in order for the region to be distinguished from other locations as an area in which we can observe the
evidence of culture – of course including language.
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WILLIAM A. KRETZSCHMAR, JR.
Zelinsky’s initial division of American cultural regions comes in two
kinds (1992: 112):
the system of culture areas observable in contemporary America is dual
in character. There is an older set of places, originating during and just
after the period of First Effective Settlement … Partially superimposed
over the older set are the many new voluntary regions, some still quite
indistinct, usually with scarcely any functional connection with their
predecessors.
The “older set” are what Zelinsky calls “traditional regions,” which are
“relatively self-contained, endogamous, stable, and of long duration” (p.
110). Individual people, he says, are born into such traditional regions and
tend to remain in them, and “the accident of birth would automatically
assign [them] to a specific caste, class, occupation, and social role” (p. 110).
Elsewhere Zelinsky contrasts traditional regions in North America with
the still older set in the Old World, which may have had much longer periods of cultural growth, development even over millennia, than the mere
three centuries of settlement in the New World (p. 178). These traditional
regions, both in America and in the Old World, constitute the primary
source for people’s perception of regional divisions. Times change, but
the North is still the North and the South is still the South in America.
The long-term stability of traditional regions, at least in our perceptions,
endures even catastrophic events like the loss of plantation culture in
the South owing to the boll weevil, and the more recent decline of heavy
industry and manufacturing in the Northern Rust Belt.4 As an illustration
on a somewhat smaller scale, we can note that only one large brewery is
left in Milwaukee (Miller, after the local demise of Schlitz, Pabst, Blatz,
and others), but traditional local tavern culture, with its Friday fish fry,
remains among Milwaukeans.
As for the second sort of region, Zelinsky invented the idea of the
“voluntary region” in the 1970s, and as the right idea at the right time for
modern American culture, it has been widely adopted. Its origins lie in
cultural change in the Old World but its typical expression is American
(Zelinsky1992: 111):
[the emergence of voluntary regions] is coeval with the process of modernization in Northwest Europe and the appearance of individuals who
are essentially free agents, in spatial and other dimensions. It is in North
America that the earliest, largest, and, to date, most advanced experimentation in devising voluntary regions has gone on … the traditional
spatial and social allocation of individuals through the lottery of birth
is being replaced gradually by a process of relative self-selection of life
style, goals, social niche, and place of residence.
As one example of contemporary voluntary regions, Zelinsky cites
military enclaves such as San Diego, Colorado Springs, and Columbus,
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M U S C O G E E
185
80
27
Muscogee County
Flatrock Park
M il
80
L E E
80
l er Road
22
Road
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27
S.R
a il
Str road
eet
Phenix City
280
le
431
Roa
d
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ea
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RUSSELL
G E O R G I A
Road
Forest
17th Street
Schatulga
Bibb City
185
Columbus
27
Cu
aV
Buen ista
Ro
ad
Fort Benning
Military
Reservation
sse
ta
Ro
a
d
Benning Park Supercenter
185
165
27
CHATTAHOOCHEE
Figure 11.1 Columbus and Fort Benning
Georgia (p. 136). We can flesh out his bare mention of such areas by supplying more information about one of them. Fort Benning dominates
Columbus. Interstate 185 bypasses downtown Columbus, a historic river
town which does have large banking (Synovus) and insurance (Aflac)
industries, and terminates at the gates of the Fort (Figure 11.1). Local
news and advertising offer stories about and deals to attract business
from soldiers, and the Columbus area is home to a great many retired
military personnel as well as those on active duty. The retirees, and these
days also the active soldiers, have all chosen the military life on and near
the reserve, and the retirees and others of like mind have particularly
chosen Columbus. Thus, we have the idea of a voluntary region, in which
individuals as free agents can gather and participate in their preferred
cultural area. Zelinsky also proposes college towns as educational voluntary regions, retirement voluntary regions like those in Arizona and
Florida, and “pleasuring places” where people not only visit to play at
the beach or in the snow but also choose to live – Las Vegas today is one
of the fastest-growing places in the country. Voluntary regions of many
kinds, large and small, create what Zelinsky calls “a new geometry of
culture, as mobile individuals seek ideal havens on their journey of selfdiscovery” (p. 112).
Finally, Zelinsky adds to these two basic kinds of regions one more
type: the “vernacular region” or “perceptual region” (1992: 179–81).
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WILLIAM A. KRETZSCHMAR, JR.
While traditional regions follow long-term patterns of cultural development, and voluntary regions generally form spontaneously around the
locations of assets like military bases, universities, or beaches, vernacular regions are created very deliberately as “composites of the mental
maps of the population” (Terry Jordan, cited by Zelinsky 1992: 179). The
Bible Belt and Sun Belt are examples in which geography clearly takes
a back seat to cultural perception, in that the boundaries of the area
are less clearly recognized than the behavior itself, and yet geography,
the Belt, still plays a role. Other expressions of perceptual regions are
more firmly grounded, such as communities built to express a theme.
As an early example, Zelinsky mentions “that Gothic oasis known as
the University of Chicago,” in which very real and excellent education
and research take place in a simulacrum of Oxbridge. To return to the
Columbus area, Callaway Gardens has long been a popular day-trip
and vacation destination with lakes, golf courses, and scenic woodland
drives featuring spectacular azalea displays in the spring. Now, however,
Callaway Gardens has reinvented itself as an eco-resort after decades
of Southern and Plantation themes. It is in the process of building residential neighborhoods on the resort grounds with ecologically friendly
homes and carefully controlled landscaping that features native, noninvasive plants. New owners are given a thorough indoctrination into
the Callaway Ideal of living with nature. People buy the houses not
because they actually want to live rough in the mountains, actually to
live with Nature like Thoreau at Walden Pond, but because they believe
in the ecological Ideal – and they in turn exercise community pressure
on people who do not follow the Ideal, who just wanted a house at a golf
resort and do not care about upholding the restrictive covenants. The
Callaway residential experience thus corresponds to what Zelinsky calls
a “synthetic culture area,” a genuine region with self-conscious participants who deliberately create their environment for themselves, not to
be confused with spurious syntheses of culture-void regions by politicians or advertisers. The notion of the vernacular or perceptual region
is thus related to voluntary regions but represents an extension of individual self-expression that may, in Zelinsky’s words, “fall into [the] realm
of make-believe” (1992: 181), as we have seen in the Callaway Ideal for
ecological living.
It is clearly the case that vernacular/perceptual regions further complicate the status of regions nationwide. We may all take traditional regions
as primary in our thinking, but they are heavily overlaid with voluntary regions of different kinds, and now more and more we make our
places into what we think they ought to be, instead of taking places as
we find them. Region is then necessarily a complex multidimensional
construct, and the physical and behavioral characteristics of regional
culture always exist in a dynamic, self-aware relationship with the
perceptions of participants.
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If we now shift our attention toward language, we can see that region,
understood as Zelinsky’s combination of cultural elements in a particular area with self-awareness by the participants, defines what first
Leonard Bloomfield (in Language, 1933) and now more recently sociolinguists would call the speech community. For smaller groups of people,
the sociolinguistic terms social network and community of practice are not
incompatible with this cultural view of region, since they can be equated
with voluntary and vernacular/perceptual regions. The potential difference between region and social networks or communities of practice
is the inclusion of a spatial variable. In fact, however, location and spatial proximity have been important factors in sociolinguistic studies all
along, although they have commonly been left implicit. Landmark works
in sociolinguistics do deal with regions. Labov has worked in specific
locations, firstly in Martha’s Vineyard, then New York’s Lower East Side,
then neighborhoods in Philadelphia. The Milroys specified different
Belfast neighborhoods – Ballymacarret, Clonard, and The Hammer – as
the location for the several social networks in their pathfinding studies.
Eckert first developed the study of communities of practice in a Detroitarea high school. These particular places certainly affected the results of
these studies, even if we commonly focus on their meta-sociolinguistic
values and not on the particular people in the particular place; Labov
(1963), the Milroys (Milroy 1987a), and Eckert (2000), respectively, do all
comment on just this point. Communities of practice may theoretically
free themselves from particular locations, an idea developed by Joycelyn
Wilson with reference to hip-hop culture in a recent dissertation (2007)
and developed for internet communities in a recent thesis by Rachel
Votta (2007), but most community-of-practice studies treat the language
of speaker groups who interact directly, all in the same place.
Conversely, it is just as important to note that Zelinsky’s account of
regions addresses a problem in traditional notions of the speech community, which may take just a geographic location as a definition for a
speech community instead of indexing location to culture and perception.5 Just to name a city is not the same as naming a speech community. To say that “Chicago,” for instance, is a speech community is not
sufficient, no better than the advertisers mentioned by Zelinsky who
created a spurious “Chicagoland.” A forthcoming book by Richard Bailey
documents the cultural setting of four US cities at specific times in their
history, including Chicago, just the sort of approach that leads to description of a genuine Chicago region. Zelinsky’s combination of place, culture, and self-awareness provide the criteria with which to determine
whether speakers belong to a speech community, and whether they
do not belong even though they may live in a place.6 The geographic
boundaries of regions may thus be more inexact than the city limits
(like those of the Bible Belt, or of voluntary retirement regions) and still
yield a more accurate representation of a speech community than any
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WILLIAM A. KRETZSCHMAR, JR.
political boundary. The idea of regions offers a corrective for oversimplified notions of community.
When sociolinguists have tried to address regions, they have generally
recapitulated the findings of Zelinsky, although of course they have not
set out to do so. I have written in detail elsewhere (Kretzschmar 1995,
1996, 2003) about the correspondence of traditional regions with the dialect regions described by George Hempl, Hans Kurath, and most recently
William Labov. It is worth pointing out here that Zelinsky cites Kurath’s
1939 Handbook of the Linguistic Geography of New England as “the most useful and general guide to the social and cultural characteristics of the
region” (1992: 120n8), not just as a guide to its language. He also specifically mentions Kurath’s (1949) map of major US dialect regions as evidence
in his own description of traditional US regions (p. 117n7). The point is
that Hempl, Kurath, and Labov have all responded to traditional regions
in the construction of arguments that some readers may have thought
to be derived just from their own linguistic evidence. In doing so they
acted very appropriately, because language is a part of the culture of
these regions.
The only difficulty with these assertions comes from the failure of
readers to appreciate the relationship between the linguistic features
discussed and the regions in which they were found. As Lee Pederson has
written (1995:39),
The [Linguistic Atlas] method carries analysis through an enumeration
of features and records them in lists and/or reports them in maps. Such
analytic word geography ends its work at this point in a taxonomy
of observed sociolinguistic facts. But the research invariably implies
more than that because planners, editors, and their critics fail to characterize the work at hand. For that reason, a reader expects an identification of dialect areas and a description of dialects within those
geographic divisions in a concordance of social and linguistic facts projected across space and through time … Both [Hans Kurath and Harold
Allen in their association of US settlement patterns with speech areas]
synthesize geographic, historical, and social facts in their reorganization of evidence in an effort to meet the unreasonable expectations of
linguistic geography.
Pederson’s remarks bridge the theoretical gap between older “linguistic
geography” and modern sociolinguistics. Any linguistic features found
in the traditional regions arise in the cultural matrix, not independently, and any boundaries for the linguistic features do not just delimit
the linguistic features but the cultural matrix (“isoglosses” as described
in Kretzschmar 1992, or lines drawn by other means). There is no other
rational way that Hempl, Kurath, and Labov could have drawn their lines
where they did, given the intractably mixed quality of the language evidence alone; right from the beginnings of linguistic geography in the
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nineteenth century, lines drawn to indicate feature distributions have
always inconveniently diverged and crossed each other.7 Kurath, Labov,
and others thus have always used their perceptions of speech communities in order to draw their lines for dialect areas or chain shifts, not just
delimited geographical territory purely according to linguistic data. As
much as we may want language to be an independent domain, capable of
objective and exact description in space for all of its features at once, we
can only access language systems as they are bound up with the cultural
matrix and as part of our perceptions.
The key term is perception. The nature of our spatial perception of
regions has been described in the famous work of Gould and White
(1986; see Kretzschmar 2009 for more detailed treatment of spatial and
dialect perception than is possible here). In a discussion of perceptions of
an urban neighborhood by its residents, they suggest that
the information that goes into building a mental image of a particular
area may reflect much more than just the knowledge of landmarks
and routes … people’s information about a particular area in one of the
USA’s cities may vary considerably, and the mental images they build
up may reflect not only their surroundings but many other aspects of
themselves and their lives. (Gould & White1986: 12)
Gould and White thus confirm Zelinsky’s idea of region, in that perception of the physical space of a city neighborhood by its residents is bound
up with social and psychological elements. Yet Gould and White go on
to show that the perceptions of different residents highlight different
neighborhood physical features and different social elements. Gould and
White thus emphasize the potential for individuality within a neighborhood interpreted as a region – just as Callaway Gardens residents
are not of one mind even in a vernacular/perceptual region. While it is
indeed possible to assert the Callaway Ideal for its new neighborhoods,
and also possible to describe perceptions of an urban neighborhood by
“averaging” individual ratings, we must realize that not all residents will
share either the Ideal or the average perception.
As they move from local perceptions to ideas of larger regions, Gould
and White show that (1986: 51–52) “any mental map … from a particular
place is a rather subtle convolution of (1) a shared national viewpoint and
(2) a dome of local desirability, representing feelings people have for the
familiar and comfortable surroundings of their home area.” This means
that, once people started thinking about regions beyond their own, they
had less information and had to rely on broad national generalizations
like traditional regions. Gould and White also say that “people seem to
evaluate an area on four scales [i.e. physical environment such as climate
and landform, politics, economic opportunities, and social and cultural
aspects, p. 66], but collapse these into one to avoid the difficulty of dealing with confl icting images and information” (p. 73). This is another way
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of showing the necessity for merged geographical/social categories like
region, because putting location and other information together is the
only way to achieve coherence, by imposing order on apparently miscellaneous perceptions. Gould and White also say (p. 82) that their respondents often showed “appalling expressions of geographical ignorance,” so
that their perceptions were created on the basis of absent and defective information, not just incoherent information. People care and know
about their local environment, but care and know much less about places
further away.
All of this means that perceptions by individuals of traditional and
other regions, especially those beyond the local area, will not be well
informed, may well not be very coherent, and will not be shared consistently from individual to individual. While we can all accept the
idea of regions, and all of us have some sort of idea of the traditional
regions in our country, we cannot assume that anybody else will share
our own personal perceptions of regions in any detail or even to any
great degree. We also cannot assume that individuals within a region
will all share the same behavior or the same perceptions. It is a truism
among sociolinguists that speakers always do a poor job of reporting
their own speech behavior, and so we can hardly expect people to have
detailed and accurate perceptions of the speakers around them – much
less speakers at some distance. As Zelinsky has said, the existence of
regions is a “truly significant fact” and “their analysis is a rewarding
activity for the scholar in both a theoretical and a practical sense” (1992:
109), but still the problem of perception tells us that regions are not useful as simple divisors of the national landscape, and that the existence
of a region does not convey consistent, relevant information about all
those who live within it.
Sociolinguists have confirmed the findings of Gould and White about
problems with the perceptual side of Zelinsky’s idea of region. The influential work of Dennis Preston, through his Draw-a-Map task, has shown
that people maintain very different perceptions of language for even
large traditional US regions like the South. Figure 11.2 shows levels of
agreement about the South, from groups of Michigan and Indiana subjects. There is no location that all of the Michigan subjects could agree
where people spoke “Southern.” Columbus, Georgia, comes the closest,
in a tiny area of 96 percent agreement. The 91 percent area stretches
from Charleston, South Carolina, across to the Alabama Black Belt, but
still excludes much of Zelinsky’s traditional Southern cultural region.
The area that includes places that any respondent put in the South, representing consensus, is far too large. We get perhaps the best approximation for the South with the 50 percent agreement level, literally the
average perception. Yet the 50 percent level for the Michigan speakers
is somewhat larger than the one averaged from the Indiana speakers,
and so even the average perception is contingent upon whom you ask.
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Michigan 50%
195
Indiana 50%
91%
96%
any respondent
Figure 11.2 Levels of agreement about the South
Perceptions of even the most salient US dialect areas are therefore highly
unstable and inconsistent from person to person and from place to
place. Susan Tamasi has replicated Preston’s findings with subjects from
Georgia (2000). Tamasi then significantly advanced perceptual studies by
applying a different method adapted from anthropology, pile sorting, to
assess subjects’ cognitive management of language variation (2003; see
also Kretzschmar 2009 for detailed discussion). Her results show not only
that subjects have only low-level agreement on traditional regions, but
that their perceptions tend to be incoherent. That is, subjects are likely
to make discontinuous groups of states, not just continuously bounded
regions. Her findings suggest that whatever coherence we do see in
Preston’s findings comes in large part from his analytical method, the
act of averaging. People do have perceptions of language in geographical
space, but the perceptions are not very coherent and are no more wellordered for language than Gould and White’s account of general regional
perceptions.
Along the same lines, Ronald and Barbara Horvath have demonstrated
the importance of “scale dependency” for analysis of language and geography (2003). They conducted a study of /l/ vocalization, in which they
interviewed 312 speakers spread across nine localities in Australia and
New Zealand (see Horvath & Horvath 2001). Figure 11.3 shows the different rates of /l/ vocalization when the data is reported at the nine different localities, when the same data is regrouped into four regions, when
it is again regrouped into two nations, and finally when it is regrouped
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Geographical Scale
Rate of /l/ Vocalization
Supranational
Australasian
33%
National
Australia
New Zealand
15%
58%
Regional
SE Queensland
SE Australia
S Australia
New Zealand
3%
11%
28%
58%
Local
Brisbane
Melbourne
Sydney
Hobart
Mt. Gambier
Adelaide
Auckland
Wellington
Christchurch
3%
9%
15%
10%
28%
26%
57%
58%
60%
Figure 11.3 Rates of /l/ vocalization
into one supranational total. If we want to ask whether /l/ vocalization
occurs in Australasian English, the answer is yes, at the rate of 33 percent. However, we may find it remarkable to see that no single country,
region, or locality in Australasia exhibits a 33 percent rate of /l/ vocalization. To move further down the scale, we can observe that Australian
English has a 15 percent rate of /l/ vocalization, but that none of the three
Australian regions shows just that rate, and that only one Australian
locality, Sydney, shows the national rate. It appears that generalizations
at the level of country and region also do not reproduce localities very
well. When the Horvaths discuss the “individual scale,” how many of the
speakers in any locality shared the same rate of /l/ vocalization, we hear
not only that they did not find uniformity, but that the individual scale
“is the scale of greatest variability” (2003: 162). Even the percentage of /l/
vocalization created for each locality was an act of averaging, a generalization that almost certainly would fit at most a few of the speakers from
each place – and might match none of them. This effect, then, is scale
dependency, the idea that when we create averages at different levels of
scale, the averages are not the same in different places at the same level,
and the averages are also not the same across levels. Language is thus not
like paint on a wall, where the paint color at any individual place will be
the same as the color at other places on the wall, and will be the same as
the color of the wall as a whole.
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Still, the Horvaths find that locality, or “place,” emerges as a central
factor in their analyses. They say that “place consistently made the most
important contribution to the variability of /l/ vocalization for all three
[statistical] supranational analyses. In addition, our scale analysis showed
that the national border between Australia and New Zealand is the locus
of the variability [within their linguistic analysis]” (2003:166). Even though
people behave differently from each other in each locality, still the generalization made from their variable behavior turns out to be statistically
important. The Horvaths also go right along with what we have heard
from Zelinsky when they say that “the concept of place, as geographers
understand it, is first and foremost a social category” (p. 166). There is not
much about the rocks or trees of a place, or the bush or the billabongs, to
influence the speech there; as we have seen, the people who interact in a
place create its culture, and in this way they make what would otherwise
be just a location into a region. Scale dependency for language comes
from the creation of regions, starting at lower levels of scale which participate in but are not dominated by the culture of larger regions.
Averaging must take place to make generalizations about language in
regions at even the lowest levels of scale (in order to account for differences between individuals), and further averaging must take place
to make generalizations at each higher level of scale out of the disparate local patterns at the level lower down. Owing to the necessity for
averaging at every level, there is a definite logical relationship between
what we can expect to find at different levels of scale. We should not,
according to this logic, expect to apply generalizations at higher levels
of scale to lower levels of scale. This is termed the “ecological fallacy” by
the Horvaths (2003: 162). That is, we should not expect that the overall
Australasian rate of /l/ vocalization, 33 percent, will also be the rate at
any of the smaller levels, as in fact it is not. From the other direction,
we should not expect any individual fairly to represent the behavior of a
locality, or any locality fairly to represent the behavior of a region. The
Horvaths call this the “individual fallacy” (p. 162). That is, if the /l/ vocalization rate in Melbourne is 9 percent, we should not expect that it will
necessarily be the same 9 percent in any other locality, or in Australia
or Australasia more generally, as in fact it is not. If the rate in two places
or at two levels happens to be the same, like the 15 percent rate in both
Sydney and in Australia generally, or like the 58 percent rate in both
Wellington and in New Zealand generally, we would have to consider
that fact to be a coincidence, not a normal occurrence.
The foregoing discussion of perception and scale dependency, combined with what we know about traditional, voluntary, and vernacular regions, has much to tell us about doing sociolinguistics. As a way
to organize these applications, let us begin with a clear, concise statement of the central aim of sociolinguistics by Shana Poplack (1993: 258):
“The primary object of description of the [sociolinguist] is the speech of
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individuals qua members of a speech community, i.e. informants specifically chosen (through ethnographic or sociological methods) to represent
the major axes of community structure.” Nothing in Poplack’s statement
is contradicted by the preceding discussion of regions, but everything in
Poplack’s statement must be carefully interpreted in order to avoid ambiguities and problems that the discussion of regions raises. In order to
illustrate the issues, I will use our current Roswell, Georgia, community
language and life field site as a running example (see Kretzschmar et al.
2007 for more information).
First of all, we can recognize that “the major axes of community structure” must correspond to what here have been identified as different
types of regions. Every US location for fieldwork will find itself in one
of Zelinsky’s traditional regions, since they include all of the area of the
continental United States. It is possible, indeed likely, that multiple voluntary and vernacular/perceptual regions will also be found at any field
site. The “axes of community structure” thus can be taken to describe
the relationships between the different regional groups in any place.
These may be constituted by large-scale traditional regions, subareas,
localities, and neighborhoods, right down to smaller interest-centered
groups. The landmark sociolinguistic studies already cited do the same
thing. Labov situates his Martha’s Vineyard analysis with reference to
Linguistic Atlas data about its underlying traditional region. The Milroys
conducted a rapid “doorstep” study to contextualize the speech in their
neighborhoods across the traditional region of Belfast in Northern
Ireland. Finally, Eckert measured speech behavior for Jocks and Burnouts
against the Northern Cities Shift by which Labov had characterized the
traditional region underlying Detroit. More recently, the work of Becky
Childs (e.g. 2005) has been particularly successful at situating communities of practice within the traditional region in which they are found:
African-Americans who interact in different communities of practice,
whose speech is basically that of the Appalachian region and shows
changes related to different community factors. In each case, it would
have been impossible to provide an accurate description of the behavior
of the social networks and communities of practice without specific reference to the underlying traditional regions.
As a more extended example, in Roswell we have described the relationship of local speech to two large subparts of the traditional Southern
region, Plantation Southern and Upland Southern, the former including
both white and black varieties. There are historical Plantation white,
Upland Southern, and African-American neighborhoods in town near
the original square, plus newer voluntary regions of suburban housing
for commuters, plus the newest, often-gated, communities with different flavors of synthetic culture, including some for retirees and some
for genteel country-club living. We have also described generational
divisions, especially between the oldest and middle generations, whose
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speech corresponds better to traditional patterns, and the youngest generation, whose speech has been greatly affected by demographic change
and redevelopment of community lifestyle in recent decades. No doubt
there are many more neighborhood and interest-group regions that we
can find within Roswell, but so far we have determined that the “major
axes of community structure” consist of a particular arrangement of
traditional and newer, smaller regions within the urban locale. In each
case geography plays a role through housing patterns, whether historical or recent, or for the younger generation through school-assignment
zones and youth sports leagues. We also have found that the neighborhood Waffle House restaurant often serves as a social nexus for the
youngest generation in Roswell. It is not “Waffle House culture” that
emerges (feared by some as “Macdonaldization,” cultural leveling from
national branding); the chain restaurants simply provide a backdrop,
and some vocabulary, for the personal interactions that create low-level
local regions in Roswell neighborhoods. Within what otherwise might
be taken as one community, we have observed and described a complex
multidimensional situation for language, just what we can predict from
what we know of regions. While parallel demographic changes occur
elsewhere, these particular complexities are specific to Roswell as a
place, and it is crucial to consider the spatial variable as a part of the
situation.
Poplack sets the speech of individuals as the locus of analysis, but individuals “specifically chosen to represent” their community. Her phrase
embodies two ideas common in sociolinguistics, representative speakers
and native speakers. Following the logic of scale dependency, there is no
such thing as an individual who could fairly be expected to represent
a speech community in the sense of reliably having the same linguistic profile as the community. The individual scale is the most highly
variable, and few individuals will match the local average. On the other
hand, self-awareness of community membership is a necessary condition
for regions, and so selection of someone representative in that sense is
mandatory. When we qualify speakers for our Roswell project, we ask
firstly whether they consider themselves to be “from Roswell.” Some
people who have lived there for their whole lives say “no” to this question, because they do not feel any affiliation with Roswell as a community and instead see themselves as citizens of Atlanta, or of the world.
The fact of local birth and local upbringing is not enough to make a
speaker representative; it is a necessary condition for full participation
in local language patterns, but local birth and upbringing is not in itself
a sufficient condition. In the United States at least, it is no longer the
case that “the accident of birth would automatically assign [speakers] to
a specific caste, class, occupation, and social role” (1992: 110), as Zelinsky
said of traditional regions. This is especially true in a place like Roswell
that has undergone massive changes in recent decades from being an
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old mill town, to being a suburban bedroom community near Atlanta,
to its new and independent status as an “edge city” (Zelinsky 1992:166).
Speakers today make choices about voluntary associations and membership in vernacular/perceptual regions. Our old idea of the native speaker
continues to have some value, but it cannot do all of the work for the
sociolinguist. We cannot just “specifically choose” native speakers and
expect them to “represent” the community. Instead, sociolinguists must
choose more carefully than that, to weigh the cultural choices made by
different speakers in order to ensure that potential subjects really are
self-aware participants in the regions under study.
One possible interpretation of Poplack’s statement is that sociolinguists
can identify just a few individuals to talk to, if they are the right people.
Again, our discussion of regions suggests that this would be problematic,
because determination of the language of a community, at even the lowest
level of scale, requires averaging across a number of individuals in order
to account for likely variation between individuals. For instance, our
most recent Roswell data (in an unpublished study by Josh Dunn) shows
that the number of General Southern features8 used by younger Roswell
speakers can vary between none at all for some to quite a few for others.
Thus, averaging is required for us to say that, in general, the younger
generation in Roswell has fewer Southern features than their elders, but
still has a significant number. It goes without saying that we would be
misled about the community if we had only talked to a speaker who did
not use Southernisms, or alternatively talked only to a young speaker
who sounded like her parents. Johnstone and Kiesling have reached just
this conclusion in their recent study of indexicality in Pittsburgh (2008),
where they found that some local speakers may not accept or value the
most prototypical and salient local features. Sociolinguists should talk
to enough subjects in order to assure themselves that they can overcome
individual variability in the community under study. Scale dependency
that emerges through study of regions at different levels should inform
the generalizations that sociolinguists create through averaging, from
individuals on up the scale.
It is not the common practice in sociolinguistics to draw a sample
from the population of a community (see Kretzschmar 2009 for discussion of modern survey sampling procedures). Instead, “specific selection”
often means the friend-of-a-friend, snowball method. The discussion of
regions suggests that this may be a good way to access the lowest level
regions, such as neighborhood or interest groups and communities of
practice. But the discussion of regions also suggests that such a method,
if it accesses only a single low-level group of speakers, even if a number
of speakers are used for averaging in that group, might well not lead to
adequate generalizations of the wider community composed of speakers
from many low-level groups or neighborhoods. No matter how good the
description of the language of one lower-level group might be, it would
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still not be likely to describe the next higher level of community speech
because of the logic of scale dependency. In Roswell, for example, our
local partners, the Roswell Folk and Heritage Association, wanted us to
begin our fieldwork by interviewing a number of old, iconic members of
the community (portions of these interviews can now be heard online, at
www.visitroswellga.com/language-life.html), and we were happy to do so.
But as we did, we also collected other interviews, sometimes with their
children and grandchildren, sometimes with neighbors or other Roswell
residents, until we felt that we had accessed a wide-enough sample in
the community to make generalizations about its speech. Before sociolinguistics can make claims about the speech of a community, they need
to assure themselves that they have accessed enough of the “major axes
of community structure” in order to satisfy the logic of scale dependency
in regional constructs.
The investigator’s judgment about which speakers or neighborhoods
best represent a community is also highly suspect, because we know
that perception of language is just not as consistent or reliable as we
would like – and even if an investigator had well-grounded perceptions,
the investigator’s perceptions could never extend to every corner of a
community. Our information about local speech, as Gould and White
suggest, is at best always subject to coloring by non-linguistic information or even the lack of information. We were originally invited to study
language and life in Roswell in part because a local resident was familiar
with Walt Wolfram’s work in Ocracoke (Wolfram & Schilling-Estes 1997);
he thought that we could find the same sort of highly marked, traditional speech pattern in Roswell. As a longtime resident of Roswell and
someone thoroughly integrated in local culture (he introduced us to the
local lunchroom which has similar status in Roswell to Wolfram’s poker
group in Ocracoke), he should have known already whether any such
thing existed. We have not found it, and we have instead been pleased to
document speech patterns of the wider community. The perceptions of
our local contact were colored by the fact that he wanted Roswell to have
a brogue. Sociolinguists need to accept perceptions, both their own and
those of local informants, in recognition of the facts of their genesis and
reliability. In this spirit, regions tell us that we need to do more than just
find evidence to justify our perceptions, at the risk of only ever finding
just what we were looking for, what we perceived to exist before we did
the study.
At a larger level of scale, we must suspect that evident disagreements
between even the best, most knowledgeable students of language variation between traditional US regions may owe as much to perceptual
differences as they do to objective linguistic criteria. A case in point
concerns cot/caught merger in Canada and in the American West. One
might expect that a merged vowel would not show regionally patterned
differences in the use of its allophones, and yet recent evidence from
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WILLIAM A. KRETZSCHMAR, JR.
Hamilton-Brehm (2003) and Antieau (2006) in West Texas and Colorado,
respectively, shows different realization patterns for word classes with
the historical vowels of cot and caught, while neither pattern appears to
match that found in Canada. In such a case, perceptions of the speech of
the west are likely to depend on the particular speakers one hears, and
sampling may be the only way to provide objective evidence to settle the
question for the status of cot/caught in the smaller regions and the larger
traditional and national regions.
These observations about doing sociolinguistics apply equally to both
quantitative and qualitative approaches. Ethnographies are limited by
the same regional considerations as type/token experiments. The idea of
region offers sociolinguists a way of thinking about the cultural matrix
in which speakers interact, one that adds significantly to the study of
social variables such as class, style, race, and gender. What stands out
here is that the spatial variable is not separable from social variables.
Location is bound up with culture in traditional, voluntary, and vernacular/perceptual regions in complex multidimensional associations that
must be weighed and integrated in any sociolinguistic study. It is important to be able to determine what aspects of the language of a place come
from the special history and conditions of the location, including the
characteristics of the underlying traditional region and any voluntary
and vernacular/perceptual regions there, and what aspects may come
from the operation of class and style, social networks, or communities of
practice per se. Perception and scaling are serious issues that constrain
every sociolinguistic analysis. At the same time, due consideration of
spatial variables, problems of perception, and the logic of scale dependency offers great rewards to sociolinguists, in the form of analyses that
are more responsive to conditions and thus more valid. Sociolinguistics
has already included the effects of region in many of its landmark studies,
and it will be the stronger as a field if it continues to do so.
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12
Language and place
Barbara Johnstone
12.1
Introduction
Sociolinguists have always been concerned with place. Be it nation,
region, county, city, neighborhood, or block, place has long been adduced
as a key correlate of linguistic variation, and geography has often entered
into explanations of variation. Since the nineteenth century, dialectologists have been cataloguing and mapping how language varies from
place to place. Starting in the 1960s, sociolinguists turned their focus to
“social facts” such as class, gender, and race as influences on talk, but they
often continued to delimit their research sites as cities, neighborhoods,
counties and, in the USA, states. Place has also played a role in accounts
of variation in more metaphorical and more abstract ways: people’s “locations” in social networks affect the likelihood of their being linguistic
leaders or followers; changes move from centers to peripheries, or sometimes from peripheries to centers, be these physical or social. Studies of
the spread of language change have sometimes used models of diffusion
from geography.
More recently, place has again become central in sociolinguistics.
Some sociolinguists are exploring how physical environments affect
patterns of variation and change by shaping speakers’ social environments. Others are exploring the linguistic expression and construction
of “place identity.” Others describe “linguistic landscapes” and “linguistic soundscapes,” exploring how patterns of signage and other visual
and aural evidence of language shape attitudes toward speakers and
varieties. Another strand of inquiry has to do with how places can be
socially constructed through language or talk about language and how
varieties of talk get mapped onto physical and political places through
talk about talk.
This chapter summarizes all these developments and points to
key sources about each. I begin, in section 12.2, with a sketch of the
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BARBARA JOHNSTONE
emergence of dialectology in the nineteenth century in the context of
the politics of the European nation-state. In section 12.3 I summarize
the twentieth-century dialect atlas projects, conducted in the context of
a renewed interest in region across the disciplines. Section 12.4 traces
ideas about place in quantitative, social-scientific approaches to variation
and change. Finally, I outline several newer ways of thinking about language and place that have emerged in the context of widespread interest
in how the social world is collectively shaped in discourse and in how
individuals experience language and linguistic variation.
In choosing to organize the chapter chronologically, I mean to highlight the ways in which dialectologists’ and sociolinguists’ approaches to
place have been shaped by the intellectual and political environments
of the times when these approaches emerged. Thus, each section begins
with a short overview of the era’s dominant paradigm in the discipline
of geography. While sociolinguists have not always made explicit use
of ideas from geography, the two fields of study have ridden the same
political and intellectual currents over the past two centuries. I do not
mean to suggest that subsequent approaches have displaced earlier ones
or that this chronology necessarily represents progress. Current thought
is suited to current times and what the times make visible. This is as
true now as it was when dialect geography began in the late nineteenth
century.
12.2
Place and nation: nineteenth-century
dialect geography
Histories of geography in the Euro-American tradition trace its origins to
the Early Modern period in European history (Heffernan 2003). Europeans’
discovery of new economic resources in Africa, Asia, and the Americas
called for specialists in cartography and in methods of navigation. By
the nineteenth century, when dialectology came into its own, geography
was no longer as much in service to navigation as to nation-building and
colonization. The Enlightenment empiricists’ drive to describe and the
Romantics’ valorization of the “primitive” and “natural” fueled the interest of wealthy amateurs and academics alike, and journeys of exploration were often funded by new national geographic societies such as the
Société de Géographie de Paris, the Royal Geographic Society, and the US
National Geographic Society.
As one of the “pillars” of nationalism, language was a key element
of the political philosophy that justified the modern nation-state (Gal &
Irvine 1995). The idea that a nation was bound together by a shared language, in the face of evidence in every European nation of mutually
incomprehensible varieties and languages, partially shaped nineteenthcentury philologists’ search for earlier, perhaps purer, forms of language
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and dialectologists’ search for the isolated, old-fashioned varieties that
were thought to be throwbacks to the more authentic language of the
“folk.” Late nineteenth-century advances in theory and method in historical linguistics (including Grimm’s law and the comparative method)
also provided impetus to dialect geographers to develop systematic techniques for exploring variation from place to place.
Between 1876 and 1887, German linguist Georg Wenker collected data
about regional variation by means of surveys he mailed to schoolteachers all over the country. A huge amount of data resulted from this. Like
subsequent dialect geographers, Wenker had trouble making his findings available except in small pieces. He ultimately published his data as
a set of maps called a Sprachatlas or linguistic atlas. Subsequent studies of
regional variation employed trained fieldworkers to conduct interviews
rather than sending out surveys. However, the technique of publishing
the data as a set of maps was carried forward to other nineteenth- century
dialect geography projects in France, Italy, and Switzerland.
In this and much subsequent work in dialect geography, place is at least
implicitly thought of in objective, often physical terms. Mapping dialect
words connects them with a representation (in the form of a map) of the
physical world. This suggests that physical facts about where speakers
are located or where they are from play a dominant role in the processes
dialectologists and other linguists are interested in. For example, the
“communicative isolation” that can lead to language change was conceptualized, in early regional dialectology, primarily in physical-geographic
terms. People separated by a river or a mountain range were thought to
be less likely to be able to interact than people with easy access to one
another. When there were such barriers to communication, “natural”
processes of change would lead the separated varieties to diverge.
Mapping also links linguistic forms, to varying degrees, with the
political world represented by boundaries among states, counties,
and nations. All dialect atlas maps include political boundaries of one
kind or another, be they national boundaries or smaller-scale political divisions, and most include some place-names or names of rivers
and other features. In nineteenth-century accounts, dialect mapping
was analogous to the mapping of political units in more specific ways,
too. By identifying isoglosses and bundles of isoglosses, dialectologists
attempted to determine boundaries between dialect areas analogous to
the boundaries between counties or countries, as if dialect boundaries
were established by treaty or conquest the way political boundaries are.
The practice of boundary-drawing encouraged the idea that dialects
are neatly distinct from one another. This idea still underlies a widespread folk understanding of linguistic variation according to which
dialects have clear boundaries. The actual messiness of border areas is
relatively difficult to account for in such a model and may be difficult
even to see.
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12.3 Celebrating regions: the US dialect
atlas surveys and DARE
World War I unsettled many people’s faith in the nation-state. Despite the
“equality,” “liberty,” and “brotherhood” that the new European nationstates were thought to embody, and despite the economic progress promised by the Industrial Revolution, historical loyalties and technology
came together to make the “Great War” the most brutal and deadly in
European history. Modernists such as poet William Butler Yeats articulated the widespread feeling that “things fall apart; the centre cannot
hold” (“The Second Coming”), and the focus in many disciplines turned
from the nation toward the more local. Geographers’ interest centered
increasingly on the study of regions. This research combined human
and physical geography in the study of how human activity was shaped
or determined by the local environment. Regions were thought to be
“separate areas with distinct landscapes (both natural and human) that
distinguished them from their neighbors” (Johnston 2003: 53), and geographical research was largely descriptive. In this idealized view,
[t]he individual is born into the region and remains with it, physically and mentally, since there is little in-or out-migration by isolated
persons and families … An intimate symbiotic relationship between
man and land develops over many centuries, one that creates indigenous modes of thought and action, a distinctive visible landscape, and a
form of human ecology specific to the locality. (Zelinsky 1973: 110)
Geographers’ focus on regions and regional exceptionalism mirrors dialectologists’ work of the period in the Linguistic Atlas of the United States
and Canada projects. (See Chapter 11.) Geographers’ idealization was the
sort of region around which isoglosses could be drawn and which could
be identified with a single, labeled dialect such as “North Midland” or
“Coastal Southern.” It was the sort of region in which the ideal informant would be the most traditional and the least mobile, since this would
be the person most likely to embody “indigenous modes of thought and
action.” Linguistic atlas fieldworkers tried to find people who had been
born in the area they were studying and had lived there almost uninterruptedly. Because the US atlas projects were modeled on the European
dialectologists’ attempt to collect folk speech, the preference was for the
oldest rural settlements, though cities were also included. Informants
were classified into three groups by their level of education, how much
they read, and how much contact they had with people from elsewhere.
(These groups usually also corresponded with age groups, as the oldest
informants would be the least “cultured” and have the least education.)
Like the European dialect atlas projects, the North American projects
both drew on and perpetuated a number of ideas about place and its
relationship to language. As pointed out above, mapping in general and
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isoglosses in particular suggest that dialects areas are analogous to political divisions, particularly if the maps do not represent the topographical features (rivers, mountains, and such) that may actually have more
to do with regional linguistic variation. They also encourage people to
think that dialect areas have unambiguous, sharp boundaries, and that
each region has a named regional dialect. This idea continues to affect
how laypeople (and sometimes linguists as well) imagine the relationship between language forms and places. While laypeople’s discourse
about language often links “non-standard” forms to sloppiness or a lack
of education, variant forms that are not non-standard often get linked
to the place where they were heard or the place where the speaker grew
up. Popular talk about talk thus often links variant forms that are widespread in the USA to very specific localities, as when, for example, the
widespread Midland needs + past participle construction is claimed as
“a Pittsburgh thing” (Johnstone 2005). The maps in the Dictionary of
American Regional English (Cassidy 1985, 1991, 1996; Hall 2003), a similar
project but limited to vocabulary, divide the USA into states. This suggests that these political boundaries have a great deal more to do with
lexical variation than they do, an idea that is reflected (and perpetuated)
in the many internet spaces where people discuss how Californians talk
or what words and phrases you have to know or use in order to count as
an authentic New Jerseyite.
The choice of non-mobile, often rural informants also helped perpetuate the idea of the traditional region in which people live in a “symbiotic relationship” with the physical environment and the idea that the
most authentic dialect speakers are people who use or remember the
oldest words or variants. Furthermore, the fact that so many of the dialect atlas informants were rural meant that linguistic variation in cities
was more difficult to see than variation in the country. The rural slant
of the projects also means that it is often difficult to use them to trace
the history of urban forms. For example, the Dialect Atlas of the Middle
and North Atlantic States (McDavid & O’Cain 1980) provides no evidence
from before 1900 of the Pittsburgh area’s characteristic monophthongal
/aw/, but since the dialect atlas informants from the Pittsburgh area were
almost all rural, it is impossible to tell whether nobody used the form or
whether only city dwellers did (Johnstone, Bhasin & Wittkofski 2002).
Because of the expense of the research, and because social and geographical mobility has made it increasingly difficult to identify regional
speech forms, the Linguistic Atlas of the US and Canada has never been
completed. But the maps, worksheets, recordings, and databases that
resulted from the completed surveys are still in use, now assembled by
William Kretzschmar, archived at the University of Georgia, and available online (http://us.english.uga.edu). Computer technology has made
new kinds of mapping possible, and new questions are being asked about
the atlas materials.
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12.4 Place as a social fact in the study of
innovation diffusion
After World War II, physical and human geography became increasingly divorced, as human geography adopted the goals and methods of
the newly prestigious social sciences. Geographers developed abstract
models of spatial patterns and flows of goods and people, positing, for
example, that people invariably try to minimize the distance they have
to travel (Rogers 1983). Statistical and mathematical procedures were
favored for arriving at generalizations about the effects of essential characteristics of human behavior, such as the supposedly universal drive
toward social equilibrium and homogeneity (later challenged by Marxist
theory). This era also marks the development of Labovian quantitative
sociolinguistics, distinguished from traditional dialectology by its scientific character and motivated by the search for the underlying “order” in
heterogeneity and for universal facts about language change. Modeling
their work on Labov’s, many sociolinguists turned their attention away
from regional dialectology, focusing instead on cities and on how demographic groupings such as socioeconomic class, sex, age, and race were
related to patterns of variation and change.
In attempts to model and quantify the spread of linguistic forms and
practices, however, quantitative sociolinguists have drawn on models of
spatial flow and diffusion from quantitative human geography. The most
influential model from the point of view of sociolinguistics has been that
of Torsten Hägerstrand ([1953] 1967). Hägerstrand’s “location theory” is
concerned with the simulation and modeling of processes of change across
space. The theory has been tested on various patterns of change, including
the spread of disease. In Hägerstrand’s view, “innovation spreads in a community through a network of face-to-face interpersonal communication
such that the likelihood of adoption at a given site is higher when it is close
to a site of previous adoption” (Yapa 1996: 238). The assumption underlying
this model is that interaction becomes less frequent as a function of distance. Diffusion can also be blocked by such things as economic and class
differences or geographical factors that make face-to-face communication
less likely. There are also amplifiers of diffusion, such as tightly knit social
networks or population density. In general, according to Rogers (1983),
the factors that influence diffusion across space include the phenomenon
itself (for a phonological change, this might include whether it is a merger
or a split), communicative networks, distance, time, and social structure.
One effect of the need for face-to-face interaction is that innovations can
either move from cities to suburbs to rural areas in a wave-like pattern, or
bypass the rural areas near cities, “cascading” as if through gravitational
pull to further-away urban centers where city dwellers are more likely to
have contacts. Both are types of “hierarchical” diffusion, models of the
spread of change that begins in “central places.”
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Hägerstrand’s model of the diffusion of change was first adopted in
sociolinguistics by Trudgill (1974b). (See Chambers & Trudgill 1998:
Ch. 11 for an overview of this work.) Trudgill modeled the diffusion of
change from London to East Anglia in the UK using Hägerstrand’s gravity
model. Callary (1975) used the model in a study of the spread of an urban
speech form from Chicago to other areas in Illinois, USA. Frazer (1983)
and Bailey et al. (1993) have used elements of location theory to account
for “contra-hierarchical” patterns of change. Such patterns can be seen
when change diffuses from rural to urban areas, often in connection
with the reassertion of traditional identity in the face of in-migration
from elsewhere. Horvath and Horvath (2001), also drawing on location
theory, note the difference between “space effects” (such as distance)
and “place effects” (the roles of particular urban areas) in the spread of
/l/ vocalization in Australia and New Zealand. In a study of the spread
of changes across political borders (from the USA to Canada), Boberg
(2000) discovered that a national border could block or slow the spread of
innovative forms, because it is a barrier to face-to-face interaction.
In the work of Trudgill, Boberg, and others, place, defined in terms of
its physical or political boundaries, serves as an independent variable:
the location of a subset of the research population is hypothesized to
predict how far advanced that group will be in a particular change in
progress. Many other sociolinguists also think of place in physical or
political terms as a “social fact” about speakers. When place is not one of
the independent variables in the study, it often serves as a way to organize the target population as the study is designed. Variationists interested in sampling across a range of social classes or racial groups may, for
example, choose people in several different neighborhoods, using neighborhood as a rough gauge of class or race. A phonological atlas of US
English (Labov, Ash & Boberg 2005) sampled from a set of “metropolitan
statistical areas” defined by the US Census Bureau. Like their age or sex,
people’s place is thought to be an objective fact about them: someone is
from Newcastle or New York if he or she was born there or if he or she
resides there (depending on the sampling technique). The sense in which
one’s place of birth or residence can be meaningful in different ways to
different people – the ways in which it might matter whether one was
a “real” Geordie, or a “native” New Yorker as opposed to a newcomer –
often do not come into the picture.
12.5 Place as discourse, place as experience:
newer paradigms
The 1960s and 1970s saw increasing mistrust of social-scientific method
in geography and the social theory underlying it. For one thing, geographers skeptical of the static, consensual quality of social-scientific models
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began to explore Marxist and neo-Marxist social theory, with its focus on
struggle and change and on the competing pulls of social structure and
human agency. Humanistic geographers explored the phenomenology
of place, describing human interactions with the environment from the
humans’ perspective. Feminist geographers broadened the discussion of
competing social forces beyond the political and economic, calling attention to the multiple ways in which individuals can be socially positioned
at different times and in different situations. Human geography is now
increasingly allied with cultural studies and the humanities, exploring
such issues as the politics of the representation of place, human-designed
landscapes and other ways in which space is regimented, and how ideas
about the meanings of place circulate in discourse. Sociolinguists have
taken similar directions, examining how physical spaces shape social
spaces, and vice versa; how place and “place identity” are created and
reflected in discourse; and how people’s phenomenal experience of place
may shape their linguistic behavior and ideology, sometimes in shared
and sometimes in idiosyncratic ways.
12.5.1 Physical environments and social environments
One influential line of work in sociolinguistics takes ideas about physical
space a step further, exploring how speakers’ physical environment can
shape patterns of change by shaping how people interact. Beginning in
the 1980s, Lesley Milroy and James Milroy (1985; Milroy 1987a) brought
social network theory (borrowed from sociology) to bear on sociolinguistic issues. They explored how the multiplexity and density of speakers’
social relations (that is, how many people they interacted with and in
how many different ways) could account for the degree to which local
linguistic forms were maintained. People with relatively many contacts
with neighbors (such that the people they lived near were also the people
they worked, played, and worshipped with) and relatively few contacts
with outsiders would be more likely to keep using the local forms their
neighbors used, because they would be less likely to be exposed to innovative forms and more likely to be exposed repeatedly to local ones, in settings where sounding like an outsider would be disfavored. This helps
explain how socioeconomic class affects language change: at least in
the settings that have been the focus of study, working-class people are
more likely to participate in the dense, multiplex social networks that
inhibit change and enforce conformity with local norms. It also points
to how class-linked differences in physical environment can shape patterns of variation and change. In Belfast, the working-class people Lesley
Milroy studied lived in neighborhoods of densely packed row houses
within walking distance of their workplaces. Sectarian conflict between
Catholics and Protestants meant that some neighborhoods were isolated
by fences and sandbags, or by unmarked but clearly understood political
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boundaries. These facts about the built physical environment are conducive to the formation of tightly knit social networks.
David Britain (1991; 2002: 612–13) shows how physical geography, cultural landscape, and social location can come together to encourage linguistic differentiation. In the English Fens, there is a bundle of isoglosses
that separates the area around Wisbech and the area around King’s Lynn.
The two towns are physically remote, and, in part due to the marshy
physical terrain, the area between them is sparsely populated. Bus routes
connect towns to the west of the dialect boundary with Wisbech and
towns to the east with King’s Lynn. Thus, the built environment, reflecting human interaction with the physical world, also serves to separate
the areas. Further, people think of the two areas as different. Residents
of one area hold negative stereotypes of residents of the other, and the
two areas are often rivals. Partly as a result of these patterns and partly
shaping them, people’s everyday activities – shopping and visiting, for
example – are oriented to one or the other of the two towns.
12.5.2 Place, discourse, and variation
Another strand of work on language and place focuses on the ways in
which physical spaces become relevant and meaningful as human places.
Taken together, this research explores the dialectical relationship
between physical space and meaningful place: spaces become human
places partly through talk, and the meanings of places shape how people
talk. “Discourse” in this sense refers to talk, writing, and other practices
involving language, as well as to the ideology that is produced and reinforced through talk. In other words, it is through ways of talking that
arise from and evoke particular linked sets of ideas that people come
to share or attempt to impose ideas about what places mean and how to
behave in them.
Some of this work explores how “place identity” is both reflected and
claimed in the phonological details of talk. Low and Lawrence-Zúñiga
(2003: 24) define place identity as social identity “articulated in terms of
place or a specific site.” Eckert (1996, 2000, 2004) showed how teens in
Detroit can adopt a social persona that links them to the city rather than
the school. This identity is linked with a style of talking and other modes
of behaving that orient them to the local environment rather than the
institution represented by the school. Thus, the “Burnouts” in the high
school Eckert studied participate in activities that include both cruising the streets of Detroit and speaking with an accent associated with
urbanness, raising (ae) to [e] and shifting (e) toward [] and () toward [].
In a similar study, but with a focus on rural rather than urban identities,
Rose and Hall-Lew (2004) explored features connected with farming
and ranching practice in Arizona (western USA) and Wisconsin (northcentral USA), respectively. A different approach is represented in Hazen
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(2000), who used “local identity” and “expanded identity” as variables
in a quantitative study of Warren County, North Carolina. Hazen found
that speakers who “do not identify with cultural characteristics outside
the county” (p. 127) are likely to use local non-standard variants more
and to shift styles less than do expanded-identity speakers.
Other research has suggested that speakers confronted with social and
economic change may use features associated with a traditional place
identity as a way to resist change or reformulate its meaning. They explore
how dialect leveling can appear to be counteracted by the reassertion of
older speech variants, at least in relatively performed speech (SchillingEstes 2002b), and how forms once associated with migrants’ place of
origin can be repurposed as markers of their new locality (Dyer 2002).
Coupland (2001b), Johnstone (1999), and others have explored how place
identity can be evoked through the use of regional dialect features in
more self-conscious, strategic ways. Complicating these issues, Johnstone
and Kiesling (2008) compare the results of a perception task exploring
whether Pittsburghers hear monophthongal /aw/ (a feature that occurs
almost exclusively in the Pittsburgh area) as local-sounding with analyses of the same speakers’ usage of monophthongal /aw/ in interview
speech. Their results show that Pittsburghers to whom monophthongal
/aw/ sounds local are unlikely to have this feature in their own speech.
This calls into question the assumption that speech features that can be
heard in a particular place are necessarily meaningful indexes of the
place and points to the need to attend even more carefully than we have
to the details of how social meanings get attached to linguistic forms.
Discourse analysts have explored how storytelling and other genres of
discourse can evoke and shape the meanings of places and ways of speaking, encouraging people to experience them the same way and learn the
same lessons from them. Johnstone (1990) used a corpus of personalexperience stories by people from a Midwestern US city, together with
newspaper reports about a disastrous flood there, to show how storytelling can create as well as reflect a sense of place-based community. Both
the themes and the style of Fort Wayers’ stories serve to reproduce and
reinforce local norms for behavior and to display normatively appropriate local knowledge, and newspaper accounts of the flood shift over time
from factual reports in which individuals figure as characters to highly
dramatized, myth-like discourse in which the city is represented as the
protagonist in a battle against the now-personified flood. Modan (2007)
analyzed talk among neighbors at meetings and written documents,
such as a grant proposal, to explore the “senses of place” of residents
of a multiethnic neighborhood in Washington, DC. In this gentrifying
neighborhood, confl icting ideas about proper behavior in various places
(making music on the street, for example) feed into covertly political
debates about who really belongs there: the older, poorer, immigrant
population or the newer, wealthier whites. For Modan, “turf wars” are
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struggles over the right to define the meanings of places. In a study based
on interviews with visitors to the Peak Park in England, McCabe and
Stokoe (2004) found that visitors’ stories served to distinguish between
“good” places (isolated, distant, empty) and “bad” ones (crowded, full of
temporary urban tourists). They point out that “[s]tories of place therefore become stories of morality” (Benwell & Stokoe 2006: 218).
On a more micro-analytical level, Myers (2006) explores how participants in focus groups answer the question “Where are you from?” Myers
finds that people often revise their answers in response to questions
or comments from fellow participants. “Formulating place” (Schegloff
1972) is thus seen to be an interactive, rhetorical task, a process that is
not well represented by the way place is treated in most social-science
research. Pagliai (2003) shows how Tuscans use a speech genre they call
“contrasto” – a kind of dialogue duel in song and poetry – to link people
with places. As places are named, evoked in metaphors, and hinted at,
places and place identities are constructed, revised, linked, and displayed. Paglai’s work calls attention to the way place identity can be
publicly performed.
As Modan’s study makes clear, economic change and social processes
associated with it make the meanings of place debatable. Gentrification,
migration, colonization, urban redevelopment, and the like complicate
the meaning of questions like “Where are you?” or “Where are you
from?” Anna De Fina (2003) explores one effect of economic globalization in her research on undocumented immigrants in the United States.
Models of narrative like that of Labov (1972) are based on the assumption that people are typically able to “orient” their listeners to place and
movement through it. But undocumented immigrants’ stories of “crossing borders” are often characterized by disorientation, as the narrators
characterize themselves as being out of place and time, out of control.
Returning to the topic of linguistic variation and change, recent
work on the “enregistration” (Agha 2003) of dialects explores how sets
of linguistic forms that are hearable or visible in an area can coalesce,
in people’s minds, into “dialects,” and how dialects get linked with cities and regions. In Pittsburgh, economic decline starting in the 1960s
and reaching its nadir in the 1980s caused people to become aware that
they spoke with an accent. Pittsburghers travelling elsewhere for leisure or, increasingly, for permanent work encountered people who told
them they sounded different and used different words. At the same
time, demographic change caused people to look for new symbols of
Pittsburgh place identity. Many members of the generation of workingclass Pittsburghers coming of age in the 1980s were the grandchildren
of immigrant steelworkers. No longer speaking the homeland language
or identifying with the homeland religion, they began to develop class
and regional consciousness – and the features of local speech which
they could hear were available as a way of indexing these new identities.
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Johnstone and her colleagues have explored how the links between local
speech and local identity have been forged through discursive practices
like newspaper feature-writing (Johnstone, Bhasin &Wittkofski 2002),
the telling of travel stories (Johnstone 2005), and nostalgic online chat
(Johnstone & Baumgardt 2004), and what is happening as a new generation of Pittsburghers, who no longer speak with strong local accents,
begin to perform and refer to a subset of local speech features to evoke
a new post-industrial urban identity (Johnstone, Andrus & Danielson
2006).
Beal (1999) explores the history of the social evaluation of features
of Northumbrian or “Geordie” speech. The distinctive pronunciation
of /r/ called the “burr” has been remarked on for centuries, associated
by Shakespeare with the Northumbrian Hotspur and thus with royalty
and the “antiquity” of Northumbrians’ blood. Despite this positive evaluation, this feature has disappeared in urban Newcastle speech. Beal suggests that this is because it was associated with the area rather than
with the city. Also the subject of longtime stereotyping is the unshifted
Middle English /u:/ in the class of words that includes town, brown, and
out. Unlike the burr, this feature is negatively evaluated, but it is linked
with local urban identity. In part because of its negative associations, the
feature is on the whole becoming less common as people in Newcastle
adopt a more regional, less local way of speaking. But Beal shows that
the feature has been “lexicalized” – confined, that is, to words like toon
in The Toon (Newcastle United Football Club) and broon, in “Newcastle
Brown Ale.” Here, then, is one way in which meta-discourse about dialect
can affect language change; unlike many other negatively stereotyped
features, ones linked with place identity can be preserved, if only in a
small set of words.
Also interrogating how the people we study themselves imagine dialects and places, Wolfram (2004), for example, discusses what characterizes “remnant dialects” and “isolated speech communities.” He suggests
that “isolation” is not simply a result of topography; rather, “locally constructed identity plays an important role in the development and maintenance of peripheral dialects.” Some aspects of dialect distinctiveness
may in fact become more rather than less marked when “isolated” people
encounter outsiders, because they may feel the need to differentiate
themselves linguistically.
12.5.3
Experiencing variation: linguistic landscapes
and soundscapes
In a book called The Betweenness of Place, geographer N. J. Entrikin (1991)
explores how places, in modern life, are always both physical and experiential. In other words, people’s experience of place is shaped both by
physical characteristics of the environment and by the ways in which
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individuals experience the environment. For example, two people living
in a town surrounded by mountains may share a physical environment.
But depending on the circulating discourses to which they are exposed
as well as other, even more particular aspects of their life histories, they
may experience the mountains in different ways. One of these people
might have grown up hearing the town characterized as remote and provincial, being told how important it would be to see the wider, more
interesting world, experiencing the mountains as places for enforced
Girl Scout hikes and icy winter roads that made travel treacherous. She
might experience the mountains as a cage or a trap. She might notice
how dark they look in winter. After trips to more open country, she might
notice that, at home, you could never see the horizon. To the other person, growing up in a family that had lived in the valley for generations,
never planning to leave, experiencing the mountains as a source of deer
and turkey and hunting as an essential rite of maleness, the mountains
might seem comforting. He might remember not their darkness on winter
drives, but their dramatic fall colors during autumn hunts.
Geography in this “humanistic” tradition focuses on “the perspective
of experience” (Tuan 1977) in the study of space and place. Geographers
like Entrikin, Tuan, and Buttimer (1993) explore how people experience places, both as immediate everyday experiences (smells, sights,
sounds, tastes, and textures) and in more abstract ways shaped by the
shared discourses about their meanings that are reproduced in things
like atlases, geography textbooks, and histories. As Robert Mugerauer
points out, dialect can be one facet of this experience, for some people
(Mugerauer 1985). And, just as with mountains, different people in the
same physical environment experience linguistic variation in ways that
are constrained both by what is locally visible and hearable and by more
particular aspects of individual experience.
Several strands of sociolinguistic research also draw on the sense that
people’s experiences of place make a difference. One of these is research
on “linguistic landscapes.” Much of this research is based on a 1997
study by social psychologists Landry and Bourhis entitled “Linguistic
Landscape and Ethnolinguistic Vitality: An Empirical Study” (Landry &
Bourhis 1977). Landry and Bourhis define linguistic landscape (LL) as
“the language of public road signs, advertising billboards, street names,
place names, commercial shop signs, and public signs on government
buildings” (p. 25). Interest in the LL emerged in the 1970s and 1980s in
the field of language planning, where practitioners began to recognize
the importance of making the boundaries of linguistic territories visible
by regulating the languages used on public signs and in place-names.
Landry and Bourhis conducted a factor-analysis study of tests and questionnaires administered in several bilingual areas. The analysis supported their hypothesis that “the more the in-group language is used
on government and private signs, the more individuals will perceive
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the in-group to have high E[thnolinguistic] V[itality]” (Landry & Bourhis
1977: 35).
In his introduction to a collection of papers about linguistic landscapes
in Israel, Thailand, Japan, Friesland in the Netherlands, and the Basque
Country in Spain, Durk Gorter (2006) points out that growing interest in
this area results partly from the availability of inexpensive digital cameras that allow researchers to collect data at minimal cost and archive and
sort them easily on computers. Taking Landry and Bourhis’ fi nding that
linguistic landscapes make a difference as a starting point, the papers
in this volume expand on it. Ben-Rafael et al. (2006) suggest that linguistic landscapes can be seen in terms of the “symbolic construction of the
public space,” where rational considerations affecting what languages
are used must be balanced with self-presentational factors and considerations of power (see also Backhaus’ [2006] chapter on multilingual signs in
Japan). Huebner (2006) studies private-sector signs as well as governmentsponsored ones in a variety of Bankok neighborhoods, exploring the
effects of English even in Thai-language signs (which sometimes use the
Roman alphabet, for example). Cenoz and Gorter (2006) compare the prepresentation of minority languages on signs in two places with different
official policies with regard to these languages.
Broader approaches to the experience of language in the landscape are
represented in the work of Kress and van Leeuwen (2001) and Scollon and
Scollon (2003). Both come to the issue not through an interest in language
policy and planning but through an interest in semiosis (meaningmaking) more generally, and both are concerned with multi-modality –
how discourse in other modes interacts with discourse in language.
Kress’s larger context is that of “social semiotics”; he is interested in such
things as the relative placement of images in a picture or the relationship
of pictures to text, and his approach to explaining their effects draws
on systemic-functional linguistic theory and sociological theories about
how power is claimed and maintained in discourse. Scollon and Scollon
call their framework “geosemiotics,” or “the study of the social meaning
of the material placement of signs and discourses and of our actions in
the material world” (2003: 2). In other words, they are interested in how
the particular geographical site of a message or an interaction and the
particular time at which it happens affect its meaning.
Experiences of language and place also occur in the mediated environment of television. Jaworski et al. (2003), for example, examined the uses
of languages other than English on British TV shows about travel. In general, they found, English was represented as a global language. Although
reporters sometimes began conversations with foreign locals in the local
langage, they soon switched to English. Foreign languages represented
were “reduced to the status of a handful of fixed phrases found in guidebook glossaries and exoticized linguascapes” (p. 5). Findings such as
these have clear implications for language planning and policy, since
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217
representations of the utility of languages affect people’s willingness to
learn and use them. They also show, once again, that the relationship
between language and place is complex and multifaceted. Linguistic
difference, the topic of sociolinguistics, is not just a result of physical
distance or topography, as we once imagined. Rather, language is linked
with place, or not, though ideas about what language, languages, varieties, and places mean, and these ideas are produced and circulated in
talk and taken up in individuals’ experience of the linguistic landscapes
they encounter.
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13
Language, gender,
and sexuality
Natalie Schilling
13.1
Introduction
The relationship between gender and language has long been a matter
of great interest for the general public as well as researchers in fields
ranging from cultural studies to psychology to neurology to, of course,
sociolinguistics. While popular conceptualizations of gender and its relation to language are grounded in a fairly clear-cut dichotomy between
males and females, decades of scholarship on language and gender, and
indeed gender more generally, has revealed that the reality is much more
complex and that not only is there no simple division between women’s
language use and men’s, but even the division of people into two clearcut sex/gender groups is a drastic oversimplification.
Because scholarly and popular conceptualizations of sex and gender
can be widely divergent, it is important at the outset to define some basic
concepts and terms. Though many people use the terms gender and sex
synonymously, sociolinguistic and other researchers separate the two.
Gender is conceived as a complex sociocultural and socio-psychological
construct that is not reducible simply to biological or physiological sex.
While gender is often held to be grounded in biological sex (though this
assumption is now being questioned; see, e.g., Cameron 2005), gender
also has to do with matters such as social and economic roles and relations (including, crucially, power relations), conceptualizations of masculinity and femininity, and often also with sexual orientation and sexual
identity. In recent years, “language and sexuality” has emerged as a field
of study in its own right, though there has been much debate over what
exactly a study of “sexuality” should focus on. In particular, researchers
have deliberated whether the focus should be on sexual identity, largely
conceived in sociocultural terms (e.g. gay), or desire and eroticism, which
are seen by researchers such as Cameron and Kulick (2003; Kulick 2000)
as more internal and psychological and as lying at the real heart of
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“sexuality.” However, Bucholtz and Hall (2004a) argue convincingly that
sexuality is no more asocial than gender and that both are inseparable
from matters of power. For the purposes of this chapter, we will follow
Bucholtz and Hall in treating sexuality and gender as intricately intertwined social and psychological constructs and will touch only briefly
on studies focused more closely on language and desire (for more on this
topic, see Kulick 2000; Wong 2005; Queen 2007).
This chapter provides an overview of theoretical approaches and
important studies in language, gender, and sexuality, beginning with
early approaches in which gender and sex were seen as roughly equivalent, essential attributes (as in today’s popular imagination), and questions concerning the interrelation of language and gender were focused
on male–female language differences. Gradually, though, the focus shifts
to viewing gender not as an attribute but as an interactional achievement, as a performance rather than a “given,” as an enactment that
can manifest itself differently in different cultures, communities, subcommunities, and even individuals, whether over the course of the life
span or across and within everyday interactions. This movement from
simple female–male difference to gender diversity (e.g. Cameron 2005)
leads to more focus on differences within traditionally conceived gender groups (i.e. male, female), as well as the linguistic practices of nonmainstream groups and individuals (e.g. gays, lesbians, an individual
African-American drag queen [Barrett 1995], etc.). Further, a focus on
performance shifts the linguistic focus from correlations between language and social categories (e.g. “women’s language,” “gay English”) to
how people use language in enacting gender and sexuality.
The shift from searching for correlations between linguistic features
and pre-existing gender identities to viewing gender as emergent in interaction (and, crucially, linguistic discourse) is in keeping with the more
general movement in the social sciences and humanities toward social
constructionist views of all facets of personal/interpersonal identity (e.g.
Eckert & McConnell-Ginet 1992; Schilling-Estes 2002a; Cameron 2005;
Bucholtz & Hall 2006). In viewing identity as a construct rather than an
attribute, it is important to bear in mind that people are not completely
free to construct any sorts of identities they choose or use any language
features whatsoever to do so. Rather, and this may be especially true of
gender identities, people are creative, but they are also constrained by
social forces, including the pervasive force of societal norms, expectations, and stereotypes for “appropriate” gender roles and gender/sexual
relations. In particular, we are all constrained to some degree by the
“heteronormativity” that pervades society (arguably globally) – that is,
the (usually unnoticed) assumption that the normal gender order comprises heterosexual males and females who behave in normative ways
(e.g. men act masculine, women act feminine; see, e.g., Cameron 2005;
Cameron & Kulick 2003). Any other identity, practice, or desire falls
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NATALIE SCHILLING
outside this norm and thus is “queered” (e.g. Bucholtz & Hall 2004a, 2006;
Cameron 2005). Hence, our studies should, and indeed now do, investigate not only speakers’ agentive construction of gendered selves but also
the omnipresent influence of heteronormativity on these constructions.
In this regard, sociolinguistic studies of language, gender, and sexuality align themselves with feminist and queer theories, and we can even
speak of a “queer linguistics,” which Bucholtz and Hall define as “an
approach to language and sexuality that incorporates insights from feminist, queer, and sociolinguistic theories to analyze sexuality as a broad
sociocultural phenomenon” (2004a: 469).
13.2
Approaches to language and gender studies
The sociolinguistic study of language and gender traditionally was
characterized as falling into one of three approaches or theories: deficit, difference, and dominance. Briefly, deficit-based approaches hold
that women’s linguistic usages are inferior to and usually indicative
of “weakness.” For example, as discussed in more detail below, it has
been claimed that women demonstrate linguistic weakness (whether
grounded in inherent biological weakness or their historically societally
weaker position) through such arguably “weak” linguistic features as
hedges, tag questions, and indirect requests and commands. Differencebased approaches hold that women and men comprise separate subcultures and that it is early enculturation rather than inherent weakness
or other essential characteristics that accounts for women’s different
language usages. Dominance-based approaches focus on women’s relative powerlessness vis-à-vis men in describing and explaining women’s
vs. men’s language. However, in the past couple of decades, researchers
have come to realize that the three approaches are by no means readily separable and, further, that all are grounded in the assumption of a
simple female–male dichotomy and, correspondingly, a search for general (perhaps universal) patterns of male–female language difference, as
well as universal explanations for these differences. Further, as noted
above, difference-based approaches increasingly are being superseded by
approaches focusing on diversity, whether among heterosexual women
or men, or among the myriad other gender/sexual identities and roles
that people perform and are cast into by others. Thus, Cameron (2005)
suggests that language and gender research might be more succinctly
divided into difference vs. diversity approaches rather than the traditional tripartite division. In order to understand the foundations of
our current thinking on language and gender, however, it is important
to understand earlier conceptualizations, and so we begin within the
framework of the traditional divisions, though we quickly move into the
many ways in which the three approaches overlap.
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We might also divide studies of language and gender into those growing out of variation analysis (Labovian sociolinguistics), with its focus
on the quantitative investigation of the patterning of phonological and
morphosyntactic variation across and within regional and social dialects, and those stemming from the qualitative study of lexical items and
pragmatics, or language use. Again, though, in recent decades researchers increasingly are combining approaches, and more and more studies
incorporate both quantitative and qualitative study. In this regard, the
Community of Practice, introduced into sociolinguistics from practice
theory (Lave & Wenger 1991; Wenger 1998) by Eckert and McConnellGinet (1992), has become essential in language and gender studies and is
seen as the nexus between “big picture” patterns of variation and the use
of particular variants in localized discoursal interactions.
13.3 Early approaches: “female deficit”
13.3.1 “Women’s language”: lexical and pragmatic features
The modern sociolinguistic study of language and gender begins with
the publication of Robin Lakoff’s groundbreaking work Language and
Woman’s Place, first published in article form in 1973 and later in book
form in 1975. It is a testament to the enduring significance of Lakoff’s
work that the book also appears in revised and expanded form (Bucholtz
2004b), with commentaries by Lakoff and other leading scholars in the
study of language, gender, and sexuality. In her work, Lakoff outlines
lexical and pragmatic features of so-called “women’s language,” among
them, precise color terms (e.g. mauve, magenta), “empty” adjectives (e.g.
divine, cute), high-rising terminal (question) intonation on declaratives
(e.g. What’s your name? Mary Smith? [Lakoff 2004: 78]), and use of tag questions (e.g. It’s hot in here, isn’t it?). She also notes that women tend to use
“hypercorrect” grammar, including standard pronunciations such as
going rather than goin’ and avoidance of non-standard forms like ain’t.
Lakoff holds that women’s language as she describes it is “weaker” than
men’s, and so she is often characterized as taking a “deficit” approach.
However, she does indicate that women’s weaker linguistic usages are
due to women’s societal powerlessness rather than inherent sex-based
inferiority of some kind, and so we already see that “deficit” and “dominance” views are by no means nearly separable.
Despite the importance of Lakoff’s work, it has been criticized on a
number of grounds, including its supposed emphasis on deficit, and its
reliance on introspective methodology rather than empirical study, with
critics readily demonstrating that not all women use “women’s language”
and that men too use “women’s” linguistic features. However, Lakoff
herself was well aware that women’s language as she described it represented a widespread societal belief or ideology rather than an empirical
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NATALIE SCHILLING
reality that held for all women and all men, and she viewed her work as a
starting point for further study, including empirical research testing her
claims, not as the last word on the subject. In addition, Lakoff’s impressionistic methodology is entirely consistent with her training in generative syntax and, as scholars such as Bucholtz and Hall (1995), Bucholtz
(2004a), and Leap (2004) note, introspective methodologies also prefigure
later research approaches in a range of fields, including sociolinguistics,
that move away from strictly “objective” approaches toward those focusing on or at least recognizing researcher subjectivity. Further, Lakoff
herself points out that just as with introspective methods in generative
grammar, introspection yields information and insights impossible to
obtain via empirical observation, for example insight into features that
cannot be used or ideas that cannot be expressed by subordinate groups,
as well as insight into deep-seated sexist ideologies and practices that
go unnoticed by both subordinate and dominant groups (Lakoff 2004:
19–28).
Just as Lakoff intended, her work indeed inspired numerous empirical studies of female–male language differences, some verifying her
claims and others refuting them. For example, while some investigations showed women using more tag questions than men in certain contexts (e.g. Crosby & Nyquist 1977), others showed men using more tags
(e.g. Dubois & Crouch 1975). Hence, scholars came to the realization that
seemingly universal patterns of gender-based language difference really
aren’t universal at all, even in the white middle-class US culture upon
which Lakoff based her judgments. Rather, they are highly dependent
on contextual factors such as what sort of speech event is taking place
(e.g. family dinner table conversation vs. business meeting), who is participating (e.g. all women or both sexes), and what sorts of other demographic and hierarchical relations are coming into play (e.g. supervisor
vs. assistant). Further, it is crucial to realize that the social meanings
attached to language forms are also highly dependent on context (e.g.
on who is uttering them and in what situation) as well as interpretation
(e.g. Tannen 1993: 165–88). Hence, one might be tempted to maintain
that tag questions are indicative of linguistic weakness since they imply
that the speaker needs to seek confirmation from the hearer, even of the
speaker’s own internal states (e.g. It’s hot in here, isn’t it?). However, tag
questions can just as readily be interpreted as interactional facilitators,
since they may serve to draw listeners into conversation, or even as tools
to enhance a confrontational tone (e.g. You do realize you’re late again, don’t
you?). Similarly, although high-rising terminal intonation on declaratives
may be interpreted as markers of deference to the hearer (i.e. as “negative politeness” markers [Brown & Levinson 1987]), studies of their quantitative patterning have indicated that they function chiefly as markers
of positive politeness in some contexts and cultural settings (e.g. New
Zealand and Australia; see Britain 1992), since they can also serve to
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create common ground between speakers and hearers and to heighten
listener engagement in conversation.
13.3.2 Gender-based patterns of phonological
and morphosyntactic variation
While Lakoff’s work sparked many studies of female–male language
differences in lexical and pragmatic usages, variationist sociolinguistic
studies have revealed gender/sex-based differences in the patterning of
phonological and morphosyntactic features since the inception of the
field. In many cases, these studies verified Lakoff’s assertion that women
use higher levels of standard features than men. Interestingly, though,
variationist investigations also showed a seemingly opposing pattern:
at the same time that women use more standard (hence, conservative)
forms than men, women are also usually the innovators of linguistic
change.1 These findings are encapsulated in three of Labov’s principles
regarding language change and gender (2001):
Principle 2: The Linguistic Conformity of Women: For stable sociolinguistic variables, women show a lower rate of stigmatized variants and
a higher rate of prestige variants than men (p. 266).
Principle 3: In linguistic change from above [the level of consciousness], women adopt prestige forms at a higher rate than men (p. 274).
Principle 4: In linguistic change from below, women use higher frequencies of innovative forms than men do (p. 292).2
There are many examples that illustrate Principle 2, including studies
of English-speaking communities across the world that show women
and girls using higher levels of the standard pronunciation of the - ing
suffi x (as in swimming) and men and boys using higher levels of nonstandard - in’, as in swimmin’ (e.g. Fischer 1958 for New England schoolchildren; Trudgill 1974a for Norwich, England; Horvath 1985 for Sydney,
Australia). Principle 3 is illustrated, for example, in Labov’s classic study
of the Lower East Side of New York City (1966b), in which he finds that
women show higher usage levels for incoming prestigious “r-ful” pronunciations and men using higher levels of traditional but now stigmatized
r-less pronunciation, as in [pa:k] for park or [] for other. Illustrations
of Principle 4 can be found as far back as the earliest dialect surveys
(e.g. Gauchat 1905), in classic variationist studies such as Labov’s studies of New York City (1966b) and Philadelphia (e.g. 1990, 2001), and in
recent revolutionary works such as Eckert’s variationist/ethnographic
study of a Detroit-area high school, in which she shows girls leading boys
for certain changes associated with the Northern Cities Vowel Shift, for
example the fronting and raising of /æ/ and fronting of //, as in [beg] for
bag and [škago] for Chicago, respectively (e.g. Eckert 2000).
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As with Lakoff’s pioneering work, traditional variationist studies might
also be characterized as incorporating both deficit- and dominance-based
explanations for observed patterns of female–male linguistic difference.
For example, Labov (1966: 335) attributes women’s “extreme range of
stylistic variation” (e.g. very high usage levels of prestige forms in formal styles; see below) to their “linguistic insecurity,” while both he and
Trudgill (1974a) maintain that women are more prestige-conscious than
men. This concern with striving for prestige, or at least appearing prestigious (and so using prestigious language features) could be interpreted
as rooted in insecurity or in women’s relative lack of genuine power and
prestige compared with men. However, while prestige-consciousness may
explain women’s use of stable and incoming prestigious language forms,
it cannot straightforwardly account for women’s linguistic innovativeness. Labov himself concedes that women’s linguistic behavior defies
unitary explanation, as he states in his 2001 gender paradox (p. 293):
“Women conform more closely than men to sociolinguistic norms that
are overtly prescribed [i.e. standard forms, incoming prestige forms], but
conform less than men when they are not [i.e. with innovative forms
that are too new to have been accorded widely recognized prestige or
stigma].”
Further, although Labov’s general principles have proven to be fairly
widely applicable, it was evident even from the earliest variationist
investigations that not all fi ndings regarding women’s and men’s linguistic behaviors can be neatly captured in general statements. For
example, Labov (1966) and Wolfram (1969a) found different patterns of
female–male language difference in different social class groups, with
the differences between the sexes being greater in the middle groups
than the lowest and highest social classes. Similarly, in what is almost
certainly the fi rst study to describe the now widely studied Northern
Cities Vowel Shift, Fasold (1968) showed that while overall women in
Detroit showed higher usage levels for certain pronunciations associated with the shift, women in the upper-working/lower-middle classes
were in advance of both women and men in higher and lower social
classes.
Early large-scale sociolinguistic surveys also uncovered different
gender-based patterns of linguistic difference in different speech styles.
For example, Labov (1966) found that women sometimes showed higher
levels than men for prestige forms in formal styles but lower levels than
men in more casual styles (pp. 213–14; see also Labov 1990: 221–25). And
as variationists began studying a wider range of communities situated
in different cultural contexts, they found that patterns of male–female
language difference could be different across communities as well as
within communities and individuals. For example, sociolinguistic surveys of communities as different as Tokyo (Hibiya 1988) and Puerto Rico
(Lopez-Morales 1981) found no significant gender-based differences for
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the features studied, and in addition, studies of Arabic-speaking communities in the Middle East have shown men leading women in the use of
prestige forms (e.g. Modaressi 1978; Abd-el-Jawad 1987).3
13.4 Difference-based approaches
The study of linguistic differences across cultures, including differences
resulting in misunderstandings, led researchers focusing on pragmatics and discourse to propose that gender-based language differences can
also be conceptualized as cross-cultural differences (e.g. Maltz & Borker
1982). The best-known proponent of this view is probably Deborah
Tannen, whose works include not only numerous academic writings
but also several bestselling books, for example That’s Not What I Meant:
How Conversational Style Makes or Breaks Relationships (1986), and You Just
Don’t Understand: Women and Men in Conversation (1990). Tannen maintains
that men and women have very different communicative conventions
and conversational styles and that these styles are rooted in their early
socialization in same-sex play groups. Girls grow up in groups in which
the emphasis is on equality, cooperation, and friendships, and so they
develop conversational styles that are cooperative and highly interactional, with each girl encouraging the speech of others and building
on others’ communications. In addition, because close friendships are
very important for girls, their talk is focused more on feelings than
facts, and they become very attuned to the social and emotional messages behind the literal content of talk, or “metamessages.” Boys, on the
other hand, grow up in groups based on competition and hierarchy, and
so they develop styles that are competitive rather than cooperative, often
dominating conversations through long turns, interruptions, and abrupt
introduction of new topics.
The conversational differences between boys and girls carry over into
adulthood and often result in misunderstandings between men and
women. For example, a man may enter a cross-sex conversation presuming that everyone will engage equally in the conversational “competition,” while a woman in the same conversation might feel shut out by
the man’s longer turns and topic control and feel that he doesn’t want to
hear what she has to say. Conversely, a man talking to a woman might
misinterpret her use of “back channels” such as yeah, uh-uh, and I see, as
indicators of agreement rather than as devices for encouraging talk with
which she may or may not agree. Misunderstandings also arise when
women presume men are just as attuned as they to the interpersonal
metamessages behind their literal words. Thus, for example, a woman
may talk about her troubles in order to seek sympathy, while the man
she talks to hears only the literal content of what she is saying and so
offers a solution unaccompanied by words of understanding.
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Tannen’s work has been well received by general audiences, who seem
grateful for the explanations she provides for the frequent cross-sex miscommunications they experience. In addition, unlike most early scholarship on language and gender, she does not take men’s conversational
style as an unquestioned norm but rather recognizes that both men
and women are gendered, and gender socialization affects both groups’
linguistic usages. Further, Tannen encourages both women and men to
work to understand one another’s different styles rather than placing
the burden on women to interpret men’s style, or perhaps even adopt it
if they want to succeed in traditionally male realms such as the business
world. In fact, she is careful to note the positive aspects of both women’s
and men’s styles even in spheres such as the workplace (Tannen 1995).
Tannen’s work, as well as the cultural difference approach more generally, has been subject to criticism. For example, though Tannen herself
admits that her generalizations do not fit all speakers in all situations
(1990: 13–14), she has been accused of overemphasizing inter-gender differences while downplaying cross-gender similarities and intra-gender
differences. In addition, her generalizations originally were based on
only a very small segment of society: white, straight, middle-class speakers. However, it should be noted that in this regard she is no different
from other early scholars in language and gender.
The biggest concern with cultural difference-based approaches such as
Tannen’s is that they downplay the power imbalance that underlies the
different interactional styles into which boys and girls are socialized (e.g.
Henley & Kramarae 1994; Freed 2003: 701–702). It is not merely happenstance that girls are cooperative and boys competitive. Rather, boys’ and
men’s conversational dominance stems from their societal dominance,
while girls’ cooperativeness and focus on others’ needs are essential
for subordinate social groups when interacting with the superordinate
group. This is not to say that the cultural difference approach leaves no
room for issues of power: Researchers in this framework do acknowledge
that societal power differences exist and may indeed underlie some
male–female communicative differences. However, power is not their
central concern, while researchers taking a dominance-based approach
convincingly argue that it should be.
13.5 Dominance-based approaches to
language and gender
Researchers in this third framework point out that the male–female conversational differences outlined by scholars such as Maltz and Borker
(1982) and Tannen (1990) are not simply an innocent or random collection of differences but can readily be seen as rooted in men’s societal
dominance over women. Indeed, the characteristics of “female style” can
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be seen as the ones appropriate to “friendly conversation,” while those
of “male style” “indicate very uncooperative, disruptive sorts of conversational interaction” (Henley & Kramarae 1994: 391). For example, conversational aggressiveness can be seen as a “prerogative of power,” men’s
tendency to shift topics abruptly as a tendency “to ignore basic conversational rules,” and men’s advice giving (vs. women’s problem sharing) as
“[m]en’s tendency to take the mention of a problem as an opportunity to
act as experts” (Henley & Kramarae 1994: 391).
In addition to pointing out the power differential underlying men’s
and women’s different conversational styles, dominance-based researchers also note that male–female “misunderstandings” are not always
well-intentioned miscommunications but may be quite purposeful. For
example, Eckert and McConnell-Ginet (1992) suggest that when a man
making sexual advances toward a woman interprets her “no” to mean
“yes,” the man is by no means unaware of women’s different communicative style; rather, “he actively exploits his “understanding” of the
female style as different from his own – as being indirect rather than
straightforward” (p. 467) in order to give the woman’s word the meaning
he wants it to have. Men also may deliberately exploit their own linguistic usages to perpetuate their dominance. For example, Mendoza-Denton
(1995) demonstrates how the senators who conducted the Anita Hill–
Clarence Thomas hearings of October 19914 purposefully used different
strategies for questioning Hill and Thomas in order to make Thomas look
honest and confident and position Hill as uncertain and less than forthcoming. For example, the senators used significantly more simple yes/no
questions with Thomas than Hill, thus giving Thomas numerous opportunities to provide straightforward, concise answers. In contrast, with
Hill they tended to use tag questions preceded by statements laden with
presupposition (e.g. In fact, he did not ask you to have sex with him, did he?),
forcing her to give elaborate answers that included denial of the presupposition (in this case, the presupposition that Thomas did not ask Hill to
have sex with him) (p. 55). In addition, in the few cases where Hill was
given questions allowing for concise answers, the senators immediately
changed the topic (pp. 58–59). Further, they never once acknowledged
Hill’s position following her non-concise answers, though they acknowledged half of Thomas’s non-concise replies (pp. 59–60).
This is not to say that if we acknowledge the pervasive role of male
societal dominance in male–female communicative encounters, we
must maintain that men are always purposely exercising their power.
For example, Mendoza-Denton (1995) notes that whereas the senators
in the Hill–Thomas hearings left longer gaps after Thomas’s statements
than Hill’s, thereby adding weight to Thomas’s statements and obscuring Hill’s answers, their use of gap length was most likely below their
conscious awareness, though certainly their intent to make Thomas
look better than Hill was not. There are also many cases of cross-sex
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conversation in which the misunderstandings really are innocent, for
example when a wife tells her husband about a problem and he offers
advice in an honest effort to help her, even though she really wants his
sympathy. Nonetheless, the differences remain grounded in dominance
and indeed serve to perpetuate male-female power imbalances. Indeed,
linguistic domination is perhaps most insidious precisely when it is least
noticed, most accepted as normal or perhaps even natural.
Sociolinguists investigating phonological and morphosyntactic variation have also brought issues of power into their explanations for
observed patterns of gender-based language difference. For example,
in her insightful variationist/ethnographic study of a Detroit-area high
school (e.g. 1988, 1989, 2000), Eckert finds that while girls lead boys in
the use of pronunciations associated with earlier stages of the Northern
Cities Vowel Shift, for example the fronting and raising of /æ/ and fronting of // (as predicted by Labov’s Principle 4), the picture is not so neat
when it comes to newer innovations. Here we find more interaction of
gender with social group – crucially, in this case, with two locally salient
social groups, the Jocks, the students oriented toward school achievement and subsequent success in “mainstream” society (e.g. the corporate world), and the Burnouts, oriented toward urban life and resistance
to institutional engagement. Thus, with regard to newer pronunciation
changes such as the lowering and fronting of // and backing of //, we
predictably find Burnout girls leading Burnout boys but also find that
Jock girls lag behind Jock boys for these innovative usages. The overall
pattern, then, is one of a greater range of variation for girls than boys,
since there is more difference between Jock girls and Burnout girls than
the boys in the two social groups. Eckert suggests that girls (and women)
make greater use of linguistic resources than males since females must
rely on symbolic expressions of worth and symbolic means of attaining
power (i.e. “symbolic capital”), since they are denied real worth in the linguistic marketplace. In other words, it is more important for the girls in
Eckert’s study to express in-group belonging (i.e. membership in the Jock
or Burnout group) than it is for the boys, who can earn “real” positions
in either the school-centered social order (e.g. through participating in
male varsity sports) or the burnout-centered world through participation
in activities of only limited availability to girls (e.g. hanging out in dangerous neighborhoods in Detroit).
13.6 Gender diversity, gender performance
13.6.1
Localized communities, localized explanations
Eckert’s study of variation within and across locally salient social groups
demonstrates more intra-gender difference than studies based on predetermined groups, whether social class, gender, or other, and thus helps
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move us away from the presumption of a clear-cut male–female dichotomy toward approaches that are more focused on gender diversity. Other
studies that focus on locally salient social networks (e.g. Milroy 1987b,
2002) and on ethnographic/variationist analysis of smaller communities
have also revealed important intra-gender differences and inter-gender
similarities. For example, Nichols (1976, 1983) conducted a variationist/
ethnographic investigation of an area of rural coastal South Carolina
whose African-American residents traditionally spoke the creole language Gullah but who are increasingly influenced by more widespread
varieties, including (Southern) standard American English. She included
two subcommunities in her study: islanders and nearby mainlanders.
Her findings in part conformed to Labov’s general principles for genderbased language difference cited in section 13.2 above, in that younger
and middle-aged island women used more standard variants than
younger and middle-aged island men. In the mainland community, however, older women actually used more than twice as many non-standard
and creole features as older men, thus going against Labov’s Principles
2 and 3. Further, older island men and women used approximately the
same level of standard vs. non-standard (or creole) features, thus demonstrating inter-gender similarity that difference-focused approaches
might have overlooked.
Instead of seeking to reconcile her findings with general explanations
(e.g. women’s supposedly greater prestige consciousness), Nichols realized from her in-depth participant-observation that the patterns she
found were grounded in localized gender roles, especially occupational
roles with different requirements for standard linguistic usages – in
other words, different gender groups’ different relationships to what
Sankoff and Laberge (1978) refer to as the “linguistic market,” following
Bourdieu and Boltanski (1975). In the mainland community, the older
women had less schooling and were more confined to the local area than
the men, and so they naturally used more localized creole features than
mainland men. In the island community, educational and occupational
experiences were very different for younger men and women: Younger
women often worked outside the local area, in occupations requiring
standard English, while younger men continued to work on the island, in
jobs where standard English was not needed and traditional creole forms
were no impediment. Thus, in addition to sometimes finding explanations for female–male patterns of language difference in differential
concern for prestige, patterns of socialization, and/or access to power, we
sometimes need to appeal to different gender roles and opportunities, as
well as the different social (and economic) values that may be accorded
to standard vs. vernacular variants for men vs. women in different communities and subcommunities.
The relationship between standard language uses and economic
capital is by no means straightforward, since it is sometimes the case
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100
80
Percent
“hoi toide”
vowel
60
40
20
0
Older
men
Older
women
Poker
Game
Network
Middleaged
men
Middleaged
women
Younger Younger
males females
Age / gender group
Figure 13.1 The cross-generational and cross-sex patterning of Ocracoke /ay/
that jobs requiring more standard language (often filled by women, as
in Nichols’ study) pay less than traditional “blue-collar” (working-class
men’s) occupations. This is more and more the case in today’s increasingly
globalized world, since jobs in the burgeoning service sector typically
require standard or other prescribed linguistic usages but are relatively
low-paid and low-prestige. The case of Ocracoke Island, North Carolina,
provides an example (Schilling-Estes 1999; Wolfram & Schilling-Estes
2006: 234–65). Like many small coastal and island communities in the
USA and throughout the world, the economy here has been transformed,
over the past several decades, from a primarily maritime-based economy
based on fishing and crabbing to one based on tourism. Our quantitative
studies of the patterning of features of the localized Ocracoke dialect
vis-à-vis features of more mainstream varieties of English indicate an
overall decline in the use of the traditional dialect across the generations
during which the economic transformation took place and the onceisolated island became inundated with tourists and new residents from
the mainland USA. However, the gender-based patterning of variation
across the generations is not straightforward and suggests interesting
interrelations between language, gender, and globalization. Figure 13.1
shows the age and gender-based patterning for a feature that has come to
define Ocracoke English for both islanders and outsiders, the production
of the /ay/ vowel with a raised and backed nucleus, so that a phrase like
high tide sounds almost like “hoi toid.”
In this figure, we see that, while the incidence of the distinctive
/ay/ pronunciation is indeed lower with each successive age group, the
gender-based patterns of difference are quite different in each age group.
There is very little difference between men and women in the oldest age
group, while young men use more of the local pronunciation than young
women. The middle-age group presents a more complex picture, since
our ethnographic studies of the island community revealed important
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intra-gender as well as inter-gender differences that manifested themselves in different linguistic usages. Thus, while some middle-aged men
show lower usage levels for the local, vernacular “hoi toid” pronunciation
than middle-aged women, there was one close-knit group of middleaged men who actually showed higher usage levels for raised/backed /ay/
than even the oldest speakers in our study. This group, the “Poker Game
Network,” is a very close-knit group who relish their participation in
traditional male-dominated island activities such as fishing and crabbing
(and playing regular poker games) and pride themselves on their heavy
use of the distinctive Ocracoke dialect.
One explanation for younger females’ higher levels of more mainstream
features is that as the island economy is transformed from one based
primarily on maritime occupations to one based on service (especially
tourism-related services), it is mostly females who come into everyday
contact with outsiders, since they fill most of the island’s service-related
jobs in hotels, restaurant, gift shops, and the like. Thus, they now have
more exposure to more mainstream language varieties and more reason
to adopt less localized ways of speaking. However, men’s ways of making a living in the tourism-based economy often do not require as much
contact with non-islanders, or the use of more mainstream English, and
so they are freer to retain the vernacular forms at least certain groups
of men cherish. Further, some of the most vernacular men on the island
(e.g. some members of the Poker Game Network) are also the wealthiest,
since they own the establishments in which the women work. Thus, as in
many communities where service-sector jobs are becoming an economic
staple, those who work these jobs (very often women and girls) use linguistic forms accorded more symbolic capital but have less access to the
real capital reserved mostly for the men.
However, the picture would not be complete if we simply concluded
that the men in the Poker Game Network are vernacular simply because
they do not need standard English. Rather, the Ocracoke dialect carries
strong positive connotations of traditional island identity, and those who
hold onto it despite its overall decline are most likely doing so purposely,
in order to capitalize on its symbolic value in the local setting (see Labov’s
notion of “covert prestige” 1966b).
13.6.2
Communities of practice
In addition to pointing to the importance of localized social networks and
localized meanings for linguistic features, up-close investigations of gender diversity also reveal the importance of the specific practices in which
people participate in their various networks in reaching an understanding not only of how various groups and group members use language
but also why. For example, it is precisely because the Jocks in Eckert’s
study participate in activities associated with middle-class norms (e.g.
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school activities such as sports and academic competitions) and Burnouts
engage in more urban-oriented activities, that the Burnouts make heavier
use than the Jocks of the linguistic features most closely associated with
urban norms, including the newer innovations of the Northern Cities
Vowel Shift. In addition, Eckert finds that students who identify as Jocks
but who participate fairly regularly in urban-oriented activities such as
“cruising” to tough urban neighborhoods display linguistic usages that
are more in line with typical Burnout usages than Jock norms, thus demonstrating that one’s practices can shape one’s speech more so than one’s
group associations or feelings of group belonging (Eckert 2000: 139–70).
Similarly, in a study of women and men undergoing training to become
agents of the US Federal Bureau of Investigation, Fitzgerald (2005) shows
that the members of this community of practice shape their linguistic
usages based not only on their childhood socialization as women or men
but also their socialization into their new community of practice, the
(male-dominated) FBI, as well as the myriad other communities with
which each individual is currently or has previously been associated
(ranging from families to friendship groups to other law enforcement
training programs such as the Police Academy).
Indeed, as noted in the introduction, the Community of Practice (CofP)
has been central to language and gender since the concept was first introduced into sociolinguistics (Eckert & McConnell-Ginet 1992; see Holmes
1999 for a collection of articles on language, gender, and Communities
of Practice). Eckert (2000: 35) defines a CofP as “an aggregate of people
who come together around some enterprise” and that is “simultaneously
defined by its membership and the shared practice in which that membership engages.” Thus, the CofP is not simply another term for speech
community or social network but also more focused on speakers’ multiple group memberships, individual mobility, and interlocutors’ active
“co-construction of individual and community identity” (Eckert 2000:
40). Indeed as Eckert notes, the CofP provides the link between individuals, their local social worlds (e.g. a high school, an island), and larger
social groups (e.g. women, middle class, etc.), since the individual is not
directly connected to larger social structures but rather “negotiates that
relation jointly within their communities of practice” (p. 172).
13.6.3 Beyond mainstream gender identities and practices
A Community of Practice-based approach also allows more focus on
individuals and communities who do not fit neatly into the dominant
gender order. For example, Bucholtz (1996, 1999) shows how a group of
“nerd” or “uncool” girls in a California high school use linguistic and
other stylistic resources (e.g. clothing style) to project a type of female
identity that is neither traditionally “feminine” or traditionally “sexy”
but instead intelligent and purposefully untrendy. For example, along
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with refusing to wear either cute clothes or sexy clothes, the girls consciously reject cool slang terms in favor of formal, learned words. Perhaps
less self-consciously, they also lag behind in their participation in vowel
shift patterns that characterize the cool girls’ speech, for example the
fronting of /uw/ and /ow/.
Embracing gender diversity rather than focusing on dichotomy also
allows us to move beyond heterosexual individuals and groups to look
at how gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transsexual individuals and groups
use language to display and create their gendered identities. Just as with
studies of heterosexual women, men, and language, studies of nonmainstream gender groups have moved from the starting point of predetermined and monolithic groups (e.g. gays, lesbians) and monolithic
speech varieties or styles (e.g. “gay English”; see Kulick 2000, Wong 2005
for discussion and critique) to focus on variation within groups and even
individuals. In particular, researchers have moved from attempting to
identify which features correlate with the speech of those who selfidentify as, for example, gay or lesbian, to investigating how individuals
and interactants use features and varieties that index various stances
and social identities (or facets of identity) to shape and display multifaceted and dynamic gendered identities. For example, Barrett (1995)
shows how African-American drag queens performing in Texas bars use
a style comprising code-switching between “women’s language,” “gay
English,” and African American Vernacular English to index their identities as drag queens, gays, African-Americans, and men, while at the
same time demonstrate resistance to mainstream society’s marginalization of homosexuals and non-whites (but also possible complicity with
men’s dominance over women). Similarly Wong (1999) shows how two gay
Cantonese-speaking men use features associated with both masculine
and feminine speech and in addition use them in different ways when
talking with gay vs. straight friends, further demonstrating that gendered identity is indeed an ongoing performance rather than an unchanging attribute. In particular, when talking with straight men, the gay
men use “masculine” swear words to express extreme emotions, while
they use these same features as affectionate address terms when talking
with gay men. They also use the “feminine” particles je and jek to indicate
certain semantic and pragmatic functions when talking with straight
men but as markers of affective meaning in all-gay interactions.
One ongoing line of research in studies of language and homosexual identity(ies) is the investigation of the acoustic properties of gay
vs. straight speech. Considerably less attention has been devoted to
the acoustic properties of speech differentiating lesbian and straightidentified women. Much of this research has focused on attempting to
uncover the acoustic properties that listeners use to identify speakers
as gay- or straight-sounding, especially pitch range and pitch variability
(e.g. Gaudio 1994; Moonwomon-Baird 1997). However, such studies have
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proved largely inconclusive. Although listeners are quite good at identifying “gay” vs. “straight” voices (though not as successful in identifying
“lesbian” speech), they do not seem to be relying primarily on pitch differences to do so, since rarely is there actually a significant difference
in the pitch of the gay vs. straight voices used in the studies. Pitch may
play some role, but more recent studies suggest that other features are
implicated as well, for example the spectral qualities of /s/ (e.g. Levon
2006; Munson et al. 2006) and the formant value for particular vowels
(e.g. Munson et al. 2006; see Kulick 2000, Podesva 2007, and Queen 2007
for summary and discussion of acoustic phonetic studies of perceptions
of gay vs. straight speech).
Further, acoustic phonetic studies focusing on production rather than
perception demonstrate that perhaps the real issue underlying our failure to determine the acoustic correlates of gay speech may not be that
we are not investigating enough different types of features but rather
that gays use features such as pitch variably, to express and/or highlight
various types or facets of gay and other social identities. For example, in
an investigation of voice quality (i.e. falsetto phonation) in the speech of
one gay medical student, Heath, in different speaking contexts, Podesva
(2007) demonstrates that Heath’s falsetto is more frequent, longer, and
characterized by higher fundamental frequency (Fo) levels and wider (Fo)
ranges when talking with friends in an informal setting than in a relatively informal phone conversation with his father and a meeting with a
patient. In seeking explanation for this intra-speaker variation, Podesva
aligns with other current researchers in stylistic variation (e.g. Coupland
2007a; Schilling-Estes 2004) and gender-based variation (including, e.g.,
Eckert & Bucholtz above) by going beyond simple correlations between
linguistic usages and speech situations to investigate how particular features (in this case falsetto) are used in unfolding discourse. The analysis
suggests that falsetto carries connotations of expressiveness, and that
Heath exploits this feature in informal interactions with friends in order
to construct a “diva” persona as well as a gay identity more generally.
13.6.4
Problematizing the mainstream
Other studies combining quantitative analysis of the patterning of linguistic features across speech situations with qualitative analysis of how
the features function in unfolding discourse serve to problematize even
seemingly “unmarked” gender/sexual identities. For example, Kiesling
(1996, 1998) showed how a group of heterosexual white men in a university fraternity (i.e. social and service organization) position themselves
differently with respect to different types of hegemonic (i.e. dominant)
masculinity, all associated with power of one sort or another, through
different usage patterns for word-final - ing vs. - in’, as in working vs. workin’.
This usage is variable across speech situations, for example informal
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socializing vs. a more formal meeting, but it is not always so in predictable ways. For example, some men in the formal situation actually show
lower rather than higher levels of the formal - ing. This is because the
- ing and - in variants are not simply associated with formality vs. informality, respectively, but also with different types of power, including
the institutional power associated with the standard - ing pronunciation
and the physical power associated with the vernacular - in production,
with its connotations of hardworkingness and toughness. Thus, whereas
some fraternity men, especially those who hold leadership positions,
use higher levels of the - ing variant to gain power in the formal meeting, others, including those in lower institutional positions, use higher
levels of the - in variant, capitalizing on its association with other types
of power.
Finally, studies focusing on gender as performance demonstrate
not only that all identities are gendered identities, even the most
“unmarked,” but also that all gender performances/identities are colored by heteronormativity, including not only those that conform quite
closely to established gender/sexuality norms but also highly nonconformist, “queer,” and marginalized identities. Thus, for example, the heterosexual white men in Kiesling’s study use language to symbolize – and
achieve – power, since the dominant ideology holds that men should be
powerful. Similarly in keeping with the heteronormative order, Anita
Hill, an African-American woman, is relegated to a subordinate position,
not only by the particular linguistic strategies used against her in one
speech event, but also more generally by the fact that as a woman she
is not free to capitalize on certain public argumentation strategies that
are available mostly to men, in particular, the African-American oratorical style Thomas employs in his defense. Rather, Hill must use less
impassioned (and ultimately less effective) language or risk fulfilling the
stereotype of the verbally aggressive black female or the wider stereotype of the hysterical woman (Mendoza-Denton 1995). Further, even the
drag queens in Barrett’s study construct their highly nonconformist
identities not by using linguistic features unique to drag queens but by
the purposeful juxtaposition of linguistic features associated with normative masculinity (e.g. taboo words), normative femininity (e.g. such
features of “women’s language” as “hypercorrect grammar”), and even
stereotypical gay men’s speech (e.g. adjectives such as fabulous).
13.7 The study continues
As the study of language, gender, and sexuality progresses into the
twenty-first century, researchers are continuing their emphasis on gender diversity rather than assumed dichotomous difference, as well as on
gender performance rather than fi xed gender identities. With a focus on
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diversity comes the investigation of an ever-broadening range of communities, extending beyond the white US middle class to other US communities, for example African-Americans (e.g. Nichols 1983; Barrett 1995;
Morgan 1996, 2002), to those which are quite far removed indeed, for
example non-Western communities ranging from Cairo (e.g. Haeri 1991,
1994; Bassiouney 2009) to India (e.g. Hall & O’Donovan 1996) to Japan (e.g.
Akiba Reynolds 1998; Kajino & Podesva 2007). Concurrently, studies are
encompassing an ever-widening array of gender performances / gender
identities, both group and individual – for example “gay English (Leap
1996; Leap and Boellstorff 2004), the linguistic practices of various “third
genders” in non-Western contexts (e.g. Hall & O’Donovan 1996; Kulick
1998), the variable use of falsetto by one individual to index different
types of gay identity (Podesva 2007), or the use of formal vs. slang diction
by one of the nerd girl’s in Bucholtz’s (1999) study to indicate closeness to
vs. distance from her fellow nerds. At the same time, there is increasing
focus on the impact of globalization on the linguistic performance of
gender and increasing recognition of the fact that globalization does not
necessarily entail loss of diversity, whether linguistic or identificational,
but very often promotes localization, as people adapt outside norms to
conform to local cultural norms and sometimes even resist wider norms
by heightening the distinctiveness of their local ways of speech and/or
life (e.g. Cameron 2000; see also Coupland 2003). Further, there is more
focus on the “sexuality” aspect of gender (e.g. Cameron and Kulick 2003,
2006; Campbell-Kibler et al. 2002). For scholars such as Kulick (2000) and
Cameron and Kulick (2003), sexuality has less to do with gender identities
such as gay man or heterosexual woman but rather matters having to do
with “fantasy, desire, repression, pleasure, fear, and the unconscious”
(Kulick 2000: 270). And while it may not be a straightforward matter to
conduct linguistic study of unconscious or repressed desires (which of
course will typically go unsaid), one can indeed examine how repression is accomplished in language through avoidances, topic changes, and
other strategies, as, for example, in Ahearn’s (2003) study of the use of
ellipses in Nepali love letters to indicate desires that cannot be written.
Similarly, Cameron (1997) investigates how a group of white male US
university students repudiate homosexual desire while affirming their
desire for close same-sex friendship groups (i.e. homosociability) by gossiping in detail about the “gay” characteristics of a non-present male
acquaintance. And we can even gain insight into the production of intentional desire through studying how desire may be faked or forged, for
example through the linguistic practices of telephone sex workers who
pretend to desire their clients and sometimes even forge “inauthentic”
sexual and gender identities in faking their desire (Hall 1995).
Finally, while current researchers in language, gender, and sexuality
do indeed recognize gender and sexuality as fluid and as co-constructed
in linguistic interaction, they cannot ignore the pervasiveness of the
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dominant gender order, or the fact that expectations for appropriate
or normal gender and sexual identities and behaviors often serve to
perpetuate normative and even hyper-normative (i.e. stereotypical) performances. Many people consciously or unconsciously orient to gender/
sexuality norms in linguistic and other behaviors, and even those who
consciously try to violate these norms cannot do so by inventing completely new behaviors but rather must forge non-normative identities
by positioning themselves in opposition to recognizable norms (as do
the drag queens in Barrett’s study). At the same time, though, demands,
expectations, and behaviors have changed since Language and Woman’s
Place, at least in some cultures and communities. And change is effected
not only through the group efforts of social and political activists but
through the everyday (linguistic) interactions of agentive individuals,
none of whom exactly fits the rigid heteronormative mould. Hence, the
best future research in language, gender, and sexuality will indeed recognize that individual creativity is not boundless but will nonetheless
continue to focus on fluidity and diversity rather than allowing our own
thinking to be fettered by unquestioned assumptions about gender
hierarchies or any other social orders.
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14
Language and ethnicity
Carmen Fought
So, if you want to really hurt me, talk badly about my language. Ethnic
identity is twin skin to linguistic identity. I am my language. Gloria
Anzaldúa, Borderlands: La Frontera
14.1 Introduction
The quote from Gloria Anzaldú a, above, is a clear and poetic expression of something that sociolinguistic research has established as a
scientific fact: language plays a crucial role in the construction and
maintenance of ethnic identity. In fact, ethnicity can have a more
striking relationship to language than other social factors such as gender, age, or social class. Our ethnic identity might provide us with
the gift of an entirely different language, for example, as when a
Korean-American woman grows up speaking both English and Korean,
while her European-American friends speak only English. Or it may
hand over to us a rich and different dialect, such as African-American
English, the origin of Toni Morrison’s famous “five different verb
tenses” (Rickford 1999). It can bring with it something that is neither
a dialect nor a language but rather a linguistic process, such as codeswitching (the technical term for something we may call “Spanglish” or
“Chinglish”). Our ethnic identity may be associated with differences
in language use as well, such as how we end a conversation or what we
consider to be a compliment. The language or dialect associated with
our ethnic identity may be the focus of criticism by others and leave
us open to painful ridicule, prejudice, and stereotypes. It can also be
a source of pride for us, a source of in-group humor, and a welcoming
beacon of home and community.
Language is not simply an expression of a previously determined ethnic identity; it is a crucial part of how this identity is constructed in
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the first place, by ourselves and by others. Recently, I was assigned to
jury duty in Los Angeles County. One of my fellow jurors was a man
named “Bob,” who looked to be in his early 60s, and whose phenotype
suggested to me that he was European-American. When he spoke to me,
however, his dialect was clearly Chicano English, so I decided that I had
been mistaken, and that he was ethnically Latino. Later, I asked him
if his family had always lived in California, without making any particular reference to language. He immediately recognized my curiosity,
though, and replied, “You’re asking because of the way I talk, right? You
thought I was Mexican.” He went on to explain that his family was in
fact European-American (originally French), but that he had grown up
in East Los Angeles, was married to a Mexican woman, and talked “just
like a homeboy.” He seemed completely unselfconscious about the mismatch between his ethnic origins and his dialect, describing himself in a
lightly humorous tone, while nonetheless projecting a bit of pride in his
unusual linguistic history.
Recent sociolinguistic research has revealed the amazing power that
linguistic practices have to shape and even transform ethnicity. As
Bucholtz puts it, “the ideological link between language and ethnicity is
so potent that the use of linguistic practices associated with a given ethnic group may be sufficient for an individual to pass as a group member”
(1995: 355). Bailey (2000c) found that Dominican-Americans in Rhode
Island treated competence in Spanish as a key factor that could include
or exclude a person from certain ethnic categorizations. Sweetland (2002)
documented the case of a young European-American woman, “Delilah,”
who grew up in a predominantly African-American area, and who speaks
American Asian English (AAE) as her primary linguistic code. Because of
her use of AAE, Delilah was actually “re-raced” (as Sweetland puts it) by
other community members, and was actually described to the researcher
as being “basically black” (p. 525).
If the relationship of language and ethnic identity is strong, though,
it is neither simple nor straightforward. When linguists begin to look at
different types of speakers and their communities, matters of relating
language to ethnicity quickly become complex. One of the reasons for
this is that race and ethnicity are themselves so complex. As Edley (2001:
xxv) puts it, “Race is not rocket science. It’s harder than rocket science.”
The construction of race and ethnicity varies greatly across communities, as well as across and within individuals. In addition, this process
does not take place in a vacuum. Other factors such as gender, social
class, and anything else that a community deems socially relevant (from
skin tone to athletic prowess to musical tastes) will also come into play.
The same factors that make the study of language and ethnicity complex
and difficult, however, also make it rewarding and fruitful as a way for
sociolinguists to illuminate the role of language in the construction of
identity.
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14.2
Key issues in the discussion of race and ethnicity
If we are interested in the role of language in constructing ethnic identity, we must first know something about how race and ethnicity are
determined generally, as well as how the two concepts relate to each
other. As mentioned above, this is a dauntingly complex issue, one that
researchers from a number of fields have been struggling with for decades. To begin with, human biologists have been unable to find any scientific basis for the classification of human beings into racial groups (see
Zelinsky 2001). Even focusing only on the social side of the issue, however, a number of difficult questions remain. We might ask, for example,
whether the construction of ethnicity is different for a person who considers herself to have one clear ethnicity versus a person who considers
himself to be multiracial. Or whether being a member of the dominant
ethnic group versus a minority ethnic group is fundamentally different,
in terms of its linguistic expression.
Despite the inherent complexity of the issue, some points of agreement on the nature of ethnic identity do emerge from recent research by
scholars of race in sociology and other fields. First, researchers generally
agree that both race and ethnicity are socially constructed categories, not
based on any objectively measurable criteria. Another point on which
the research seems to agree is that ethnicity cannot be studied or understood
outside the context of other social variables, such as social class or gender. Omi
and Winant, for example, in the second edition of a much-cited work on
the sociology of race, note that “[in] many respects, race is gendered and
gender is racialized” (1994: 68). We must acknowledge the ways in which
race affects how gender is constructed (and vice versa), as when the
African-American drag queens studied by Barrett (1999) equate performing female gender with performing whiteness (see discussion below).
Other studies have shown how community ideologies may link ethnicity
to social class (Urciuoli 1996), academic achievement (Fordham & Ogbu
1986), or even musical preferences (Sweetland 2002). The construction
of identity, then, is a multifaceted process in which ethnicity may play a
more central or more peripheral role at any particular moment.
As a final point of agreement, the literature on race and ethnicity
emphasizes the important roles played by both self-identification and the
perceptions of others in the construction of identity. With respect to race
and ethnicity, specifically, phenotype, language, and a number of other
factors may affect how individuals are categorized by the dominant ideology of their communities. These ideologies will themselves be rooted in
the sociopolitical contexts of different nations around the world, where
ethnicity is linked to boundaries between groups and more importantly,
to ideologies about those boundaries. The resulting external categorizations (what Omi & Winant 1994 would term “racial projects”) form
a backdrop against which a particular individual constructs his or her
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identity, either in agreement with or in opposition to the community
norms. In discussing the relationship of ethnicity to linguistic variation,
then, we must be alert to how language is used in relation to ideologies
about ethnic boundaries, whether it serves to preserve those boundaries,
cross them, or redefine them.
14.3
Language resources in ethnic identity
In any community for which particular ethnic distinctions are salient,
we might expect to find such distinctions marked by linguistic features of some type.1 The particular repertoire of languages, varieties,
or styles available in different communities may vary widely, though.
Sociolinguistic research on ethnically diverse linguistic communities
has identified a number of linguistic resources available to speakers for
use in constructing ethnic identities, including the following:
●
●
●
A “heritage” language. A language other than that of the dominant
group can play an important role in defining a minority ethnic group.
In places where a heritage language is dying out through language
shift, revitalization efforts may be undertaken to prevent this loss,
as has happened, for example, among the Maori in New Zealand, or
with numerous Native-American groups in the USA. Also, particular
speakers’ ability to use the heritage language may vary, and may also
change and shift over time (see, e.g., Zentella 1997; Schecter & Bayley
2002).
Specific sociolinguistic features (used within the dominant language or variety). The use of particular linguistic features within a
variety can be a key element in the performance and recognition of
ethnic identity, just as with any other aspect of identity, such as gender or social class. Some features may be so closely tied to ethnic identity that a single use of that feature marks a speaker as belonging to
a particular group. A listener in Urciuoli’s experimental study in New
York City, for example, identifies a speaker on a tape as black, because
he used habitual be (1996: 116).
Code-switching. For those who speak both the majority language and
a heritage language, code-switching can be an effective way to signal
ethnic identity. In particular, code-switching allows the speaker to
index multiple identities, for example an affiliation with a minority
ethnic heritage, but also with the wider community. Sociolinguistic
studies such as Poplack 1980, Myers-Scotton 1993a, or Zentella 1997
have shown the complex functions of code-switching as an element in
identity construction. A particularly interesting study is McCormick
(2002a), which looked at multiracial (“coloured”) speakers in one community in South Africa, She found that a “mixed” linguistic code,
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●
●
●
a combination of English and Afrikaans, was seen as the in-group
variety.
Suprasegmental features. For many ethnically related language varieties, suprasegmental features play a salient role, either in conjunction
with segmental linguistic features or independently. An example of the
former type is Fought and Fought (2002), which found that syllabletiming was a prominent feature of Chicano English speakers in Los
Angeles. With respect to the use of suprasegmental features alone to
signal ethnicity, Green (2002) suggests that some African-Americans
who speak a completely standard variety of English nonetheless use
intonational patterns that reveal and index their ethnicity.
Discourse features and language use. In addition to the structural elements of language, ways of using language may be part of
the indexing and reproduction of ethnic identity, even though the
more subtle pragmatic aspects may not be consciously recognized by
in-group or out-group members. Elements such as turn-taking patterns or directness/indirectness in making requests may differ significantly between ethnic groups who are using the same (or a very
similar) dialect. Native-American groups in the USA and Canada, for
example, often exhibit relatively few structural differences in their
use of English from other groups. However, a large number of sociolinguistic studies have shown that language-use norms in many tribes
can be strikingly different from the mainstream (e.g. Basso 1970;
Philips 1972; Scollon & Scollon 1981; Wieder & Pratt 1990).
Using a “borrowed” variety. Many ethnically diverse communities may encompass a wide range of languages and varieties in a relatively small space, especially in large urban centers. Sociolinguistic
research has found that sometimes individuals or communities
appropriate a code that originates outside the ethnic group for use
in constructing their ethnic identity. When done by specific individuals, this phenomenon is often referred to as “crossing.” Crossing
has been found in many different types of minority ethnic groups,
from Korean-Americans using AAE (Chun 2001) to British children of
Caribbean descent using Panjabi (Rampton 1995). The phenomenon of
using a borrowed variety can also occur at a community level, as in
Wolfram’s (1974) study of Puerto Rican American speakers, many of
whom used features of AAE.
Not all uses of languages or codes in minority ethnic communities will
necessarily represent choices involving the indexing of ethnic identity,
of course. A code may be selected for its communicative value in a specific situation, without conveying anything deeply symbolic, as when a
speaker selects to use the only language spoken by an elderly, monolingual speaker. The reverse may also be true. A heritage language may
have a highly important symbolic value for an ethnic group, despite the
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fact that few people have access to learning it and so cannot choose to
use this particular resource, as with young people of Maori ethnicity in
New Zealand. In addition, when some members of the community are
very fluent in the heritage language and others are not, the speakers who
lack fluency may be open to criticism. Fought (2003) found these kinds
of negative views among young Mexican-Americans in Los Angeles, who
sometimes questioned the ethnic loyalty of those who did not speak
Spanish. For example, a young, middle-class Latina in the study said, “[It]
shocks me, to see somebody with a last name like Lopez or Bracamontes
that doesn’t speak [Spanish]!” (p. 201).
One language feature that belongs in a category of its own is the use
of the standard or dominant variety as part of the construction of ethnic identity by a minority ethnic group. In some cases, this may be the
usual variety of the minority group as well, with ethnicity constructed
through other resources such as language use. However, in cases where
there is a clear variety other than the standard one associated with a
minority ethnic group, the use of the standard is often tied in with a
number of (possibly conflicting) ideologies in the community.
To begin with, cultural ideologies often dichotomize the concepts of
“selling out” versus “having ethnic pride,” and language is often seen as
an indicator of an individual’s positioning with respect to this dichotomy
(see, e.g., Fordham & Ogbu 1986; Rickford 1999). The use of the standard variety may be read as a lack of loyalty to the community. Young
people who leave the community to go to college, for example, will be
expected to use the dominant variety there. Upon returning to the community, these individuals may be perceived as forgetting where they
came from, or thinking that they are “better” than other people. Ogbu
(1999) describes this type of conflict between parents and children in
one African-American community that he studied. This phenomenon
may, of course, be related to factors other than ethnicity; social class,
for example, may be the relevant variable. However, in minority ethnic
communities, the use of the standard may carry the extra connotation
of “acting White.”
Because the use of a standard variety is linked, practically and ideologically, with social class, individuals who belong to higher socioeconomic strata within minority ethnic groups may experience a conflict
in terms of the linguistic pressures from the communities in which
they interact. Many middle-class African-Americans, for example, will
use standard varieties of English as a key part of their work and often
home lives. But these individuals may be criticized in the wider AfricanAmerican community for sounding too standard (Fordham & Ogbu 1986;
Rickford 1999). While AAE is often viewed negatively outside (and even
within) African-American communities, it may also be a source of ethnic
pride, and a necessary tool for complete participation in many aspects
of community life. Similarly, Mesthrie (2002) found that Indian South
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Africans must balance conflicting pressures in the use of English along
the acrolect-mesolect-basilect continuum that characterizes their varieties of English. While use of the more basilectal forms may be seen as
unsophisticated, use of the more standard forms may be viewed as “putting on airs” or “being cold.” The ways that speakers might resolve these
conflicts will be discussed in the following section.
14.4
The interaction of ethnicity with other social factors
Researchers across a variety of disciplines have established that the construction of an identity involves the integration and coordination of a
variety of social factors in a way that is more complex than a simple
“additive” model would predict. In other words, expressing one’s identity
in terms of gender, age, social class, ethnicity, and many other factors is
somewhat like baking a cake: the individual ingredients may not be easy
to isolate or identify from looking at the final product, and two individuals might use the same ingredients to make somewhat different things.
We cannot do research on language and ethnicity, then, without taking
into account how other factors affect a speaker’s linguistic choices. This
section provides some examples of how other factors have been found to
influence and interact with the construction of ethnic identity.
14.5
Social class
Social class affiliation (as well as change in social class status) has consequences in terms of the expectations, linguistic and otherwise, that are
placed on a particular individual by the community. Those who do variationist research on dialects found in minority ethnic groups have tended
to focus primarily on working-class speakers, whose varieties were the
most different from that of the dominant group (a kind of “exoticizing
of the other” that has been criticized in more recent work, e.g. Morgan
1994). As researchers have expanded their focus to include the middle
class and higher socioeconomic levels, though, they have found that
speakers across various minority ethnic communities resolve conflicting
language pressures in a variety of ways. Studies focusing on middle-class
African-Americans, for example, have the potential to address many of
the questions that have been raised in this section about the relationship
of ethnicity to other factors in the expression of a linguistic identity.
For some middle-class African-American speakers, use of a completely
standard and unmarked variety of English may have begun early in life,
and been reinforced by the surrounding community, in such a way that
there is little or no internal confl ict associated with this variety. Other
middle-class speakers, though, may experience a tension between the
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language norms associated with mainstream middle-class culture in
the USA and those traditionally associated with African-American communities, which are linked to the use of AAE. As discussed earlier, the
use of a standard variety may leave a person open to the accusation of
“talking White” (Fordham & Ogbu 1986; Urciuoli 1996; Rickford 1999).
How, then, do middle-class speakers reconcile the competing pressures
of their social class and their ethnicity?
The limited research that has been done on this topic suggests, not
surprisingly, that middle-class African-American speakers resolve this
dilemma in a number of ways. Weldon (2004) conducted a study that
focused specifically on the language of middle-class African-Americans.
She looked at the speech of African-American intellectuals from a variety of regions and professional fields who were participating in a political symposium, which was broadcast nationally to a presumably diverse
audience. In discussing shifting among sociolinguistic styles, linguists
sometimes imply that middle-class speakers in a somewhat formal public setting do not use features of AAE. Weldon, however, found that most
of the speakers in her study used AAE grammatical, phonological, lexical
and/or rhetorical features. Some of the individual speakers at the symposium tended to switch back and forth between dialects, from AAE to
a more standard variety and vice versa. Another very common pattern
was for speakers to use a wide range of phonological features of AAE,
including some that might be stigmatized (e.g. stopping of interdental
fricatives), but very few AAE grammatical elements, a type of strategy
that has also been found in other studies (e.g. Wolfram 1969a).
In a study of the African-American middle-class speakers involved in
the Clarence Thomas–Anita Hill hearings, Smitherman (2000: Ch. 14)
describes a slightly different pattern, one which is used by Justice Clarence
Thomas. Thomas does not use grammatical or phonological features of
AAE; instead he employs what Smitherman calls “African-American
Verbal Tradition,” using a variety of African-American rhetorical strategies, including “signifying” (see Mitchell-Kernan 1972), to signal his
ethnicity. On the other hand, Hill, who is also African-American and
middle-class, exclusively uses verbal strategies and behaviors associated
with European-Americans. Lanehart (2001) also compares and contrasts
a number of these same kinds of choices across several generations of
African-American women, finding that individuals construct ethnicity
and social class in complex and sometimes unexpected ways.
Although all of these studies have focused specifically on AfricanAmericans, the patterns observed can be generalized to other groups
where ethnicity and social class may place competing demands on the
speaker. In such cases, we may expect some middle-class individuals
to use a standard variety, indistinguishable from European-American
varieties, without shifting, in most or all contexts. Studies of language
attitudes suggest that this particular strategy may have some negative
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consequences for these speakers, leaving them open to criticism or
charges of “selling out.” Morgan notes that African-Americans who
exclusively use standard English, for example, can “risk losing community membership” (2002: 67), and Smitherman (2000) found that AfricanAmericans did not “trust” the standard-speaking Anita Hill.2
Other individuals may choose to signal a “blending” of identities
linguistically, whether by switching back and forth between codes or
by mixing grammatical elements of one code with phonological elements or another, or by using ethnically marked discourse strategies.
Additionally, in contrast with what has sometimes been implied in the
literature, standard and non-standard varieties may both be found in
situations that would be classified as “formal” (and public). The contexts
in which different varieties may be found cannot be separated neatly
into those where a vernacular is “appropriate,” and those where it is not.
Even in a formal setting, we may find that some middle-class speakers
are using a variety that includes non-standard features; by doing so, they
are making a strong statement about ethnic affiliation.
14.6
Gender
As sociologists have learned more about gender identity in modern cultures, they have moved toward a constructionist, rather than essentialist, view of gender, and this same perspective has been adopted by recent
sociolinguistic studies. Both ethnicity and gender are very complicated
categories, and so we would expect their effect on one another to be
equally complex, especially since it will be taking place in the context
of many other socially relevant categories. In looking at the language
repertoires, behaviors, and attitudes of any particular ethnic group, we
must be alert to the possible effects that gender (and the related category
of sexual orientation) may have on how ethnicity is expressed.
There are numerous studies showing that gender has a powerful role
in affecting the use of linguistic features associated with a minority ethnic identity. When the features in question are non-standard ones, traditional sociolinguistic research suggests that we will find less frequent
use of such features by women than men within a particular community
of practice3 (e.g. Wolfram 1969a; Labov 1972b). Hewitt (1986) found this
pattern confirmed in South London, where boys were much more likely
to know Creole than girls. In fact, girls of Caribbean ethnicity sometimes
expressed embarrassment because of the equation of black cultural identity with knowledge of this variety. However, a well-known study by
Nichols (1983) shows that the correlation of non-standard features with
gender can vary, based on the social structure of particular communities.
Nichols found that some women in the rural African-American community she studied actually used more features of the local creole variety
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than the men did, because of the nature of the economic opportunities
available to each group.
In minority ethnic groups, as in other communities, linguistic distinctions that correlate with gender are often the result of other social
forces in the community that affect gender groups differently. Dubois
and Horvath, in a series of studies on Cajuns in Louisiana, found that
there was an increase in the use of Cajun features among younger speakers, associated with a renewed sense of ethnic pride (1998, 1999, 2003c).
However, for some of these “recycled” variables, there was a strong differentiation by gender, with young men using significantly more Cajun
features. Dubois and Horvath attribute this effect to the fact that the
activities most associated with Cajun culture (such as fishing or preparing holiday meals) tend to be male-dominated, and that men are also
more likely to interact with tourists.
There were further variables, however, that interacted with the effects
of gender, even within the younger group of speakers. Young men with
“open” networks, for example, who had more contact with tourists and
others outside the community, had the highest use of stopped //, producing it more than men with “closed” networks, at a rate of about 90
percent (Dubois & Horvath 1999). For young women, though, this variable
worked differently. Those with open networks tended to use the relevant
variables less often, while those in “closed” networks, who mostly interacted with others in the community, used more Cajun features. We see,
then, that the higher or lower use of particular ethnically marked variables within a community is unlikely to be correlated in a simple way
with “male” or “female” identity.
14.7
Age
Age (or more precisely, generation) is known to have a crucial role in
sound change, and as such has been a key social factor in many sociolinguistic studies. However, its specific role in the construction of ethnic identity has received much less attention. There are indications,
however, that age plays a key role in the construction of ethnic group
membership. Rickford (1999), for example, noted that younger AfricanAmericans often have a stronger sense that it is their “right” to express
themselves in AAE, as compared with older African-Americans in the
same community. The example of the young Cajuns, discussed above, is
similar. In fact, it may be a trend, as language ideologies become more
enlightened, for ethnic varieties or heritage languages to become more
valued by younger generations everywhere, and for the claiming of language rights to become more widespread among young people.
Another interesting phenomenon which shows a strong correlation
with age is the phenomenon of crossing. Crossing, associated originally
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with research done in the UK by Rampton, is “the use of language varieties associated with social or ethnic groups that the speaker does not
normally ‘belong’ to” (1995: 14). Other research has documented crossing
in the USA as well (e.g. Bucholtz 1999a; Cutler 1999; Chun 2001), particularly the use of AAE by middle-class European-American boys. Research
on crossing is helpful in understanding connections between language
and ethnicity, because it reveals processes of ethnic identity construction that may otherwise be hidden. The use of an ethnic variety by an
outgroup member is notable to community members, and often the subject of overt commentary. Because crossing often represents a kind of
rebellion, a refusal to behave as society expects, it is natural that we find
it associated with teenagers and adolescents.4
14.8
Networks and related factors
Sociolinguistic theory has moved from a general focus on communities to a more specific emphasis on “communities of practice” (Eckert
& McConnell-Ginet 1992). Concomitantly with this shift has come a
renewed interest in network memberships, as well as a focus on social
factors that may only become relevant at a local level. With respect to the
construction of ethnic identity, specifically, network membership and
similar factors clearly play a key role.
To begin with, some members of an ethnic group may have more outgroup contacts than others. In Gordon’s (2000) study of the Northern
Cities Shift, for example, most of the Mexican-American speakers in the
study did not use features of the shift, which is associated primarily with
European-Americans. However, there was one individual Latina who
lived in a mainly European-American neighborhood and reported that
her close friends were all white; this speaker did, in fact, show substantial use of the Northern Cities Shift features. A similar pattern was found
in a Chinese community in Britain (Wei, Milroy & Ching 1992; Milroy &
Wei 1995). Here, the researchers developed an index measuring the
strength of ethnic ties that a particular individual had to others of the
same ethnic group in the community. They found that this ethnic index
helped to explain patterns of language choice as well as the use of certain code-switching strategies. Edwards (1992) also found contact with
European-Americans to be a significant factor which correlated with a
relatively lower use of AAE variables by young African-American speakers in Detroit.
Contacts outside the ethnic group by themselves, however, cannot
be assumed to predict language features in a unilateral way. A striking
counterexample is that of Muzel Bryant, an elderly African-American
woman, studied by Wolfram and his associates, on Ocracoke Island
(Wolfram, Hazen & Tamburro 1997; Wolfram, Hazen & Schilling-Estes
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1999). Though Muzel’s family was the only African-American family on
the island, and she had almost exclusively European-American contacts,
she still used AAE phonology and lacked the features that were most
closely tied to local Ocracoke identity. And despite her lack of regular
contact with an African-American community, she preserved a number
of clear features of AAE in her dialect, both grammatical and phonological. This example reinforces the idea that ethnicity can be a very
strong boundary indeed, even in small, isolated communities, and that
we cannot assume that inter-ethnic contact will lead to assimilation.
A related but slightly different factor that may affect the linguistic
practices of individual speakers is that of local or extralocal orientation,
distinguishing individuals who have strong ties to the local community
from those who oriented toward contacts and future opportunities outside the local area. The importance of this factor in relation to ethnic identity emerged in Labov’s classic (1972a) study on Martha’s Vineyard. Labov
found that among the younger generation of speakers on the island, the
centralized variants of [ay] and [aw], associated with local island identity,
were used less by residents of English descent than by residents of NativeAmericans or Portuguese descent. The heightened use of local features
appears to reflect the desire of speakers in these two minority ethnic
groups to assert their ties to island identity, ties which have been contested historically due to ethnic prejudice against such groups. In a more
recent study, Hazen (2000) found a strong correlation between the use
of local variants by three different ethnic groups in North Carolina and
what he calls “expanded identity” versus “local identity” (again relating
to a speaker’s orientation toward opportunities beyond the community,
versus a more local focus). The correlation Hazen found occurred both
with locally significant variants used by all the groups, and also with
those that specifically indexed ethnic identity.
14.9
Region
One factor about which we know relatively little is variation in language and ethnicity by region (but see the chapters by Kretzschmar and
Johnstone in this handbook). While the field of sociolinguistics descends
in many ways from the early studies of regional dialect variation,
regional variation has rarely been the focus of sociolinguistic studies
of ethnic identity. With respect to AAE, for example, the literature has
often suggested that there is little regional variation beyond a Northern/
Southern distinction. However, in the most recent theoretical work, that
assumption has been challenged (see Fought 2002), and in fact regional
differences in AAE are now receiving more attention. Wolfram (2007)
describes in detail how inaccurate assumptions about AAE such as this
one have entered the field of sociolinguistics and provides up-to-date data
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that disprove them. For example, Wolfram compares reported levels of
r-lessness in the AAE of various places and finds that this feature can vary
significantly by region; furthermore, this difference can be seen even in
the earliest sociolinguistic studies. He also discusses the results of perceptual studies, which show that AAE speakers from certain regions may
be misidentified in terms of their ethnic identity, showing that “regionality may trump ethnicity in listener perception of African-Americans
in some settings” (2007: 8). One important future direction for studies of
language and ethnicity will be to look more closely at how region and
ethnic identity interact in different types of communities.
14.10 Voicing multiple identities
While I have been discussing gender, social class, and other factors in
separate sections, as if they have separate effects on ethnicity, we know
from recent sociolinguistic research that an “additive” model of identity is too simplistic. We cannot expect the social factors that influence
the construction of ethnic identity to be separable and/or cumulative.
Instead, we find that speakers often index “polyphonous identities”
(Barrett 1999) linguistically, and that their utterances reflect the multiple layers of identity in ways that cannot be broken down into smaller
components.
Chun (2001), for example, showed how a Korean-American speaker
used AAE to draw on stereotypes of African-American identity that reinforced his masculinity; at the same time, he used AAE to voice a distinctly Korean-American identity, in opposition to ideologies about how
Asian-Americans should speak. Similarly, the African-American drag
queens studied by Barrett (1999) tended to index white personas as part
of performing female gender. Additionally, Barrett points out that for
them, the term “White woman,” when used to refer to themselves, primarily signaled a class distinction rather than an ethnic distinction. In
other words, the drag queens he studied indexed whiteness as a way of
indexing a middle-class identity. Both of these examples illustrate what
Bakhtin (1981) calls “double-voiced discourse,” where a speaker’s utterances contain within themselves a “dialogue” about identity.
14.11
Majority ethnic groups
Up to this point, I have primarily discussed language and ethnicity from
the perspective of minority ethnic groups, since most of the sociolinguistic studies focusing on ethnicity as a variable have been conducted
in minority ethnic communities. There is nothing surprising about this
fact; in most societies, the dominant ideology frames “ethnicity” as a
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quality relevant mainly to minority groups, and treats the majority ethnic group or groups as “invisibly normal” (Hill 1998). In fact, members
of dominant groups may have trouble perceiving themselves as even
having an ethnicity. For example, Bell comments: “Pakeha [white New
Zealanders] are the dominant ethnicity and culture within New Zealand,
but we tend to be identified by default, by what we are not rather than
what we are … not Maori, not Polynesian, not Australian, not British, not
European” (1999: 539).
In most of the places for which we have detailed sociolinguistic
research, the dominant group consists of European-Americans. Any
theoretical views on the construction of ethnic identity must be able to
encompass the reproduction and reflection of ethnicity by this group as
well as by minority groups. At the same time, we expect the practice of
constructing ethnicity when an individual is a member of the dominant group to be categorically different, in certain ways, from that found
among minority ethnic group members, because majority and minority
ethnic groups are not equal in terms of political power or influence on
the dominant ideology.
One of the difficulties with studying the role of language in the construction of ethnicity by the dominant ethnic group is the hegemonic
normalization of this group, as mentioned earlier. It is more difficult to
find linguistic stereotypes of the dominant group, or features that the
community views as characteristic of them. These stereotypes do exist,
but we must look more carefully to find them. In addition, views of the
dominant group in terms of ethnicity may be conflated with issues of
social class (i.e. being “white” means being “middle-class” and vice versa)
or similar factors such as education. Bucholtz (2001), for example, found
an association of whiteness with a scientific register among EuropeanAmerican “nerd” teenagers in California.
In Urciuoli’s (1996) study of working-class Puerto Rican Americans in
New York City, community members treated becoming middle class as
inextricably linked with becoming more “white.” Speakers in the experimental part of her study also consistently linked educated-sounding
voices to whiteness, although not all the speakers identified this way
were in reality European-Americans. For example, one Puerto Rican
American listener gave this description of a woman (who was, in this
case, white): “She’s good, she is good… She’s white, she’s well-educated…
very articulated, and she uses very very good words, like “chronically” (p.
115). In addition to the correlation of whiteness with education, the value
judgments expressed here are also striking, in terms of the privileging of
the language associated with the dominant ethnic group as “good.”
In surveying the anthropological and sociolinguistic research on communities where European-Americans are the dominant ethnic group,
Fought (2006) found three dominant perspectives on language and whiteness. The first type of ideology associated anything that was “standard,”
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such as speaking a standard variety of English, with white speakers.
Another common view focused on a level of standardness beyond usual
expectations. From this perspective, the use of what Wolfram and
Schilling-Estes (1998) called “superstandard” grammatical forms (such as
to whom or It is I ) as well as the use of highly technical or literary vocabulary was associated with whiteness. Finally, certain stereotyped regional
varieties such as Valley Girl dialects or urban New York City dialects were
seen as characteristic of white people. Fought (2007) looked at stand-up
comedy routines by comedians of color and found that all three of these
linguistic ideologies were represented in their stereotyped portrayals of
white characters.
Of course, members of the dominant ethnic group who grow up in predominantly minority ethnic communities will usually acquire the local
variety spoken by their peers, even if this variety is non-standard and
not typically used by people from the dominant ethnic group. Earlier,
we saw the case of “Delilah,” in Sweetland (2002), who because she had
grown up with primarily African-American peers spoke a variety of AAE
as her native dialect. Despite being ethnically European-American, this
speaker had acquired the complex grammatical forms of AAE, something that most middle-class white kids who “cross” into AAE cannot do
(see Cutler 1999). There is also the European-American man that I met
on jury duty, who spoke flawless Chicano English. While only a few such
cases have been documented by linguists, their numbers may well be
increasing as neighborhoods across the country become more ethnically
diverse.
14.12
Language form and language function
14.12.1
Language form: sound change
Sociolinguists in the variationist tradition have now amassed a fair
amount of data on the use of linguistic features in relation to language
and ethnicity. We know which features might characterize a particular
group, which ones are stigmatized, and what kind of intra-group differences to look for, all of which have been discussed in some detail. An
area that is just beginning to be investigated, though, is the patterning
of sound change in minority ethnic communities.
To begin with, the sociolinguistic literature to date has often assumed
that minority ethnic group members in the USA do not participate in
sound changes characteristic of the dominant ethnic group in the area.
Some early studies in the USA showed a lack of participation by minority
groups (e.g. Labov & Harris 1986; Bailey & Maynor 1987) and the conclusions were generalized (without further support) to other communities
as well. For example, Labov (2001: 506) expressed this generalization in
the following way:
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All speakers who are socially defined as white, mainstream, or
Euro-American, are involved in the [sound] changes to one degree
or another… But for those children who are integral members of a
sub-community that American society defines as “non-white” – black,
Hispanic, or native American – the result is quite different. No matter
how frequently they are exposed to the local vernacular, the new patterns of regional sound change do not surface in their speech.
There are some recent studies (e.g. Gordon 2000) that are consistent with
this claim.
There are also, however, a substantial number of studies that contradict it. Fridland (2003), for example, found that African-Americans
in Memphis participated in some of the changes associated with the
Southern Vowel Shift, which had previously been documented only for
European-Americans. Eberhardt (2007) showed that African-Americans
in Pittsburgh exhibited the merger of // and //, a change that the literature has suggested does not occur in most AAE varieties. She attributes
this fact to the nature of inter-ethnic contact in the social and economic
history of the city. Wolfram, Thomas and Green (1997) documented language change in the Outer Banks region of North Carolina and found
that some sound changes were in progress in both the black and white
communities, including monophthongization of /ai/ and the loss of
front-glided /au/, although other changes originating among EuropeanAmericans were not displayed by the African-American group.
Among other ethnic groups in the USA, there are also examples of participation in local sound changes. For instance, Anderson (1999) showed
that speakers of Cherokee ethnicity in North Carolina used features associated with the local European-American variety (monophthongization of
/ai/, and “upgliding” of /oi/ toward [ou]). Poplack (1978) found that Puerto
Rican children in Philadelphia were participating in several local vowel
shifts, including the fronting of /ow/ and the raising and backing of the
nucleus of /ay/ before voiceless consonants. Similarly, Fought (1997, 2003)
demonstrated that young Mexican-American speakers in Los Angeles
were participating in the fronting of /u/ and in the backing of /æ/, both of
which are sound changes in progress in California (Hinton et al. 1987). Not
all speakers participated in these changes, but the ones who did were not
outliers or individuals who had no intra-ethnic contacts.
Even in a case where a majority of the ethnic community clearly is
not participating in a sound change, some individuals may nonetheless
be taking part. If we want a full understanding of the construction of
ethnic identity, we must include the language of these speakers in our
analysis. While the earliest sociolinguistic studies focused on assigning people to larger groups and focusing on averages in the data, the
trend in more recent studies has been to look at smaller communities of
practice, as well as at individuals and their life histories. We have seen
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from the many complex individual cases that have been discussed so far
that taking into account individuals and their particular circumstances
is crucial to a thorough understanding of language and ethnicity. More
studies of sound change within minority ethnic communities are also
badly needed.
14.12.2
Language function
Sociolinguists have often focused more on language form than language
function in charting the construction of ethnic identity. It is crucial,
however, to look also at how the use of language by different groups
can signal ethnic differences, because in some communities there may
be few structural differences in the varieties used by different ethnic
groups. Even when there are specific ethnically marked varieties available, particular individuals in the group may not use them, while still
exhibiting an interactional style that is very different from that of someone in another group. One example is the use of “African-American
Verbal Tradition” by Clarence Thomas, as discussed earlier (Smitherman
2000). Some language use norms may derive from the source cultures of
groups whose ancestors came from somewhere outside the local community, while others may have developed independently, or as a response
to particular social and cultural conditions. Morgan (1994), for example,
discusses the connections between certain African-American speech
styles and black–white interactions in the historical context of segregation and repression.
The literature on the role of discourse features and pragmatics in the
construction of ethnic identity is fairly extensive, so I will provide only
a few illustrative examples here, focusing particularly on the issue of
conversational strategies.5 To begin with, the norms for turn-taking that
govern how a conversation flows may be quite different across ethnic
groups. Mainstream language norms in a number of places, for example,
allow a speaker to select who will speak next, by asking a question of
that person, or even inviting them explicitly to express an opinion on
the topic. Sacks, Schegloff, and Jefferson (1974), for instance, in an early
study of turn-taking systems in conversation, assert explicitly that “a
current speaker may select a next speaker” (pp. 700–701). In contrast, the
Warm Springs Indians studied by Philips (1990) did not normally select
the next speaker directly, or even identify a particular person in a group
as the addressee (through eye gaze, or some other strategy).
The amount of silence that is typical in a conversation varies significantly from group to group as well. In mainstream US culture, one often
hears the phrase “an awkward silence,” and the linguistic norms of the
dominant group clearly dictate an avoidance of silence in many types of
conversations. In looking at Maori-ethnicity speakers in New Zealand,
on the other hand, Stubbe (1998) found that interactions among them
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included relatively frequent silences, and that “Maori speakers are more
tolerant of silence than Pakehas [white New Zealanders]” (p. 275). Philips
(1990) found a similar pattern in the Native-American group she studied, who generally spoke more slowly overall, and exhibited much longer
pauses between turns, than European-American speakers. Basso (1970)
provides an intriguing discussion of the many strategic ways that silence
was used by the Western Apache community he worked in. Gudykunst,
Ting-Toomey, and Chua (1988) report on a study of Japanese-Americans
in Hawaii, who used significantly more silence in interactions than
European-Americans in the same community.
While silence is the default listening mode in some cultures, other
groups may see listening as a more active task, placing a high value on
back-channeling (head nods, or verbal agreements like uh-huh used to
indicate explicitly that the hearer is listening). African-American communities, for instance, have an extended system of resources for providing feedback to speakers. The most salient of these is “call and response,”
a genre associated particularly with church services.6 In this setting,
listeners provide verbal feedback (such as Tell it! or That’s right!) to the
minister, in a structured way. In symposia or lectures where a substantial percentage of the audience is African-American, there is often some
back-channeling to the speaker, either in response to a question or challenge, or simply as affirmation at appropriate intervals. There is also
some carry-over of this pattern to conversations among individuals outside of any formal setting (see Green 2002: 155).
Similarly, Stubbe (1998) found that Pakeha listeners produced about
a third more verbal feedback overall than Maori -ethnicity listeners, in
conversation. There was also a particular effect of gender on this pattern; female speakers in both ethnic groups were more likely to use what
Stubbe called “overtly supportive” responses than male speakers. As with
the structural features that have been discussed in previous chapters,
use of discourse features can interact with other social factors such as
gender or age.
It is important to study how pragmatic and discourse features vary
among ethnic groups because differences in such features can be responsible for misunderstandings in situations of inter-ethnic communication. Groups that talk more and are less comfortable with silence, for
example, may be perceived by other groups as loud, shallow, or aggressive. Liberman (1990) found that First Nations people in Australia tended
to use more silence than Anglo-Australians, as well as being more reluctant to express disagreement with others. As a result, among First Nations
people, the speaking style of Anglo-Australians was sometimes “viewed
to be evidence of anger where none exists” (1990: 183). Conversely, with
back-channeling, the failure by someone from a particular ethnic group
to provide feedback at the expected points may lead the speaker to believe
the hearer isn’t listening or perhaps even disagrees or disapproves.
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14.13
Future directions
We have seen that the construction of ethnic identity through language
is a complex, multilayered process and that sociolinguists are only beginning to understand the different ways that individuals, groups, and communities accomplish this task. Further research is needed in almost
every area that has been discussed. A few directions for future research,
however, stand out as particularly important.
To begin with, it is crucial to gather data on a wider range of ethnic
groups in more types of settings. The bulk of the literature on language
and ethnicity focuses on English-speaking countries such as the USA
or Australia. It would be fascinating to know more about how ethnic
divisions are marked linguistically in Africa, South America, or Asia,
for example. Even within the USA, which is undoubtedly the most studied location, some ethnic groups have barely begun to be studied. As
Chun (2001) notes, for instance, studies of the language features of AsianAmericans have been largely neglected, except for issues of language
maintenance or code-switching. Certain types of studies are also underrepresented. For example, there are very few studies of sound changes in
progress that focus exclusively on minority ethnic groups. Adding such
studies would greatly strengthen our ability to make general claims
about the issue of language change, which has been at the center of
sociolinguistic theory.
In addition, we still know very little about how ethnically marked
varieties develop in the first place. As political, economic, and social
conditions in a particular area change and develop, there is often an
accompanying shift in ethnic composition. Such a shift can result in
changes in ethnically marked dialects or varieties, or in the emergence
of entirely new varieties. Wolfram, Carter, and Moriello. (2004) is one of
the first studies to look at the generation of a new dialect among Latino
speakers in one Southern US community. A number of studies have
focused on linguistic developments since the end of apartheid in South
Africa (De Klerk 1996; Gough 1996; Mesthrie 2002; McCormick 2002b),
including the increasing use of English by black South Africans who do
not otherwise share a common language. However, we need many more
such studies in order to put the linguistic construction of ethnic identity
into social and historical context.
Finally, it is time for sociolinguists to set aside the myths we have
generated about ethnicity and language, as summarized in Fought (2002)
and Wolfram (2007), and conduct research on those areas that were
previously thought to be uninteresting. Primary among these is intragroup variation in linguistic identity. Within a particular ethnic group,
for example, how do middle-class speakers construct an identity that is
similar to or different from working-class speakers from the same community? How do speakers of the same ethnicity mark their regional or
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local alliances in different places? What is the role of gender (as well
as ideologies about gender) in constructing a particular ethnic identity?
There is an impressive amount of work left to do. Looking at it from
another perspective, we could say that there are fascinating and largely
unexplored areas open to research by a young generation of sociolinguists, who will no doubt contribute to sociolinguistic knowledge about
the complexities of constructing an ethnic identity.
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Part IV
Multilingualism and
language contact
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15
Multilingualism
Ana Deumert
15.1 Introduction: worldwide linguistic diversity
How many languages are there in the world? Which country has the
highest number of languages, and which country has the lowest number? Is linguistic diversity distributed evenly across the world? Are
some geographical areas more diverse than others, and why? How many
people speak more than one language? And what are their reasons for
using more than one language? Questions such as these are central to the
study of multilingualism, which can be defined as the use of more than
one language by individuals, and/or within societies and countries.
Linguists have always understood the notion of “language” as inherently problematic, and the question of whether a particular form of
speech should be classified as a separate language cannot always be
answered easily. Criteria such as structural similarity and mutual intelligibility have been useful at times. However, they are only of limited
use in the case of dialect chains where adjacent varieties are similar and
understandable, but varieties at the extremes of the chain are not. A
well-known example of this is the German–Dutch dialect continuum.
In addition, power relations, history, and nationhood as well as speaker
attitudes can overrule linguistic criteria, and structurally similar forms
of speech are sometimes classified as different languages because of
their sociopolitical status. Examples of this are Hindi/Urdu or Croatian/
Serbian. In other cases, highly divergent forms of speech are perceived
as dialects and not languages by their speakers because of their association with a unified political and cultural territory. This is the case for
the Chinese languages which, despite their structural dissimilarity, are
frequently referred to as dialects.
Although these issues complicate the enumeration of the world’s languages (and language statistics in general), linguists nevertheless collect
statistics on linguistic diversity in the form of surveys and census data.
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According to the most recent edition of the Ethnologue (Lewis 2009) –
which is the best-known data source for worldwide language statistics –
there are 6,909 languages spoken in the world.1 While the exact figure
remains open to debate, linguists generally agree that a number of
approximately 6,000 to 7,000 languages captures global linguistic diversity (Nettle & Romaine 2000). Although many countries recognize only
one language as official, not a single of the world’s just over two hundred
countries is, in fact, monolingual. Even in a country such as Iceland –
which has been described as monolingual (see Skutnabb-Kangas 1995) –
three different languages are regularly used: Icelandic, Danish, and
Icelandic Sign Language.
The global distribution of languages across geographical space is
uneven. The highest levels of linguistic diversity (number of languages
per square mile) are found around the equator, that is, in countries such
as Papua New Guinea or Nigeria (820 and 516 languages, respectively).
Nettle and Romaine (2000: 32) identify two geographical areas which
stand out because of their high level of linguistic diversity: “There are
two great belts of high density: one running from the West African coast
through the Congo basin and to East Africa, and another running from
South India and peninsula South-east Asia into the Islands of Indonesia,
New Guinea, and the Pacific.” Environmental factors are important in
explaining these geographical patterns. In tropical, equatorial countries,
climate (an all-year round rainy season) allows for agriculture, and thus
food production, throughout the year. Communities are, in principle,
self-sufficient as they do not rely on trade to secure food during periods
without rainfall. The ecological self-sufficiency helps small, localized
groups to remain distinct from one another, and to maintain their own
language and other cultural practices. This leads to an overall high level
of linguistic diversity in these regions (Nettle 1999).
In other areas – such as the savanna with less than four months of
annual rainfall – trade networks (and thus inter-group communication
and alliances) are necessary for survival during the dry winter months.
These networks support the spread of lingua francas (i.e. languages
which are used for inter-group contact) and make community and individual multilingualism an economic necessity. In such situations, smaller
groups are often found to shift gradually to the language (and culture) of
larger and more powerful groups. Nettle (1999: 74–76) gives the example
of Hausa which has spread over a large geographical area due to its longstanding political and economic dominance. (However, see Campbell &
Poser 2008, for a critical evaluation of Nettle’s argument.)
Although speech communities are economically self-sufficient in tropical climates, they are rarely monolingual. Voluntary trade and cultural
relationships with neighboring groups are common and support the
learning of new languages. However, due to the economic self-sufficiency
of groups, multilingualism tends to be symmetrical and does not result
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in language shift. Local linguistic diversity is thus maintained. Kulick
(1992: 69) documents this type of culturally and historically entrenched
multilingualism with respect to Gapun, a village in Papua New Guinea.
The local language spoken in Gapun is Taiap.
Like the speakers of other comparatively small vernaculars throughout Melanesia, the villagers of Gapun command a good number of
languages. Virtually everyone over the age of 10 speaks at least two
languages and understands at least one more … Senior men sometimes
recount the tale of Kambedagam, the ancestral deity who founded
Gapun. In their descriptions of Kambedagam, these men emphasize
that he was … multilingual. Stressing this, the men proudly note
how they, by being multilingual, still follow “the way” established by
Kambedagam.
Many countries have indigenous speech communities which were marginalized by colonialism. Knowledge of the language of the colonial
rulers became a condition for participating in the national education
system and the colonial, as well as post-colonial, economy (especially the
labour market). In the case of Gapun, colonialism led to a change in the
patterns of multilingualism in the village. While pre-colonial multilingualism involved the learning and use of several neighboring languages
in a context of broad linguistic and socioeconomic equality, colonial/
post-colonial multilingualism in Papua New Guinea is characterized by
the dominance of Tok Pisin as a second language, reflecting not equality between groups but the social, political, and economic power of the
colonial lingua franca. Pre-colonial multilingualism involving a wide
range of local languages (such as, for example, Kopar, Adjora, Murik,
Buna, Pankin, Watam, and Bien for the villagers of Gapun) has thus
been displaced by colonial/post-colonial bilingualism (Taiap plus Tok
Pisin).
Since the beginning of the twentieth century, the increasing pace of
international migration and human mobility has further contributed to
within-country multilingualism across the world.2 In the United States,
for example, over 50 percent of languages spoken are recent migrant
languages (Table 15.1), and multilingualism is widespread within these
communities. Just as in the case of the villagers of Gapun, knowledge of
the nationally dominant language (in this case English) is important for
the migrants’ participation in the educational and economic system of
their new home.
This chapter will discuss the consequences of linguistic diversity at
(a) the level of the individual (individual multilingualism), and (b) the
level of society, that is, the relationship of languages and their speakers
within a given territory (societal multilingualism). In the final section, it
will also consider the interaction of multilingualism and multiculturalism as two partially overlapping but non-identical concepts.
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ANA DEUMERT
Table 15.1 Immigrant-language diversity for selected countries (based on Lewis
2009)
Country
% of migrant languages (of the total
no. of languages spoken in the country)
No. of migrant
languages
81
79
69
66
63
61
57
53
52
49
40
31
22
22
29
44
29
19
39
42
13
17
188
83
16
15
9
46
United Arab Emirates
United Kingdom
Ukraine
Belgium
France
Germany
Gambia
Sweden
USA
Canada
South Africa
Israel
Italy
Australia
15.2 Individual multilingualism
15.2.1 Definitions and examples
Edwards (1994: 55) has argued that there exist no truly monolingual
speakers and that everyone knows at least some words in another language. Multilingualism, in other words, is always a question of degree –
ranging from knowledge of a few words to full competency in more than
one language. However, should knowing how to say “I love you” in ten
different languages (as reported a few years ago by one of my students at
the University of Cape Town) count as a meaningful example of multilingualism? Does it fall into the same category as that of the Johannesburg
taxi driver whom I interviewed in 2005, and who communicates daily
and fluently in isiZulu, Sesotho, English, and Afrikaans with customers,
family, and friends?
Linguists tend to see multilingualism as a gradient phenomenon, and
frequently focus on the endpoints of what is essentially a continuum,
juxtaposing individuals with full competency in more than one language against those whose ability does not go beyond the articulation
of a limited set of single utterances (the “I love you” example above; see
Romaine 1995: 11). In addition, there are those who are able to understand more than one language, even though they might not be able to
produce utterances (passive multilingualism), and those who, in addition to speaking a language, also have literacy skills (reading/writing).
And fi nally, proficiency might not be the same across the linguistic
system. Speakers might have good command of a language’s grammar
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and lexicon, but poor pronunciation. Alternatively, they may make
use of a reduced grammatical structure and a limited lexicon with a
near-native pronunciation. As a result, multilingualism is best understood as “a series of continua [comprising skills such as listening/ reading/
speaking/writing and the different aspects of the linguistic system, i.e.
phonetics/grammar/lexis/semantics/stylistics – A.D.] which may vary
for each individual” (Romaine 1995: 12, my emphasis; see also MyersScotton 2006: Ch.3).
A frequently mentioned example – illustrating how competence can
vary across the different aspects of the linguistic system as well as
the spoken/written divide – is that of the Polish-born novelist Joseph
Conrad (1857–1924) who learnt English as a young adult. Today his written work forms part of the English literary canon. Yet, his spoken language use, while certainly fluent, was reportedly never native-like. Ford
Maddox Ford, a British novelist, who had known Conrad well, describes
his heavily Polish pronunciation and his non-native use of especially
adverbs (1924: 34–35): “He spoke English with great fluency and distinction, with correctitude in his syntax, his words absolutely exact as to
meaning but his accentuation so faulty that he was at times difficult
to understand and his use of adverbs as often as not eccentric.” InterScandinavian communication is an example of what has been called
“receptive multilingualism with productive monolingualism” (see the
review of the literature by Braunmü ller 2002). Although Danes, Swedes,
and Norwegians speak different (albeit related) languages, they retain
a strong sense of a common history and culture. This ideological and
attitudinal stance has important consequences for communication on
the Scandinavian mainland. Haugen (e.g. 1966a) was one of the fi rst
linguists to draw attention to the fact that when Danes, Swedes, and
Norwegians communicate with one another, they do not use a lingua
franca (such as English). Instead, they continue to speak their own
languages, knowing that their interlocutors will have sufficient passive competence to follow the conversation (Zeevaert 2007). However,
as noted by Haugen (1966a), communication under these conditions is
not always perfect, and can sometimes involve a “trickle of messages
through a rather high level of ‘code noise’ ” (p. 281). This appears to be
the case especially for Danish where the pronunciation has changed
significantly since the Middle Ages, and which can be quite difficult
to understand for Swedes and Norwegians. Haugen, therefore, termed
this type of multilingual interaction “semicommunication” (or “semiunderstanding”). Braunmü ller (2002), however, has criticized the idea
that inter-Scandinavian communication is incomplete (as indicated
by the term semi), and has shown that interlocutors resort to a range
of strategies (including the use of the addressee’s variety in the form
of code-switching; see below and Chapter 17) to ensure the adequate
transmission of messages.
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ANA DEUMERT
15.2.2 Becoming multilingual – first and
second language acquisition
Language proficiency is, to a large extent, a consequence of age. There
is substantial psycholinguistic evidence to show that our ability to learn
languages is affected by the passage of time, and that there exists a socalled window period for full language acquisition. Second language
acquisition studies have shown that phonological attainment is strongly
conditioned by the age of the learner (with a cut-off point around age six
or seven), and that second language learners starting later than in their
early teens tend to have persistent difficulties with morphology and syntax (Long 1990). At the same time, research by, for example, Birdsong and
Molis (2001) and Singleton (2005) has drawn attention to the fact that for
some individuals native-like attainment of a second language appears
to be possible beyond puberty. This suggests that the window period is
relative rather than absolute, and success of acquisition also depends
on the relationship/similarity of the languages involved, an individual’s
motivation and the frequency of use of the second language. However,
as a general rule, multilingual competence which is acquired past childhood – or at least puberty – is rarely located at the full proficiency pole
of the continuum. The situation is different for what is called multilingual first language acquisition, referring to children who grow up with
more than one language simultaneously, and who obtain native-like proficiency in all languages to which they are regularly and consistently
exposed.3
The study of multilingual first language acquisition has a comparatively long history. In 1913 the first study of a child’s multilingual
acquisition appeared: Ronjat’s description of his son Louis who grew up
speaking French and German (Genesee & Nicoladis 2007). Romaine (1995:
183–85) distinguishes six types of multilingual acquisition in childhood.
The following typology is adapted and expanded from Romaine’s original discussion. Please note that these scenarios can be modified and
combined to include more languages (for example, the child might learn
additional languages from members of the extended family, or friends
in the neighborhood).
Type 1: Two home languages (one person, one language)
Description: The parents speak different languages and each parent
speaks their own language to the child from birth. The language of one
parent is the dominant language in the society where the family lives.
Example: A Turkish-speaking mother and a German-speaking father
raising their child in Germany.
Type 2: Non-dominant home language I (One language, One
environment)
Description: The parents speak different languages and the language of
one parent is the dominant language in the society where the family
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lives. Both parents speak the non-dominant language to the child at
home. However, from early on the child is exposed to the dominant
language outside of the home (e.g. with the extended family, at nursery school, in the neighborhood).
Example: As in 1, with Turkish being used by both parents in the home.
Type 3: Non-dominant home language II
Description: The parents speak the same language which is different
from the dominant language of the society where the family lives.
Both parents speak their own (shared) language to the child. This language is also used in the neighborhood where the family lives. The
child acquires the socially dominant language only once he or she
starts schooling.
Example: The parents are Mexican migrants in the United States and
live in a predominately Spanish-speaking neighborhood with other
migrants from their home area.
Type 4: Double non-dominant home language
Description: The parents speak different languages and neither of their
languages is the dominant language of the society where the family
lives. Both parents speak their own language to the child at home.
Their languages are also used (to varying degrees) in the neighborhood. The child acquires the socially dominant language only once he
or she starts schooling.
Example: The mother is Mexican (Spanish-speaking), the father from
Haiti and speaks Haitian Creole. The family lives in a migrant neighborhood in the United States, and both Spanish and Haitian Creole
are used by sectors of the community.
Type 5: Non-native language used by one parent
Description: The parents speak the same language which is also the
dominant language of the wider society. One parent addresses the
child in a language which is not his or her first language.
Example: Both parents speak Wu and the family lives in Shanghai.
The mother, however, speaks English with the child.
Type 6: Language mixing and code-switching
Description: Both parents are multilingual. Multilingualism is also
widespread in the wider community where the family lives. The parents address the child regularly in more than one language.
Example: Both parents speak isiXhosa and English. The family resides
in Cape Town (South Africa), and both languages are also regularly
used by relatives, neighbors and friends, as well as in the wider
society (e.g. on TV and radio, in the church, etc.).
These different types of multilingual acquisition in childhood have distinctive longitudinal patterns. For Types 1, 2, and 5, there can be changes
in proficiency across time. As children grow up the linguistic input to
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which they are exposed may change substantially, and as they spend
less and less time at home with their parents, opportunities to use one
of their languages might diminish. This can lead to a decrease in proficiency in the lesser used language (attrition, that is, the gradual “forgetting” or loss of a language by an individual; for an overview see Hansen
2001). The situation is different for Types 3, 4, and 6: here multilingualism is a characteristic not only of the family and the individual, but
also of the community or neighborhood (however, not necessarily of the
nation as in the case of migrant neighborhoods in the United States). In
these cases, the multilingual child has continued opportunities to use
more than one language outside of the home environment (especially
within friends in the neighborhood).
Many people become multilingual past childhood (for overviews of the
field of second language acquisition studies see, for example, Ellis 1994;
Doughty & Long 2003). Especially in the context of international migration and mobility, language acquisition continues for many throughout
their lives. We can distinguish two main scenarios: (a) tutored second
language acquisition which takes place through (classroom) instruction,
and (b) untutored (or naturalistic) second language acquisition with no or
little explicit instruction, mainly as a consequence of regular interaction
with speakers of these languages. While adult second language acquisition rarely leads to native-like proficiency (due to the maturational constraints mentioned above), many speakers achieve quite high levels of
communicative proficiency and use their second language regularly in a
wide range of contexts. They are able to function in more than one language according to their needs (Grosjean 1989).
15.2.3
Consequences of individual multilingualism
Code-switching – Code-switching, that is, the use of elements from more
than one language within a conversation, is ubiquitous among multilinguals. Examples (1) to (6) exemplify this phenomenon. See also Chapter 20
in this volume.
(1) What do you préfèrez, een boterham? (‘What do you prefer, a slice of
bread?’; Livia, aged 2 years and 10 months, growing up in London,
UK, with a Dutch-speaking father and a French-speaking mother;
French underlined, Dutch in bold; Dewaele 2000).
(2) Ek gaan vir Batman phone (‘I will phone Batman’; R, 5 years, from an
Afrikaans/English-speaking community in Cape Town, South Africa;
Afrikaans in bold; McCormick 2002).
(3) Je pensais que ce type allait me couler, mais quelle surprise, mon
cher! On dirait alidanganyika parce que sikujua kama atamipatia nusu (‘I thought this guy was going to fail me, but what a surprise, my dear! One would say he was absent-minded because I didn’t
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know he would give me half of the marks’; pupil in Zaire, FrenchKiswahili; Kiswahili in bold; Goyvaerts & Zembele 1992).
(4) Sisahlangana ngomso or not? Send 1 plz cal if yes two if no (‘Are we still
meeting tomorrow or not? Send one please call me message if yes,
two if no’; SMS by Gerry, 24 years, isiXhosa/English-speaking South
African; IsiXhosa in bold; Deumert & Masinyana 2008; spelling as in
the original).
(5) Dix-sept ans, deux kids, obligé de dealer un shit every day (‘Seventeenyears, two children, had to deal some shit every day’; Sans Pression,
Candian rap artist; French in bold; Sarkar & Winer 2006).
(6) Mást nem lehetett mondani mint javol javol her general (‘You couldn’t
say anything else but yes sir, yes sir, general’; a Hungarian/Germanspeaking man describing his experience in the army in World War II;
German in bold; Gal 1979; her spelling conventions).
These examples illustrate several important facts about code-switching:
(a) it is typical of multilingual children, teenagers, and adults alike (i.e. it
is independent of the age of the speaker), (b) it can occur within sentences
(intra-sentential code-switching, examples 1, 2, and 5), and at syntactic
boundaries (inter-sentential code-switching, examples 3 and 6; example 5
illustrates both types), and (c) it occurs in spoken language (examples 1,
2, 3, and 6), in informal written language (example 4), as well as in stylized linguistic performances (example 5).
According to Myers-Scotton (1993a), code-switching is frequently an
“unmarked choice” for multilingual speakers. That is, in interactions
with other multilingual speakers, the use of more than one language
(the multilingual code) constitutes the communicative norm and indicates the speakers’ multiple linguistic (and often also cultural) identities.
In such situations the alternation of languages can serve stylistic purposes. Thus, in example (6) code-switching is used to signal a quotation
(or direct speech). Code-switching can also be used to highlight semantic
contrast, as in example (4).
In some multilingual communities, high-frequency language alternation can become conventionalized, leading to the formation of a
relatively stable mixed language variety for in-group communication
(Auer 1999; Thomason 2003). Examples of this include: Spanglish (a
mixture of Spanish and English which is spoken in the USA [Zentella
1997]), Italoschwyz (which combines Italian and Swiss German and
is spoken by second generation Italian migrants [Franceschini 1998]),
Taglish (a mixture of Tagalog and English used in the Philippines
[Thompson 2003]), Sheng (a multilingual Kiswahili-based urban variety which is spoken in Kenya and whose lexicon includes items from
English, Gikuyu, Luo, and Kamba [Schneider 2007a]), Camfranglais (a
mixture of English and French spoken in Cameroon [Kouega 2003]), and
Tsotsitaal (a mixed language spoken in South Africa’s urban centers,
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combining Afrikaans, English, and African languages [Slabbert and
Myers-Scotton 1997]).
Attitudes toward code-switching and mixed languages tend to be
ambiguous. On the one hand, speakers frequently articulate puristic ideals, overtly discouraging and stigmatizing the use of code-switching and
mixed language varieties as non-standard. On the other hand, they assign
covert prestige to these varieties as markers of identity (see Chapter 12
for a discussion of overt vs. covert prestige). This is illustrated in the following extract from an interview with Themba, a male isiXhosa speaker
in his early 20s. Themba describes South African Tsotsitaal as a code
which expresses male as well as youth group identity, and which symbolizes the speakers’ ability to negotiate the rough and dangerous urban
environment.
And ungu outie nje, uyahlangana uya mixana nama outie. Then
ufumanise ukuba, yah sure, umix-ana nama outie nje ungumtu
othetha ngoluhlobo. And iTsotsitaal, senditsho ndingathini na? Yinto
ekwaziyo ukuhlanganisa amaoutie, ndingase nditsho kanjalo, ispecific kumaoutie. ’Cause xa ndithetha ngoluhlobo uyaqonda, eish,
hayi lo outie ngu outie ngulova, uguluva lo, sure! And ayonto
igrandi intobana ukhule ube lixhego usathetha iTsotsitaal. Ndinotsho
ndithi iTsotsitaal into yestage esithile.
(‘And as a guy you meet and you mix with other guys. Then you find
that, yah sure, as you are mixing with guys you are a person who
speaks this way [i.e. speaks Tsotsitaal – A.D.] And Tsotsitaal, I mean
what can I say? It’s something that connects the guys, that’s what I
can say, it’s specific to guys. ’Cause when I speak that way, you understand, eish, really, this guy is a guy, he’s a clever, he is street-wise, for
sure! And it’s odd to be speaking Tsotsitaal when you are an old man.
I can say that Tsotsitaal is something for a particular stage in life.’)
(Interview with Themba, Cape Town, 2006; main language isiXhosa,
English and Tsotsitaal lexical material in bold)
Language choice – Multilingual speakers often choose between languages
depending on the situation and language competency of the interlocutor, as well as to mark identities or group affiliations, to negotiate social
roles and status, and to establish interpersonal solidarity or distance.
Myers-Scotton (1993a), for example, reports that Kiswahili is commonly
used in public settings and service encounters in Kenya. According to her
terminology, Kiswahili is the “unmarked” (or expected) choice in such
settings. However, sometimes multilingual speakers choose to use a different language in these contexts (in Myers-Scotton’s terminology their
behavior then reflects a “marked,” or unexpected, choice). For example,
they might realize that their interlocutor comes from the same ethnic
group, and thus they switch to the shared ethnic language in order to
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appeal to inter-ethnic solidarity (see the example given by Myers-Scotton
on p. 40). In other cases, speakers might choose to distance themselves
from the interlocutor by speaking in English, thus emphasizing their
high educational status. Heller (1992) makes similar observations with
regard to the choice of French and English in Quebec (Canada) where
native French speakers, who are highly proficient in English, might refuse to switch into English in formal contexts which have historically
been English-dominant.
Language maintenance and shift – Knowledge of more than one language is a communicative resource for speakers. However, in many
cases the multilingual environment in which these speakers articulate themselves through more than one language is limited: for some
it includes only the family, for some the village or neighbourhood, and
for others a specific city or region within the country. As individuals
move to a different area, or come to interact more frequently with
interlocutors from other language groups, speakers may gradually
replace one language by another as their primary means of communication. This process is called language shift and has been described for
many migrant as well as minority language communities. (See Chapter 21
this volume).
Statistics in the form of census data are important for tracing the process of language shift across time. Clyne (2003: Ch. 2), for example, compares shift rates for different migrant groups in Australia (Table 15.2) by
calculating the percentage of fi rst and second generation migrants who
continue to use the language of their country of origin in the home.
First generation migrants are those that were born outside of Australia,
and who acquired English as a second language. Second generation
migrants were born in Australia and generally experienced types (1), (2),
(3), or (4) of multilingual first language acquisition (see above). Table 15.2
shows (a) that rates of shift are higher in all communities in the second
generation, and (b) that rates of shift show striking differences across
communities.
In the first generation, differences between language communities might be due to the fact that English proficiency upon arrival in
Australia is not the same across groups and depends to some extent on
the education system of the home country. Thus, while Dutch migrants
usually arrive with very high proficiency in English, the same is not true
for migrants from Lebanon. In addition, strong community networks
can provide an important resource which supports the maintenance of
the language in the first as well as second generation. This is the case
for the Greek community, which is characterized by a strong pattern of
endogamous marriages and concentrated urban settlement. Destination
language knowledge, settlement and marriage patterns as well as community networks are thus important factors in language maintenance
and shift (see Clyne 2003 for further discussion).
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Table 15.2 Language shift in Australia: first and second generation language
shift for selected communities (1996 and 2001 Australian Census; adapted from
Clyne 2003: 25, 27; Clyne & Kipp 2003)
Birthplace (Language)
Austria (German)
Chile (Spanish)
France (French)
Germany (German)
Greece (Greek)
Hong Kong (Cantonese)
Italy (Italian)
Japan (Japanese)
Korea (Korean)
Lebanon (Arabic)
Netherlands (Dutch)
Spain (Spanish)
% of shift first generation
1996
2001
48.3
9.8
37.2
48.2
6.4
9.0
14.7
15.4
11.6
5.5
61.9
22.4
54.4
12.2
36.8
54.0
7.1
10.3
15.9
16.9
11.1
6.2
62.6
25.1
% of shift second generation
(1996)
89.7
38.0
77.7
89.7
28.0
35.7
57.9
57.6
18.0
20.1
95.0
63.0
Note: Language shift in the first generation is calculated as the percentage of people
born in a particular country who reported English as their home language in the census.
Language shift in the second generation is calculated as the percentage of people born
in Australia with one or both parents born in a particular country who reported English
as their home language. Data on second generation shift could not be calculated for
the 2001 census as the question regarding parental birthplace had been changed in the
2001 census: specific countries were no longer listed, instead respondents were able to
choose between only two options “in Australia/outside Australia.”
15.3 Societal multilingualism
Linguistic diversity with and without widespread individual multilingualism –
Sankoff (1980: 29–46) has shown that for the Buang-speaking people of
Papua New Guinea multilingualism is a communal norm. Residents of
the villages along the Snake River speak, in addition to Buang, Tok Pisin
(spoken by about 80 percent of villagers) and Yabem (which is the main
language used by the local mission station and also spoken by about 80
percent of villagers). In this case, we see an overlap of societal multilingualism (i.e. more than one language is used within a given territory or
society), and individual multilingualism (i.e. (almost) each individual in
that society has proficiency in more than one language and speaks it on
a regular basis). Such overlap is also common in many African countries.
For example, the majority of citizens in Kenya or Tanzania are proficient
in their local language(s) as well as Kiswahili (the national lingua franca),
and often also English.
Australia, on the other hand, is an example of a society which is
characterized by extensive societal but not necessarily individual
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multilingualism. Historically, Australia is a British settler-colony established on the basis of the expropriation of land from Aboriginal people.
While initial settlement was predominately British, twentieth-century
migrants came increasingly from non-English-speaking countries.
The most recent Australian census (2006) lists 388 languages which
are spoken in the homes of 16.8 percent of the population. About two
hundred of these languages are Australian Aboriginal languages, many
of them with very small numbers of speakers (about half of Australia’s
aboriginal languages have less than fi fty speakers, and only a few
have between one thousand and two thousand speakers, e.g. Arrernte,
Pitjantjatjara, and Warlpiri). The remaining languages are migrant languages, with Italian, Greek, Cantonese, and Arabic having the largest
speech communities (between 300,000 to 250,000 speakers each). Yet,
this remarkable diversity notwithstanding, Australia has been said to
have a “monolingual mindset” (Clyne 2005). The majority of its residents (over 80 percent of the total population) has shown little interest
in learning languages other than English beyond what is compulsory in
the school curriculum (Grac ía [2002] reports a similar attitude for the
United States).
Another example of a multilingual country without widespread individual multilingualism is Switzerland, which has four national languages: German, French, Italian, and Romansch. Yet, the majority of
Swiss citizens speak only the language which is dominant in their area
of residence.
Domains – In multilingual societies languages are often said to occupy
different domains. The concept of domains was introduced by Fishman
in the 1970s and has been influential in the study of multilingual societies. Fishman defined domains as “institutional contexts and their congruent behavioral occurrences” (1972: 441; Fishman’s italics). These contexts,
or domains, are differentiated by the types of interactions that occur in
them and by the interlocutors who participate in them.
Another Australian example will illustrate Fishman’s notion of
domains: the Vietnamese-speaking community in Melbourne. According
to the 2006 census, Australia’s Vietnamese community is the sixth largest
migrant group. Vietnamese retains a strong position in the home domain
(where it is used almost exclusively with parents and also siblings) and
is generally seen as a core marker of Vietnamese cultural identity (Pham
1998). Urban Vietnamese settlement shows residential concentration in
some of Melbourne’s inner city areas (such as Footscray or Richmond).
In these areas, signage, for example, is often in Vietnamese (sometimes
in combination with English, sometimes monolingual; see Deumert
2006), and numerous small businesses (shops, restaurants, medical practitioners, lawyers, etc.) cater for what is known as the “ethnic market.”
Language use according to domains (home, neighborhood, work, education, government) is summarized in Table 15.3.
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Table 15.3 Domains and language choice in the Vietnamese
community in Melbourne, Australia
Domain
Family/home
Peer group/neighbourhooda
Employment/labour marketb
Education/school
Government officesc
Vietnamese
×
×
×
English
×
×
×
×
Note: Vertical lines = monolingual domains; diagonal lines =
multilingual domains.
a. Although Vietnamese is reportedly strong in this domain,
English is used by Australian-born children who were exposed
to English in the school environment; b. Vietnamese is used in
the “ethnic” economy, English in the wider economy; c. There
is, however, the possibility of English-to-Vietnamese translation
(depending on translator availability).
For migrants from the Netherlands, on the other hand, usage would be
largely limited to the family/home domain. This domain is in fact shared
between Dutch and English, given the high rate of language shift (see
Table 15.2) – Dutch would frequently share with English.
The concept of domains is useful for describing the broad distribution
of languages across interactional contexts within a multilingual community. However, it does not allow us to predict language use in a specific
encounter. Thus, a member of the Vietnamese community working as
a teacher at an Australian school would generally use English within
this context. However, when advising parents from his or her own community on the performance of their child, he or she might choose to
use Vietnamese in order to ensure better communication, and to show
respect to community norms. Thus, multilingual speakers frequently
select languages within specific domains according to a number of social
and situational variables (Appel & Muysken 1987: 27–29; see also the
examples given in 15.2.3 under Language choice).
In countries characterized by an overlap of societal and individual
multilingualism, multilingualism itself can be the norm for a specific
domain. Cooper and Carpenter (1972) have shown this in their study
of Ethiopian markets. Ethiopia recognizes three official languages:
Amharic, English, and Tigrigna. Yet, many more languages are spoken within the borders of the country and the Ethnologue lists a total
of eighty-five (living) languages for Ethiopia. Although one might
expect that in such a diverse country one language would establish itself as a lingua franca for inter-ethnic business transactions,
Cooper and Carpenter found that all markets were highly multilingual (altogether they observed almost 40,000 business transactions in
twenty-three different markets). Thus, even in Addis Ababa, with its
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Table 15.4 Addis Ababa’s multilingual markets (Cooper & Carpenter 1972: 260)
Languages
Percentage of transactions in the markets
Markato shops Markato open market
Amharic
Galla
Gurage
Tigrigna
Other
Multilingual
73
8
11
6
2
1
55
19
18
6
1
2
Kirkos Kebele
Emmanuel
TOTAL
52
21
14
11
1
2
61
9
25
0
0
4
64
13
14
6
1
1
strong Amharic-speaking population (around 50 percent of residents),
language use in the market was highly diverse (see Table 15.4; see also
Gardner-Chloros 1991 for a study of multilingual service encounters
in department stores in Strasbourg, France).
Diglossia – Diglossia is a term which was introduced by Ferguson (1959)
to describe multilingual speech communities which show a strict functional specialization of languages. That is, a specific language is firmly
assigned to a context or domain, and other social and situational variables (as discussed above) do not affect the domain-specific distribution
of languages.
In the sociolinguistic literature, a distinction is sometimes made
between “narrow” (or “classic”) and “broad” diglossia (see Hudson 2002).
In speech communities characterized by narrow diglossia (as defi ned
originally by Ferguson), two related varieties of one language (e.g. Standard
German and Swiss German in Switzerland) are believed to exist in
strict functional complementarity (i.e. there is no overlap of usage, each
domain is associated with one and only one form of speech). One variety is called the L(ow) variety. It is the language which is learnt as a
fi rst language by all members of the speech community and which
is always used in informal spoken communication (Swiss German).
The other variety is called the H(igh) variety. The H variety is typically acquired in an institutional setting (thus Swiss Germans learn
Standard German at school) and is never used in informal (spoken) conversations. As indicated in the terminology, the two varieties are not
only different in terms of acquisition and domains of usage, but are
also evaluated differently. Overt social prestige is usually attached to
the H variety, whereas the L variety commands covert prestige and is a
marker of group identit y (for a recent discussion of the Swiss situation,
see Siebenhaar 2006).
In broad diglossia, on the other hand, two or more varieties or languages exist as stable elements in the speech community’s repertoire.
And although different codes are preferred in different domains, there
is no strict complementarity of usage and the H variety can occur in
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informal conversations. Moreover, the acquisition of the L variety as the
sole first language is not at issue (Fishman 1967/1980). Based on these
discussions, Britto (1986: 35–40, 287) suggested a threefold classification
of diglossic situations.
1.
U S E - O R I E N T E D (N A R ROW )
DIGLOSSI A
–
SOCIETA L A N D IN DI V IDUA L
M U LT I L I NGUA L ISM W I T H S T R IC T F U NC T ION A L SPEC I A L I Z AT ION
The H variety (or language)4 is superposed for the entire speech community and everyone learns it as a second language. Use of the H
variety depends on domain specialization and is thus use-oriented;
no section of the speech community uses the H variety for ordinary
(spoken) conversation. According to Hudson (2002), such scenarios
are rare rather than common in language history.
2. U S E R - O R I E N T E D ( B R O A D ) D I G L O S S I A – S O C I E T A L A N D I N D I V I D U A L
M U LT I L I NGUA L ISM W I T H SO C I A L S T R AT I F IC AT ION
The H variety (or language) is not superposed for all members of the
speech community and certain groups within the speech community acquire the H variety as their first language. Use of the H and L
varieties depends not only on domains, but also on social characteristics such as ethnicity, religion, and/or class. The H variety is commonly used as the normal conversational language by the elite. This
is a common scenario in Africa and Asia where the former colonial
language (English, French, or Portuguese) functions as the H variety
and the local languages as L varieties.
3. P S E U D O - D I G L O S S I A – S O C I E T A L M U L T I L I N G U A L I S M W I T H O U T I N D I V I D UA L M U LT I L I NGUA L ISM
The two varieties (or languages) are used by separate speech communities within a given geographical or political organization; there is,
however, no group-internal diglossia. An example of this is Belgium
where the different speech communities (Dutch-Flemish/French/
German) have clearly defined (monolingual) territories (Wallonia
and Flanders). Within these territories the local language is used in
all functions, although there exist prestige differences at national
level (see Nelde 1998).
In some countries, the hierarchy of languages has more layers than the
H/L dichotomy and includes an intermediate variety or language. In
the early 1970s, the Tanzanian linguist Abdulaziz-Mkilifi (1972) introduced the term triglossia to describe the Tanzanian language situation.
In Tanzania (and also Kenya), we fi nd a trichotomy of (a) English (H
variety, the former colonial language which commands overt prestige
within society and is preferred by the elite), (b) Kiswahili (intermediate variety, a local lingua franca which is used alongside English in
the education system, mass media, and in government administration),
and (c) local languages “whose basic role is in oral intra-group communication” (p. 198).
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Table 15.5 The language of signage in three types of Israeli neighbourhoods
(in percent; based on Ben-Rafael et al. 2006: 17)
Languages
of signs
Hebrew only
Arabic only
Hebrew-English
Hebrew-Arabic
Arabic-English
Hebrew-Arabic-English
Jewish urban
localities
49.6
0.1
44.6
0.9
–
4.9
Israeli-Palestinian
urban localitie
24.1
5.0
6.2
39.4
1.2
24.1
non-Israeli Palestinian
localities
–
20.9
–
5.8
55.8
17.4
Mapping the multilingual landscape – Since the late 1990s, a new approach
to the societal study of multilingualism has become popular: the study
of what is called “linguistic landscaping” (see Landry & Bourhis 1997;
Gorter 2006). Linguistic landscapers study the language of signage in
public places, including “road signs, advertising billboards, street names,
place names, commercial shop signs, and public signs on government
buildings” (Landry & Bourhis 1997: 25). The visibility of languages is
seen as a reflection of the relative power and status these languages have
within a given territory. Ben-Rafael et al. (2006), for example, documented
public signage in urban Israel. The study focused on three different types
of neighborhoods: (a) Jewish urban localities (Hebrew as the dominant
spoken language), (b) Israeli-Palestinian urban localities (Arabic is used
as a home language, Hebrew for work and interactions with government
bodies), and (c) non-Israeli Palestinian localities (East Jerusalem, Arabic
as the dominant spoken language in all domains).
The results show that although Israel recognizes three official languages (Arabic, English, and Hebrew), these languages are not assigned
equal status in public signage (see Table 15.5). Only 6 percent of signs
in Hebrew-speaking neighborhoods included any Arabic, whereas 94
percent of signs in Israeli-Palestinian neighborhoods contained Hebrew.
Even in the non-Israeli neighbourhood of East Jerusalem, 23 percent of
signs included Hebrew text.
Borrowing and crossing – Whereas code-switching requires a certain
degree of multilingual proficiency, lexical borrowing – that is, the incorporation of words from another language into the native lexicon – can
take place in the context of limited (individual/societal) multilingualism.
An example of this is the spread of English lexicon in the context of
globalization. Languages across the world have borrowed heavily from
English, irrespective of the level of the speech communities’ proficiency
in English (see, e.g., Görlach’s [2005] Dictionary of European Anglicisms). In
societies where knowledge of and access to native varieties of English is
restricted, linguists have documented the emergence of a pseudo-English
lexicon, that is, words that “look” English but aren’t actually English. In
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Japanese these are considered to be a separate category of words and are
called wasei eigo, ‘English made in Japan.’ Examples include: baby car for
pram, push phone to refer to a touch-tone phone, and, of course, walkman
for a portable tape player, a term which is now also used in native varieties of English (see Stanlaw 2004).
Borrowings can be so deeply incorporated into the system of the receiving language that they become an integral part of the lexicon. Thus, in
modern isiXhosa we find verbs such as ukustrugglisha (‘to struggle,’ which
has received an isiXhosa suffi x and prefi x, the latter marking infinitive), or nouns such as ikhabhathi (‘cupboard,’ which is morphologically
integrated through the use of a noun prefi x and shows CVCV phonological structure). IsiXhosa words have also been integrated into English.
Thus, speakers of South African English use isiXhosa/isiZulu words such
as sangoma (referring to a traditional healer) according to the rules of
English, that is, they pronounce them according to the phonetic/phonological system of English and inflect them accordingly (“one sangoma,
two sangomas,” whereas the isiXhosa/isiZulu plural would be izangoma,
as both languages mark the plural in the noun prefi x, singular would be
isangoma). Speakers who use these borrowings are not necessarily multilingual, and English (or isiXhosa) monolinguals make use of these words
when speaking English (or isiXhosa).
While lexical borrowing can occur in the context of limited multilingualism (i.e. borrowers might only know a few words in the language from which they borrow), an overlap of (intense) societal and
individual multilingualism supports structural borrowing across languages. Modern Greek as spoken in Asia Minor has been shaped by a
situation of long-standing community multilingualism involving Greek
and Turkish. As a result speakers have borrowed Turkish suffi xes into
the local variety of Greek. For example, the first plural past tense form
(used in the village of Semenderé) kétunmistik (‘we came’) incorporates
the Turkish suffi x - ik (Turkish geldik, ‘we came’; Thomason & Kaufman
1988: 215–22).
And finally, access to multilingual resources within a society can give
rise to what Rampton (1995, 2006) has termed crossing, that is the playful use of languages in which one has only limited proficiency. Thus,
Rampton (1995) found that Anglo youth in London occasionally made use
of Caribbean Creole in their speech. They had picked up some phrases
and expressions within their multiethnic friendship groups (which
included first language speakers of Caribbean Creole) and employed this
knowledge for language play as well as to establish solidarity across ethnic boundaries.
Language attitudes – In linguistically diverse countries, speakers frequently express ambiguous attitudes toward languages that are less
powerful within society. On the one hand, speakers view these languages
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as a vital expression of cultural heritage; on the other hand, they often
perceive them as economically, educationally, and politically ineffective
and inferior.
This is particularly visible in the area of education. In sub-Saharan
Africa less than one-fifth of children receive schooling in their first
language. For the majority of children, education is provided in the language of the former colonial power (e.g. English, French, or Portuguese),
or a local lingua franca such as Kiswahili (UNDP 2004: 34). These early
experiences shape language attitudes and often lead to an evaluation of
one’s own language as inadequate for purposes of technical and other
forms of specialized communication. In 2002, the South African government formulated a policy which aimed to develop local African
languages so that these could be used in higher education, a domain
which is currently dominated by English. In 2003, the University of the
Witwatersrand (Johannesburg) responded to this policy by proposing
to introduce Sesotho as a language of tuition over a ten-year period.
Students, however, did not respond positively to this proposal. They
expressed strongly negative attitudes against the use of African languages – their own first languages – at universities (spelling as in the
original postings).5
(1) noooooo ways! … we as blacks should focus on trying to improve
our English rather than going on about this issue
(2) now how is Sesotho gonna help ppl communicate with the wider
world in this Globalized environment?
(3) it is very idealistic shame & good luck2them. konje [“by the way”]
wen is this of theirs gona be put in plek [“place”]? hope its after I
graduate … wer dwellin in the past. this is not the way forward and
definately not a way to get first tym voters’ votes.
The students show a strong concern with succeeding at an Englishmedium university and locate knowledge of English within a broad
discourse of educational and economic opportunity and modernity/
globalization. Similar responses were reported by Dalvit and De Klerk
(2005) concerning discussions about introducing isiXhosa as medium
of teaching and learning at the University of Fort Hare (South Africa):
51 percent of the 352 isiXhosa-speaking students interviewed disagreed
strongly with plans to make the university dual medium (English/isiXhosa). While there was some support for teaching isiXhosa literature and
linguistics through the medium of isiXhosa, only 11 percents of students
supported the use of isiXhosa in general undergraduate teaching, and
only 6 percent at postgraduate level.
In some cases, speaker attitudes are hierarchically ordered and involve
more than two languages. Thus, Romaine (1995: 292–93) describes the
rank ordering of languages in schools in Papua New Guinea where
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speaking English was considered to be better than Tok Pisin which, in
turn, was considered to be better than speaking one of the local Papuan
languages.
15.4 Conclusion: multilingualism and multiculturalism
In concluding this chapter, it is necessary to consider briefly the relationship between multilingualism, a linguistic and mainly descriptive term,
and multiculturalism, a term which, in addition to being used descriptively, also refers to a political project and a set of policies which aim to
ensure that all groups residing within a country are granted civic equality (Modood 2007).
Historically, the political idea of multiculturalism gained momentum in the 1960s when civil rights movements campaigned for political equality and emphasized the right of individuals to acknowledge
their cultural heritage, and to seek “with others of the same kind public
recognition for one’s collectivity” (Modood 2007: 2).
Multiculturalism means more than simply the non-prosecution of
difference (sometimes called the laissez-faire approach), but refers to the
active act of recognition and inclusion. The way India and France deal
with religious diversity provides an instructive example. Both countries
have a dominant religion (Hinduism and Christian-Catholicism, respectively), and religious holidays of importance for this group are recognized
by the state. However, in addition to the recognition of five Hindu holidays, India also recognizes four Muslim holidays (13.5 percent of the
population), two Christian holidays (2.2 percent of the population), one
Buddhist holiday (1.1 percent of the population), one Sikh holiday (1.9
percent of the population), and one Jain holiday (0.4 percent of the population). France, on the other hand, recognizes six Christian holidays and
five non-religious (secular) holidays, but not a single Muslim holiday –
notwithstanding the fact that Muslims constitute about 10–12 percent of
France’s population (Judge 2004).
Giving formal recognition and support to religious and cultural festivals of all groups residing within a country shows the de jure implementation of a multicultural policy. Other examples include: the granting
of dual citizenship (for migrants), the establishment of self-governing
territories within the state (for national minorities, such as the Inuit in
Canada), and the formulation of programs to encourage diverse representation in politics, education, and the workforce (e.g. equity or affirmative
action policies in the USA and South Africa).
Multicultural policies transcend the traditional ideal of national
homogeneity, and aim to assist social integration not by assimilation,
but through the constructive acknowledgment of difference. This political vision is captured in the national motto of post-apartheid South
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Africa: !ke e: | xarra || ke. The motto’s language is | Xam, a Khoisan language once spoken by a group of South Africa’s indigenous people, and
can be translated as ‘diverse people unite’ or ‘people who are different
join together.’
Language plays an important role in the enactment of multicultural policies as it is often central to the identity of different groups
within a nation. Multilingual policies within the multicultural political project include: the adoption of more than one official language
(e.g. South Africa recognizes eleven official languages), government
support for newspapers, television, and radio in all languages spoken
within a country (e.g. Australia has established a separate TV channel
which broadcasts in languages other than English), multilingual education programs (where more than one language is used as medium of
instruction), the teaching of all languages spoken within a country as
formal (examinable) school subjects, development of individual multilingualism within the nation through curriculum revisions (e.g. by
making language learning compulsory). As noted by Auer and Wei,
multilingualism is at the core of multicultural policies because of
its bridge-building potential: multilingualism facilitates inter-group
communication and as such builds “bridges between different groups
within the nation, bridges with groups beyond the artificial boundaries of a nation, and bridges for cross-fertilization between cultures”
(2007: 12).
It is important to emphasize that the civic equity ideal of multiculturalism is not simply about granting equal rights to individuals and
groups, but also (as clearly visible in the above-mentioned policies of
employment equity) about redress and ensuring equal opportunities. As
argued by the political philosopher Kymlicka (2001), establishing “difference-blind” institutions within a state may curtail overt discrimination,
yet such institutions can still disadvantage certain groups within society. The labor market is an important example in this context. Studies
in North America and Australia have shown that those who speak a language other than the locally dominant language (in this case English)
have significantly lower earnings and higher levels of unemployment.
Similar results have been reported for Europe, South America, and
Africa (see Chiswick, Patrinos, and Hurst 2000; Chiswick & Miller 2005;
Van Tubergen & Kalmijn 2005; Deumert & Mabandla 2009). Persistent
patterns of exclusion can also be observed for political participation
where speaking the nationally dominant or powerful language is often
a pre-requisite for having a political voice, and minority groups are only
minimally represented in political institutions (for statistics and further
discussion, see UNDP 2004: 35).
Although there are still those who see assimilation to the majority culture and language as the preferred approach to diversity, the political
program of multiculturalism is gaining strength internationally, and
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minority groups (whether migrant or indigenous) are no longer willing to let others decide their futures. As stated in the 2004 UNDP report
Cultural Liberty in a Diverse World: “People want the freedom to participate
in society without having to slip off their chosen cultural moorings” (p. 1).
Language is an important part of these “cultural moorings.”
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16
Pidgins and creoles
Silvia Kouwenberg and John Victor Singler
16.1 Introduction
This chapter is structured as follows. We begin by examining the terms
pidgin and creole and the complications that arise from efforts to arrive
at precise definitions of them, specifically with regard to determining which speech varieties are pidgins, which are creoles, and which
neither.
We then turn to a consideration of the question which has dominated
the field more or less since its inception, namely that of the processes
which are thought to have led to the emergence of these contact languages. A broad consensus that different hypotheses about creole genesis
represent complementary rather than competing views has gradually
developed, and current work in creole genesis reflects this. However, it
has also become clear that insights into pidgin/creole language genesis
can only be achieved on the basis of intimate knowledge of the grammars of the languages involved; sadly, good grammatical descriptions
are available for only a handful of pidgin/creole languages.
Finally, we look at the study of variation within creole-speaking communities, in particular at creole continuum situations. We also consider
issues of linguistic ideology, paying special attention to the attitudes that
speakers of creole languages have about their languages.
16.1.1 Definitions
The terms pidgins and creoles are problematic, as creolists are keenly
aware. Worse, non-creolists understand them in ways that we consider to
be outdated, wrongly assuming that the definitions put forth early in the
modern era of creole studies (from Hall 1966 through Bickerton 1984)
have persisted unchanged in the field. Additionally, the terms are linked
to particular views of the emergence of the languages so designated
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(through processes to which we return below), and although these, too,
have been questioned from the outset, they have stubbornly resisted
change outside the field. Thus, in a 2006 letter to the editor of Language,
the creolist Jeff Siegel deplores the way in which “other linguists continue
to refer … uncritically” to Bickerton’s Language Bioprogram Hypothesis
(see section 16.2) even though it was long ago rejected within creole studies (2006a: 2).
According to the early – now rejected – definitions, pidgins are structurally deficient auxiliary languages that, by the acquisition of native
speakers, expand into creoles. Although this view was espoused in early
creolist literature (notably by Hall 1966), it has been largely abandoned
within the field, as each part of the definition has been challenged.
Pidgins are not structurally deficient auxiliary languages, there is no
evidence that every creole started out as a pidgin, nor is it the case that
nativization (the acquisition of native speakers) is a sine qua non for linguistic expansion. In this chapter we retain the terms pidgin and creole,
but we seek to correct misconceptions about them.
The terms pidgins and creoles show up in the names of many languages
today. Languages whose name contains Pidgin or a variant thereof are
regionally restricted to the Pacific and to West Africa, and have English
as the source of their lexicon.1 They include Pidgin in Hawai’i,2 Pijin in
the Solomons Islands, Tok Pisin (‘talk pidgin’) in Papua New Guinea,
Pidgin in Nigeria, and Pidgin (or Kamtok) in Cameroon. Languages that
are called “Creole”3 by their speakers are spoken on both sides of the
Atlantic and include English-lexified Creolese in Guyana and Krio in
Sierra Leone, French-lexified Kreyòl / Kwéyòl in Haiti and other (former)
French Caribbean territories, Portuguese-lexified Crioulo in GuineaBissau, and others.4 In addition, there is the English-lexified Kriol spoken
in the Northern Territory of Australia.5
As the overall geographic division shows, the pidgin/creole divide
is, at least partly, an artifact of local naming practices. But Hall (1966)
froze the understanding of the terms pidgin and creole in a “life-cycle”
model along the lines of the definition that we rejected above. That is,
the model posited an incomplete, inadequate language that arose in a
language contact situation (pidgin), then expanded by undergoing nativization, the end result of which was a complete language (creole). In this
model, every creole in existence had passed through a pidgin phase.
If we accept as part of its definition that a pidgin has no native speakers, then evidence from Melanesian pidgins refutes the idea that pidgins are structurally deficient (Mühlhäusler 1986), as does evidence from
West Africa and elsewhere. Further, the Melanesian evidence shows
that expansion can take place in a speech community even before there
are native speakers (Sankoff & Laberge 1974; Jourdan 1985; Jourdan &
Keesing 1997), thus calling into question the idea that expansion can
only take place via nativization. For instance, Tok Pisin had at its disposal
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the grammatical and stylistic resources of a full-fledged language long
before it became the native language of young urban speakers. Finally,
with the exception of Hawai’i Creole English (Bickerton 1981; Roberts
2005), there is no historical documentation to show that a creole passes
through a pidgin stage as part of its development (see Alleyne 1971) – an
observation which led Thomason and Kaufman (1988) to postulate the
possibility of “abrupt creolization.”
16.1.2
Expansion and nativization
Loreto Todd (1974), recognizing that the term pidgin was variably used to
designate makeshift contact varieties as well as fully stabilized languages,
introduced the term extended pidgin to designate the latter. Mühlhäusler
(1986: 5ff.) then proposed a set of stages: jargon, stable pidgin, expanded
(Todd’s extended) pidgin, and creole. For the first three stages, the differences across them involved stabilization, followed by expansion, that is,
formal linguistic processes that result in the establishment and elaboration of target norms in the community. In Mühlhäusler’s model, jargons
are pre-pidgins, not yet languages. They have yet to conventionalize, yet
to have norms. The “structurally deficient” label fits jargons, but not
pidgins.
While a recognition of differences is intuitively attractive, the assignment of a particular variety to a particular stage is often vexed. One
problem involves the notion of stable pidgin. It is hard to identify any
extant variety that is consistently labeled as such. For example, Romaine
(1988:124) identifies Russenorsk as one, but Sebba (1997: 102) finds that it
is more accurately labeled a “jargon.” The bigger problem is determining
whether a pidgin is properly classified as “stable” or as “expanded.” Sebba
(1997) calls Fanakalo a “stable pidgin” at one point (p. 63) but elsewhere
in the same work says that it has “gone beyond the stable pidgin stage”
and has become an “expanded pidgin” (p. 105). Smith’s (1995) list of pidgins and creoles identifies seven “stabilized pidgins,” five of which are
now extinct and a sixth of which (Chinook Jargon) has been identified by
others as having a creole variety (Zenk 1988: 121). Perhaps the underlying
problem with the reification of stable pidgin is that, if a variety is sufficiently regularized to have norms of grammaticality, it is likely to expand
both in its functions and in the extent to which syntactic relations are
grammaticalized, and hence likely to have become an expanded pidgin.
In other words, a stable pidgin is likely to be an expanded pidgin.
As noted above, any attempt to maintain a distinction between
expanded pidgins and creoles on the basis of nativization is doubly problematic: many languages conventionally labeled as pidgins now have
native speakers and, further, the kind of structural expansion that is
putatively associated with creoles has been shown, in some cases at least,
to precede nativization rather than follow from it.
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The issues that can be raised to challenge the usefulness of the notions
pidgin and creole for the designation of certain language varieties also
arise with respect to the processes that produce them. Usually, creolists speak of pidginization and creolization. Pidginization is seen as
a reduction of the grammatical categories of the lexifier language and,
secondarily, as regularization, that is the elimination of exceptions.
Creolization represents a structural expansion, an elaboration of the
grammar, which is expected to occur subsequent to pidginization – but
bear in mind that there is no direct evidence of prior pidginization for
most languages designated creole. A language that undergoes nativization may be subject to the type and degree of expansion characteristic
of creolization. But recall that so, too, may a language that expands its
functions, in particular if it emerges as the language of a community.
This is the case, for example, of Solomon Islands Pijin in the capital city,
Honiara. Pijin was initially an auxiliary language, but once it emerged
as the primary language of inter-ethnic communication, and the degree
of that communication increased, the functional expansion that this
entailed led to structural expansion. As Jourdan (1985) and Jourdan and
Keesing (1997) detail, Pijin’s expansion in Honiara preceded the variety’s
nativization. This pattern of community-based expansion, characteristic of Melanesia and anglophone West Africa, is an urban characteristic,
in stark contrast with the creolization that took place in the plantation societies of the Caribbean. Bakker (2008: 131) proposes the term
pidgincreole for “a former pidgin that has become the main language
of a speech community and/or a mother tongue for some of its speakers.” Somewhat more common practice now is to use the term creole to
refer to any expanded variety, whether spoken natively or not.6 For the
remainder of this chapter, we will adopt that practice. This means that
we will use pidgin to designate auxiliary languages, that is, varieties
that are non-natively spoken, and that do not function as community
languages. Creole designates a language which is either natively spoken,
or functions as community language, or both. Crucially, we assume
Thomason’s historical criteria, whereby pidgins and creoles are “new”
languages, in the sense that the criteria by which a genetic relationship could be established with the lexifier are not met (Thomason &
Kaufman 1988; Thomason 2008).7
16.1.3
Pidgins and creoles as contact languages
The most widely studied cases of pidgins and creoles all emerged from
contact situations resulting from European colonial expansion, hence
involving a European lexifier. Versteegh (2008: 161) makes the point that
languages with another lexifier are subject to “mostly futile discussions
about the question whether variety X or Y is a pidgin /creole.” He suggests
that we concentrate, instead, “on the process of restructuring and its
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possible outcome” (p.162). Mesthrie (2008) reminds us that pidgins and
creoles (and bilingual mixed languages; see note 7) are not the only possible outcomes of language contact (p. 266), and that the study of other
forms of contact can enrich creolistics.
The 1980s were, in fact, a fruitful period for mutual enrichment
between creolistics and other areas of linguistic research, in particular
second language acquisition (and bilingualism) (Andersen 1981; Appel &
Muysken 1987). However, subsequent developments in each area were
largely independent. This was certainly partly due to creolists’ focus on a
small number of languages and a relatively small set of properties, which
led to the belief among other linguists that there was little else to be
learned from their study. Kouwenberg and Patrick (2003) and Lefebvre,
White, and Jourdan (2006) have attempted to reinstate the links.
But more importantly, the enrichment which Mesthrie speaks of is
now achieved through the repositioning of the study of pidgin and creole languages within a broader field of contact linguistics.8 Not only
do the books in contact linguistics draw heavily on creole studies, but
the textbooks by Thomason (2001) and Winford (2003) are both written
by creolists. Winford points out that contact linguistics is essentially a
cross-disciplinary field, which attempts “to integrate the social and the
linguistic in a unified framework” (2003: 6). Thomason has repeatedly
pointed to the social determinants of the outcomes of language contact
(e.g. Thomason 1995). In the same vein, Muysken (2008: 287) points out
that the sociolinguistic and psycholinguistic processes operant in contemporary multilingual settings must be the same as the processes operant in the genesis of pidgin/creole languages. In short, treating pidgins
and creoles as contact languages compels creolists to consider other outcomes of language contact, and the – often non-linguistic factors – which
drive the developments. In this regard, we point to “the fact that restructuring as the result of language contact is a common phenomenon all
over the world” (Versteegh 2008: 161).
16.2 The creole genesis debates
16.2.1
Creole uniformity and creole genesis
Creole studies came into its own as a field of linguistic inquiry in the
1970s, subsequent to the publication of Hymes (1971), when it attracted
linguists of a wide range of backgrounds on the promise that the study
of creole languages would yield answers to fundamental questions about
the origin of language and the universality of language structure. The
basis for this astounding potential was the premise, then unquestioned,
of the profound structural similarity across creoles of different European
sources. It is this cross-creole similarity that the field sought to explain
by developing scenarios of creole language genesis – expecting, at the
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same time, that answers to larger questions of the kinds mentioned
above would follow, as a bonus of sorts.
As it turns out, several decades’ worth of attempts have not yielded the
clear answers that were once expected. Slowly, the realization has come
that cross-creole similarity may not be as profound as once thought.
Although McWhorter’s (2001) proposal with regard to the prototypical
“simplicity” of creoles has once again sparked a debate on creoles’ similarity, detailed studies of particular properties across a range of creole
languages show variation in every module of grammar of the kind normally expected across natural languages.9 Where careful descriptions
of individual creole languages have been produced, the impression of
prototypicality quickly disappears as we realize that what remains is
“just” a language (Muysken 1988: 300). Clearly, once the premise of crosscreole similarity is removed, it becomes harder to justify broad, universally applicable accounts of creole genesis. Instead, a broad consensus has
been achieved that different hypotheses about creole genesis represent
complementary rather than competing views.
16.2.2 The substrata versus universals debate and
multi-generational genesis scenarios
Although the creole genesis debates of the 1980s and 1990s have been
characterized as “substrata versus universals” (e.g. Muysken & Smith
1986), it is fair to say that neither substratist nor universalist views were
ever as uniform as the label suggests. Substratist views take as their
point of departure that enslaved adult plantation labourers10 were the
chief agents in creole formation, and that their first language (L1) grammars formed a basis, of sorts, for creole development. Nonetheless, those
holding substratist views differ considerably with regard to the nature
and extent of agency exercised by substrate speakers, the mechanisms
by which the L1s guided language emergence, and the evidence for L1
impact (e.g. Alleyne 1971, 1980; Lefebvre 1998; contributions to Migge
2007).
Bickerton (in particular 1981, 1984) argued that creolization is a process
of first language acquisition guided by the default settings of Universal
Grammar. As initially formulated, his was a two-generation scenario,
where the first generation of plantation workers, under great pressure
to use a communicatively adequate variety but with little exposure to
the lexifier and little opportunity to learn it, produces no better than an
unstructured jargon, which forms the input for the second generation’s
first language acquisition.11 This scenario makes children the agents of
creole formation through nativization. Central to Bickerton’s arguments
was his characterization of the emergence of Hawai’i Creole English.
However, Roberts (2005) draws on extensive documentation to demonstrate that the emergence of a creole in Hawai’i bore no resemblance
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to Bickerton’s scenario. Crucially, Roberts shows that the locus of genesis in Hawai’i was in cities, not on plantations at all. (Further, Siegel
(2000) shows that Bickerton’s arguments against a role for the substrate
in Hawai’i Creole genesis are equally lacking in historical validity.)
Moreover, while Bickerton is usually cited as the principal representative of the universalist approach, his creole genesis model is in fact quite
contrary to that of others who use the label “universalist” to refer to
the role of universal strategies of second language acquisition in creole
development – that is, an approach that focuses on the role of adults in
creole genesis (Muysken & Veenstra 1995).
Despite the fact that Bickerton’s Language Bioprogram Hypothesis
failed to garner a following (Siegel 2006a), the view that nativization
can be a source of innovation in creole languages, resulting in discontinuities between creole grammar and its source languages, is widely
supported in the field. However, different from Bickerton’s scenario,
the initial developments are thought to be driven by adult speakers of
a stable pidgin variety rather than an unstable jargon. In effect, then,
the subsequent impact of nativization may simply be a case of postformative, “ordinary” development. Scenarios such as these effectively
allow for both adult agency and child language development in a multigenerational “cascade” model of creole genesis (DeGraff 1999). Such a
scenario emerges from the work of Roberts (2000, 2005), who has set
out in great detail the development of Hawai’i Creole English (see also
discussion in Veenstra 2008). A similar multi-generational scenario is
adopted by Becker and Veenstra (2003).
G1 refers to the first generation of immigrants or slaves, while G2 and
G3 are their descendants, the second and third generations, respectively.
As set out in Table 16.1, the locus of second language acquisition (SLA) is
the first generation, that of first language acquisition (FLA) the locally
born second and especially the third generation. This scenario allows
scope in the G1 phase for target language influence via successful acquisition, as well as for substrate influence. It further allows some room for
stabilization and expansion in the G2 phase, and finally for innovations
due to FLA during the G3 phase.
Despite the appeal of this model, important questions with regards to
the role of SLA in creole genesis are left unanswered. There is an obvious sense in which second language (L2) acquisition is relevant to creole
genesis: at the very least, pidgin and creole creators learned words from
the lexifier. But it is much less obvious that this involved L2 acquisition
in the usual sense, namely involving learners for whom the L2 is the
target of learning. If we think of the lexifier of a pidgin or creole as having constituted a target, then, as pointed out by Baker (1990, 1995), we
must also think of the pidgin or creole as the outcome of failure to reach
that target. Instead, Baker contends, the incipient pidgin or creole must
have been intended to facilitate communication within the population
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Table 16.1 Multi-generational scenario of creole genesis (Becker & Veenstra
2003: 296)
Generation
Language distribution
G1
L1 Ancestral language(s)
L2 Basic Variety (and other approximations of the target language)
L1 Ancestral language(s)
L1 (Post-)basic variety
L1 (Post-)basic variety
[L2 Ancestral language(s)]
G2
G3
of pidgin/creole creators, rather than with lexifier speakers. He argues
that pidgin/creole languages should, in fact, be seen as successful solutions in a situation where the need was for a “medium of interethnic
communication.”
Support for this viewpoint comes from the European Science
Foundation’s research on L2 acquisition among immigrant populations
in Europe, which has shown that targeted learning may be less common than assumed: many learners fossilize at early interlanguage stages,
apparently either unmotivated or unable to proceed further. This kind
of “failed” L2 acquisition leads to what Klein and Perdue (1997) call “the
Basic Variety,” an interlanguage variety which is minimally adequate for
communication. However, this Basic Variety does not look anything like
a creole: it is characterized by lack of functional inflection; by a lexicon
consisting of a repertoire of noun-like and verb-like words, some adjectives and adverbs, and a handful of functional items; by very limited
possibilities for word formation, largely restricted to noun-noun compounds; by some basic organizational principles which yield relatively
invariant word order; and by lack of complex structures, in particular
subordination. Thus, the relevance of L2 acquisition and of interlanguage varieties to explanations in pidgin or creole emergence is called
into question.
Nonetheless, Plag (2008) explores the idea that early interlanguage
varieties may have formed the basis for the developments which ultimately produced creole languages. He suggests that creoles are “conventionalized interlanguages of an early stage” (p. 115) and argues that “the
typology of creole inflection arises as the natural consequence of the
operation of universal constraints on language processing and language
acquistion, and exhibits the pertinent stages of interlanguage development resulting from the operation of these constraints” (p.128).
While it may be a relatively simple matter to account for the fact that
many of the grammatical resources of the lexifiers are not replicated in
pidgin and creole languages, it is surprisingly difficult, from the SLA
perspective, to account for the material that did. As an example, Klein
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and Perdue (1997: 312ff.) point out that the Basic Variety does not include
functional items beyond an incomplete pronoun system (consisting of
minimal means to refer to speaker, hearer, and a third person), a few
quantifiers, a word for negation, a few prepositions, and some determiners or demonstratives. It does not include complementizers or expletive
elements. It apparently also does not include auxiliaries and modals.
Now, while differences between pidgin/creole and lexifier grammatical subsystems are well enough documented, we do actually find complete pronoun systems, more than a few quantifiers and prepositions as
well as several complementizers and conjunctions taken from the lexifier. Also, several of these languages have recruited lexifier auxiliaries
and modals for their TMA (Tense-Modality-Aspect) systems. In short, it
appears as if pidgin and creole creators went well beyond early interlanguage and acquired a fair number of functional items – although they
did not necessarily adopt them for the same functions that they had in
the lexifier. That this is a problem for an SLA perspective becomes evident when we consider the fact that the acquisition of subordinating
devices is supposed to take place after or commensurate with the acquisition of subject–verb agreement (Plag 2008) – a lexifier property which
pidgins and creoles do not display.
In sum, SLA models cannot account for the combination of very
early interlanguage characteristics (in particular, discontinuity of lexifier inflections in creoles) with late interlanguage characteristics (the
adoption of various function words from the lexifier, with or without
reanalysis). Such a combination suggests that very little SLA took place.
According to Siegel (2006b), L2 use rather than L2 acquisition is responsible for the presence of functional morphemes whose antecedents in the
lexifier are, more often than not, content words. He argues, further, that
this provides a context for L1 transfer: under communicative pressure
(as may be envisaged where little of the L2 has been acquired), speakers
draw on their L1s to assign grammatical functions to forms derived from
the superstrate.
16.2.3
Discontinuity and restructuring views
Historical linguists Thomason and Kaufman (1988) argue that pidgin
and creole languages are not genetically related to any of the languages
spoken by their creators. In point of fact, they claim that pidgins and
creoles differ from most known natural languages in being non-genetic.
Their non-genetic status is established in the historical linguist’s technical sense, on the strength of the lack of evidence of relatedness. As
Thomason (2002: 103ff.) points out, evidence of genetic relatedness must
come in the form of correspondences between languages throughout the
lexicon as well as – crucially – morphosyntactic structure. It is the lack
of morphosyntactic correspondences between creoles and their lexifiers
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that led Thomason and Kaufman to postulate a “break in transmission”: where intergenerational transmission involves an entire language,
including both the lexicon and all the structural subsystems, creole genesis does not.
Critics of this view, notably DeGraff (e.g. 2003, largely repeated in
DeGraff 2005) and Mufwene (e.g. 2008b), have pointed out that languages
with a “normal” genetic status resemble the creole case in that they too,
often enough, fail to show systematic morphosyntactic correspondences
with an ancestral variety. Moreover, they argue that postulating “broken”
transmission implies a pathology where adults lacked speech altogether,
or where their offspring lacked the normal ability to acquire language.
And finally, they assert that the notion of broken transmission has questionable implications for completeness of the languages in question.
That discontinuity of transmission should imply a pathology of sorts is
counterintuitive, however. It is, after all, a well-known fact that children
acquiring language have only indirect access to the grammar of the adult
variety, through the Primary Language Data proffered in their environment; first language acquisition, therefore, implies imperfect replication. Thus, the issue is not the pathology of discontinuity, but the level
of discontinuity between grammars that can be tolerated in intergenerational transmission without endangering intergenerational comprehension. As pointed out by Lightfoot (1991: 157), “[l]arge-scale changes that
one can perceive over centuries reflect, in some way, smaller changes.”
Such smaller changes do not result in unintelligibility. Genetic relatedness, then, can only be properly assessed by considering the level of discontinuity which results from intergenerational transmission, not from
transmission over several centuries.
An advantage of Thomason’s model is that it allows for the notion of
language mixture – central in the early creolist work of Schuchardt (e.g.
1917) – to be formalized as the separate inheritance of phonological and
morphosyntactic correspondences. We should be careful to recognize,
though, that the notion of “separate inheritance” is intended to mean
only that the morphosyntax does not show sufficient systematic correspondences to the lexifier for the lexifier to be considered the sole source
of a creole’s morphosyntax – the lexifier can certainly be the source of
some of it. At the same time, as Muysken (1988: 299) points out, the idea
that creole languages are mixed systems resulting from the matching of
substrate syntax with the lexicon of a European language is misguided
and fails to take into account the grammatical differences between the
creoles and their substrates. The upshot is that no single source can be
identified for a given creole’s morphosyntax.
Over the past decade, the notion of restructuring has begun to be
used by authors who wish to acknowledge the range of contributions
made to the formation of creole languages by both the substrate and
the superstrate. Thus, Winford (2006) uses it to “reconcile the so-called
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‘superstratist’ and ‘substratist’ views on creole formation”; he considers
the restructuring of early interlanguage grammar to involve input from
the superstrate, the substrate, and internal, independent developments.
The historical processes which led to the reanalysis of superstrate lexical forms as tense/aspect markers in Haitian and Sranan involve, then,
(early) second language acquisition, L1 transfer, and internal grammaticalization. Migge and Goury (2008) similarly argue for a “multi-layered”
explanation for the development of the TMA system in the Suriname creoles. For those who hold that there is continuity – hence genetic relatedness – between a creole’s lexifier and the creole, recent work on the nature
of the superstrate sounds a cautionary note. Thus, Neumann-Holzschuh
(2008), while showing that the study of North American French provides
insights into the extent to which colonial French varieties were prone to
change, also argues that creolization “implies restructuring processes
that go far beyond those that marginal Frenches have undergone in the
course of time” (p. 358) and that “the emergence of creole languages can
only be explained by a multicausal approach” (p. 379).
16.3
Pidgins, creoles, and variation
Like all languages, creoles (and extended pidgins) display linguistic variation that is sensitive to such social factors as speakers’ age, sex, level of
education, and residence (most significantly, whether rural or urban). The
bulk of the research on variation in creoles has involved societies where
the pidgin/creole is in ongoing contact with its lexifier language; the
discussion that follows in 16.3.1–16.3.2 concentrates on those situations.
In 16.3.3, we consider speakers’ attitudes toward creoles; there, we will
consider the significance of age and gender in determining the prestige
associated with creole languages. Finally, in 16.3.4, we will briefly look at
register differentiation in modern creoles in the Caribbean.
16.3.1
The creole continuum
To account for the type of variation that occurs in some Caribbean
English-lexifier creoles, DeCamp (1971) proposed the creole continuum
model, and Bickerton (1973, 1975) and Rickford (1987a) refined and
expanded upon it. The model locates all variation, including socially conditioned variation, on a unidimensional scale that extends from most
English-like to most creole-like. The terms basilect, mesolect, and acrolect
were introduced to cover the range of variation, with basilect used to
refer to the “deepest” creole, that is, the variety furthest from the lexifier, acrolect the variety closest to the lexifier, and mesolect the variety/
varieties between basilect and acrolect. A given speaker is assumed to
control a swath of the continuum (rather than a point), and no speaker
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is assumed to have productive competence across the entire continuum.
The model is quite strong in that it regulates variation across the full
range of creole varieties within a given speech community.
DeCamp’s focus was on Jamaican Creole English. Patrick (2008: 611), in
endorsing the continuum for Jamaica, states:
In truth, both poles of the continuum are idealized abstractions, a
collection of features most like standard Englishes (the acrolect) or
most distant from them (basilect). Yet, between these poles lies the
continuum of everyday speech: a series of minimally differentiated
grammars with extensive variation – an apparently seamless web
connecting two idealized varieties which arose in the same place and
time-frame and share distinctive features, yet cannot be genetically
related.
The strongest evidence for the creole continuum has come from Guyana
and Jamaica; few scholars have sought to instantiate the continuum for
any other situation.12 Despite this, creolists’ use of the terms basilect and
mesolect is widespread, and has been applied across Caribbean English creoles as well. Thus, some creoles (notably Jamaican and Guyanese) are identified as basilectal creoles while others (such as Trinidadian and Bahamian)
are called mesolectal creoles. The terminology refers to the comparative distance of a given variety’s creole extreme from English; both Jamaican and
Guyanese are continuum varieties, and their characterization as “basilectal creoles” is based on the distance of their least-English / most creole
varieties from English. Basilectal varieties are also sometimes referred to
as either “radical” or “conservative” varieties, while mesolectal ones are
designated as “intermediate.”13
Unlike these two terms, the term acrolect appears much less often.
There seem to be two reasons for this. The first is that creolists tend to
be most interested in varieties that are distant from, not close or identical to, the lexifier language. The second is the indeterminacy as to what
constitutes the acrolect. Is it the variety of the creole that most closely
approximates the lexifier language, or is it the lexifier language itself?
In most work by creolists, the boundary between lexifier and almostlexifier (or, alternatively, between no-longer creole and still-barely creole)
is nebulous. Irvine (2004, 2008) provides the most clearly articulated version of the acrolect. Writing with regard to Jamaica, Irvine argues that,
for the acrolect to be meaningfully defined, it must be local, that is not
the metropolitan standard. Irvine argues further that within Jamaica’s
creole speech community it is phonology that constitutes the most salient index of the acrolect.
As originally formulated by DeCamp and then Bickerton, the creole
continuum was inherently teleological: what the model was said to capture was the ongoing decreolization that would lead ultimately to the
merger of the creole with the lexifier language. Indeed, DeCamp’s term
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for the model was “post-creole speech continuum”; it obtained, he said,
in “communities in which a creole is in the process of merging with a
standard” (1971: 349). In the years immediately following the introduction of the creole continuum model, decreolization was widely invoked,
not simply to account for the continuum itself but also to explain why
varieties designated as mesolectal (such as Trinidadian and Bahamian)
had “lost” their basilects. It was as if the creolizing processes operated
everywhere to the same degree but then decreolizing processes occurred
subsequently to varying degrees, with the most conservative varieties
the ones that had proven most resistant to decreolization (e.g. Alleyne
2000). This view had clear diachronic implications: it assumed that at
its outset a given creole was at its furthest remove from the lexifier language and that, subsequently, via decreolization the mesolect and then
the acrolect emerged.
Over the past two decades, however, decreolization has been largely
devalued. Rather than an intermediate creole’s having undergone
“deep” creolization followed by intense decreolization, an alternative
scenario has gained credence in which its degree of creolization was
simply not as profound to begin with. This is not to negate decreolization entirely, but rather to reduce its role, particularly in those cases
where no evidence exists for its having occurred. (The general paucity
of linguistic data from earlier eras for creoles, though not so stark as
had been assumed, continues to be problematic for resolving diachronic
questions like this one.)
The continuum model, which originated to map the relationship of
creole to lexifer, has been adapted by non-creolists to account for variation in a range of contact situations. Thus, Silva-Corvalán (1994) posits a bilingual continuum model for Spanish-English bilingualism in
Los Angeles. Likewise, Polinsky and Hagan (2007) adapt the creole continuum to model the proficiency of heritage language speakers, that is,
speakers who have incomplete proficiency in an early home language as
a result of a subsequent switch to the dominant language of the society
in which they live.
As indicated, the literature on the creole continuum has been devoted
overwhelmingly to the English-lexifier creoles of the Caribbean. In terms
of English-lexifier varieties elsewhere, Gullah – whose history links it to
the Caribbean – and Vernacular Liberian English (an extended pidgin
rather than a creole) appear to be the sole varieties for which the model is
appropriate (Singler 1997; Mufwene 2008a: 552). Certainly it is not applicable for other West African English-lexifier creoles or extended pidgins;
likewise, Siegel (1997) demonstrates that the continuum model does not
apply to any of the Melanesian Pidgins.
Indeed, it appears that only two creoles with a lexifier other than
English have been proposed as existing in a continuum. Silva (1985) argues
for the continuum model in accounting for variation in Capeverdean
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Crioulo, and Carayol and Chaudenson (1978) do so for the speech varieties
in Réunion (see also Corne 1999).14
16.3.2
Alternative models for variation
within a creole community
The “coexistent systems” model is like the continuum in predicting the
presence in the same lect of creole and lexifier features, but it relaxes
the predictions as to what the possible (and impossible) distributions of
those features are. The idea that creole and lexifier constitute coexistent
systems goes back to Tsuzaki (1971). In fact, in describing the Englishes
spoken in Hawai’i, he posits four systems: “(1) an English-based pidgin,
(2) an English-based creole, and (3) a dialect of English, which in turn
is divisible into (a) a non-standard, and (b) a standard variety” (p. 330).
Presumably, the English-based pidgin has disappeared from Hawai’i over
time, leaving the other three systems. As envisioned by Tsuzaki, the systems, taken together “consist of a set of … basic overlapping, rather than
completely independent, structures” (p. 336).
Yet another alternative to the continuum model that has been proposed for lexifier-creole pairs is diglossia, for which the lexifier language
is the H(igh) variety and the creole the L(ow) (see Ferguson 1959, 1991;
Fishman 1967). Ferguson’s original presentation of diglossia (1959) presented four instantiations of it, one of which was French/Creole in Haiti.
This proved ironic, for, as Dejean (1983, 1993) demonstrates, more than
90 percent of the Haitian population is monolingual, that is, speaks only
the L variety. One tenet of the diglossia model is that the H variety has no
native speakers; here, too, Dejean notes, the linguistic situation in Haiti
fails to conform to the model: French is the mother tongue of a large
segment of Haiti’s bilingual minority. (For a discussion of the relationship of French to Creole in the francophone Caribbean more generally,
see also Bernabé & Grenand 2006). Devonish (2006) applies the notion of
“conquest diglossia” to the English-creole Caribbean. Different from the
Haitian situation, a large majority of speakers in these contexts develop
diglossic linguistic competence. Devonish claims that conquest diglossia
is inherently unstable, and predicts that in some of the societies so designated, the H variety may increasingly become the sole variety (Barbados
may be moving in this direction), while in others, the H variety may be
replaced by a “partially converged variety of L”; Jamaica and Belize, he
claims, may be moving in this direction (p. 2094ff.).
16.3.3
Creole vs. lexifier: speakers’ attitudes
Because creoles have historically been stigmatized, the distribution of
creole-vs.-lexifier use has tended to pattern in ways that obtain more generally when stigmatized speech varieties are in contact and competition
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with prestige varieties. For the creole, its stigma comes from association
with slavery or, if not slavery (in the case, say, of Hawai’i, or Nigeria),
then with an exploited proletariat. Beyond the usual stigmatization of
the language of the disadvantaged (with its transfer of the stigma from
the speakers to their language), the fact that the creole shares its lexicon with the language of power gives rise to its treatment as an inferior imitation of the language of power rather than to recognition of its
status as a full language on its own terms. In post-colonial settings, the
ex-colonial language continues to hold sway not simply as a language
of wider communication, linking its speakers to the larger world, but
also as the language of economic and political power and of education,
upward mobility, and overt prestige. Decades after the colonial era came
to an end in the Caribbean, the historical imbalance of power between
lexifier and creole persists.
This is not to say that creole languages are without stature among
their speakers. Rickford (1987a) points to the relevance of “covert prestige” (Labov 1966), which identifies low-status creole with positive values
such as honesty, friendship, family. It is covert prestige which has, presumably, assured the survival of creole languages despite the aforementioned stigma. It may also be at the basis of an observed development
toward more positive evaluations; we return to this below.
Additionally, research across the Caribbean region has shown there
to be a widespread gender-based pattern that links the creole to men
and the lexifier language to women, suggesting that creole has particular status among men (Managan 2004: 71). Thus, Wilson (1974) distinguishes between respectability and reputation, where respectability refers
to the “Euro-American culture … and particularly its values, languages
and institutions” in the Caribbean and to the Caribbean assessment of
them as “superior to any values originating in its own societies” (p. 113).
“Respectability is defined through the use and perfection of the language and speech of the metropolitan culture – respectable people speak
‘proper’ English” (p. 114). In contrast, “[r]eputation is autochthonous,
springing from the adaptation of people to local conditions. It is also a
counter- culture to respectability” (p.116). Wilson sees “a constant struggle” between the two in Caribbean society. While he locates the struggle
within each person, rather than proposing an absolute identification of
respectability with women and of reputation with men, by and large he
defines and exemplifies reputation in masculine terms. Still, in Dominica,
where the central role of English in social advancement would seem to
place Kwéyòl at an extreme disadvantage, Paugh (2001) shows in her
research in a rural community that residents – men and women alike –
felt that, to be a complete member of society, one needs both English and
Kwéyòl, and they felt it important for their children to acquire both.
Similarly, Managan (2004) reports that, in Guadeloupe, Kréyòl is seen as
“vulgar and violent” (p. 223), but also as genuine and friendly. Managan
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reports that to “address someone in Kréyòl is often taken to imply that
they are not educated” (p. 89). The gendered component cited above manifests itself in language choice. Thus, Managan states (p. 72):
Guadeloupean men sometimes address men they don’t know (especially those of their own generation) in Kréyòl, as a friendly gesture.
The only time I ever heard a Guadeloupean woman address another
woman she didn’t know in Kréyòl was when the speaker was assumed
not to know French; this was only the case with older women or
Dominicans.
Nonetheless, in comparing Guadeloupean attitudes toward Kréyòl in the
period of her fieldwork (1998–2002) to what a previous researcher had
noted in the late 1980s, Managan reports a distinct and rapid change in
Guadeloupean attitudes, with perceptions of Kréyòl shifting from negative to positive among women as well as men.
Escure’s research in Belize, like Managan’s report from Guadeloupe,
points to the need for a modification of the received wisdom: “In the
Belizean rural context, middle-aged women who are most actively
involved in village activities were found to be more likely than men and
other women to use a wide range of varieties … Those older women do
not give special preference to the standard variety but show flexibility
and discrimination in their linguistic selections …” (1997: 70–71) Further,
Escure hypothesizes that they “play an important role in the maintenance (or perhaps the revival) of the Creole vernacular” (1991: 596).
Youssef (2001) reports on research in a Tobagonian village. With
regard to gender, Youssef states: “Among the young people, the girls
outpace the boys in production of Creole features and in their positive
support of them … The older women attest support for the Creole but
show less production of it” (p. 44). She states that creolists may “have
overestimated the trend to standardization in present day societies”
(p. 29).
The JLU (Jamaica Language Unit’s) survey of language attitudes in 2005
across Jamaica again points to more positive attitudes toward creole than
was hitherto assumed (Thomas 2005). The survey sample included 1,000
respondents from across the island. As the survey’s summary reports:
“The sample, in general, had a fairly positive view of Patwa” (p. 5). Thus,
more than two-thirds of the respondents felt that Parliament should
make Patwa an official language and that an “English and Patwa” school
would be better for the Jamaican child than an English-only school.
Similar results were obtained across a range of questions in the domains
of public policy and education. This is not to say that positive views about
Patwa vis-à-vis English necessarily translate to equivalent assessments
of the speakers of the two languages. Asked to compare a hypothetical
Patwa speaker and an English speaker, subjects were far more likely to
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deem the English speaker as having more money, being more educated,
and being more intelligent.
Because there is no comparable survey of earlier times, one cannot
know whether pro-Patwa attitudes represent a shift or simply the discovery of an existing pattern. However, because the JLU survey divided
speakers by age (18–30, 31–50, 50–80+), it is possible to see statistically
significant differences among the age groups, particularly between the
oldest and youngest groups. Specifically, subjects in the older group consistently view the English language and English speakers more positively
than do subjects in the youngest group.
16.3.4
Creole-internal variation
The discussion of variation in Guadeloupe, Belize, Tobago, and Jamaica
has presented the situations as if there were a simple binary opposition
between creole and lexifier. In fact, as with every language, there is
language-internal variation within each creole. We considered continuum-related variation above. Additionally, the creole-internal distinction
most salient to the speech community seems to be based on the extent
to which the community’s creole has imported features from its lexifier language and/or from another standard language, thus resulting in
register differentiation. Thus, Managan reports that Guadeloupeans routinely make reference to Kréyò l francisé ‘Frenchified Creole’ and gwo Kréyò l,
which she translates as ‘rough, common Creole’ (2004: 221). Similarly,
for Haitian Creole, Schieffelin and Doucet (1994) report that the terms
kreyò l fransize and kreyò l swa (smooth kreyòl) refer to the language of the
educated bilingual minority, while gwo kreyò l and kreyò l rek (rough kreyòl)
refer to the kreyòl spoken by “the urban and rural masses” (p. 179). Wood
(1972) drew attention to the emergence of a more formal “hispanized”
register of Papiamentu. Sanchez (2005), on the other hand, questions the
extent to which social factors determine the use of borrowed constructions such as the passive and progressive constructions in Papiamentu.
Just as the incorporation of elements from the lexifier language characterizes a creole, especially the creole of bilingual speakers, so it is that
elements of the creole are incorporated into the local variety of the lexifier language, including the local standard. Most often – but not invariably – the “creolisms” are lexical. Thus, Allsopp’s (1996) Dictionary of
Caribbean English, which attempts a regional lexical standard, includes
many forms which are creole-derived. In this way, creoles are contributing to the creation of local standard varieties via what Mesthrie and
Bhatt (2008), in their study of “World Englishes,” refer to as indigenization, “the acculturation of the T[arget] L[anguage] to localized phenomena, be they cultural, topographic or even linguistic (in terms of local
grammatical, lexical and discourse norms)” (p. 11).
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16.4 Conclusion
While creolists recognize that there are significant problems with the
existing terms and definitions of the field, particularly those for pidgin
and creole, they continue to use them in a quasi-traditional way, thus
usually applying “pidgin” to languages that have no native speakers. The
nature of “creolization,” that is, the process or processes which produce
a creole language, remains elusive, but a broad consensus has emerged
that adult L2 acquistion, child L1 acquisition, and other processes must
have contributed in a multi-generational scenario of creole emergence.
Finally, despite the stigma which is often associated with contact languages, speakers’ attitudes are surprisingly far more positive than was
hitherto thought.
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17
Code-switching
Pieter Muysken
The study of code-switching has been one of the most dynamic areas in
linguistics over the last three decades, at least since Poplack’s (1980) influential paper on Puerto Rican Spanish-English bilingual speech in New
York. There have been a number of survey monographs devoted to the
topic (Myers-Scotton 1993a, 1993b, and 2003; Muysken 2000; Clyne 2003)
as well as edited volumes (Milroy & Muysken 1995; Jacobson 1997, 2001),
including a full handbook (Bullock & Toribio 2009). In addition, recent
more general handbooks (Bhatia & Ritchie 2004; Auer & Li Wei 2007),
readers (Li Wei 2000, 2007), and introductions (e.g. Winford 2003) pay
ample attention to code-switching. Numerous case studies have appeared
in book form as well, a vast number of articles, and several special issues
of journals. It is not an exaggeration to say that code-switching has been
the most hotly debated topic in the study of bilingualism and language
contact, more so than, say, structural interference or word borrowing.
Why? I think because somehow the fact that people are able to use
several languages almost at the same time within the same conversation and even in the same sentence somehow runs counter to our basic
(monolingual) view of what language and communication are all about.
Not only are speakers able to, but they do so regularly, and in some
communities with extreme regularity. This capacity and practice continue to appeal to the imagination, apparently even more so than other
areas in bilingualism research such as words passing from one language
to the other, or languages interfering with each other during speech
production.
17.1
Definition, demarcation, and terminology
This brings us to the definition of code-switching and issues of demarcation. Commonly code-switching is defined as “the use of more than one
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language during a single communicative event.” This definition has a
number of components which call for further comment:
●
●
●
●
“the use”: although the term use is neutral between production and
perception, most studies of code-switching have focused on production rather than perception.
“of more than one”: there is no restriction to two languages, but neither
is there agreement in the literature about what counts as a separate
code, dialects or clearly distinct languages.
“language”: In most definitions of code-switching some morphemic
material, often minimally a word, needs to be present from more
than one language. Phonetic or structural features by themselves are
not enough.
“during a single communicative event”: this is left vague on purpose, and
could refer to a turn in a conversation or even someone passing by
and reading a bilingual road sign.
Right away, it becomes necessary to demarcate code-switching from
other phenomena. Since many switches in a sentence involve a single
word, a major difficulty is how to distinguish code-switching from borrowing. Consider a case like the French inserted adjective faible ‘weak’
in Shaba Kiswahili/French bilingual speech recorded in Lumumbashi,
Congo (De Rooij 2000: 456) (I will return to donc below):
(1)
Tu-ko ba-ntu
ba-moya b-a
chini. donc tu-ko ba-faible, eh?
we- COP CL2-man CL2-DET
CL 2- CON low
so
we- COP CL2-weak eh?
‘We’re a low kind of people. So we’re weak, aren’t we?’
(For abbreviations used in examples, see the Appendix at the end of this chapter.)
How can we decide whether faible is a switch or a borrowing in Kiswahili
here? Just on the basis of the individual example, this is very difficult.
A first criterion is adaptation to the base or matrix language. The
French element carries a Swahili noun class 2 prefi x, but in, for example,
Myers-Scotton´s (1993) data, switched elements are easily accompanied
by matrix or base language affixes. Thus, the type of morphology a language shows (pro-clitic or agglutinative like in Kiswahili, or fusional like
in French) makes an important difference. Words adapted morphologically into French, like kidnapper (to kidnap) or rapper (to rap), are clearly
loans, while the same does not hold for languages like Kiswahili. Noun
class prefi xes or pro-clitic elements can be added to any element of the
appropriate category in Swahili, while French infinitive - er is limited to a
small set of verbs which have been clearly accepted into the language.
A second criterion would be the degree of bilingualism in the speech
community involved. To use an established borrowing, one does not need
to know the language involved, but for code-switching the situation is
different. However, even bilinguals may use loans, so the criterion only
works one way.
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Table 17.1 Potential diagnostic features for different types of language mixing
Historical borrowing
Bilingual borrowing
Code-switching
Mixed languages
Time depth
Adaptation
to matrix
+
–
–
+
+
+
+
+
More than
Bilingualism one word
+
+
+
+
–
+
+
+
Variability
+
+
+
–
A third criterion would be the amount of material taken from the
other language. If it is more than a single word, code-switching is likely,
although Sankoff, Poplack, and Vanniarajan (1990) argue that a number of nominal phrases in Tamil-English code-switching should also be
counted as (nonce) borrowings.
Other criteria have been used as well: Does the inserted word denote a
new concept or does it duplicate an already existing word (in which case
code-switching would be likely)? Is the inserted word a highly frequent
element (in which case borrowing would be likely)? These criteria are no
more reliable than the ones given above, however.
It is useful to distinguish between historical borrowing, a situation in
which a language gradually adopts words from another language, over
time, from bilingual borrowing, in which a bilingual population freely
uses words from the dominant non-community language while speaking
the community language. From Table 17.1 it is clear that it is virtually
impossible to distinguish code-switching from bilingual borrowing. The
question is: do we really want to?
A second issue of demarcations concerns mixed languages. Consider
an utterance like the following from the mixed language Michif. French
fragments are italic, and the matrix is provided by Cree, an Algonquian
language.
(2)
êkwa pâstin –am sa bouche
ôhi
le
loup ê -w î-otin-ât
and
open-he.it
his.F mouth this-OBV the.M wolf COMP-want-take-he.him
‘and he opened his mouth and the wolf wanted to take him’ (Bakker 1997: 6)
On the surface this looks very much like code-switching, as exemplified,
for example, in the Moroccan Arabic/French code-switched utterances
studied by Bentahila and Davies (1983) and Nait M’Barek and Sankoff
(1988):
(3)
l wah.ed une certaine classe h.ant walla le
luxe
bezzaf f les hotels
To one
a
certain class has.become the luxury more in the hotels
‘Especially for a certain class there is more luxury in the hotels.’
(Moroccan Arabic/French: Nait M’Barek & Sankoff 1988: 150)
The French nouns are inserted together with accompanying determiners, adjectives, and possessive pronouns.
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Mixed languages differ from code-switching on several dimensions. First
of all, a certain time depth is required (although some mixed languages
have emerged quite rapidly). More importantly, code-switching requires
bilingual competence, while mixed languages do not. Speakers of Michif
know neither French nor Cree, although they may speak English. Crucial
as well is the issue of variability. The Moroccan Arabic speakers producing examples like (3) could have uttered the whole sentence in Arabic,
while the Michif speakers cannot produce complete sentences in either
Cree or French. Mixed languages can emerge out of code-switching, as
argued, for example, by Backus (2003) and Meakins (2007), but cannot be
equated with it.
The demarcation line between code-switching and bilingual interference is definitional: in the case of interference the interaction of the two
languages is structural rather than involving phonetic material: words
or morphemes from the two languages.
To conclude this introduction, a few words on terminology. The term
used in this article is the generally accepted one: code-switching. Some
authors (including myself in Muysken 2000) have argued for the term
code-mixing, which makes less specific claims about the actual processing
mechanism involved. There may or may not be actual “switching” back
and forth between languages. Some authors have used the term codeswitching when describing alternation between larger units, like clauses,
and code-mixing when discussing alternation internal to the utterance
or clause. Finally, in the psychological literature sometimes the term language mixing occurs.
I will try to present some of the issues raised in the vast literature on
code-mixing in three main sections: sociolinguistics (section 17.2), grammar (section 17.3), and language use (section 17.4), before turning to some
further specific issues and concluding.
17.2
Sociolinguistic perspectives
Code-switching is of course intimately tied in to bi- or multilingualism,
and multilingual settings are extremely varied. A useful place to start
perhaps is Lüdi’s (1987) distinction between different kinds of bilingual
conversations, as in Table 17.2. Exolingual conversations cross a language barrier between the interactants, endolingual ones do not. Codeswitching is found primarily in the lower left-hand corner, when both
speakers know both languages.
When both speakers know both languages, what are the traffic rules?
Since the 1960s and 1970s a number of researchers have contributed analytical tools to help us understand how bilinguals negotiate their choice
of and switching between languages. Ferguson (1959) has focused attention on the fact that in many countries two related varieties are used, a
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Table 17.2 Lüdi’s (1987) typology of interactions
Exolingual
Endolingual
Bilingual conversations
Monolingual conversations
Speakers with different languages
Bilinguals among themselves
Native and non-native speakers
Monolinguals among themselves
phenomenon he termed diglossia (see Chapter 15). In Morocco both the
local variety, with low prestige, of Moroccan Arabic is used, and the international variety close to Classical Arabic, with high prestige. They have
clearly different functions and are used in different domains. Working
within the tradition of the sociology of language Fishman (1971) further enriched our understanding pointing to the analytical concept of
domain (see Chapter 15): a construct through which speakers organize
their everyday life (e.g. in terms of “work,” “family,” “religious worship,”
“friendship”) and the language choice appropriate to that domain. While
the precise definition of diglossia has undergone further changes and
refinements since Ferguson’s original article, the basic notion of functional differentiation of languages in bilingual communities has become
a central element in our current thinking. This differentiation was given
more substance in the tradition of ethnography of speaking (going back
to Hymes 1962) where it was stressed that interactions carry transactional meaning, and particularly in the work of Blom and Gumperz
(1971). They introduced the useful distinction between situational and
metaphorical switching. In situational switching the shift in language is
determined by factors external to the speaker, such as a new interlocutor entering the conversation or a new topic being introduced, while in
metaphorical switching it is the speaker herself who creates a change of
atmosphere by shifting languages. To give an example from a study by
Guerini of Ghanaian immigrants in Italy, consider the following interchange between the investigator (I) and Joseph (J) (2006: 112):
(4)
I: Ciao, Joseph. Wo ho te sεn?
J: Me ho yε, na won so ε?
I:
J:
I:
J:
Me nso me ho yε, medaase!
Come stai, tutto bene?
Bene, si.
È un po’ che non ci vediamo.
(Ciao Joseph, how are you?)
(I am fine, and you?)
(I am fine too, thank you!)
(How are you, is everything okay?)
(I am fine, yes.)
(It is a long time since we met.)
After a fairly ritualistic interchange in Twi, initiated by the (Italian) investigator, the Ghanaian immigrant switches to a less formal register in
Italian, essentially repeating, ironically, what had just been said in Twi.
The work of Gumperz has been influential in the two most prominent
recent interactional models for code-switching, those of Myers-Scotton
(e.g. 1993a) and of Auer (e.g. 1999). In the work of Myers-Scotton, the
key notion is markedness. What is the expected language choice in a
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given setting (unmarked) and what the unexpected or marked choice?
Markedness may vary for each speaker, topic, and setting. Code-switching
may also be an unmarked choice, when it is highly frequent. This possibility is linked to issues of intentionality and consciousness. While individual switches may be interpretable in terms of a theory of interaction,
when the switching is extremely frequent this becomes less likely. Two
examples can illustrate the difference.
Consider first the following often-cited conversation in Dholuo (Parkin
1974: 210). The italic fragments are Kiswahili, and the bold italic fragments in English:
(5)
C O N V E R S A T I O N I N D H O L U O , K I S WA H I L I , A N D E N G L I S H
Luo1
Onego ikendi
(You ought to marry.)
Luo2
Kinyalo miya dhok.
(If you can give me the cattle.)
Luo1
Dhi penj wuoru.
(Go and ask your father.)
Luo2
baba bado anasema niko young.
(My father still says I am too young.)
Luo1
in-young-nadi? itiyo-umetosa kuwa na watoto – and everything.
(How are you young? You are working and earning – and everything.)
Luo1
Nyaka ayud nyako maber.
(I have to get a girl.)
Luo2
Karang’o masani to ichiegni bedo- mzee-ni?
(But when? You are soon becoming an old man.)
Basically, Dholuo is used, but quite possibly to stress the age difference,
Luo 2 switches to Swahili and then English. Kiswahili (and also English) is
mostly associated with young people. Continuing in the same languages,
Luo 1 takes the force out of the argument.
In the following example, from Amuzu (2005: 81), Ewe and English
alternate several times in the same utterance, and it is difficult to assign
a specific pragmatic value to each switch:
(6)
time-ya
papa nO university
a, mie nO between Madina kple Adenta.
time-WH father be university TOP 1P
be between Madina and Adenta
‘At the time when dad was at the university, we used to be (somewhere) between
Madina and Adenta.’
This example is more likely to show the occurrence of code-switching
as an unmarked code, since the effect of switching is felt overall, rather
than per individual switch.
The more pragmatic perspective adopted by Myers-Scotton is further
elaborated in the work of Auer (1999), who stresses the sequential embedding in conversations of switches, relying on Gumperz’s notion of contextualization cues. Two central distinctions are made: Turn-internal
versus -external switching, and discourse-related vs. participant-related
switching. On the basis of these notions, belonging to the pragmatics
of bilingual conversations, Auer distinguishes four different kinds of
switches:
1.
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conversational/discourse related, from language A to language B (between
or inside turns)
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307
2. preference related, involving negotiations about language choice
3. unmarked choice / strategic ambiguity / strategy of neutrality, where there
is no base language, and language mixing
4. intra-clause / insertion / transfer, where there is a base language with
chunks of a second language inserted in regular ways
Quite separate from the discourse-oriented tradition instigated by
researchers such as Gumperz, there is the tradition of social psychology
associated with the work of Giles (1978). Giles’ communication accommodation theory focuses on the role of processes of convergence and divergence in establishing inter-group relations. Code-switching can then be
viewed in terms of acts of identity and audience design rather than as
involving specific moves in a communicative strategy. The overall conversation can be the object of attentions rather than particular turns.
17.3 Grammatical perspectives
A second major strand of research on code-switching is grammar: What
can the intermingling of languages tell us about the way our language
capacities are organized? The research in this area covers two aspects,
of which the first has received most attention. The first aspect is that
of linguistic theory and the effect of linguistic constraints upon possible
code-switches. The second is that of language typology, and the influence
that typological differences have on the way that they can be combined.
These two aspects, however, fall outside the scope of this chapter. Here
a number of more observational distinctions between types of switches
needs to be discussed. Typically, switches are classified as to where they
take place:
●
(7)
●
(8)
inter-sentential: between two separate utterances or two coordinated
clauses belonging to the same utterance. An example would be (7):
Hii
ni kwa sababu mama
watoto
ana business
y-ake
hapa
this is because
mother children she business C L 9-her her
and our children go to school here.
‘This because my wife has her business here and our children go to school here.’
(Kiswahili/English; Myers-Scotton 1993b)
extra-sentential/emblematic/tag: between a clause and an extra-clausal
element attached to it. Particularly frequent in this respect is the
use of conjunctions and discourse markers from another language
(Maschler 2000), such as French donc in the Swahili utterance in (1)
and the French conjunction pour, incorporated into Wolof, and used
in Mandinka in (8) (Haust 1995: 148):
feŋ
muta
thing catch
‘to catch something’
pur
ka
CON
INF
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●
(9)
●
(10)
●
(11)
intra-sentential: within the clause, as in the Ewe-English example (9)
(from Amuzu 2005: 80):
atukpa-a
le
on the table over there.
bottle- D E F
be.L O C
‘The bottle is on the table over there.’
single word: a subcategory of intra-clausal, but involving a single
switched element:
chick
y-angu gani
hu-yo
chick C L 9 -my which C L 9 - D E M
‘Which girlfriend of mine?
word internal, illustrated with a complicated Chiluba/French example,
complicated because the internally switched word in (11) forms a collocation with the next element, as in rendre visites ‘to visit’:
ba-aka- rendr -agan-a
visites ya bungi quand elle était ici
3 P - H A B I T -return- R E C I P - I N D I C visits a lot when she was here.
‘They visited each other a lot when she was here.’ (Kamwangamalu 1989: 166)
Muysken (2000) proposed a three-way division of the intra-sentential
switches. In the case of insertion, there is a single matrix or base language, into which elements or constituents from the other language
are inserted, without affecting the overall structure of the base, however. This type of switching is asymmetrical: there is one base language. In the case of alternation, there is a complete switch from one
language to the other, and hence this type of switching is symmetrical. Finally, in the case of congruent lexicalization, the basic structure of the overall clause is more or less shared by both languages,
and individual elements from either language are inserted. This last
notion refers to intimate code-mixing where the languages are quite
similar. While alternation and insertion are commonly accepted under
one label or another in the literature, the phenomena covered under
the term congruent lexicalization are often not interpreted as codeswitching by other authors. However, it is not the case that individual discourses can be unambiguously characterized in terms of this
typology. Consider (12):
(12)
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So
so
i–language
e-khuluny-w-a
a-ma- gangs
it differs from one
C L 9 -language
C L 9 / R E L -speak-PA S S - F V
P - C L 6 - gangs it differs from one
gang to another
si-ngeke si-thi
a-ya-fan-a
because it depends
gang to another 1 P -never 1 P -say C L 6 - P R E S 1 -like-F V because it depends
ukuthi le-ya
i- involved
ku
which activity
COMP CL9 -DEM
C L 9 -involved
L O C . C L 16
which activity
‘So the language which is being spoken by gangs differs from one gang to
another, we never say they are alike because it depends as to which one is
involved in which activity.’ (Finlayson, Calteaux & Myers-Scotton 1998: 408)
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309
There is an overall base language, and in this sense the example in (12) is
insertional. However, there are longer English fragments, such as it differs from one gang to another and because it depends. In these fragments, content elements, functional elements, and grammar are entirely English.
The fragments are termed “EL (embedded language) islands” by MyersScotton (1993b).
Furthermore, there are some English functional categories, like plural -s
on gang-s and participle -ed in involv-ed, present. Notice that these are part
of English words, pied-piped along with the content word. The -s plural
from English is not crucial for meaning (and could even be fossilized as
part of the root of the word). Crucially plurality is marked by ma- from
the base language. For involv-ed it is possible and perhaps even plausible to
claim that this is a fixed lexical item. For plural gang-s this is likewise an
option, but the form does have a plural meaning and there are numerous
cases of pied-piped English plural -s examples in the data.
The example of which activity likewise is a bit problematic. It could be
treated like an island, or like a case of pied-piping where a functional
question word, adjectival which, is introduced along with a content
word.
If we limit ourselves to grammatically the most challenging category,
intra-sentential CS, there are several main factors favoring this process.
As pointed out by Poplack (1980), word order equivalence around the
switch point certainly promotes switching, since it makes the switch
much easier to process online. Thus, Kiswahili and English share verbobject order, and hence it is easier to switch between a Kiswahili verb
and an English noun as in:
(13)
u-me-nunua
2 S - PA -buy
‘Did you buy
fruit
fruit?’ (Mkilifi 1978: 140)
Second, if there is categorial equivalence, this also makes it easier to
switch. Categorial equivalence is not something that can be established
independently (although linguists can make an educated guess), but
rather it is something that bilingual speakers have to create between
categories in their different languages. Consider the Kiswahili/English
example in (14) (from Myers-Scotton 1993b: 91):
(14)
ni-ka-wa-ona
workers
wa-nene sana
1 S - C O N S E C - O B J -see
workers
C L 2 -fat
very
‘And I saw [some] very fat workers.’
Here the position of the noun in Kiswahili (before the adjective) and in
English (after the adjective) is not equivalent, but the category of plural
noun (except for noun class) is the same in both languages. Examples
such as (14) show that linear equivalence is not an absolute prerequisite
for switching, it is probably a tendential constraint.
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Table 17.3 Schematic comparison of code-switching and -mixing typologies in
three traditions (adapted from Muysken 2000: 32)
Myers-Scotton
Muysken (2000)
Poplack
ML + EL constituents
EL-islands
ML-shift
ML-turnover
(Style-shifting)
Insertion
(Nonce) borrowing
Constituent insertion
Flagged switching
Code-switching under equivalence
(Style-shifting)
Alternation
Congruent lexicalization
Third, the peripherality of a constituent contributes to the ease with
which it is switched. Consider a fragment from the already cited
example in (5):
(15)
itiyo-u-me-tosa kuwa
na wa-toto – and everything.
2S-R ECP grow.up
C L 2 -child
‘You are working and earning – and everything.’
Finally, content word status of the element switched is a relevant factor,
as argued most cogently by Myers-Scotton and Jake, of course. In every
single dataset available to us, switched functional or grammatical elements are in a minority as compared to content words like nouns, adjectives, and less frequently, verbs. The one exception are discourse markers,
which are frequently switched, and actually in both directions.
It is probably best to think of these four major factors favoring the
ease of code-switching: linear equivalence, categorical equivalence,
peripherality, and content word status as tendency constraints, often
interacting.
A number of new developments have taken place in the grammatical
study of code-switching and -mixing. In the first place, more refined
typologies have emerged, reflecting the growing diversity and complexity in the language interaction data encountered as more studies were
brought to an end. As mentioned, in Muysken (2000) a three-way distinction was proposed between insertion, alternation, and congruent
lexicalization. Similarly, in the work of the research groups of Carol
Myers-Scotton and Shana Poplack more refi ned typologies have been
presented to accommodate the different findings. A comparative overview is given in Table 17.3:
A particular concern in these typologies has been the relation between
code-mixing and language change. In a number of communities, switching and mixing phenomena are part of overall processes of language
change. This influences our formal account of the process of mixing
itself.
A second development has been toward more fine-grained grammatical distinctions, for example in the domain of functional categories.
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Examples are the account in Muysken (2000: 154–83), where the distinction between lexical and functional categories is assumed to be gradual
rather than absolute. Myers-Scotton and researchers in her group have
further developed the lexical-functional distinction in their 4M-model
(Myers-Scotton 2003; Myers-Scotton & Jake 2000).
Third, the rise of the Minimalist Program in Chomskyan linguistics
has triggered a number of attempts to apply this theory to code-mixing
data, notably by MacSwan (2000; 2005). In my own interpretation of
where the grammatical study of code-switching and -mixing is going,
two issues will stand out.
First of all, the role of the typological properties of the languages
involved in the mixing. (a) Does the presence of considerable inflectional
morphology lead to mixing patterns that are different from relatively
isolating morphology? The impression one gains from mixing involving the Chinese languages, Malay varieties, and various West African
languages (often paired with English) is that more intimate mixing
patterns are frequent than encountered elsewhere. (b) How important are word order similarities and differences? It appears that mixing
involving languages with different word orders often leads to the creative use of various “strategies of neutrality.” (c) Does the head-marking
versus dependent-marking distinction influence code-mixing patterns
to any extent? Recent work by Patrick McConvell and associates on codemixing involving various Australian languages (McConvell & Meakins
2005) suggests this to be the case. (d) What is the role of intonation and
tone, in addition to syntactic structure? Work reported on by Michael
Clyne (2003) stress the role of tone in Vietnamese–English code-mixing,
suggesting the importance of phonological (PF) planning in constraining code-switching and -mixing.
Second, can we really distinguish grammatical constraints on codeswitching and -mixing from processing constraints, that is, is there a distinction between competence and performance? In this question issues
concerning both the syntax / processing interface in sequencing and sentence planning and the language label of specific syntactic nodes and
items play a role.
17.4 The perspective of the language use and speaker
A third perspective in the study of code-switching concerns the
speaker, and the processing of code-switches. Who are the speakers
that switch most frequently, and why? How are switches produced and
comprehended?
Who switches and when? The incidence of frequent code-switching
or -mixing as an unmarked phenomenon has been found to correlate
with a number of factors. In immigrant communities, frequent switchers
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Table 17.4 Jakobson’s functional model as applied to code-switching
Function
Refers to
Function of switch
Emotive
Conative
Addresser
Addressee
Referential
Phatic
Context
Channel of
communication
Metalinguistic
Poetic
Code itself
Message
Switching to address particular emotions
Different types of speaker oriented codeswitching, e.g. language accommodation
Topic-related switching
Cross-linguistic repetitions, emphatic use of
switched discourse markers and tags, to
create a different atmosphere
e.g. switching for clarification and translation
e.g. switching in street language and in
bilingual songs
are often second generation bilinguals, and more generally, they are generally of the age 12–25. Switching is most frequent in in-group informal
conversations, without outsiders present, and concerning ordinary topics.
Why do people switch? Of course there are many reasons why people
make switches, many of them already alluded to above. Using Jakobson’s
(1960) categorization of the functions of language to categorize the specific functions of switches may be useful in this respect (see also Appel &
Muysken 1987), as in Table 17.4.
However, these factors do not explain the patterns of very frequent
switching (sometimes more bilingual than monolingual utterances) that
we find in many speech communities. In these cases of switching as an
unmarked code, it is impossible to account for every single switch separately. It is possible to argue that the bilingual way of speaking by itself
is an expression of (mixed) identity or the like, but this is difficult to
establish independently, and the relation between switching and identity expression is certainly not one-to-one.
It may be more useful to explore the notion of linguistic repertoire: the
total range of speech styles and varieties which speakers, monolingual
and bilingual, control. We can think of style-shifting of monolinguals
as optimization of their repertoire: They can thus fully exploit a wide
range of forms of speech to match and help give shape to different speech
events, like telling a joke, giving a presentation, talking to children or
older people, etc. Code-switching can then be viewed as bilingual styleshifting: an attempt by speakers to include the full range of their bilingual competence while speaking with bilingual peers, for maximization
of stylistic effects, etc.
Thus, code-switching has many benefits for the speaker. We know
less about its costs. There can be no doubt that jumping back and forth
between languages requires the speech production system to operate at
its maximal capacities. It has been known for a long time, at least since
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313
Poplack (1980), and confirmed in a number of studies, that code-switching
requires a high degree of bilingual competence.
Code-switching capacities develop and change across the life span of
an individual. In the very early stages, there is irregular mixing of the
two languages, but by the age of 2 and developing with grammatical
competence until about 5, we already see regularized code-switching.
Extremely frequent code-switching has been reported for age range
12–25, the age of adolescence and young adulthood. It is no accident
that in this phase we find so much code-switching: it is also the phase
in which speakers explore the limits of their competence through
joking, punning, street language inventions, neologisms, etc. It is the
age in which speakers try to establish themselves within peer groups.
There have been reports, though not confirmed by detailed research as
far as I know, that code-switching decreases in intensity during adulthood. Finally older bilinguals, particularly those affected by Alzheimer’s
disease, show evidence of loss of control of their bilingual monitoring
system and irregular code-mixing.
17.5 Sources of evidence and methodology:
the move toward experimental paradigms
In the code-switching research, the issue of the source of the evidence is
a complicated one, and here I would like to make a plea for more experimental work, in fact with respect to all three approaches sketched in
sections 17.2–17.4.
The major methodological problem in the pragmatic tradition is that
the interpretation of conversations in which codes are switched remains
subjective; we can never quite know independently what motivated
speakers in making particular linguistic choices.
The methodological problems in the grammatical study of codeswitching are manifold as well. There is a wide gap between the
Labovian tradition of accountable analysis of naturalistic speech data,
stressed in the work of Poplack and associates, on the one hand, and the
tradition in which grammaticality judgments play an important role,
as in the work of MacSwan and many others. Ultimately, neither tradition will give us the answers ultimately needed. The grammaticality
judgment research is simply not reliable; the basis for these judgments
varies widely between different communities. The naturalistic corpus
research is more reliable, but quite costly, and often does not yield all
the necessary data. A way out of this dilemma is the development of
reliable experimental techniques, which need to be shown to replicate
naturalistic language behavior but at the same time allow one to test
more complex grammatical issues.
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PIETER MUYSKEN
Finally, experimental work is needed to study the exact relation
between bilingual competence and code-switching behavior, and the
precise way in which switches are produced and comprehended. There
is still a large gap between the more grammatically inspired models and
the processing models, and psycholinguists themselves have been slow
in developing models that account for anything like the switching that
we actually find in naturalistic settings. There is a world to be gained in
further experimental work in this area.
Appendix: Abbreviations in glosses
1P = first, etc. person plural
C O M P = complementizer
C O N S E C = consecutive
D E F = definite
D E T = determiner
F V = finite verb
I N D I C = indicative
L O C = locative
O B V = obviation marker
PA = past
R E C I P = reciprocal
R E L = relative
T O P = topic marker
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= Noun Class
C O N = conjunction
C O P = copula
D E M = demonstrative
F = feminine
H A B I T = habitual
I N F = infi nitive
M = masculine
P = preposition
P R E S = present tense
R E C P = recent past
S = singular
W H = question word
CL
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18
Language maintenance,
shift, and endangerment
Nicholas Ostler
18.1
Introduction and overview
Language maintenance, shift, and endangerment are all outcomes of the
dynamics of language communities. A language community is endlessly
recreated, as the grammar and lexicon that embody knowledge of the
language are reconstituted in each new generation of learners. Some
imperfections or innovations occur in this learning process, which give
rise to language change. And some knowledge of language difference is
built into the process: learners sense the differences in language as used
by those more distant to them; and they come to experience their own
particular code as a badge of their identity, or of membership in their
own community.
A language is maintained if speakers effectively pass it on to the
next generation. This transmission may fail because speakers do not
use it sufficiently in the learners’ presence; or because the learners
themselves, for some reason, do not choose to make use of it, but get
their language from some other source. We fi rst consider what can be
said about forces, institutions, and situations which tend to support
this effective transmission, that is, which are positive for language
maintenance.
If the transmission is impeded in some way, the language is endangered. Unless this is happening because the population itself is dying
out, this implies that some other language is being acquired in its place.
This may occur partially, for some language uses but not others; but however full or partial the process, language endangerment within a continuing population implies a language shift. Our second major section is
to anatomize the causes of language shift, that is to consider how some
other language can get into position where it becomes a replacing language. There are three major issues to address: how a new language can
come on the scene, to be available in the community; how the rising
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generation can come to learn it; and what determines when the result is
language replacement, and when bilingualism.
Turning to language endangerment from the point of view of the languages being lost, the first major issue is: What is the value of what is
lost? We shall see that there is concern – which is like an enlightened
self-interest – for the loss of language knowledge, but a completely different concern, more like sympathetic solidarity, for the loss of the use of
a language – which implies its demise as a badge of a particular human
identity, one that is felt by insiders as well as recognized by outsiders.
These two aspects of language loss have different remedies, respectively documentation and revitalization. We review the issues, primarily
political, ethical, and technical, which arise in attempting to implement these remedies. Revitalization, since it aims at a response from a
whole language community, is far harder than documentation, which is
all about systematic recording. Nevertheless, we attempt to review the
gamut of activities relevant to each.
A final section assesses the prospects for future linguistic diversity.
18.2 Language maintenance
Normal transmission of a language to children may be disrupted or
inhibited when they are exposed in some way to other languages. There
are reasons both of demand and supply that can act as obstacles to language transmission down the generations.
18.2.1
Language acquisition: demand and supply
When the reasons result from changing demand, the other languages
will have some property which makes them seem superior to the disfavored language, usually through association with some high-prestige
group, wealthier or more powerful, more trendy or more politically correct. In most cases today, the initiative for change seems to come in this
way from the learners; but in others – for example, in the common colonial practice of sending indigenous children to boarding schools1 – it
may have been imposed on them by inculcation of a new language, while
the traditional language is physically discouraged: in a sense, the supply
of that language has been constricted.
Language maintenance, then, can be thought of as the survival of a
language in a situation where it might be expected to be endangered. As
Fishman (1997: 87) points out, the issue of how language maintenance
is to be secured is curiously difficult to characterize, since its practical
content depends crucially on the kind of threat that a language is facing,
or its degree of advancement. Likewise, it is difficult to advise people on
how to keep healthy, without knowing where they live, how old they are,
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etc. But nonetheless, there are some guidelines on nutrition, hygiene,
exercise, etc. which conduce to a healthy life anywhere. Are there similarly any properties or practices of communities that can be seen to have
kept, and be keeping, their traditional language use vigorous?
As it happens, there has been a natural experimental laboratory in language survival in a place that is particularly accessible for study, namely
the advent of immigrants to the USA over the eighteenth to twentieth centuries. This was examined in essays in Fishman (1966), especially those
by Heinz Kloss and by Nathan Glazer. Their results are highly ambiguous, even ambivalent. A large number of candidate factors are identified,
such as early settlement (i.e. before the predominance of English was
established), degree of sociocultural isolation or difference (often caused
by religious separatism), the internal structure of the immigrant community (e.g. presence of a highly educated professional class, tradition of
bilingualism), their absolute numbers, the degree of pressure to conform
from the outside, the previous experience, and hence practical knowhow, of a community in defending its language against outside influence.
But none of these supports any clear, determinative model. All factors can
either have their presumed direct effect on language maintenance, or be
recognized, and so counteracted, by an immigrant community. Even the
apparently benign, non-constraining environment for settlers offered by
the early United States and its frontier could either allow the growth of
autonomous language communities, or (and this was the predominant
effect) encourage assimilation to Anglo-American norms and language.
In looking for a determinant of actual outcomes, it appears that one must
abstract from these objective facts, and look rather to imponderables,
above all to the degree of morale and social will to remember traditions
and sustain an identity.2
18.2.2 Generalizations about language maintenance
Some generalizations do emerge, although these are not sufficient to
provide predictive power.
One concerns timing. Naïve populations can easily underestimate the
degree of threat there is to the survival of their language: adults tend to
focus on the use made of the language among their peers and elders, and
fail to notice that the next generation’s linguistic behaviour, or linguistic
loyalties, are changing. This leads to the common observation that the
perception of a problem in language maintenance comes one generation
too late to address it.
A second generalization concerns effective means to maintain a language. In the absence of effective isolation (i.e. given that language
contact is inevitable), success can only be achieved through a dynamic,
interactive response to the presence of other languages: not to deny their
presence, attractions, and likely utility to members of the endangered
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language community, but to work out a mode of coexistence which
focuses on the value of the traditional language, the clear problems in
perpetuating it, and the plausible – and perhaps non-traditional – means
that may be needed to go on using it. Purism – the refusal to accept mixtures of the old language with new influences – is a natural, defensive
reaction by traditional speakers, but it is usually counterproductive in
modern conditions. To take an analogy with epidemiology, we have to
develop antibodies to the influence of an outside language, not subject
it to antibiotics.
A third generalization concerns long-term realism. Language maintenance is not a problem for a single generation, a single campaign to be
fought, and either won or lost. Where languages coexist, it is a struggle
that will continue indefinitely into the future. As shown in the British
Isles by English and its Celtic neighbors, principally Welsh and Gaelic,
different eras will find different (temporary) resolutions.
English has been in contact with these languages since the fifth century AD, largely spreading at their expense. But the Statute of Kilkenny
(1366) shows that English was then perceived as the language needing
protection in Ireland, and the Act of Union (1536) that widespread use
of Welsh was once seen as a danger to the English power. The Celtic
languages declined in use – though on an unsteady course – in the subsequent centuries, apparently in gradual recognition of the dominance
of the English and their language, but in the twentieth century many
have staged an (as yet uncertain) recovery. The future is open, but will
undoubtedly be contentious.
18.2.3 Institutions that support language maintenance
Fourthly, there are a number of linguistic institutions, some ancient,
some very modern innovations, which are assets to a language tradition,
and will always be positive for its survival and (potentially) its wellbeing. One key institution is literature. McKenna Brown (2002: 1) puts it
like this:
literature, both in spoken and written forms, is a key crossover point
between the life of a language and the lives of its speakers. Literature
gives a language prestige: and knowledge of the literature enriches
a language’s utility for its speakers. Both act to build the loyalty of
speakers to their own language. All these effects then reinforce one
another in a virtuous circle.
Literary works, in this sense, may be metrical or in prose, with or without
accompanying music or other non-linguistic action such as dance or ritual. Knowledge of a language’s literature – what Bloomfield (1933: 21–22)
called its “beautiful or otherwise noticeable utterances” – becomes useful as a guarantee of the value of the language. These particular concrete
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uses hallowed by tradition are much more accessible, and usually more
honored, than the language’s abstract resources as such, its grammar
and lexicon – although in fact, it is knowledge and use of these latter
which must somehow continue if the language itself is to survive.3 Seen
or remembered as valuable in themselves, literary monuments also serve
as reminders of good style in the language, and give speakers a distinctive sense of authenticity, which does not arise from simple translations
of other literatures into the language. (See, e.g., Ahlers 2002 for authenticity in Hupa.)
Beyond the remembered existence and, ideally, widespread knowledge
of a literature, defenses against the inroads of other languages include
literacy, broadcasting, the use of information technology, and (potentially, mostly in the future) the development of language technologies
for the language in question.
Introducing literacy is widely seen as a necessary first step in maintaining and promoting use of a language. In fact, it may serve a useful
purpose even before the skill becomes widespread in the language community, since some orthography is an essential preliminary for the creation of grammars, dictionaries, and teaching materials; it can also serve
the preservation of traditional oral literature where younger generations
lack the patience to learn texts orally.
There may, unfortunately, be cultural barriers to, or indeed negative
consequences from, the widespread introduction of literacy. The Gauls of
the first century BC, famously, refused to let any of their Druids’ sacred
information be written down (Julius Caesar, De bello Gallico vi.15) – and
indeed it is all now lost. Even if the community appears open to this
major cultural revolution, the presence of literacy may well overturn
power relationships within it, typically in favor of younger learners.
Literacy is often provided, in practice, by missionary organizations, who
are not neutral about what texts should be available to the new readers,
the aim being to provide access to a set of translated texts from the
missionaries’ own tradition.
But literacy is everywhere the inescapable basis for administration and
bureaucracy. In a modern context, no community hoping to control its
own fate (including the future of its language) can afford to do without it.
Broadcasting – like many of the sound- and video-recording media
which became available in the twentieth century – appears to have
the advantage of short-circuiting the necessary analysis of a language
which will underlie providing it with an orthography and literacy. Every
speaker of a language can benefit immediately from access to broadcast
media, without special training – though they will require special equipment, if only a transistor radio. It certainly can play an important role in
raising the profile, and the prestige, of a language – and also its practical
importance as a long-distance means of communication. In practice, it
is a capital-intensive asset for a language, which will require massive
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investment, and quite likely government toleration, if not actual government funding.4
Going beyond broadcasting, we can consider serious electronic processing of a language at all levels, from e-mail, word-processing. and spellchecking through to machine translation and speech analysis. These
services are not fully provided for even the most technically advanced
language cultures; nevertheless, there is no reason in principle – only in
funding – why they cannot be provided for any language at all. Just as
Max Weinreich once remarked that a language is a dialect with an army
and a navy, nowadays a language is a dialect with a dictionary, grammar,
parser, and a multi-million-word corpus of texts, which are computer
tractable, and ideally a speech database too.
18.3 Language shift
Language shift is in some sense the complement of language maintenance: it is what happens when a language is not maintained. A community who had spoken language A come to speak language B. By the same
analogy from epidemiology used above, it corresponds to disease, or a
range of possible diseases; and as such it is easier to characterize, analyze, and explain than the steady state which it subverts, the conditions
under which language A simply continues to be spoken where it has
been. Above all, the cause of language shift is clear: it can only result
from language contact, although it is by no means necessary that language contact will always give rise to language shift.
18.3.1
Channels of language shift
The progression of a language into a new setting is traditionally characterized as occurring by migration, infiltration, or diffusion, depending on whether a whole speech community moves to a new location;
some speakers go to live among another community, bringing their
language with them; or speakers of the language somehow cause
others to pick it up. This trichotomy in fact marks points on a continuum between language shift which is wholly due to the movement
of a population and shift which is due to a new population coming
to learn it. As a concrete example, one could cite some of the varied
ways that English spread round the world from the seventeenth to
twentieth centuries. Into North America it spread by migration, since
the English colonies simply displaced the previous inhabitants. Into
South Africa it spread by infi ltration, English colonies being set up
separately but interacting with others, and subsequently merging in a
multilingual community with Afrikaans. And into India it spread by
diffusion, given the tiny number of English-speakers resident there
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during the Raj, via the systems of English education that were deliberately established by them.
All of these channels have been made easier, and more frequent, as a
result of technical progress. Modern transportation systems have made
global migration on their own initiative feasible for families and individuals, and has led to migration into European metropolitan countries
from many of the countries which had been (temporarily) their colonies,
and so previously the recipients of European settlers. (These reverse
flows were not foreseen in the heyday of the empires, and it remains to
be seen what their long-term linguistic effects will be.) Electronic communication systems of various kinds, often referred to as “globalized
media,” mean that diffusion of languages is now possible with little or no
presence of their speakers. The transportation and communication also
serves to keep the new migrants in regular contact with their original
communities, which may sustain their original languages in their new
environments, possibly making infiltration more likely in the medium
or long terms.
18.3.2 Scales of language shift
These three channels can all contribute to language shift on vastly differing scales. On the mass scale, migration can involve whole populations on the move, as when four Gaulish tribes moved into Anatolia ca.
270 BC, settling in the Ankara area to form the Galatian community, and
keeping their language (according to St. Jerome’s report) at least until the
fifth century AD. Migrations can equally be encompassed by many small
moves, for example the continual emigration of small parties of Englishspeakers to North America from the sixteenth century. (The movement
of Spaniards to what would become Latin America, and the French to
Canada, are better characterized as infiltrations, since the immigrants
tended to come as individuals and often founded mestizo families with
local wives, as per Ostler 2005: 343–44; 412–15.)
Likewise, mass diffusion of languages is now being supported by mass
media of all kinds, whereas traditionally a new language would have
to be taught to one speaker at a time – or at most to one class of pupils.
Mass infiltration can be arranged too. Like Rome planting its colonies of
Latin-speaking army veterans in new provinces, the Inca empire used to
organize mitmaq ‘transplants’ both inward and outward, to seed knowledge of their language, Quechua, in its conquests. As Father Blas Valera
said, quoted by Inca Garcilaso, Commentarios Reales, Part I, vii.3:
The Inca kings, from antiquity, as soon as they subjected any kingdom
or province, would … order their vassals to learn the courtly language
of Cuzco and to teach it to their children. And to make sure that this
command was not vain, they would give them Indians native to Cuzco
to teach them the language and the customs of the court. To whom, in
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such provinces and villages, they would give houses, lands and estates
so that, naturalizing themselves there, they should become perpetual
teachers and their children after them.
Those kings also sent the heirs of the lords of the vassals to be educated at the court and reside there until they came into their inheritance … Whenever they returned to their lands they took something
they had learnt of the courtly language, and spoke it with such pride
among their own people, as the language of people they felt to be divine, that they caused such envy that the rest would desire and strive
to learn it … In this manner, with sweetness and ease, without the
particular effort of schoolmasters, they learnt and spoke the lengua
general of Cuzco in the domain of little less than 1,300 leagues’ [4,000
km] extent which those kings had won.
These infiltrations, both by the Romans and the Incas, ultimately led to
language shift – the total obliteration of many of the original languages
of the conquered.
On the smallest scale, individuals can immigrate individually, or get
into learning contact with speakers of another language. It is notable,
though, that the smaller or less concentrated the group that has moved
or that comes into language-learning contact, the more likely it is that
the migrant or language-contactor will lose his or her own language and
adopt that of the target community. Languages are social entities, and
without an ambient society, their speakers lose the memory, and often
the will, to go on speaking them.
This “majority/minority” effect has had some paradoxical results,
totally overwhelming the presumed tendency – and interest – of conquered populations to adopt the language of their conquerors. The Goths
and other Germanic tribes who took possession of the western Roman
Empire in the fifth century AD retained their own languages for a couple
of centuries thereafter but never passed them on to the settled Latinspeaking population, who probably outnumbered them by over 40 to 1
(Ostler 2007: 134–35). Neither has the sedentary and vast population of
China shown any tendency to adopt any language of the much smaller
barbarian forces which have repeatedly gained control of much or all of
the country – the Huns and Tabgach in the fourth century, the Khitan in
the tenth, the Jurchen in the eleventh, Mongols in the thirteenth. Most
recently, the Manchu ruled the whole country from the mid seventeenth
to early twentieth centuries, though outnumbered by a factor of fifty.
Despite their declared intent to use the Manchu language as the medium
of government, the bizarre net effect was to expunge use of it utterly
from all classes of society – even from Manchuria. The only remnant of
Manchurian is in the extreme northwest, where a community, originally
of border guards, the Xibo, has been able to retain some coherence in
isolation from the rest of the country. (On relative population density in
China and other major empires, see Ostler 2005: 152–53.)
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The migrations which bring about language shift are not special:
they can be the results of any human motivation that brings population
movement. Nomadism and military raiding may be among the earliest
motives: the Celts, for example, whose languages dominated Western
Europe for most of the first millennium BC, were the first Iron Age culture in Europe, and presumably used this to press home their advantage.
Advances of whole peoples could be in the form of mass migrations, or
more modern-seeming armed assaults, with a disciplined army (such as
the Assyrian, or the Roman) preparing the way for organized civilian
settlements. Sometimes a mass movement could be more like a militant gathering of refugees, as when the Goths invaded the Balkan provinces of the Roman Empire in the fifth century to escape from Attila’s
advancing Huns marauding in their rear. Another example is that of the
Magyars entering modern Hungary in the tenth century, looking for
relief from the Pecheneg Turks to the east, and prepared to fight for a
place to stand.
Migrants can have utopian motives (notably present among the Pilgrim
Fathers entering the Massachusetts colonies in the seventeenth century),
or more mixed ones, combining hope for newfound wealth with supposed missionary zeal to save the souls of the “benighted savages” whom
they might encounter on the way. This heady mix of doing well and doing
good seems to have animated Spanish adventurers’ incursions into the
Americas in the sixteenth century, as well as the more trade-oriented
endeavors of the Portuguese around the shores of the Indian Ocean.
But these motives are not always found in combination. Economic
motives alone were enough to propel English and French speakers into
the Caribbean. Those relatively few who went to settle there, predominantly to grow sugar cane, effectively infiltrated their languages into
these islands, and the amplifying effect of the vast gangs of slaves who
were acquired to do the real work – and who lost their own languages in
the process – has resulted in the spread of English and French (and creoles thereof) until all others were extinguished there. On the other side
of the world, religious motives may have had a freer hand, as Christian
missionaries of the nineteenth century infiltrated these same two languages onto the remotest of Pacific Islands. They are widely used there
to this day as auxiliary languages (likewise in company with recent creolized forms), but the absence of slavery – and perhaps the lesser cogency
of economic interests – has meant that the indigenous languages have
only been supplemented, not replaced.
18.3.3
Motives for language shift by individuals
Besides the variety of the motives which have brought groups of speakers, and hence languages, into contact with one another, there is more
commonality in speakers’ motives for learning other languages when
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brought to them. (This, of course, is the essential mechanism of language
diffusion.) The basic options are cohabitation, leading to the creation of
bilingual families, and recruitment. The recruitment can be into any new
employment, but often into the army of the newly dominant power.
Both cohabitation and recruitment provide environments in which new
languages are rapidly and effectively learnt, largely without conscious
instruction.
Cohabitation seems to have predominated in the spread of Spanish
in the New World, with considerable mestizaje, mixed families, from the
very beginning. Adventurers came out to make their fortunes there, and
settled down; their wives and concubines became the first local learners
of Spanish. Combined with informal contact among the young,5 this is
the primary “natural” environment for the spread of competence in a
language. Recruitment, by contrast, had been the Roman way, as young
men from all over the empire were taken into the army, thrown together
with other Latin-speakers and commanded in Latin, and pensioned off
at the end of their active service in newly established Latin-speaking colonies; there they would bring up families, and through cohabitation pass
the new language on to the next generation.
18.3.4 The role of language teaching in shift
In the case of Latin as a written language, this natural method of
transmission was supplemented, and ultimately replaced, by explicit
instruction in the schoolroom. (The result of this was diglossia in the
Western European world: language change was suppressed in the written language, and so the use of Latin was preserved, while it continued
unabated in the speech of the largely illiterate populace, so creating the
Romance languages.) In the European lands, Latin was (beside Greek in
the East) for over fifteen centuries the only language that was taught
formally in this way; hence until the sixteenth century, explicit and formal language teaching can essentially be discounted as a mechanism for
language spread.
Even in subsequent centuries, and latterly with the worldwide spread
of mass education, it is doubtful if language teaching has had a crucial
influence in favor of language shift as such. Language teaching in the
schools has certainly contributed to the spread of auxiliary languages,
mostly used for wider communication than the mother tongue, and in
some parts of the world, these languages – sometimes called Metropolitan
Languages – have become threats to the survival of local languages,
replacing their use in all contexts. But where this has happened (e.g.
English in North America and Australia, Spanish and Portuguese in
South America, Russian in North Asia), the spread has largely predated
the widespread provision of schools, and hence of language teaching in
them. Nevertheless, it is likely that teaching of such languages in schools
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has acted at the margin to reinforce the prestige of these metropolitan
languages at the expense of the students’ (or their parents’) mother
tongues. But more significant will have been insistence on their use
there, and active discouragement of speaking in other mother tongues,
driving out even restricted uses of the latter.
In these cases, there was clear intent at high levels that bilingualism
should only be transitional, that is, that acquisition of the new language
should replace competence in the old one. But there is no necessity that
this should happen when a new language is acquired, bilingualism being
a natural state of human beings, and arguably having always been the
majority option in the world as a whole. As a clear example, the learning
of foreign languages in modern Europe is widespread, almost universal:
but the languages learnt do not replace the learner’s competence in their
mother tongue. By contrast, in many colonial contexts, learning the
metropolitan language was seen as a gateway – implicitly a one-way transition – to a new form of society. Language shift – the replacement of one
competence by another – betokens a social choice of some kind, namely
that speakers aspire for themselves – or are compelled by others – to consort with a new set of people distinct from their home or birth community. Rather than a simple opening of new, additional, opportunity, there
is an implicit prohibition on the continuance of an old association.
18.4
Language endangerment
Looking at this from the viewpoint of any of the languages being left
behind, the transition is seen less as education, and more as a gratuitous loss of an old society, and possibly of the old patterns of thought and
action that it gave rise to. Those who do not acquire the new aspirants’
language will increasingly be abandoned, with nobody to talk to. Their
language, and its worldview, is said to be “endangered.”
18.4.1 The historical background
The phenomenon of widespread language endangerment, and indeed its
fulfi llment in widespread language extinction, is not unprecedented.
Nor has it been uncommon in the past. Our present understanding of
the long-term linguistic demography of the human race, as agricultural, technical, military, religious, and economic developments led
worldwide to population movements, new cultural contacts, conquests,
and indeed epidemics, suggests that there have been at least three previous periods when the rate of language shift has risen, and the number of languages in the world fallen markedly. (For the full story in
brief, see Nettle 1999: 100–12, and Nettle & Romaine 2000: 104–32; also
Pagel 2000.)
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The first – and hitherto most devastating – of these was the Neolithic
revolution, the spread of farming (and often herding) from perhaps seven
different centers (West Asia, China, New Guinea, sub-Saharan West
Africa, Mesoamerica, Amazonia, and the Great Lakes of North America),
which struck in different parts of the world between 9000 and 3000 BC.
These led to vast increases in human fertility (estimated at a hundredfold) and a spread of burgeoning populations – especially, as it turned out
in Eurasia and central-southern Africa; one consequence was the spread
of certain languages at the expense of those of their hunter-gatherer
neighbors. These spreading languages are the ancestors of many of the
world’s currently vast language families (Sino-Tibetan, Austro-Asiatic,
Semitic, Bantu, Dravidian). They must have replaced many pre-existing
languages of hunter-gatherers, since all regions had already long had a
human population with language.6
The second period when language shift was rife, and hence numbers
of languages fell, was in historic times (broadly, from 3000 BC to AD
1500), when there were two types of spread. Both relied on the accumulation of surpluses in some agricultural or herding communities, resources
which were then invested in “the oldest labor-saving device,” main force
aimed at robbery, manifested as armies and weaponry. What was spread
by this new trend was not a means of subsistence. Instead, dominance
came either through simple use of new technologies (typically metalfoundry for weapons, but also horse-training and wheeled vehicles) to
support direct looting; or by reinforcing this with centralized control
and hence long-term revenue-gathering power.
The former approach led to self-appointed aristocracies, imposing
themselves on rural populations, and over time imposing their languages
on them, by so-called “elite dominance.” The latter approach led to large
and growing empires, which – especially if they also distributed colonists from the growing centers – tended also to spread their languages
among the populations they vanquished. Among the languages spread
by the former groups are the Celtic, Germanic, and Slavonic languages
of Europe (as well as, most recently, Magyar Hungarian), Iranian, IndoAryan, Tocharian and Turkic of Asia, and possibly Berber of Africa and
Maya of America. The latter groups included Babylonians and Assyrians
(spreading Akkadian, and later Aramaic), Hittites, Phrygians, Lydians,
Greeks, Romans (with Latin), Arabs, Chinese and Tibetans, Russians
(in Siberia), Incas (with Aymara, and later Quechua) and Aztecs (with
Nahuatl).
It is hard to know how many, and which, smaller languages were submerged by these various empires. Easiest to assess is the Romans’ effect
in Europe, where it is calculated that from 100 BC to AD 400 the count of
languages within the empire fell from sixty to twelve, and outside Africa
and the Greek-dominant east, from thirty to just four: Latin, Welsh,
Basque, and Albanian (Dalby 2002: 46).
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In some areas, the net loss of languages may not have been that great,
since in West Asia the same areas were continually being claimed for
different empires: Asia Minor, in particular, once home to its own
Anatolian family of languages, notably Lydian and Hittite, probably lost
most of its linguistic diversity through spread of Greek in the centuries
after Alexander’s conquest (323 BC), only to be gradually re-seeded with
Turkish after the Greek defeat at Manzikert (1071); Mesopotamia likewise switched its monolingualism from Akkadian to Aramaic (around
the ninth century BC), and from Aramaic to Arabic (after the seventh
century AD).
After 1500 begins the third period of threat to the world’s languages,
arising from the global penetration of European empires. This extended
to the beginning of the twentieth century. Given the new feasibility
of sea-bound exploration and invasion, and the excess population of
Europeans ready to migrate wherever they could thrive with cheaper
resources in an equable climate, the result was the export of some few
European languages (Spanish, Portuguese, French, English, and Dutch)
to many temperate zones of the world (North America, the southern cone
of South America, South Africa, Hawai’i, Australia, and New Zealand.
European political power was, of course, more widely spread than this,
but only in the temperate zones was there massive European immigration (often accompanied by devastating epidemics to which they themselves were largely immune), meaning that previous inhabitants (and
their languages) were effectively swept aside. This was language shift by
migration, with a vengeance.
This brings us essentially to the present day. In the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries, European imperialism was discontinued, even
if large-scale settlements of Europeans (with their language effects)
remained in place. However, in this period, a new cause of language
endangerment has become prominent: this is largely driven by the
aspirations of populations who become aware of the higher wealth and
security on the whole possessed by the speakers of metropolitan languages, chiefly European languages that have spread in the period of
colonial empires, but also, for example, Hausa and Swahili in Africa,
Tagalog in the Philippines, and Tok Pisin in Papua New Guinea. The evident differentials in wealth and status are emphasized by the cultural
products of the attractive languages, which are now effectively beamed
by broadcasting and other electronic communications into every corner
of the world. By association – and sometimes by national policy – often
both based on an inferred causal link from this world of international
languages to the attainment of affluence, small populations of language
users attempt change to the languages perceived as big and successful.
This tendency seems to be present in most parts of the world, going
far beyond the areas where European power was dominant. As well as a
positive attitude to big languages, there may also be a correspondingly
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negative attitude to smaller, domestic languages, seen as conducive to
poverty and disrespect. It might be claimed, then, that just as the prime
danger to languages before the twentieth century was through migration, the danger is now of language shift through diffusion, as rising
generations aspire to learn as first languages tongues which had been
no more than languages of wider communication for their parents, and
often actively to avoid use of their (parents’) indigenous languages.
In the present era it is, above all, language attitudes, not population
movements or competition in lifestyle and economy, which endanger
smaller language communities. Often, the traditional language is simply
not spoken to the rising generation, giving them no chance to acquire it;
but in many other cases, children brought up bilingually do not actively
use the traditional language.
18.4.2 The value of a language
Nevertheless, this disrespectful attitude to minority languages is now,
in many parts of the world, itself coming to seem rather old-fashioned.
The languages are increasingly seen as having value in themselves, and
the loss of an active language tradition is therefore seen as painful, to be
avoided if at all possible. The reasons given for this value judgment are of
three kinds: the value of the language as a unique instance of a language
type; the value of the knowledge that has long been expressed in the language; and the value of the continuing use of the language to support (at
least some) functions or domains of human life.
The value of the language in itself, as a unique member of the set of
human languages, is primarily a matter for scientists, specifically theoretical linguists, who nowadays view each known language as a unique
existence proof in linguistic typology. Each new language – and indeed
dialect – exhibits a structure that has been created unconsciously by
a social tradition of human beings, and is therefore learnable without
instruction by a maturing human mind. Examining it must in principle
throw light on the potential plasticity of the human mind. Furthermore,
since all languages make infinite use of finite means, it is in principle
not easy, and perhaps impossible, to exhaust the range of new knowledge about the mind that any single language can give. The indefinite
conservation of any language, as a naturally evolved system, is therefore
desirable on scientific grounds alone.
Besides this value of the linguistic structure and substance of a language, every language has inevitably been used over centuries, and often
millennia, to express and communicate a vast body of knowledge and
experience. This is the language’s knowledge base. It is a commonplace of
linguistic history, as observed, that the loss of a language (even when
it occurs through language shift, with another language succeeding it)
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leads to failures in the transmission of such cultural knowledge – which
may include unique, practical knowledge about fauna, flora, and the
environment. This is a further scientific reason to conserve language
traditions, if at all possible, although the logic of the precautionary principle actually supports the retention of the whole cultural framework of
which the language is part.
Thirdly, the continuation of this cultural framework, with language
very much included, has a special value to the inheritors of the tradition that has created it, above and beyond the value of its content to
the human race as such. This we may call the value of the language in
use. It includes the language’s role as a marker of ethnic identity, but
also the sheer positive effects on morale of the sense of being a member of a living tradition. This esprit de corps at the level of a language
community is invaluable to its survival as a community, but it may be
undervalued when the community experiences sustained pressure, to
its sense of security, its living standards, or most importantly, to its
self-esteem.
These three measures of the value of a language call for two main
different types of policies to protect them, documentation and revitalization. Documentation is about the making and keeping of permanent records on what the language has produced – in effect, language
archives. This work diminishes the risk of depending on living traditions
which have ever slimmer chances of being reproduced into the next generation. It is a kind of insurance policy against the breakdown of oral
transmission. Revitalization is more fundamental, and as such harder to
achieve, since it needs to find means to arrest and reverse the decline of
language tradition, forming a new basis for its vitality into the future.
It requires a combination of linguistic analysis, education, social work,
economic management, and quite likely politics too.
Although documentation is primarily relevant to preserving knowledge of past facts, and revitalization to prolonging use, each is in fact
relevant to all three language values. The materials provided by documentation may be applied as content for future taught courses in the language, practical dictionaries, etc., and so make an essential, if indirect,
contribution to revitalization; meanwhile revitalization, to the extent
that it is successful, lengthens the time that is available for language
documentation, increasing the number of informants, and possibly (by
creating new experts) deepening the knowledge that is available to be
documented. Finally, the language knowledge base is nothing more nor
less than the language community’s cultural corpus. As members of a
community communicate with one another in any non-transitory form,
they will be contributing to its documentation; and language revitalization is just the process of passing on competence in this knowledge base,
in its fullest sense.
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18.4.3 Language documentation
As used here, language documentation includes all potentially permanent recording of a language. Traditionally – for the last 5,000 years – the
only explicit way to do this was in written form, although mnemonic
techniques, pictures, and oral literature will have fulfilled some of this
purpose before writing became available – and it is arguable that the
founding texts of Greek literature (the Iliad and Odyssey), as well as of
Sanskrit grammar (Panini’s highly formalized Ash9tha dhy
" a yi
" ), record
oral texts. (The practice of archiving written records is almost as old as
writing itself, and to it we owe much of our present knowledge of long
extinct languages, such as Sumerian, Akkadian, Hittite, Elamite, Tangut,
Tocharian, Mayan, Mycenaean Greek.) Only in the late nineteenth century were means found to record speech (and other audio) in a form
that did not need human mediation to interpret, and in the twentieth
still and motion photography were added. Current documentation practice encourages use of all these, usually recorded in a common digital
format.
If language documentation is deemed necessary and desirable for a language, it is likely that its community is not (yet) literate in the language.
In this case, it is also likely that the initiative to undertake documentation will have come from outside the community, and the work will
require interaction between members of the community who still have
a command of the language and outside experts, primarily linguists.
This in turn implies that negotiations will be desirable to ensure that
the work goes forward with the support of the community as a whole,
support that is usually mediated through some official or traditional
political representatives. There is therefore a requirement for ethical
guidelines to govern the terms of any such agreement. Such guidelines
are likely to include safeguards against the public disclosure of private
or sensitive information (as these are locally defined), and terms of use,
access and ownership rights for resulting documents of the language.
The smaller the community, the more sensitive and personal these negotiations may be.
The technical task of recording data in the language is distinct from
the task of lodging it with an archive, or archives, where the data will
be held safely and on some clear terms of accessibility; and it is distinct
again from the task of publishing the data, or (more likely) some selected
sections of it. In the field of publishing, there may be some confl icts of
interest between the recording expert (looking for details of scientific
interest) and the home community (looking for materials that can be
used directly to convey knowledge of the language or its culture within
the community).
Traditionally (e.g. in the “Americanist” tradition of linguistic fieldwork
of the first lalf of the twentieth century), language documentation was
expected to aim at producing the “Holy Trinity” of grammar, (bilingual)
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dictionary, and corpus of texts. These are still necessary, the first two
because they tackle the fundamental problem of size in language: how to
represent the essence of the potentially infinite range of a language in a
finite space? The answer (first understood in its generality by the Spanish
missionaries tasked to learn and teach the languages of Mexico in the
early sixteenth century) is to provide a set of grammatical rules, and a
list of words with translations into a more familiar language. A corpus of
(written or dictated) texts is now seen as just one part of a variety of spontaneous and prepared linguistic performances, which can be provided
with simultaneous transcription, analysis, and translation. In this way, a
far wider range of types of use of the language can be captured.
There is now an extended set of guidelines for “best practice” in
attempting to provide documentation of a language. Given the inevitable idiosyncrasy of individual languages, which may call for variety in
representation, the guidelines are most explicit for the archiving format,
which should enable third-party outsiders to find their way to, and then
around, the data. In the last decade, a variety of funding sources have
become available for language documentation.7
18.4.4
Language revitalization
Revitalization means bringing a language back to renewed life. Some dismiss it outright, claiming that the life and death of languages is a matter
of social forces beyond conscious human control, or else reject it on ethical grounds, claiming that it is wrong to attempt social engineering to
change the clear, if implicit, social choice of individuals who abandon a
language – either as potential teachers or learners.
However, outright dismissal is hard to sustain after some prominent
successes: notably, the resurrection in the twentieth century of spoken
Hebrew across the whole spectrum of a society in Israel, and the recent
changing trends in speaker numbers after active policies have been
adopted in countries such as Wales for Welsh, New Zealand for Māori, or
Hawai’i for Hawaiian.
Any ethical case against revitalization is complicated by the fact that
languages are sustained, if at all, by communities not individuals, so
group rights and preferences, always susceptible to dispute, may need to
be weighed against individual rights and preferences. Even on the individual level, there are precautionary reasons for a bias in favor of retention (and hence attempts at revitalization): although one generation – or
age group – may choose to abandon a language, this will naturally deny
access to the language to a later generation – or even the same people,
later in their lives – who may wish to sustain the language but find it
is now much harder, or impossible, to do so. This tends to bias in favor
of sustaining support for a language, in the interests of those who may
later adopt it. By contrast, any individual is free to abandon the language
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at any time after attending (compulsory) education in it, losing only the
time that they have invested in learning it.
The crucial aim of revitalization is to act positively on the process of
transmission of a language from one generation to the next. This is done
most directly through the institution of “language nests,” where speakers of the language are given a special role in the care of the young. Since
this usually takes place when the language is already failing in transmission, the speakers are likely to be much older than the parents of the
children. Effectively, there is a “missing generation,” the young adults,
who miss out on the language. However, this is only one means of revitalizing a language, if a highly effective one. More orthodox language
teaching – based probably on the results of prior language documentation – can be offered to any age group. Like all adult language education,
its effectiveness will be highly dependent on the motivation of the learners to acquire and maintain use of the language.
This, however, is all about cohabitation as a means of language shift
or retention. Fully effective transmission will not be assured until this
re-grown ability in the language is taken up and “recruited” into active
adult use in communities. For this to happen, all, or at least some substantial, domains of use for the language in adult life will have to be created or reinstated. There will have to be use of the language in the worlds
of modern, as well as traditional, work, the media (at least radio, the
press, and the Internet), literature, sport and leisure activities. Putting
new life into your language effectively means making sure that the language is used throughout your new life. Revitalization, in practice,
always requires supplementing the traditional uses of the language,
not just reinstating them or re-emphasizing them. This is why purism alone – although a very common reaction among remaining fluent
speakers – is an inadequate response, and a damaging one if it discourages learners who are at an early stage: language survival will require
fi nding new places for use of the language in what is everywhere a
changing world.
Everywhere, cohabitation for language acquisition, followed by recruitment for effective language retention, will be essential if revitalization
is to be successful. Other specifics can be defined only in the context of
individual language situations.8 However, there are other general observations possible about the context in which revitalization policies can be
developed.
Since 1995, a number of charities or non-governmental organizations
have been established that aim at the protection and revitalization of
endangered languages.9 These have promoted a new view of the situation by analogy with global concerns about wildlife endangerment. It is
notable that the global density of languages, highest in the Tropics, and
falling off in temperate zones, is broadly similar in pattern to the density of plant and animal species (Nettle 1999: 60–63). The organization
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Terralingua (www.terralingua.org) is dedicated to explaining this coincidence as a direct causal nexus: “unity in bio-cultural diversity” as they
call it.
At a level higher than the individual nation-state, there has been one
initiative to set a standard for governments’ policies toward the support
of potentially endangered languages with their domains. The Council of
Europe adopted in 1992 a European Charter on Minority and Regional
Languages, which enables and encourages states each to commit to a
specific level of support for their indigenous languages. The Charter is
flexible, in that it allows for different levels and modes of support to
different languages, taking account of their histories and current status. But of the two levels of protection it recognizes, all must apply the
lower level to qualifying languages; signatories may further declare that
some languages will benefit from the higher level of protection. If so,
states must agree to undertake at least thirty-five from a specified range
of actions. So far (by June 2008), twenty-one of the forty-seven member
states of the Council have ratified the Charter.10
Language maintenance, and – where desired – revitalization has also
become a concern of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and
Cultural Organization (UNESCO). It first set 1993 as the year to save
endangered languages and an International Symposium on Endangered
Languages was held in November 1995 in Tokyo, Japan. An International
Clearing House for Endangered Languages (ICHEL) was then established,
intended as a library of endangered language knowledge (hence primarily a service to documentation), likewise in Tokyo. As from 2000 UNESCO
has given international status to 21 February as Mother Language Day.11
The Convention for Safeguarding Intangible Cultural Heritage, passed
in 2003, explicitly recognizes “oral traditions and expressions, including
language as a vehicle of the intangible cultural heritage” and has a focus
on endangered languages. The year 2008 was designated International
Year of Languages, with its emphasis “to promote and protect all languages, particularly endangered languages, in all individual and collective
contexts.”
18.5
Conclusion: prospects for linguistic diversity
As noted above in section 18.4.1, the number of languages currently surviving in the world (between six and seven thousand) is of the same order
of magnitude as that estimated for the number spoken just before the
Neolithic farming revolution. It would seem, therefore, that there has
been some gross constancy in the number of languages in the world over
the past 10,000 years, with fission of languages among the larger populations to some extent compensating – by numbers at least – for all the
small hunter-gather languages lost as the farmers spread out.
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The evidence for an impending mass extinction of the world’s languages comes not from longitudinal statistics defining language population trends (there are no such statistics), but from the population
distribution of languages. The prediction that 50 percent or more of the
world’s languages will be lost in the present century12 is based only on
the fact that the median population of languages now is little more than
5,000, and that this number of speakers seems an insufficient basis for
a language to continue in a steady state in the present socially churning
conditions that prevail in the world. This is given credibility by the common observation of age structure in small language communities, with
younger generations not acquiring the language, and so almost setting a
timetable for its impending death.
Consider, for example, using the most recent SIL population figures
(Gordon 2005: 15), the median number of speakers for languages in some
major continental blocs:
Europe
Africa
Asia
Americas
Pacific
220,000
25,391
10,171
2,000
800
From this it is clear that the languages with these low numbers of speakers are predominantly found in Australia, the Pacific, North America,
and South America. (But there are a fair number of such languages: 1,002
in the Americas, 1,310 in the Pacific, together accounting for 33.5 percent
of the world total.) These are often spoken by communities whose traditional way of life has been disrupted by European colonists and business
interests over the past few centuries. There is therefore a consistency of
quantitative and qualitative predictors, even if one must make allowance
for the fact that traditional hunter-gatherer communities have always
been very small.
This long tale of very small language communities is ominous for
the overall total of languages likely to survive the twenty-first century.
Nevertheless, conscious enthusiasm for cultural identities associated
with traditional languages has never been higher, and this is a worldwide
trend. It is too early to write off world language diversity as a vanishing
phenomenon.
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19
Colonization, globalization,
and the sociolinguistics
of World Englishes
Edgar W. Schneider
19.1
Introduction
Globalization, and especially the globalization of the English language,
has opened new dimensions to sociolinguistics as a discipline as well, and
we can safely predict that this is a connection which will be strengthened even more in the years to come. English is spoken and used in a
host of new countries and social contexts these days, by people with a
variety of ethnic origins and linguistic histories, in forms which are
shaped not only by regional and dialectal diversification but also by complex processes of language contact and also dialect contact, new social
environments and discourse contexts – and so on. Black South African
soccer-playing youth, Nigerian market women, Singaporean taxi drivers,
Indian tourist guides, Japanese hip-hoppers, Hong Kong businessmen,
and Philippine call center agents use it or struggle with it, for different
reasons, in wildly different forms, in all shapes and sizes, as it were.
English is a native tongue, a symbol of local identities, a medium of
instruction, a cultural icon of westernization or success, a goal which
entails the promise of a better life.
All of this operates in specific social contexts, obviously, and should be
a sociolinguist’s concern. Uses of English occur in all kinds of sociolinguistic settings. In many cases the language has been imported by immigration or conquests, and these events have resulted in complex forms of
language contact, sometimes language shift. The uses of English in these
new contexts reflect power relationships and status differences and their
symbolic representations. They embody the strife for overt prestige in
many countries but also reflect covert prestige in indigenized forms,
frequently opposed by social gate-keepers, and so on. Many contexts,
forms, and uses of English in what Kachru has called “Outer Circle” and
“Expanding Circle” countries (see below) are changing rapidly, and sociolinguistics has not always lived up to that challenge. Multilingualism,
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EDGAR SCHNEIDER
language policy, and language pedagogy involving English have of
course been prominent topics of a “language-in-society” approach, with
a macro-sociolinguistic, political, and discursive orientation. In contrast,
micro-sociolinguistic descriptive studies, applications of a post-Labovian
“language variation and change” approach to “World Englishes,” are still
rare – although I am convinced that in many contexts such an approach
would be extremely fruitful and promising.
An explicit awareness of the global spread of English as a discipline or
field within linguistics dates back to the early 1980s, with the appearance
of the first handbooks on the subject (Bailey & Görlach 1982; Kachru 1982;
Platt, Weber & Ho 1984) and the foundation of two scholarly journals
devoted to the subject, English World-Wide (Benjamins 1980ff.) and World
Englishes (Blackwell 1982ff.). Terminology is still variable – we find descriptive labels such as “English World-Wide,” “English as a World Language,”
“Varieties of English around the World,” but also (then) new, pluralized coinages like “New Englishes,” “World Englishes,” “Extraterritorial
Englishes,” or “Indigenized Varieties of English,” down to the more recent
terms “Global Englishes” or “Postcolonial Englishes.” The choice of any of
these labels may have ramifications for which varieties are included and
what precisely is entailed. For instance, Platt’s term New Englishes zooms
in on second language varieties in Asia or Africa and excludes first language varieties as spoken in, for instance, Australia and New Zealand,
while Postcolonial Englishes as used by Schneider (2007a) explicitly covers
all of these, even including American English which traditionally scholarship has regarded as one of the “old” and established “reference” varieties. World Englishes was originally Kachru’s term and has mostly been
associated with his school and agenda, which basically includes all forms
of English spoken anywhere but emphasizes the special importance and
independence of “Outer Circle” varieties (see below). This seems to be
emerging as the most widely accepted and used generic term, no longer
necessarily associated with a particular scholarly orientation.
In the next sections, I will first outline the historical background of
these processes and their sociolinguistic settings, and I will then survey the theoretical models which have been proposed to account for the
occurrence of these varieties. Section 19.4 will then address a range of
topics and approaches that play a role in the sociolinguistics of World
Englishes.
19.2
Sociohistorical background: the spread and
roles of global English
19.2.1 The British Empire and its linguistic legacy
At the dawn of the modern age, European powers discovered sea routes
to Asia and the “New World,” and these discoveries started centuries of
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exploitation and colonization. The British entered this race for expansion, power, and profits rather late, trailing the Portuguese, Spanish,
Dutch, and French, but in the long run they were the most persistent
and victorious and built an empire which in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries spanned the entire globe.
British colonial expansion started during the so-called Elizabethan
Age. Except for a claim to Newfoundland and a failed settlement attempt
on Roanoke Island in North America, it all began in the seventeenth century, originally with trade as the most immediate goal, when in 1600
the East India Company was granted a charter for Far Eastern trade.
Settlement and exploitation followed soon, first in North America
(with well-known landmark dates being the foundation of Jamestown,
Virginia, in 1607 and the Pilgrim Father’s landfall in Massachusetts in
1620), then in the Caribbean (most notably, 1627 Barbados, 1655 Jamaica).
The seventeenth century saw continued settlement in North America
and expansion in the Caribbean, a growing economic involvement in
India, and the establishment of the earliest trading posts along the West
African coast. In the second half of the eighteenth century, British attention was redirected by Cook’s explorations in the Pacific, the competition with the Dutch in Asia, and of course also the loss of the American
colonies after Independence. The late eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries saw a rather quick series of events that practically built the
core of the empire: growing authority in India, the “jewel” of the empire,
after the Battle of Plassey in 1757; expansion to Malaysia, beginning with
Penang in 1786; the “First Fleet” of convicts to Botany Bay in 1788, introducing the settlement of Australia; occupation of the Cape Province and
the first settlement wave in South Africa (1806, 1820ff.); the foundation
of Singapore in 1819; the treaty of Waitangi of 1840 which stabilized
and greatly expanded the influx of British people to New Zealand; and
the Opium Wars of the 1840s, which led to authority over Hong Kong.
Later on, British expansion and involvement in all these regions, and
in most cases also the geographical range of possessions, kept growing,
and finally the empire also breached out into Africa, with colonies established, for instance in Lagos in 1861, in Uganda in 1893, in Kenya (after
a substantial influx of English settlers) in 1920, and so on. The United
States of America assumed the role of a colonial power in the Philippines,
which were ceded to the Usa after the Spanish-American War of 1898.
The empire was not to stay, however. After the United States, the earliest colonies to gain first a dominion status and later full independence
were Canada and, early in the twentieth century, Australia. On a broader
scale, the turning point was World War II, however, with all kinds of
disruptions loosening the affiliation of many colonies with Britain.
India’s independence, gained in 1947 after Gandhi’s non-violent persistence, became a model for many others, and in the course of the following decades most of the British colonies were ultimately released into
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independence, though many have retained special symbolic, political,
and economic relations through the nominal role of the Queen as the
sovereign and through membership in the Commonwealth of Nations.
Young nations tend to value their sovereignty and its symbols very
highly, and one of the most important ingredients of a national identity is a national language. Consequently, it was natural to expect that
the post-colonial countries of the former empire would do away with
English as a reminder of former external dominance and a tool of foreign
cultural oppression as soon as possible. India pursued such a goal, for
instance, but failed to succeed, for internal reasons. Only three countries
have explicitly adopted such a course: Tanzania, Malaysia, and (though
directed less explicitly against English) the Philippines, where indigenous languages were deliberately developed to fill the role of national
languages. All were moderately successful in that respect, but even in
these countries English has not disappeared and has in fact remained
important or even become stronger again in the very recent past. In practically all other former colonies, however, contrary to expectations the
English language has been retained in one way or another, typically as
a national language with some sort of a special status, politically or just
pragmatically. Essentially, two reasons account for this development.
One is that English is ethnically neutral – a substantial advantage in
multilingual countries (not infrequently amalgamated as such by faraway European politicians drawing boundaries artificially and ignorant
of ethnic settlement patterns) in which giving preference to any ethnic group or their language would jeopardize national unity. (In fact,
resistance to the privileged treatment of Hindi in the national language
policy of the 1960s, known as the “three-language formula,” was what
helped stabilize English in India quite strongly.) Take Nigeria as a case
in point: There are three strong indigenous groups, each with their own
language, there –Yoruba, Ewe, and Hausa. In theory, the constitution
projects the development of these into national languages; in practice,
however, each group jealously guards the others and would not allow
any superiority attributed to them, so quite simply English remains
the language of choice (and for most Nigerians this also means English
Pidgin, popularly regarded as a form of English). The second reason is
quite simply that English counts as economically useful, the gateway to
good jobs and incomes for individuals and to the global economy for a
nation. Its attraction is accordingly immense, both in post-colonial countries like Kenya or South Africa and outside of this historical context, as
in Japan or China.
Even more interestingly, however, in many countries English has
grown substantially beyond this role of a national symbol or a useful
tool toward prosperity – it has simply been adopted by many indigenous
speakers and appropriated to their own social needs. New and distinctive
dialects of English have emerged in situations of language contact and
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language shift, and not infrequently these varieties have become carriers of local identities, expressions of peoples’ hearts – much more, in
terms of social functions, than a “foreign” tongue can usually be. Some
of these “New Englishes” are now spoken natively, as first languages, in
Asia, Africa, and elsewhere, by growing numbers of speakers, primarily
in urban contexts. And practically everywhere a continuum of choices,
alternative linguistic variants, is manipulated skillfully to symbolize
individual or situational positions on the clines between power and solidarity, social distance and proximity, and global and local orientations.
This is where sociolinguistic analyses and explanations should jump in
most fruitfully.
19.2.2
Social models of colonization
The most important determinants of sociolinguistic variation in any given
country were the social relations and communicative settings between
the participants. Typically, English-speaking traders, missionaries, soldiers, or settlers moved into a new territory and encountered an indigenous population there. What happened then depended upon the social and
demographic relationships between these parties, with issues of unequal
power distribution, different interests in and goals of communication,
varying social and linguistic attitudes, and unequal degrees of access to
varying forms of English playing a role. Much of this, in turn, depended
upon the motifs for colonization in the first place, which also varied from
one place to another. It is useful, therefore, to have a look at two linguistically inspired models of colonization types and their outcomes.
Mufwene’s (2001: 8–9, 204–209) framework focuses upon the historical
contexts of and goals of colonization. He distinguishes three colonization styles (to which I prefer to add a fourth type), somewhat fuzzily and
without extended exemplification:
●
●
●
Trade colonies, he says, were established around trading forts and routes,
served the purpose of exchanging goods, and were thus characterized
by rather limited and sporadic linguistic contacts which in some cases
led to pidginization. Some of them later developed into
exploitation colonies, where agents of the “mother country,” many of
whom were speakers of non-standard dialects, established segregated
lifestyles and stratified power structures but granted access to some
English to local elites and leaders, predominantly in scholastic contexts but ultimately with practical goals in mind. Many of these countries constitute today’s “Outer Circle” (see below), with the adoption
and appropriation of English by locals having produced the original
source of the indigenized and nativized varieties found today.
In settlement colonies, larger numbers of immigrants typically produced
more permanent language contact with indigenous languages, but
this contact remained constrained by demographic disproportions,
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●
with European settlers soon constituting a majority and interacting
primarily among themselves.
In Mufwene’s typology plantation colonies, where immigrant laborers,
as slaves or indentured servants, carried out manual agricultural
work and frequently developed creoles, are considered a subtype of
settlement colonies, as the early phases frequently saw roughly equal
numbers of and quite intimate contacts between English-speaking
settlers and indigenous farm hands, only later to be followed by large
and segregated plantations.
In contrast, the taxonomy proposed by Gupta (1997) basically looks at the
outcome of these colonization processes, classifying today’s nation-states
by the forms, functions, and discourse settings of English found there.
Grounded upon a well-reasoned set of definitions and considerations on
how English spread, she distinguishes the following:
●
●
●
●
●
monolingual ancestral English countries like the UK, the USA, or Australia,
produced by normal transmission of English, frequently in the form
of non-standard varieties, as native language across generations and
by the adoption of the language by other immigrants and most of the
indigenous population;
monolingual contact variety countries like Jamaica, with a continuum
of varieties, often including creoles, spoken by descendants of forced
migrant workers who adopted it informally in a process of language
shift;
multilingual scholastic English countries like India, in which English, typically as a second language, spread through scholastic transmission
and has tended to have an elitist character (in addition to growing
intra-community uses);
multilingual contact variety countries, like Singapore or Nigeria, basically a mixture between the two previous types, with English, with
the concept including indigenized contact forms of it, coexisting with
indigenous languages, typically enjoying some sort of official status,
and having been introduced and being supported by scholastic and
prestigious uses; and
multilingual ancestral English countries like South Africa and Canada,
where English, spoken natively by substantial cohorts of descendants
of settlers, shares the role as an official language with other languages
which are also spoken as first languages by large groups of the population and in formal contexts.
To put it pointedly, Britain’s behavior in colonization can be positioned
somewhere between the Spaniard’s primary interest in exploitation
(combined with a missionary zeal) and the French attitude which tended
not to shy away from intensive contacts with indigenous peoples and
from disseminating the French language. The British were interested in
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their country’s (and their own) profits and advantages, and they realized that this was achieved best by dealing with and involving the local
populations – to a certain degree. However, they were not interested in
Anglicizing their colonies linguistically or culturally. Representatives of
British authority tended to insist on their superiority and to maintain
a certain social distance toward even the upper echelons of indigenous
societies, so contacts were not discouraged but usually remained somewhat distanced. Of course, it was useful and even necessary to recruit
locals for all kinds of intermediary roles and service functions, but the
idea basically was to have a stratum of indigenous functionaries, including society leaders, sandwiched between the British and, in the words of
Macaulay’s famous 1835 “Minute” proposing a strategy for education in
India, “the millions whom we govern” (see Schneider 2007a: 164). This
attitude found its most explicit political expression in Lord Lugard’s
“indirect rule” policy of making indigenous power structures serve the
British interests, developed in Nigeria early in the twentieth century. And
in many places it was institutionalized in the form of British-run elitist
schools offering privileged access to Western culture and the English
language to the sons (and only later also daughters) of indigenous rulers,
exemplified by the Malay College of Kuala Kangsar in Malaysia, still an
extremely prestigious school there. What is interesting in the present
context, however, is that for a long time this entailed not the spread
of English as the empire’s strategy but rather the contrary, a tendency
to deliberately withhold knowledge of English from large proportions
of indigenous populations (Brutt-Griffler 2002). It was only after World
War II, when the prospect of independence became inescapable in most
colonies, that in quite a radical change of policy the British decided to
introduce and later leave behind as much English as was possible in a
short period of time, to secure long-term bonds beyond the release of the
former colonies.
19.2.3 English in globalization
Clearly, the attractiveness of English in many cultures derives from its
identification as a linguistic gateway to economic prosperity, that is,
attractive jobs and business opportunities, and this qualification, in turn,
results from the fact that, practically speaking, English is the language
of globalization and, in some countries, westernization. Crystal (2003)
has described this attractiveness of global English most vividly. English
is the language of international business and commerce, of international
relations and politics, of the media, of travel and tourism, and it has been
adopting the global role of a lingua franca of cross-cultural communication. This pull toward the language has made it the global language
of education as well – both the primary foreign language taught in secondary and tertiary education almost everywhere and the medium of
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instruction in a surprisingly large (and growing) number of countries
and contexts. An additional factor that has boosted this development
for the last decade is the globalization of communication channels, that
is, the Internet and e-mail (Crystal 2006), which are also strongly dominated by English whenever cross-national encounters are involved.
Obviously, this pull toward international English is strongest in formal
and official contexts, and in most societies it correlates with urbanity,
advanced education, an international outlook that tends to go together
with higher social strata, and probably also with age, with younger echelons being more strongly exposed to and drawn into such a global orientation mirrored by Anglicization and westernization. But it is not at all
restricted to these domains – quite to the contrary, it tends to filter down
the sociostylistic and regional clines to ultimately reach and affect also
those who at the outset would seem to be quite distant from affluent and
glittering centers of the global attraction of English. To quote just a few
examples: Vaish (2008) illustrates the demand for the linguistic capital
of English among the urban disadvantaged of New Delhi, India; HarlechJones, Sajid, and ur-Rahman (2003) show how English diffuses even into
remote corners of the mountainous northeast of Pakistan; and Udofot
(2007) documents that English is spreading into rural Nigeria and is
increasingly adopted as a first language in that country (pp. 36–37). Such
a grass-roots spread of English is typical of countries of the former British
Empire, in which the language enjoys some sort of official internal functions. Interestingly enough, however, by today and usually many decades
after independence it has diffused widely beyond these formal contexts,
down the social scale; it has been adopted, appropriated, and nativized;
and in many such countries new indigenous varieties (and there is no
reason not to simply call them “local dialects”) have been emerging. Rich
documentation of many case studies from all around the globe (as well as
detailed evidence supporting many other claims made in this paper) can
be found in Schneider (2007a).
Thus, the globalization of English is characterized primarily by this
tension (and continuum) between its international and its local functions,
between “centrifugal” and “centripetal” forces (Crystal 2004), between
globalization and localization. At the top end, there is a discussion on
whether an “English as an International Language,” a relatively natural
lingua franca form devoid of localisms and possibly also cut loose from
native speaker norms, is or should be emerging (Jenkins 2000; Peters
2003). At the bottom end, we can observe indigenized local varieties
which are frequently explicit carriers of local identities and also means
of expressing peoples’ hearts and emotions, not infrequently against
the resistance of linguistic gate-keepers and authorities (a well-known
case in point is the debate on “Singlish” in Singapore; see, e.g., Alsagoff
2007). The discourse is frequently also framed by focusing either on the
international “intelligibility” of English (and its usefulness for business
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communication, e.g. Gill 2002aL) or on its function of expressing a local
identity (e.g. Hyland 1997; Joseph 2004). Certainly this correlates with
a continuum from formal to informal contexts and, most importantly,
from writing to speech as media of expression: written forms tend to be
neutral and “international,” while spoken realizations manipulate local
forms and orientations. But this is a cline, and not a dichotomy; increasingly intermediate forms that stand between both poles and reflect both
orientations can be observed, often associated with the new technological
media (Crystal 2006) Illustrative cases in point are studies by Hinrichs
(2006) on Jamaican e-mail communication and Deumert and Masinyana
(2008) on language use in South African (Xhosa) SMS text messages.
19.2.4 Sociolinguistic settings, issues, and approaches
As the above survey has indicated, today’s global English comes in a wide
range of different countries and settings, forms and functions, oscillating between the poles of formal and informal discourse, written and oral
communication, international and local contacts, and as an expression
of distance or social proximity. Obviously, this situation offers a huge
potential for sociolinguistic explorations and issues. Broadly speaking, of
course everything discussed so far, the essence of the topic itself, is genuinely sociolinguistic in nature, having to do with language uses and the
functions of specific language forms in speech communities. Still, so far
investigations of these topics have exploited only a fraction of its potential, given that they have been primarily macro-sociolinguistic and only
weakly micro-sociolinguistic in orientation. Characteristic topics of discussions in the field have encompassed language-in-society issues like language policy, symbolic reflections of power, and, very strongly, language
pedagogy. Descriptive work has tended to be secondary to these wider
topics. Of course, there have been analyses and descriptions of specific
features in the lexis, pronunciation, and grammar of “New Englishes”
with the Handbook of Varieties of English (Schneider et al. 2004a, 2000b offering the most comprehensive survey available. The emphasis has been on
documenting and categorizing existing phenomena from a descriptive
or broadly typological angle, however, rather than on their social conditions of usage or on frequencies of occurrence. Except for “monolingual
ancestral English countries” like New Zealand, very little work has been
done in a quantitative or variationist framework – with a few exceptions,
of course, such as Tent’s (2001) study of /j-/ deletion in Fiji English. The
theoretical potential offered by investigations of Postcolonial Englishes is
illustrated by recent discussions on the supposedly deterministic nature
of new-dialect formation (Trudgill 2004, developed from New Zealand
English data) or on the role of identity in the emergence of such new varieties (Schneider 2008; Trudgill 2008, and other contributions in the same
journal issue). Of course, even the fundamental question of whether or
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to what extent sociolinguistic models and approaches developed on the
basis of Western, industrialized societies are applicable to “Third World”
cultural contexts needs some reconsideration (see Ngefac 2008, based on
data from Cameroonian English).
One of the most interesting developments in this context is the fact
that a growing number of speakers acquire English (and that means local
forms of English) natively, as their first and sometimes only language,
in countries of Africa and Asia. In Africa, this phenomenon tends to be
associated with urban contexts, inter-ethnic marriages and the choice of
English as a family language, and of course upwardly oriented social aspirations and also a relatively higher educational background (though even
that is not necessarily so if, in West Africa, Pidgin English is accepted as a
variety of English, in line with local customs). In Asia, the most interesting
and most highly Anglicized country is definitely Singapore, with roughly
a third of all children already growing up with English as their first language, according to recent census data. Thus, while New Englishes are
traditionally conceived of and sometimes defined as “second languages”
(see the significant title The Other Tongue of Kachru’s 1982 volume, a classic
in the field), increasingly they are (also) first languages – a fact which raises
important questions for both sociolinguistic settings and parameters and
fundamental notions like competence and nativeness: In which ways do
the language knowledge and linguistic behavior of these speakers differ
from patterns studied in, say, the UK or the USA? This ties in with theories
of language acquisition, language contact, and language shift on both an
individual and a community basis, and thus opens an enormous potential
for linguistic theory in general and sociolinguistics in particular which
so far has largely been left unexploited. A recent study which moves along
this path and illustrates this potential is Hoffmann (2011), a highly sophisticated and in-depth investigation of the structural and sociolinguistic
conditions and constraints which govern a single structure (preposition
stranding vs. pied piping) in British English vs. Kenyan English (building
upon analyses of both electronic text corpora and intuition-based tasks).
The author finds that, couched in a Construction Grammar framework,
in addition to far-reaching similarities there are also slight differences in
the cognitive entrenchment of certain linguistic patterns and the range
of constructions available to both speech communities. In my view, this
represents a huge step forward in our understanding of the nature of
linguistic differences from one variety to another.
19.3 Modeling globalization: typologies of the spread
Several models have been proposed to categorize and account for the
range of phenomena and linguistic ecologies found in the study of World
Englishes.
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The most conventional classification is the one into countries where
English is a native language (ENL), a second language (ESL), and a foreign language (EFL). In ENL countries like the USA or Australia, English
is the mother tongue of the majority of the population and practically
the national language, except for minorities. In ESL countries, typically former parts of the British Empire, English fulfills important intranational functions as an official or semi-official language, that is, it is the
main language of administration, business, jurisdiction, the media, and
education, even if it tends to be a second language for the majority of the
population who speak indigenous and ethnic mother tongues. In addition to historical reasons, the special status of English in these cases (in
countries like India, Cameroon, or Kenya) is usually motivated by its ethnic neutrality, its international appeal and, concomitantly, its function
as a status indicator. In EFL countries such as Japan or Sweden, English is
no more than a foreign language and is used naturally almost only in its
international functions, though the pull toward it can be felt by growing
learner numbers, lexical loans, its strong status as an important subject
in the educational system, occasional internal uses in international businesses and tertiary education, and similar indicators.
Braj Kachru’s “Three Circles” model essentially distinguishes essentially the same three types of countries and roles of English, labeled the
“Inner Circle,” the “Outer Circle,” and the “Expanding Circle,” respectively, largely with the same countries as in the previous categorization
as examples. The difference is basically one of ideology and the overall scholarly framework. Kachru’s school rejects the implied primacy
of the native varieties and emphasizes the globally important role and
the independent status (and norm-building function and “ownership”;
see Widdowson 1994) of the Outer Circle countries, in addition to an
emphasis on political and pedagogical implications of this attitude, on
the importance of literary creativity and cultural indigenization in the
Outer Circle, and, among other things, the progressing “Englishization”
of Expanding Circle countries.
While these tripartite models are clearly illuminating and helpful,
they have remained rather superficial and fuzzy and they also camouflage some details and problems. For instance, the “multilingual ancestral English” countries by Gupta’s above classification simply defy easy
and convincing categorization within these frameworks (being both ENL
and ESL, as it were), so South Africa, for instance, is typically left out in
the sample listings of countries illustrating a certain type. Internal variability of English in many countries is simply disregarded, and there is
no room for minorities – for example, the Maoris do not figure in New
Zealand’s classification as an Inner Circle country. And the models are too
static to account for ongoing changes. For example: Is Singapore, with its
growing proportion of native speakers of English, on its way to becoming an Inner Circle country (difficult to conceive of within the ideology
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of the Three Circles model)? Is Malaysia, after decades of a nationalistic
language policy reducing the role of English, leaving the Outer Circle?
An alternative and radically different model, labeled the “Dynamic
Model” of the evolution of Postcolonial Englishes and building upon earlier cyclic conceptualizations, was proposed by Schneider (2003a, 2007a)
and has been widely adopted since then (e.g. by Mukherjee 2007 to India).
It suggests that the linguistic evolution of English in colonial and postcolonial contexts reflects the sociolinguistic interaction between the two
main parties involved in a colonization process, the immigrant settlers
and the erstwhile indigenous population, assuming that in the course
of time, with increasing distance of the settlers from the “mother country” before and after independence and decreasing segregation between
the two parties, the ensuing process of nation-building causes increasingly shared and innovative linguistic behavior, that is, the growth of
new national varieties and new dialects of English. Five stages are distinguished, labeled foundation, exonormative stabilization, nativization,
endonormative stabilization, and differentiation, respectively; on each
of these, constituent parameters from the domains of history and politics, identity constructions, sociolinguistic relations and settings, and
structural consequences are worked out; and between them a unilateral implication from the political causes to the linguistic consequences
is postulated. Individual speech communities and countries are then
viewed as having advanced to various degrees along this developmental
path. Of course, as with every model it is possible and necessary to discuss, adjust, and possibly challenge some details, but Schneider (2007a)
shows that an application of the model to a wide range of countries and
contexts from all continents, including a comprehensive and detailed
history of American English, works very well.
19.4 Globalizing sociolinguistics: potential for the future
What does the globalization of English mean for the discipline of sociolinguistics? There are a variety of perspectives, issues, and approaches
where the need for and the potential of a close connection between
both disciplines become evident and fruitful. Some of these have been
explored already; others, I trust, will keep growing in the near future.
19.4.1 The macro-sociolinguistic approach:
language planning, politics, and pedagogy
The most conventional of all perspectives, in terms of earlier writings
on the subject, is probably the macro-sociolinguistic one of looking at
the political role and status of English in any country and its ramifications. Almost all of the countries under discussion are multilingual, and
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many of them highly so, given that, as was mentioned above, national
boundaries were frequently drawn without considering ethnic settlement regions and relations, and today’s nation-states have maintained
these borders and newly created nationhoods. Typically, therefore, many
of these relatively young states have had to move through a phase of
nation-building, and of course language policy and language planning
have been essential steps in these processes. There are a few basic patterns of language policies, modified by individual, local decisions and
directions. Let us have a brief look at a few examples.
Nigeria may count as a classic case of a country in which English has
been adopted as an official language and grown substantially primarily for its ethnic neutrality. In neighboring Cameroon the situation is
similar but marked by the competition with another European postcolonial status language, French. In India, the “three-language policy”
of the 1960s promoted multilingualism in English, Hindi, and a regional
language, but it has largely failed due to the resistance of south Indian
regions to adopt Hindi (a process which would have been understood as
succumbing to northern, Hindi dominance) and the lack of interest of
Hindi speakers in learning a southern or Dravidian language. Singapore
illustrates the triumphal march of English best, also caused by a language
policy and pedagogy of the 1960s: the country promoted bilingualism
in both English and what was perceived as an “ethnic mother tongue.”
However, the standard Asian languages promoted by the education system were weakened by frequently being quite distant from the dialectal
varieties really spoken by the parental generation, leaving English as
the only bond for the entire nation. South Africa may be moving along a
similar path, even if unintendedly so, because its liberal policy of admitting eleven official languages is extremely difficult to turn into reality,
which leaves English as a communicative bond shared by a vast majority.
Interestingly enough, only three major countries around the globe have
decided to adopt a counter-English policy of developing an indigenous
tongue into an explicit national language, namely Malaysia, Tanzania,
and the Philippines, and in each of these today a similar pattern can be
observed. While the policy as such was basically successful and the new
national languages (Bahasa Malaysia, KiSwahili, and Filipino, respectively) have been firmly established, it has turned out to be impossible
to do away with the special status of English, which seems to have been
resurfacing in recent years.
As is evident from the above, institutionalizing a national language
policy typically works through decisions on language pedagogy: Which
language should be chosen as the medium of instruction in primary
or in secondary education? Can or should an indigenous (or tribal) language be employed for the initial stages of schooling (and if so, are there
any teaching materials and qualified teachers available)? When should
English be introduced and institutionalized as the subject or the medium
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of instruction? Which form of English should be the target of teaching,
i.e. to what extent can local habits of pronunciation, lexis or also grammar be considered acceptable in school contexts and examinations? And
so on. Obviously, given the striving for and interest in English in so many
nations among individuals, not infrequently impeded by insufficient
economic means in the education system and thus difficult teaching
conditions, these are questions which are close to many people’s hearts
in countries concerned, affecting their and their children’s life prospects. Not surprisingly, therefore, questions of language pedagogy, and
the effectiveness of alternative teaching methods in particular, tend to
be frequently debated topics in scholarly discussions of World Englishes,
and the same applies to normative issues. Cases in point, for instance,
are the hotly debated and wildly varying attitudes toward Pidgin English
in West Africa or Singlish in Singapore, with these varieties being widespread, deeply rooted, and highly popular among speakers but vehemently opposed to by teaching authorities and policymakers.
19.4.2 Language contact and dialect contact
The varieties in question have all originated from processes of language contact – mostly with indigenous tongues and characterized by
phonological, lexical, and also structural transfer, sometimes also in
contact between different input dialects of English, in the process commonly known as koinéization. Obviously, this can teach us a lot about
the impact and nature of language contact in general and can be compared and related to the genesis of pidgins and creoles, marked by even
stronger contact effects. Schneider (2007a: Ch. 4) offers a systematic
survey of the linguistic processes involved and their outcomes in many
countries, in the core developmental stage labeled “structural nativization.” For instance, it is argued and shown that many structural innovations emerge at the interface between lexis and grammar, with new
patterns (in verb complementation, prepositional usage, or word formation) originating first with a small number of semantically related words
and diffusing to other contexts from there. Also, Trudgill’s claims as to
the “determinacy” of dialect contact processes and the rejection of any
impact of identity formation have stimulated lively theoretical discussions in this context (see section 19.2.4).
19.4.3 Quantitative sociolinguistics: new potential
As was mentioned above, descriptive linguistic work in World Englishes
contexts so far has tended to be primarily of a qualitative, documentary
or illustrative nature, and at best contrastive and typological in orientation. With very few exceptions, however (like Tent’s work on Fiji English
referred to above), very little work has been done in a quantitative,
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micro-sociolinguistic or post-Labovian framework. This is unfortunate,
as the language situations in these countries are so vibrant and highly
variable, and in many cases also changing rapidly. I am convinced that
it would be highly profitable and insightful to apply and adopt this
paradigm in, say, West or East Africa, India, Singapore, or elsewhere in
Southeast Asia.
The dearth of such studies applies not only to Outer Circle countries,
where the orientation of indigenous linguists tends to be more toward
pedagogical and political issues, but also to ENL countries, and especially
to Australia. To my knowledge, earlier work by Horvath (e.g.1985) and
Kiesling (e.g. 2005) has found no successors, and currently there is practically no quantitative sociolinguistic work being carried out on the entire
continent, even if the language situation is highly stratified and subject
to change. In New Zealand, the situation is much better: the 1990s saw a
lively sociolinguistic scene (reflected, for instance, in Bell & Kuiper 2000);
the evolution of the variety has been documented and researched more
richly than in many other countries (cf. Gordon et al. 2004); some work
has been done on Maori English; and currently Allan Bell and collaborators are working on the linguistic assimilation of Pasifika peoples in
Auckland’s Manukau area (e.g. Starks 2008).
19.4.4
Investigating World Englishes on the
basis of electronic corpora: ICE
In the absence of accessible fieldwork-based data from many regions, and
inspired by the obvious importance of a comparative and typological perspective, an approach that has recently gained a lot of importance and
interest in the field of World Englishes is corpus linguistics, the investigation of language structure and variability on the basis of ready-made
electronic text collections. The benefits of the approach for language
variation studies are discussed authoritatively by Bauer (2002).
In particular, the International Corpus of English (ICE) project, stimulated by the late Sidney Greenbaum (see Greenbaum 1996) and now
directed by Gerald Nelson, has opened valuable research options for comparative research (see the project website at www.ucl.ac.uk/english-usage/
ice/). ICE consists of individual projects whose goal is to produce parallel
corpora of about 1 million words from about twenty different countries,
all composed following the same structural design of samples of different text types being compiled at predetermined proportions, including,
most importantly, 60 percent of spoken texts. The differences between
speech and writing and of course also between different text types and
kinds of speech events represented allow for the study of variability in a
framework which is strongly inspired by and closely related to quantitative sociolinguistic methodology. Partly because of its fragmentation into
so many different partial projects and partly because of infrastructural
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and cultural differences in the array of global locations involved, the project has had a somewhat checkered history, but by now more than half
a dozen regional corpora have been published (from places as diverse as
New Zealand, the Philippines, Hong Kong, Singapore, East Africa, and
Great Britain), with many others being still in the making. An illustrative range of exemplary studies can be found in a special issue (23/2) of
the journal World Englishes in 2004, for example Schneider (2004) on
particle verbs or Sand (2004) on article usage in a range of varieties.
19.4.5 Cultural globalization
Globalization involves not only political and economic processes with
English as one of its main vehicles but also a transnational flow of ideas
and cultural forms and practices, causing adjustment and appropriation
processes of cultural manifestations of all forms in a great many different countries and contexts. Certainly this was originally a largely monodirectional process, with westernization being mediated through and
frequently associated with the English language, but the hybrid forms
and products resulting from these intercultural encounters have now
surged back to the Western world, and have not only been frequently
highly successful on a global scale themselves but also influenced cultural production and reception in Inner Circle countries. The Kachruvian
school has always paid considerable attention to the literary creativity in
New Englishes, symbolized by such eminent figures and new cultural
icons like Nigeria’s Chinua Achebe or India’s Salman Rushdie; in general,
alongside a growing interest in “New Englishes” in linguistics, for the
last few decades literary scholarship has opened up the new subject of
New Literatures in English (see Ashcroft, Griffiths & Tiffin 2002). Other
manifestations of the same social process of cultural globalization, on
a lower social scale, are the “Bollywood” movies and shows which have
been spreading increasingly in the Western world, or highly popular culturally hybrid characters in movies or TV shows, like Ali G (see Schneider
2007b for a discussion and analysis of his conscious language manipulation, which projects stereotypical images of both Cockney and Jamaican
composites to create a streetwise urban character). A fascinating recent
study of the same process of cultural globalization, which also shows
that “English” and the culture transmitted through it mean anything but
standard English and whatever may be associated with it, is Pennycook
(2007). The author investigates the appropriations and manifestations of
hip-hop and rap (and associated forms of English) from Malaysia to Japan,
emphasizing issues like cultural transgression, performativity, and the
importance of vernacularity and authenticity. To my mind, this ties in
strongly with the covert prestige that local forms of English enjoy in
many countries. Interestingly enough, it is African-American English, a
dialect viewed with suspicion and discussed controversially “at home,” in
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the USA, that attracts young people all around the globe and motivates
them to adopt, copy, and appropriate it. Thus, while it is generally argued
that on the standard level, to the business person with international
aspirations, American English is the variety which today is becoming
increasingly influential, in the non-standard domain, with young people
and in everyday contexts, it is the dialect spoken and the culture practiced by black Americans that trail the standard models and that, as it
were, supplement the global expansion of American businesses, consumer brands, and media products.
19.4.6 Loss and creativity
Of course, globalization and the remnants of colonization are also highly
political questions. Missionaries, even if driven by good intentions, have
condemned, modified, and sometimes eradicated indigenous customs
and cultures; international companies have pressed into and altered
local markets and economies, not infrequently exploiting local resources
and cheap labor forces; and in much the same way, the English language
has moved into indigenous language ecologies and transformed them for
good. In many cases and contexts, processes of language shift, in some
cases leading to the point of language death, have occurred or can still be
observed. For example, Schäfer and Egbokhare (1999) document initial
stages of how a southern Nigerian tribe, the Emai, are gradually giving
up their ancestral language: While in that region a multilingual competence characterizes the adult generation, teenagers display a noticeable process of vernacular abandonment, preferring English in many
contexts, notably in peer interaction. The authors argue that the role
of English in propelling language endangerment in this area has been
underestimated. The outcome of such processes, ancestral language loss,
can be observed, for instance, with many native American or Australian
Aboriginal tribes. Again, of course, despite a similar developmental
line globally conditions vary greatly from one context to another. For
instance, Maori in New Zealand has fared much better, being recognized
now as a co-official tongue and an element of the nation’s cultural heritage, even if actual speaker numbers are in effect rather low.
Therefore, one of the catchphrases not infrequently encountered in
the discipline is that of English being a “killer language” (see Kachru
2005: Ch. 9). This is representative of what Melchers and Shaw (2003: 30)
have called the “radical ideological stance,” represented, for instance, by
Phillipson (1992) and accusing the English language of “linguistic genocide” or “linguicism.” Problematic and, to my mind, un-scientific as this
approach is, it has nevertheless been widely heard and repeated – understandably enough if this is motivated by a genuine concern for indigenous peoples and cultures and their fate. Whether such loaded and
fundamentalist discourse is helpful in overcoming the injustices in the
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world, whether left from colonialism or not, seems doubtful, however.
As Lucko (2003) points out, deploring language loss in such terms uses
a “languages are species” metaphor which obscures the fact that historical processes and political relations, not strictly linguistic phenomena,
are responsible here. Serious sociolinguistic investigations of language
attitudes in ESL and EFL countries, to the extent that they are available,
tend not to support radical positions. Instead, they usually show a differentiated picture which underlines the appeal of English but also values
bilingualism and biculturalism as well as an appreciation of indigenous languages – as exemplified by Magogwe (2007) on the relationship
between English, Setswana, and other indigenous tongues in Botswana
or by Schneider (2003b: 60–62) on students’ views on language relations
in multilingual Malaysia.
While the ongoing language death caused by globalization, and the
ensuing loss of cultural roots and traditions, is of course highly deplorable, interestingly enough it can be observed that the principle of expressing indigenous roots and identities by linguistic means need not be lost
on a parallel scale (although, admittedly, the new forms of expressions
are not on a par in terms of depth and spread with symbols before the
transformation). It is new forms of English, associated primarily with
words and sounds, that have taken over the function of serving as local
identity markers in quite a number of cases. For example, this applies
to the role of pidgins in West Africa, to the positive attitudes toward
Malaysian ways of speaking English, or to the affection with which many
Singaporeans have defended the use of “Singlish” in the public domain,
including the media, against the resistance of their own government;
sample quotations for these attitudes can be found in Schneider (2007a).
How deeply rooted and widespread and how effective for future language
developments these attitudes really are would be something for sociolinguists to investigate on location.
19.5 Conclusion
This chapter has shown, as I hope, how vibrant a field the study of the
social embedding of World Englishes is and how much growing potential it offers for sociolinguistics; correspondingly, I have attempted to
identify a few issues that need to be investigated and understood more
fundamentally and thus to suggest some new avenues of future research.
In general, much more is known about the uses of English in these countries than was the case a few decades ago, but at the same time the object
of investigation has been exploding, with English moving so strongly
into new contexts and adopting new indigenized forms and functions
in so many different countries. As was shown above, we do have survey
documentations of the features and phenomena found in many varieties,
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but these tend to be mostly listings, illustrations and, at best, classifications of features without much information on their social meanings or
precise conditions of use. We lack thorough and more comprehensive
empirical documentations and especially quantitative investigations and
correlative studies of most of these varieties. For sociolinguists of World
Englishes, a world to win is waiting out there.
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Part V
Applied sociolinguistics
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20
Language planning and
language policy
James W. Tollefson
Although the uses of the terms language planning and language policy
vary widely, in general language planning refers to efforts to deliberately affect the status, structure, or acquisition of languages (Fishman
1974). Language planning is a subset of the general field of social planning that includes a wide range of public-policy concerns (e.g. housing,
employment, immigration, and taxation policies). Planning entails a
statement of goals as well as a program (plan) to achieve those goals.
Language policy refers to explicit or implicit language planning by official bodies, such as ministries of education, workplace managers, or
school administrators. Language policies may be viewed as guidelines
or rules for language structure, use, and acquisition, established and
implemented within nation-states or institutions such as schools and
workplaces. Such guidelines or rules may be explicitly specified in official documents (e.g. a constitution) or implicitly understood, without
a written statement. Although some scholars recognize advantages in
limiting language policy to governmental bodies (Jernudd 1993), most
researchers extend the term to both public institutions such as schools,
government offices, and courts, and to private institutions such as corporations, privately owned businesses, and non-governmental organizations (Tollefson 1991).
Although the field of language planning and language policy (LPLP) has
not developed a dominant theory, several models or approaches may be
distinguished. These approaches reflect important assumptions widely
held during different historical periods in the development of LPLP. In
this section, I distinguish three periods of LPLP research and practice: (a)
early LPLP from the 1960s through the 1970s; (b) a period of critique and
disillusionment with LPLP during the 1980s; and (c) revitalization of LPLP
from the early 1990s to the present. In the following summary of these
periods, I examine the major issues, assumptions, and methodologies of
each period.
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20.1 Early LPLP (1960s–1970s)
In a remarkable series of influential publications between 1966 and 1974,
Charles Ferguson, Joshua Fishman, Einar Haugen, Björn Jernudd, Joan
Rubin, Jyotirindra Das Gupta, and others laid the foundation for LPLP as
an academic discipline and a practical area of policymaking. The major
concerns of this small group of pioneers were the many social, economic,
and political problems of developing nations (see Fishman 1968b, 1971,
1974; Fishman, Ferguson & Das Gupta, 1968; Haugen 1966b; Das Gupta
1970; Rubin & Jernudd 1971). In a rapidly expanding series of case studies and conceptual/theoretical publications, these scholars argued that
language decisions were at the core of the social, political, and economic
challenges facing newly created states in South Asia, Southeast Asia, and
Africa. Indeed, many of the new post-colonial states faced major language planning decisions: Should colonial languages continue to be used
as media of instruction in schools? Should vernaculars undergo terminological development and standardization processes in order to replace
colonial languages in official domains? In multilingual states, which varieties (if any) should be selected as lingua francas? What programs of
language teaching and learning should be undertaken at various levels
of education? Should new writing systems be developed for previously
unwritten varieties or for varieties with multiple orthographic alternatives? In many settings, such questions were at the center of the processes
of nationalism and nationism (see Fishman 1968a), as well as modernization and development. (Development referred to poverty reduction,
rising living standards, and technological advances; modernization
meant development brought about by transforming “traditional” societies through the adoption of “modern” political, economic, and social
institutions modeled on North America and Europe [see Rostow 1960].)
Thus LPLP specialists, often with the support of the Ford Foundation (Fox
1975) and other non-governmental organizations, took on an important
role in the policymaking processes of many newly created states.
In this formative period of LPLP, the emerging discipline was initially
seen as having great practical value in solving the “language problems
of developing nations” (Fishman, Ferguson & Das Gupta 1968), but as
research accumulated, it became clear that LPLP was also useful for solving the language-related problems in older multilingual states, such as
the Soviet Union, the United States, and Belgium. With its practical focus
and relatively small number of practitioners compared to the present
day, although the field did not develop a unified LPLP theory, a generally accepted descriptive conceptual framework quickly emerged that
remains useful to the present.
This framework initially distinguished two types of language planning: status planning and corpus planning, with acquisition planning
added later (see Cooper 1989). The term language planning was first used
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by Haugen (1959) in his study of the development of standard Norwegian.
Haugen’s terminology included both corpus planning and status planning, a distinction that was spelled out by Kloss (1968), as well as many
others. Corpus planning refers to efforts to affect the structure of language; it includes such processes as standardization, vocabulary development, graphization, purification, and internationalization. Status planning
refers to efforts to affect the social position of language varieties. Status
planning includes decisions about such issues as which varieties should
be used as media of instruction in schools, as language(s) of administration in government offices, and as language(s) of testimony in courts.
Acquisition planning refers to efforts to bring about language learning;
such efforts may focus on the spread of indigenous varieties as well as
colonial languages or other non-indigenous varieties.
Although early work in LPLP in the 1960s retained a clear distinction
between corpus and status planning, more recent research acknowledges
that corpus planning decisions often involve status planning as well (see
Fishman 2006). For example, the post-World War II language-purification
program in the region of Slovenia in Yugoslavia was aimed at restricting borrowing from Serbo-Croatian, and thus was an example of corpus
planning. It involved, for example, the coining of Slovene technical terminology (see Slovenski pravopis 2001). Yet, viewed from another perspective, the program was also central to the overall status-planning effort to
maintain Slovene as the official and national language of the Republic of
Slovenia in Yugoslavia (see Tollefson 1981; Toporišič 1991). Thus, recent
usage of corpus planning and status planning acknowledges that corpus
planning may be one tactic used in a broad strategy of status planning,
and that the distinction, while useful, must not lead to the mistaken
notion that particular LPLP activities are either status or corpus planning; indeed, many LPLP activities should be simultaneously considered
as both status and corpus planning.
Cooper (1989) is generally credited with adding acquisition planning as
a third major type of language planning. In his proposal, Cooper included
three types of acquisition planning: second/foreign language teaching,
language maintenance (i.e. acquisition of a threatened language by the
next generation), and language revitalization (i.e. expansion of threatened languages to new speakers and new domains, such as the attempts
to renativize Hebrew in Israel and Māori in New Zealand).
This early LPLP framework also distinguished three stages in the planning process: formulation, implementation, and evaluation (see Lewis
1972). Formulation refers to the process of deciding planning/policy goals
as well as specifying a program to meet those goals. Implementation refers
to the process of carrying out the planned program to achieve the specified goals. Evaluation refers to subsequent efforts to assess the effectiveness of the implementation process. This framework for describing LPLP
activities seemed to regard these three stages as chronological, with
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formulation preceding implementation, and evaluation taking place only
after the implementation stage has been completed. Yet early LPLP specialists, who were often directly involved in LPLP activities in the field,
recognized that the planning process is rarely as linear as the framework suggests, and in practice, plans/policies may be developed haphazardly, at multiple politico-administrative levels, and with simultaneous
formulation, implementation. and evaluation (see Fishman, Ferguson &
Das Gupta 1968). Thus, this somewhat misleading three-stage depiction
of LPLP should be used only within a more complex understanding of
language-planning processes.
The framework of status, corpus, and acquisition planning accommodated a wide range of LPLP activities in both developed and developing
countries. Examples of status planning include: (a) officialization, such as
making Swahili the official language of Tanzania; (b) maintenance, such
as Navajo language-teaching programs in the US Southwest; (c) revival,
such as the program for the revival of Irish in Ireland; and (d) proscription, such as banning Slavic languages in southern Austria during the
Nazi period. Examples of corpus planning include: (a) standardization,
such as the effort to develop standard Romani varieties in Europe; (b)
graphization, such as the development of a consistent writing system for
Quechua in Bolivia; (c) modernization, such as the development of lexical
and stylistic variation in Kannada in India; (d) purification, such as the
effort to restrict borrowings from Serbo-Croatian into Slovene; (e) terminology development, such as the expansion of the vocabulary of Tok Pisin
(Neo-Melanesian) as it became an official language for government functions in Papua New Guinea. Examples of acquisition planning include:
(a) Japan’s policy of developing “Japanese with English abilities” (MEXT
2003); (b) the three-language formula in India; (c) restrictions on the use
of Spanish for immigrant children in California, and the insistence on
language shift to English in many school districts; (d) Yugoslavia’s policy
of requiring Serbo-Croatian as a second language in all of the country’s
schools from the 1960s until 1992.
Although this classical conceptual framework does not constitute a
model or theory of LPLP, several important assumptions were implicit in
much of the published research that appeared during this early period
of LPLP. Taken together, these assumptions may be called the traditional
or neoclassical approach to LPLP (Tollefson 1991) that characterized most
research and practice from the 1960s until the 1980s (Hornberger 2006).
20.1.1 The neoclassical approach
The neoclassical approach of early research in LPLP (also termed classical
language planning by Kaplan and Baldauf [1997: 80], and the autonomous
model by Street [1993]) focused on activities of the nation-state, particularly ministries of education charged with establishing and directing
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national education systems that until independence had been under the
direction of colonial authorities. In multilingual states such as Tanzania
and Kenya in East Africa, Malaysia in Southeast Asia, and India in South
Asia, national education authorities faced crucial decisions about the
medium of instruction, the language(s) of textbooks and materials in
schools, and second/third language-teaching programs. Early LPLP specialists brought to bear their expertise on such issues of language choice
and literacy in the process of nationism (i.e. establishing political and
administrative systems) and language maintenance, codification, and
elaboration in the process of nationalism (i.e. developing sociocultural
identity in areas of ethnolinguistic diversity) (see Fishman 1968a). It was
widely believed that technical expertise was crucial if such decisions
about language-related issues were to be effective and to have beneficial
impact on modernization and development. Indeed, early research was
characterized by optimism that LPLP experts could play a central role
in developing national unity, reducing economic inequality, and opening access to education and employment in contexts in which colonial
authorities had blocked educational and work opportunities for masses
of local residents.
A feature of this early LPLP work was that practical LPLP decisions
should be made by “objective” experts according to rational criteria such
as efficiency or cost–benefit analysis: If such criteria were used, then
planners could be reasonably confident that they could predict the outcomes of their plans and policies. For example, Tauli (1968) argued that
“clarity” and “economy” should be the key criteria for evaluating LPLP
decisions, and that language planners (rather than political authorities)
were most likely to objectively apply such criteria. Similarly, Rubin and
Jernudd (1971) argued that technical experts (“planners”) rather than
political authorities should make LPLP decisions. This belief in the value
of rational decision-making that is largely separated from the political
pressures of the local context was widespread in early LPLP.
Thus two central assumptions of the neoclassical approach were: (a)
that the nation-state, particularly national education authorities, should
be the focus of LPLP activities, primarily for the purposes of development
and modernization; and (b) that technical rather than political solutions
to language problems should be developed by LPLP specialists, who were
usually not members of the communities affected by LPLP decisions.
As case studies accumulated during this early period of LPLP, an
important generalization about language in multilingual societies gradually emerged: In most contexts, stable diglossia is the preferred language situation. In his original formulation, Ferguson (1959) defined
diglossia as the language situation in which two closely related varieties
are used in clearly distinct domains. Ferguson called these distinctive
sets of domains “H(igh)” and “L(ow).” His defining examples were classical/
colloquial Arabic, French/Haitian Creole, classical/modern Greek, and
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High/Swiss German. In each of these cases, the H variety is learned in
school and used for literature, government, and other formal purposes
in a set of H domains; while the L variety is acquired at home and used in
informal domains such as the family and local commercial interaction
(e.g. shopping). In subsequent publications, Fishman (1967) expanded the
scope of diglossia to refer also to any situation in which two or more
varieties (including dialects, social registers, and different, unrelated
languages) are used in distinct sets of domains.
Early LPLP researchers argued that the most socially stable situation for
multilingual communities is diglossia, when language varieties are not
in competition but instead are used for different, complementary purposes. This functional differentiation of language varieties was widely
viewed as a community’s natural “choice” that resulted from a broad
social consensus about the “appropriate” uses for different language varieties. Indeed, it was widely believed that overlapping domains for two or
more language varieties is inherently unstable (termed bilingualism without diglossia, see Fishman 1967). An important corollary of this belief was
that policymakers and planners act in the best interest of multilingual
communities by delineating distinct H and L uses for different varieties.
As a practical consequence, H varieties (often colonial languages or local
varieties spoken by the middle and upper classes) were granted a “naturally” privileged status. The assumption that such a situation results from
societal agreement reflects the consensus model of social relations that
underlay the neoclassical approach.
One of the most well articulated neoclassical approaches was cost–
benefit analysis, which was part of a broader approach that emphasizes
economic considerations in LPLP (see Grin 2006). Cost–benefit analysis
operates on two levels: the individual level and the policy level. Applied
to individual language choice, cost–benefit analysis is carried out by
individuals, who make decisions about the relative costs (e.g. time and
expense) of learning or using a language compared to the benefits (e.g.
increased income). Cost–benefit analysis rests on the assumption that
language choices are “free” but predictable. When individuals’ (free) language choices accumulate within a social group, the result is a consensus
about the appropriate domains for different language varieties.
The major difficulty with this approach at the individual level is that
it underestimates the role of coercion. That is, in many contexts, individuals may be essentially forced to use the dominant language. In schools,
for example, minority-language children who perform class activities
or assignments in a language other than the specified school language
may receive failing grades. Although one can argue that children raised
in families speaking the dominant language also make a “choice” at
school to use the dominant language, clearly their “choice” is free of
the effects of coercion. Although cost–benefit analysis may be applied
to both “choices” to use the required language, the approach fails to
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acknowledge the decisive role of coercion in the lives of the minoritylanguage group. When the intensity of coercion becomes extreme, such
as when Nazi authorities banned the use of Slavic languages in southern Austria, “cost–benefit analysis” does not seem to offer an adequate
conceptual vocabulary to describe patterns of individuals’ language
“choice.”
A more productive application of cost–benefit analysis is at the policy level, where the approach can be useful for helping policymakers
make reasonable estimates of the economic costs and benefits of alternative policies (Vaillancourt 1985). Cost–benefit analysis seeks to specify
the economic costs (e.g. of teacher training) of particular planning goals
(such as requiring English lessons in all Japanese elementary schools)
as well as the benefits (such as improved performance on standardized
tests of English at the middle school and high school levels). Cost–benefit
analysis also examines the costs of doing nothing. For example, school
officials may argue that it is expensive to teach language-minority children in bilingual classes, because of the cost of hiring bilingual teachers,
yet a full analysis of costs and benefits would also require that the costs
of continuing with a monolingual policy should also be calculated; these
costs may include higher dropout rates, increased truancy, and lower
wages and tax payments by minority families.
As Grin argues, such cost–benefit analysis is a useful form of policy
evaluation, but it cannot dictate policy decisions: “The main role of economic considerations in language-policy research … is to help social
actors assess the pros and cons of different avenues open to them, and
to make principled and transparent choices” (2006: 89). When such economic information is gathered, it can often be startling. For example,
the entire cost of translation and interpretation in the European Union
(when there were fifteen members and eleven official languages) was
only 1.82 per person per year (Grin 2004), hardly the budget-breaking
amount that opponents of multilingual EU policies often claim. A major
advantage of careful studies of economic considerations in LPLP is that
they can help to reduce misinformation and ideologically motivated
claims and counterclaims.
Despite the significant achievements of the early period of LPLP, optimism about the contribution that LPLP could make in the new multilingual states of the post-colonial period was gradually undermined. In
part, this shift was part of the growing frustration with the planning
approach to modernization and development that increasingly permeated the social sciences in the 1970s and 1980s. In addition, as case studies of LPLP began to accumulate, specialists gradually came to see that
LPLP was often used not to open access to education and employment, but
instead to sustain systems of privilege that could be traced back to the
colonial period. Thus, in the late 1970s and the 1980s, the field entered a
disquieting period of critique and disillusionment.
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20.2 Criticisms of early LPLP
During the 1970s and1980s, criticisms of LPLP focused on several assumptions and beliefs implicit in the neoclassical model. One criticism was
that LPLP was too closely linked with the processes of modernization
and development. The theory of economic development that was dominant at the time (e.g. Rostow 1960) argued that societies go through
specific stages of economic development; these stages are best identified
by analyzing the history of the most developed states, particularly in
North America and Western Europe. Moreover, economic development
was viewed as an outgrowth of “modern” institutions, specific forms of
politico-administrative systems, and free-market capitalism as practiced
in the United States and Western Europe. Thus modernization came to
mean, in simple terms, following the economic and political model of
the United States and Western Europe. In this framework, LPLP was one
area of policymaking that could help developing countries move more
quickly through the stages of development, for example by “modernizing” the lexical system of indigenous languages used in schools. Thus, a
great deal of early LPLP work focused on the role of vernacular and standard varieties in schools, the development of diglossia with bilingualism,
and the education of linguistic minorities (e.g. Spolsky 1972). The goal, in
many cases, was to develop programs that would quickly teach dominant
languages to users of minority languages.
Yet, as case studies accumulated in the 1960s and 1970s, it became
increasingly clear that LPLP often did not lead to economic development.
Indeed, LPLP was often used by dominant groups to create and sustain
their systems of privilege. In sub-Saharan Africa, for example, LPLP in
education was supposed to overcome the initial challenge of sociocultural integration of different ethnolinguistic groups, while also extending educational opportunity to all. Yet the actual result was in many
contexts an economic and political elite dominating educational systems
while ignoring the needs of masses of the population (see Moumoni 1998;
Mazrui 2002). Perhaps the most important example was apartheid South
Africa, where state authorities used language policies (including mothertongue promotion) to create confl ict within the black population and sustain the special position of Afrikaans. Indeed, state-mandated language
policies in South Africa supported the ideology of racial separation that
underlay apartheid, and black resistance to state language policies was
an important reason for the crucial Soweto Uprising of 1976 and a factor
in the eventual demise of apartheid (Cluver 1992; De Klerk 2002). Thus,
the case of South Africa demonstrated that the early optimism about the
economic, social, and political benefits of LPLP was unrealistic. As criticisms of development theory accumulated, LPLP became a target.
A second criticism of the neoclassical approach was that there was
inadequate attention to the communities affected by national plans
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and policies. With its focus mainly on top-down planning by ministries
of education and other institutions of the nation-state, much of the
early LPLP research paid relatively little attention to the everyday lived
experiences of linguistic minorities and others affected by plans and
policies. What is the role of minority languages in local identities? How
do learning a lingua franca and subsequent sociolinguistic changes,
such as language shift, affect local communities? What are the language policy preferences of linguistic minorities? What are the consequences for human happiness of alternative language policies? Such
questions received relatively little attention. Indeed, in early LPLP, it
was widely believed that the appropriate approach to the evaluation
of language plans and policies was an objective assessment of whether
the stated goals were achieved. The technical expertise of evaluators
was rarely aimed at understanding how specific ethnolinguistic groups
(particularly linguistic minorities) felt about particular plans or policies. Moreover, qualitative research methods (such as ethnography)
that could provide insights into the social life of ethnolinguistic minorities were rarely used, and criticizing plans or policies on ethical or
moral grounds was widely viewed as outside the acceptable role of the
technical specialist. Issues of social justice, for example, were rarely discussed in early scholarly work in LPLP (though there is ample evidence
that early LPLP scholars were deeply concerned about such issues). In
contrast, later critics argued that justice and inequality should be central concerns for research and practice in the field (Skutnabb-Kangas
2000).
A further critique of the neoclassical approach was that its underlying
consensus model of social relations ignored the widespread impact of
coercion. Indeed, critics argued that “struggle” rather than consensus is
at the core of social relations (Fairclough 1989). Critics of the neoclassical
approach argued that diglossia is often not an expression of societal consensus, but rather a direct result of coercion by powerful groups directed
against weaker groups having relatively less political and economic
power (Tollefson 1991). Much of this critique of early LPLP was framed
within critical theory (on the latter, see Foucault 1972, 1979; Habermas
1985, 1987; Giddens 1987; Bourdieu 1991). From a critical perspective,
functional differentiation of language varieties is due to historical and
structural forces (especially economic class); H varieties are used in H
domains because they are the language of the upper-middle class, which
insists on using its language in education and other H domains in order
to help sustain the social, economic, and political advantages that the
upper-middle class enjoys. Of course, language alone is not the sole factor sustaining such privilege, but the failure to deal with coercion was,
in the view of critics of the neoclassical approach, a fundamental shortcoming of early work on diglossia and LPLP. (For a summary of critical
theory in LPLP, see Tollefson 2006.)
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Other specific criticisms of the neoclassical approach also emerged.
These included: (a) Too often, the neoclassical approach assumed that
explicit policies were all that mattered, whereas implicit, unacknowledged rules for language use are often just as important in shaping linguistic behavior. (b) The neoclassical approach focused too much attention
on the macro-level of institutions, particularly schools, whereas greater
attention to the micro-level of interaction would yield equally important
data about the impact of language policies (Jones & Martin-Jones 2004).
(c) The neoclassical approach failed to pay adequate attention to the
sources of the costs and benefits associated with particular language varieties: Why are some languages seen as appropriate for H uses? Why are
varieties used in L domains blocked from H domains? How do powerful
groups convince others to give their consent to such systems of inequality? Such questions force LPLP scholars to deal directly with issues of
power and inequality.
As a consequence of the criticisms that swept the field of LPLP in the
1970s and 1980s, new approaches and research methodologies were
developed, and new issues emerged as central to the field. Whereas early
LPLP was concerned primarily with the ability of new nation-states to
use LPLP for economic development, politico-administrative modernization, and sociocultural integration, later research was concerned with
the relationship between LPLP and inequality, the ideological nature of
language plans and policies, the experiences of linguistic minorities,
and democratic models for planning and policymaking. As these issues
moved to the forefront of LPLP research, qualitative research methods
increasingly came to be seen as appropriate for the field.
20.3 Revival of LPLP: new approaches and methods
The revival of LPLP began with work in the early 1990s that was influenced by theoretical developments in the social sciences, particularly
critical theory (see Tollefson 2006). Much of the initial work in this period
focused on historical and structural forces affecting plans and policies,
especially economic class, gender, and race/ethnicity. Influenced by postmodernism, later research also focused increasingly on discourse. These
changes in LPLP were part of broad movements taking place in the social
sciences at that time (Candlin 1991).
One widely recognized application of critical theory to LPLP is the
historical-structural approach (Tollefson 1991; see also the ideological
model by Street 1993). Major differences between the historical-structural
approach and the neoclassical approach include the following:
The unit of analysis: Whereas the neoclassical approach emphasizes
individual decision-making and actions of state authorities, the historicalstructural approach seeks to unpack social and historical factors affecting
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language use. For example, rather than viewing individual language
decisions as the result of cost–benefit analysis, the historical-structural
approach seeks the underlying reasons for the particular pattern of costs
and benefits that constrain individual behavior. Why must some groups
expend particular costs associated with learning a dominant language?
Why are particular costs and benefits – and not others – available to
particular groups? Whose interests are served by alternative language
policies? That is, within the historical-structural approach, individual
decisions about language (such as which language to speak in particular domains) are not viewed as individual choices, but rather as a result
of complex historical and structural forces that shape the social system
within which individuals must act.
The role of historical perspective: Whereas the neoclassical approach
focuses on the current situation and views the history of language
groups and relations among them mainly as useful information for policymaking, the historical-structural approach assumes that historical
relationships are fundamental, and that LPLP research cannot take place
without detailed historical analysis. Moreover, this historical analysis
emphasizes social relations among groups distinguished by structural
factors, especially economic class. Indeed, historical analysis has become
one of the most widely used forms of LPLP research in the past decade
(see Wiley2006).
Criteria for evaluating plans and policies: Whereas evaluation within the
neoclassical approach consists of assessments about whether plans are successfully implemented, the historical-structural approach assumes that
successfully implemented plans will usually serve the interests of powerful groups, and therefore solely assessing the success of implementation is
relatively uninteresting. Instead, the focus of evaluation is the impact of
plans and policies on the life chances of different social groups, the possibilities for undermining unequal power relationships, and social justice.
The shift in focus toward power, inequality, and social justice was only
the first step in what became a wide-ranging expansion of approaches
and methods in LPLP research. Indeed, from 1990 to the present, LPLP
has experienced an explosive growth, on a par with the early period in
which the field began to take shape, but with a far greater number of
scholars involved in the discipline. These scholars are making explicit
efforts to apply research methods developed in other contexts to LPLP. In
the following section, I summarize a few of the influential approaches
and methods of recent years. (Due to space limitations, I can only suggest
the range of influences now affecting the field.)
20.3.1
Three approaches
In describing influential approaches and methods, I use the word
approach to refer to a conceptual framework, often influenced by critical,
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postmodern, or political theory, which focuses attention on particular
questions and issues in LPLP. The approaches that I summarize here are
world systems (Center–Periphery), ecology of language, and governmentality. I also summarize two methods, a term which refers to relatively
well-developed analytical tools, adopted first in other fields of research,
that have recently been applied to LPLP and that hold particular promise
for future investigation. The methods that I summarize are discourse
analysis and ethnography.
World systems (Center and Periphery): A world-systems approach to LPLP
places language policy and planning within a broad framework that has
been developed for analyzing societies and social change. The worldsystems approach claims that a single worldwide division of labor coexists with multiple cultural systems (Abu-Lughod 1989; Wallerstein 1997).
One version of the worldwide division of labor distinguishes a dominant
Center (the United States, Western Europe, Japan, and other powerful
countries and interests) and a dominated Periphery consisting of economically, politically, and militarily weaker countries and interests. In
many Periphery countries, elites holding power share cultural norms
and interests with Center elites who dictate those norms and interests.
Of particular concern for LPLP specialists is the role of Center languages
(especially English) among Periphery elites, many of whom are educated
in Center countries or in local elite schools that use Center languages
as media of instruction. In addition, in some Periphery countries (e.g.
the Philippines), even non-elites may be forced to adopt a Center language that has official status and is used as a medium of instruction in
schools.
The most explicit application of a world-systems framework is
Phillipson’s (1992) work on linguicism and linguistic imperialism.
Imperialism refers to relationships in which Center societies dominate the
Periphery through, among other things, exploitation, or the exchange of
things of value on unequal terms. Intended as a term that is parallel to
racism and sexism, linguicism refers to “representation of the dominant
language, to which desirable characteristics are attributed, for purposes
of inclusion, and the opposite for dominated languages, for purposes
of exclusion” (Phillipson 1992: 55; see also Bourdieu’s [1991] concept of
symbolic capital). English linguistic imperialism is one type of imperialism. Phillipson argues that language policies supporting the spread of
English can only be fully understood within a framework of imperialism, in which powerful Centers use language policies and plans to promote English for the benefit of Center interests at the expense of the
Periphery.
Canagarajah (1999) also uses a world-systems approach to examine,
at the micro-level, English language learners resisting the spread of
English even as they work to learn the language, and, at the macro-level,
institutional policy and planning, which are often part of top-down
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policymaking promulgated by ministries of education. Combining
ethnographic research, discourse analysis, and the concept of linguistic imperialism, Canagarajah has been among the most successful scholars seeking an integrated micro-level/macro-level analysis of language
policy and language use, with a world-systems approach central to his
framework.
Ecology of language: Although its prominence is relatively recent, an ecological approach to LPLP can be traced to the early days of the field, particularly in the work of Haugen (1972). Ecological approaches have been
developed in many areas of the study of language, including language
teaching and language learning (van Lier 2004), literacy (Hornberger 2003),
language change (Mühlhäusler 1996), the spread of English (Mühlhäusler
1996), language rights (Skutnabb-Kangas 2000), discourse in society
(Heller 2002), and LPLP (Kaplan & Baldauf 1997; Mühlhäusler, 2000). In
general, ecological approaches draw on parallels between languages in
society and models of biological diversity. Like environmentalists who
hold diversity as a fundamental value that should determine environmental policies, supporters of ecological models argue that linguistic
diversity is a fundamental value that must be maintained. Thus, linguistic diversity is supported not merely on metaphorical grounds (through
the parallel with biological diversity), but rather as crucial to the health
of human society (Mühlhäusler 1996). As a result, language policies are
evaluated with reference to their impact on linguistic diversity.
Key characteristics of ecological approaches to language are: a respect
for linguistic diversity; a focus on language endangerment, vitality,
maintenance, and revival; a belief in the value of community languages
for identity and belonging; a belief that heterogeneity and hybridity are
fundamental characteristics of all language varieties; and a focus on language rights. Applied to LPLP, an ecological approach raises important
questions about the role of human agency and intervention (Pennycook
2004), and highlights moral and ethical concerns: How do alternative
language policies affect endangered languages? Why should small language communities be required to learn dominant languages? Can LPLP
aid in language preservation and revival? Thus, an ecological approach
to LPLP highlights a specific planning goal and the means for achieving
the goal: maximizing linguistic diversity through community involvement in language planning.
Ecological approaches have elicited serious criticisms, particularly
about the focus on ethical and moral questions (e.g. Edwards 2001).
Moreover, questions remain about whether ecological approaches are
merely metaphors for language in society or have more powerful theoretical value. The belief that human communities have a “natural”
condition, in which small languages will survive if left free of human
intervention (Mühlhäusler 1996), seems naïve to some critics (see
Pennycook 2004) and dangerously close to a condescending fascination
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with small, isolated communities and languages. Despite such criticisms,
given their widespread application to the study of language, ecological
approaches can be expected to play a role in LPLP research for some time
to come.
Governmentality: Drawing from work by Foucault (1991), Pennycook
(2002) and Moore (2002) examine LPLP within the framework of governmentality in order to investigate how language policy is used for
the purposes of political and cultural governance. Unlike the concept
of government, which usually refers to state authorities and politicaladministrative structures and roles, governmentality refers to the full
complexity of administrative, legal, fi nancial, institutional, and professional forces, practices, and techniques that regulate individual and
group behavior. That is, language planning and policy – specifically,
discourses of LPLP, and educational and other institutional practices –
are viewed as a means of social regulation. Scholars working within
the framework of governmentality explore “how debates around language, culture and education produce particular discursive regimes”
(Pennycook 2002: 92) that are fundamental to governance. By shifting
attention to the discourses of daily life, especially within institutions,
governmentality recasts language policy as cultural policy, fundamentally part of moral and political visions that shape attitudes and
behavior. In colonial Hong Kong, for instance, Pennycook argues that
language policies in education were not just about language choice in
schools; they were also part of a wide-ranging and complex program to
construct Hong Kong Chinese as “docile” for the purpose of social control by colonial authorities.
Also writing within the framework of governmentality, Moore (2002)
examines the successful effort by conservatives in Australia in the 1990s
to roll back progressive language policies adopted in the 1987 National
Policy on Languages. The reassertion of the dominance of English during the 1990s was achieved in part through the ability of conservatives
to limit the influence of minority communities and language educators by defining them as self-interested “factions,” in contrast to supporters of English, who were constructed as acting in the “national”
interest. Moore argues that language policy was determined not by a
debate about the pedagogical value or the economic costs and benefits
of alternative policies, but rather by the competitive discursive regimes
of opponents involved in a struggle for control of the policymaking process and ultimately for political power. Thus, governmentality shifts
attention from the details of policies and their implementation to public debates about policies and the implicit visions of society that are at
stake in these debates. A central method for governmentality research,
therefore, is discourse analysis. Its linkage with LPLP is examined in the
following section.
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Two methods
Discourse analysis: Closely related to governmentality is discourse analysis
(DA). The advantage of DA in LPLP is that DA is quite well developed
as a research method, with a growing number of researchers making
important contributions to understanding (among other things) political
discourse, elite discourse, and mass media, all of which are directly relevant to public policy debates about LPLP. One important thread of recent
research is to apply DA to language-planning research and to explicit language policy statements. Blommaert (1996), for example, examines LPLP
as a discourse of language and society. Particularly important, in his
view, is the need to make explicit the vision of language in society, the
link between language and identity, and the societal position of social
groups that are implicit in language policy research, as well as in policy
statements and in rationales for policies.
Particularly influential has been the work of Wodak (1996, 2003),
Titscher et al. (1998), Lemke (1995), and others, who adopt a discoursehistorical approach to LPLP. Based on critical discourse analysis (see Gee
1999), the discourse-historical approach investigates “historical, organizational, and political topics and texts” (Wodak 2006: 174) with a view
toward understanding the social and political fields in which discursive
events are located, and further to integrate that analysis with social theory. Such research seeks to understand policy documents, public policy
debates, and language programs of all types (including corpus, status,
and acquisition planning) as ideological struggles that ultimately shape
the most fundamental social relations. The discourse-historical approach
may be viewed as an explicit response to Fishman’s (1992) and William’s
(1992) call for LPLP to be embedded within a broader theory of society.
Ethnography: A second important research method, originally developed by anthropologists and recently applied to LPLP, is ethnography.
As Canagarajah (2006) points out, on the surface ethnography and LPLP
appear to be unrelated. LPLP is concerned primarily with policies and the
policymaking process; these concerns focus attention on the actions of
educators, language specialists, political leaders, bureaucrats, and other
elites. Ethnography, on the other hand, is concerned with communities,
which focuses attention on micro-level interaction in the everyday lives
of individuals in social groups. Moreover LPLP is concerned with deliberate
efforts to affect language forms, status, and acquisition, while ethnography is concerned with the “unconscious ‘lived culture’ of a community”
(Canagarajah 2006a: 153).
Yet the growing use of ethnographic methods to analyze LPLP makes
sense, if we remember that one of the most important criticisms of early
LPLP theory and practice was the failure to examine communities – the
policies they support, the impact of policy alternatives on them, their
resistance to policy implementation efforts, and their struggle to gain
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a greater share of economic and political resources. The optimism that
deliberate planning could yield predictable results, if sufficient information could be gathered, meant that communities were often viewed
as impediments to implementation and as the “objects” of policies and
programs rather than crucial participants in the policymaking process.
In response to these shortcomings of some of the early LPLP research,
LPLP scholars since the 1990s have increasingly turned to ethnography
as a method for understanding LPLP in communities and as a means
for bringing ethnolinguistic communities to the center of the research
process.
Perhaps the most important contribution of ethnography to LPLP is
its emphasis on participant-observation as an appropriate method for
understanding communities. Ethnographic researchers typically spend
a great deal of time (a year or more) living in the community, trying not
to intervene in normal life, but participating in it in order to understand
the complexity of social relations necessary for a “thick description”
(Geertz 1973) of language in daily life. One important focus is on code
choice: how language choices, including code-switching, code-mixing,
and language shift, are patterned in the community (Heller 1999). This
work explores the different values that are associated with different language varieties, which is an important step in understanding the relations of power in which languages are implicated.
One example of the value of ethnography for LPLP is Hornberger’s study
(1988, 2003) of the policy of Quechua language maintenance in Peru. In
her investigation of Spanish–Quechua bilingual education, Hornberger
found that Quechua parents resisted the use of Quechua in schools,
believing instead that the language is appropriate for home life while
Spanish should be learned in school and used as the medium of instruction. In her analysis of Spanish–Quechua diglossia, Hornberger not only
explained the failure of the policy, but also was able to recommend potentially more effective approaches to medium of instruction policies, particularly involving parents and other members of the community in the
early stages of policymaking. Indeed, a growing body of research using
ethnography to understand LPLP has demonstrated the importance of
community participation in policymaking and implementation.
The successful use of ethnographic methods in LPLP by Canagarajah
(1993), King (2001), Gegeo and Watson-Gegeo (2004), and others has
led to explicit calls to merge the concerns of ethnography and LPLP by
simultaneously examining macro-level and micro-level data. As Jones
and Martin-Jones (2004) argue with respect to the study of language in
schools: “Equally important [to policy analysis] is the focus on the interactional order of classrooms and playgrounds. It is by situating these
local practices within the wider social and institutional order that we
can gain the deepest insights into the processes of cultural and linguistic reproduction at work in bilingual settings” (p. 67). Indeed, one of the
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greatest challenges for LPLP research is integrating macro-level policy
analysis with micro-level research on interaction. A combination of policy analysis and discourse analysis offers a potentially fruitful approach
to achieving this sort of integration.
20.4 The importance of LPLP
As a field of research and study, LPLP today is as active and as exciting
as any time in its history, even compared to the heady early days when
LPLP pioneers carved out the new discipline. LPLP since the early 1990s
has become a central part of language studies, including practical programs such as language-teacher training. In addition to new approaches
and methods, LPLP has been rejuvenated by efforts to link LPLP with
important issues in other areas of the social sciences. Indeed, much of
the current work consists of a multidirectional effort to explore the connections between LPLP and a wide range of concerns, including ideology, human rights, social theory, political theory, and postmodernism.
Although a full accounting of this diverse range of research is beyond
the scope of this chapter, in this section, I summarize two key issues in
LPLP and reflect on the importance of these issues in future research.
These areas are political theory and democratic models for planning and
policymaking.
20.4.1
LPLP and political theory
Schmidt (2006) distinguishes between political science and political theory.
Political science is interested mainly in cause and effect: “why the political world (dependent variables) changes in response to changing circumstances (independent variables)” (p. 96). Moreover, political scientists
hope to be able to predict political changes, if their research can gather
sufficient information about the relationships among relevant independent variables. In contrast, political theory focuses on “significance and
meaning” (p. 96). That is, political theory is fundamentally interpretive,
aimed at understanding “what is at stake when political actors make the
judgments that all political life entails” (p. 96).
Like political science, the neoclassical approach sought to predict the
impact of plans and policies: By amassing sufficient data, and by carefully applying technical procedures for making policy decisions and
implementing plans, language planners hoped to be able to shape the
future of politico-administrative institutions and sociocultural identities, an endeavor that assumes a capacity to predict the consequences of
plans and policies. In contrast, much of the current work in LPLP seeks
to understand the implicit, unspoken issues in language policy confl icts.
This work is interpretive, aimed at understanding what is at stake in
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alternative policies, the ways in which policy debates reflect and shape
relationships among ethnolinguistic groups, and how LPLP may transform those relationships. Such recent LPLP work has brought the field to
a closer relationship with political theory.
Schmidt (2000, 2006) has led calls for closer links between LPLP and
political theory (see also Dua 1985). Schmidt suggests that identity politics is a particularly fruitful area in which political theory can be useful
for LPLP specialists. For example, recent work in LPLP has tried to answer
the question: “What is the relationship between language and national
cultural identities, and what role does language policy play?” (Tsui &
Tollefson 2007: 3). Hall (1996: 613) defines a national culture as:
a discourse – a way of constructing meanings which influences
and organizes both our actions and our conceptions of ourselves …
National cultures construct identities by producing meanings about
“the nation” with which we can identify; these are contained in the
stories which we are told about it, memories which connect its present
with its past, images which are constructed of it.
Thus, national cultures are imagined (Anderson 1983), and they are discursively constructed. Particularly important in this regard is the spread
of English in settings in which national cultural identities are threatened by the forces of globalization. Faced with the perceived need to
adopt English-promotion policies, state authorities in many contexts
have faced the paradox of promoting English while also creating or sustaining national cultural identities that may be linked with languages
other than English. One way to resolve this paradox is by reconstructing
national cultural identities through the discourses that promote English
(Tsui & Tollefson 2007).
In Japan and South Korea, for example, national competitiveness and
political/cultural independence are constructed as depending on English
language competence. English is an international language (not the language of the USA or UK) that benefits Japan and South Korea. Englishpromotion policies are combined with policies that reaffirm the central
importance of learning and using the national language. Policies requiring English in schools are linked with new initiatives to improve the
teaching of the national language (Japanese, Korean), and these initiatives are part of a broader program of nationalism that includes other
reforms, such as new requirements for citizenship education and symbolic activities such as singing national songs and honoring the flag.
Programs to rejuvenate national identities, in resistance to the cultural impacts of globalization, have been adopted in many countries
in recent years. Malaysia is a particularly striking case. When Malaysia
achieved independence from Britain in 1957, Malay was adopted as the
national language and as a symbol of national unity. In 1971, state policy
adopted Malay as the medium of instruction, with all publicly funded
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elementary and secondary schools eventually shifting to Malay-medium
education. In recent years, however, English has come to be seen as
crucial to the economic competitiveness of the country, yet the Malaymedium policy has led to a decline in the English language proficiency
of school graduates. As a result, the government since 2002 has reintroduced English-medium education. Associated with this policy change
has been a new discourse of nationalism. For example, former Pr\ime
Minister Mahathir, who was a strong supporter of the Malay-promotion
policy in the early days after independence, publicly supported Englishmedium instruction by redefining nationalism in the context of language competence in both Malay and English: “Learning the English
language will reinforce the spirit of nationalism when it is used to
bring about development and progress for the country…True nationalism means doing everything possible for the country, even if it means
learning the English language” (Mahathir Mohamad, The Sun, September 1,
1999, cited in Gill 2002b: 101, and Tsui & Tollefson 2007: 12). In addition,
textbooks have been rewritten to support nationalism through a variety
of discourses that include the Malay language, national pride, carefully
managed ethnic relations, and internationalization through English
(see David & Govindasamy 2007).
Analysis of such complex examples of identity politics requires multiple research methods: policy analysis, discourse analysis, and historical
research, as well as grounding in political theory. Schmidt argues that
political theory is valuable for many issues, including language rights,
comparative LPLP studies, and multicultural citizenship. With growing
evidence of the value of political theory for LPLP, it is hoped that more
LPLP specialists will develop expertise in it.
20.4.2
Democratic models of planning and policymaking
In many contexts, LPLP scholars since the 1990s have recognized that
community involvement in policymaking is essential if policy goals
are to be achieved. For example, McCarty’s work on Navajo language
maintenance and revival in the United States clearly demonstrates the
importance of community involvement for the success of revitalization
programs (McCarty 2002). Such research raises a fundamental question:
What forms of community involvement in planning and policymaking
are possible and effective? This question takes on the greatest urgency
when we recognize that multiethnic and multilingual states are the
norm rather than exception, and that increased economic insecurity
brought about by globalization has led many people to turn to powerful forms of ethnolinguistic nationalism. In this context, community
involvement in planning and policymaking is not only about achieving
policy goals, but also about reducing the risks of severe social confl ict
based on language.
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State authorities have responded to ethnolinguistic nationalism in
two ways: by adopting policies to repress ethnolinguistic differences, or
by extending democratic pluralism. Repressing difference takes many
forms, including policies to favor the dominant language (as in Australia
and England), official-language laws (as in the United States), immigration restrictions (as in France), and military repression (as in Turkey).
All of these actions entail blocking some ethnolinguistic groups from
full participation in planning and policymaking. Examples of policies
extending democratic pluralism include language revitalization through
schooling and official recognition (as for Māori in New Zealand), semi-autonomous control of local institutions (as for some Native Americans in
the United States), and bilingual education (as in Canada and rural areas
of the Philippines). Extending democratic pluralism means finding effective forms of community involvement in planning and policymaking.
While programs to repress ethnolinguistic diversity may be effective
in the short run, they often intensify nationalist movements and therefore risk greater confl ict in the future (Denitch 1996). Yet extending
democratic pluralism is enormously difficult, because it requires efforts
to end discrimination based on language, ethnicity, and nationality. The
success of such efforts requires language policies that ensure minority
communities can gain the language competencies necessary for economic opportunity while also retaining the languages that are essential
for identity and belonging. Unless policies achieve both goals, the problems of economic, social, and political inequality based on language are
likely to be exacerbated.
Perhaps the greatest challenge for supporters of democratic pluralism
is to find ways to structure forms of governance which ensure that ethnolinguistic groups that are affected by language policies have a major role
in formulating and implementing those policies. Ultimately, extending
democratic pluralism requires decisions about the basis for including or
excluding individuals and groups from the policymaking process. These
decisions will differ from one context to another, but they will inevitably
raise the most fundamental issues of identity: Who belongs, and who
does not? In this sense, LPLP is not only about which languages are used
for which purposes; rather, it is embedded in everyone’s daily routines,
determining our life chances and giving structure and meaning to life.
Thus, planning and policymaking are too fundamental to be the responsibility of technical experts. On the contrary, language planning and
language policy must involve, in substantive as well as symbolic forms,
precisely those people who are affected by plans and policies. Finding
ways to achieve this goal – developing effective forms of democratic pluralism – must shape LPLP research and practice for many years to come.
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21
Sociolinguistics and
the law
Diana Eades
Language use is central to everything that happens in the legal process,
and legal professionals share with sociolinguists a fascination with how
language works. Thus, the legal process is an institutional context of considerable interest to sociolinguists.
From the beginnings of sociolinguistic investigations of language in
the legal process, about three decades ago, there has been a focus on
issues of power. This is hardly surprising, since legal systems exist in
large measure to exercise control, over actions deemed unacceptable,
unlawful, or unfair. Following the developments in sociolinguistic studies of language and the law provides an insight into the ways in which
sociolinguistics as a discipline has theorized and examined power over
the last three decades or so. It also provides a good view of broader developments within the discipline, in terms of approaches to data collection,
analysis, and theory-building.
Most sociolinguistic research on language and the law which has been
published in English has been undertaken in the common law legal system, in countries such as Australia, Canada, the UK, and the USA as well
as other former British colonies, with some work also in the continental
legal system found in most of Europe. While there are many local variations, the most striking differences between the two systems lie in the
adversarial nature of legal proceedings and the reliance on judge-made
or case law in the common law system, in contrast to the inquisitorial
nature of legal proceedings and the reliance on written codes of law in
the continental legal system. Sociolinguistic research on the common
law legal system in English-speaking countries has concentrated on
criminal proceedings more than civil proceedings.
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21.1
Courtroom contexts
The easiest legal context in which to collect data is the courtroom, and
so it is hardly surprising that this is where most of the sociolinguistic
research has been focused to date. Many studies have used official transcripts as their database. This source of data has a number of advantages.
Being recorded officially for the legal process, it removes the problems
which would otherwise arise from the observer’s paradox. Further, provided that the researcher avoids the small minority of cases for which
court hearings are not open to the public, there are no issues with confidentiality and there is no need to gain the permission of those involved.
However, official courtroom transcripts are produced for courts as legal
records, mainly for the purpose of appeals. The legal interest in the transcript is with “facts,” which contrasts with the sociolinguistic interest
in the interactional process through which these “facts” emerge. Being
official records of information, not interaction, official transcripts do not
record such features as pauses and overlapping talk, and they only sometimes record prosodic features, such as raised volume, and increased or
decreased speed of utterance. Non-verbal features, such as averting the
gaze, and paralinguistic features, such as trembling voice or laughter, are
also generally not recorded. This does not mean that official court transcripts are of no use as data for sociolinguistic research. It all depends
on the research question(s) being addressed. In my work on Aboriginal
English, one of my interests has related to pauses or silences (see Eades
2000, 2008), so I have needed to purchase copies of the official audiorecordings of court hearings, from which I make my own transcripts. On
the other hand, Heffer (2005) was able to use official trial transcripts for
a study which examines features of grammar, lexis, and discourse structure (to be discussed below).
An important development in some recent studies has been the use
of corpus linguistics. So, for example, Cotterill’s (2003) analysis of the
O. J. Simpson trial, in which 126 witnesses gave evidence over a ninemonth period, examines official trial transcripts of 50,000 pages, providing 6.2 million words. And Heffer’s (2005) analysis of language in jury
trials examines official transcripts from 229 British criminal trials. In his
examination of language use in these trials, Heffer draws for comparison on three well-known reference corpora: the British National Corpus
(100 million words of British English), the Cobuild Direct Online Corpus
(56-million-word international corpus of English), and Early Modern Trial
texts in the Helsinki Corpus of Historical English.
The most important early study of courtroom talk was carried out by
the Duke University Language and Law Project in the USA (e.g. Conley,
O’Barr & Allan 1978; O’Barr 1982). This study was concerned with the
influence of language factors on legal decision-making, and it focused
on different speech styles used by witnesses in the courtroom. Headed
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by linguistic anthropologist William M. O’Barr and lawyer John Conley,
this research team used an ethnographic study to find out what variations in language forms occur in legal contexts, and a psycholinguistic
experimental study to find out the likely effects of these variations in
form on trial processes.
Their ethnographic study found that witnesses tend to use one of two
different styles, which the researchers labeled as “powerful” style and
“powerless” style. Powerless style is characterized by many of the features which had been said to be typical of women’s speech, such as a
high frequency of intensifiers (e.g. very, really), and the use of hedges (e.g.
sort of, like). Powerful style, on the other hand, is characterized by the
absence of such features and it comes across sounding much more precise and confident. Consistent with variationist sociolinguistics at this
time (late 1970s to early 1980s), an important part of the Duke study
revolved around isolating linguistic features, such as those mentioned,
and correlating them with social variables attributed to speakers. But it
went further, adding an experimental study with mock jurors to consider the possible impact of such variations in witnesses’ speaking style.
This study found that witnesses using the powerful style were considered by jurors to be more convincing, truthful, competent, intelligent,
and trustworthy than those using the powerless style. So, it is clear that
the details of the ways in which witnesses present their evidence can be
important to the outcome of a case.
While the emphasis in the Duke study was on courtroom talk in the
answers of witnesses, starting in the 1980s a number of studies have
examined courtroom questions by lawyers. Again the issue of power
has been central, with the major concern being how the structure of
questions in examination-in-chief (= direct examination) and crossexamination exercises power over witnesses. The imbalance between
witness and lawyer in control over the content and form of talk has
been discussed in terms of conduciveness, control, coerciveness, or
manipulation, and a number of scholars have produced hierarchical
typologies of question form, based on the way in which the syntactic
structure of the question serves to constrain the type of answer (e.g.
Danet et al. 1980; Harris 1984; Woodbury 1984; Walker 1987). A significant concern of all of these studies was “control through language”
(Danet et al. 1980: 223), specifically the way in which the lawyer questioning a witness in court “can impose his [sic] own interpretations
on the evidence” (Woodbury 1984: 199). These studies all found that
the most controlling or coercive questions are yes/no questions with
tag s (such as You were there, weren’t you?), while the least controlling or
coercive questions are broad wh -questions (e.g. What happened then?).
Unsurprisingly, many studies have found that examination-in-chief
comprises more wh -questions and fewer yes/no questions than crossexamination.
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Critics of these studies of question form in courtroom talk have shown
that restricting analysis to syntactic structure ignores the ways in which
such features as propositional content, context, intonation, and the
sequential placement of the question can intensify or mitigate the control exercised by questions (e.g. Dunstan 1980; Harris 1984; Lane 1990;
Eades 2000). As with other sociolinguistic studies in the early 1980s, studies which explained courtroom power and control in terms of the syntactic structure of questions assumed an isomorphic relationship between
language form and function. Problems with this assumption have been
addressed in a study which shows how lawyers’ use of the question forms
which had been analyzed as most controlling is sometimes taken by witnesses as an open invitation for an explanation, and thus such question
forms can actually function in the least controlling way (Eades 2000).
The concern in the early studies with the relative power (or lack of
power) of witnesses has remained central to many of the more recent
studies. A persistent theme concerns the strong power imbalance
between a witness on the one hand, and a lawyer and judge/magistrate
on the other, exemplified in such discourse features as these:
●
●
●
●
Witnesses are typically asked a large number of questions requiring
a minimal response.
Witnesses say very little compared to the verbosity of those questioning them.
The majority of questions put to witnesses contain already completed
propositions.
Witnesses are not in control of telling their own story.
In addition to question structure, researchers have found a number of
other linguistic strategies used by lawyers to exercise control over witnesses, including:
●
●
●
●
●
●
interruptions;
reformulation of a witness’s descriptions of events or people (e.g. from
my friends to a group of louts);
manipulation of lawyer silence, for example with the use of strategic
pauses;
incorporation of damaging presuppositions in questions, known in
the law as “leading questions” (such as Did you all laugh while the car was
being trashed?);
metalinguistic directives given to the witness (such as You must answer
this question);
management of topics in order to convey a particular impression to
the jury.
Witnesses who are particularly vulnerable to this situational control
include children, second language speakers, and speakers of non-standard
dialects. While there is research on second language and dialect speakers
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in court (see below), very little has been undertaken to date with children
(but see Brennan 1994, 1995). And a particular concern arises from detailed
discourse analysis of sexual assault cases: the courtroom hearing may be
so controlling and manipulative of the witness and so traumatic that the
process of giving evidence actually amounts to revictimization of the
victim-witness (e.g. Matoesian 1993).
While power has been a central concern in studies of courtroom talk
from the outset, the early studies relied on somewhat oversimplified
notions of power and control, consistent with sociolinguistic work in other
contexts. Power was seen in terms of one-sided situational domination of
lawyers over witnesses (in Walker’s 1987 terms, “linguistic power”). An
exception is found in Harris (1989), which took up the theorizing of societal power from the work of Foucault and other social theorists, to which
she brought much-needed empirical linguistic analysis. This analysis pertains to the issue of resistance to power and control, which Harris found
among defendants in a British magistrates court, who exercise some
situational power over those who question them, for example by asking
“counter-questions” or by interrupting their questioner.
All of these studies mentioned so far deal with situational power in the
courtroom: typically the power which lawyers or members of the judiciary exercise over witnesses, and in the case of Harris’ work, the power
which defendants exercise in resistance. While situational linguistic
inequality has been well documented, these studies have not addressed
the ways in which courtroom language use figures in the workings of
power at a broader societal level. But sociolinguistics can play an important role in exposing the actual mechanisms by which the legal system
often fails to deliver justice, as several studies of language and power
in the last decade or so have demonstrated. These studies are part of
the widespread “critical turn” in the social sciences, which began in the
later part of the twentieth century. While there is a range of critical
approaches, they all share a major aim, expressed by Blommaert (2005:
6) as “performing analyses that … expose and critique existing wrongs
in one’s society.” Several theoretical traditions that focus on situated language use are currently experiencing this critical turn, including interactional sociolinguistics, discourse analysis, linguistic anthropology,
and applied linguistics.
The “critical turn” has provided more refined concepts than had typically been used in most of the sociolinguistic work on language and
power. Some recent studies take a more nuanced and situated view of
power, and examine ways in which societal domination is accomplished
through courtroom talk. In particular, work by Matoesian (e.g. 1993,
2001) and Ehrlich (e.g. 2001) shows how the patriarchal social order is
reproduced through talk in rape trials, while Eades (2006, 2008) analyzes
the role of courtroom talk in ongoing neocolonial control of the state
over Aboriginal Australians.
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While both Matoesian and Ehrlich analyze talk in rape trials, they use
different sociolinguistic micro-analysis tools. Matoesian (1993) relies to a
considerable extent on conversation analysis (CA), in his examination of
such sequential strategies as lawyer control and manipulation of silence,
and the syntax of question–answer sequences (in which he draws on the
earlier hierarchies of question type, discussed above). However, he differs from many other scholars who work in CA (e.g. Drew 1992), particularly in his subordination of the CA analytical tools to a critical theory
framework. This enables him to address the question of how the patriarchal structure of the legal process generates the structure of talk in
the courtroom, which in turn maintains and reinforces the patriarchy.
So, his detailed micro-analysis of the situational struggle between rape
victim-witnesses and defense counsel in cross-examination is embedded
in a macro-sociological analysis of the societal struggle which is behind
this courtroom discourse.
Ehrlich also uses a critical approach to examine the reproduction of
societal power relations through courtroom language practices, in her
(2001) book about language in a rape trial and a university disciplinary
tribunal hearing, both of which examine the same rape allegations.
While Matoesian’s (1993) focus is on the ways in which courtroom language is used to revictimize rape victims (“reproducing rape”), Ehrlich’s
book examines the ways in which rape trial talk defines the victims
experiences, actually constructing the social reality of rape (“representing rape”). She shows how courtroom talk perpetuates the patriarchal
control of the legal system over rape victims, by controlling the ways
in which these victims can talk about their experiences. In contrast to
Matoesian’s use of CA, Ehrlich draws on critical discourse analysis, for
example in analyzing the linguistic means used to attribute non-agency
to the defendant, and agency to the complainant in the rape trial. The
agency of speakers is central to Ehrlich’s micro-analysis of the courtroom and tribunal interaction, but its analysis would be impossible
without the critical feminist theory of the legal system and society more
generally, in which it is embedded, and to which it makes an important
contribution.
In my current work (e.g. Eades 2004, 2006, 2008), I examine the ways
in which courtroom rules of evidence are used to perpetuate the neocolonial control of police over the freedom of movement of Australian
Aboriginal people. My critical sociolinguistic approach is characterized
by attention to ongoing struggles over power and resulting inequalities,
which requires an understanding of socio-legal research on neocolonialism and the criminalization of Aboriginal people. Micro-analysis
of the courtroom linguistic mechanisms which legitimize police abuse
of Aboriginal people provides a link between individual moments of
agency, and the perpetuation of structural inequalities. These linguistic mechanisms include asserted and presupposed propositions, lexical
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subsitutions, metapragmatic directives, and sarcasm. Sociolinguistic
analysis of these mechanisms reveals how the recontextualization of the
stories of victims within the constraints of courtroom rules of evidence
works to prevent them from correcting subtle and not so subtle changes,
distortions, and culturally biased presuppositions. This work challenges
assumptions about how language works (or language ideologies) which
underpin the adversarial legal process.
Another study of courtroom talk which takes a critical approach is
Philips’ (1998) analysis of the short speech event in which a defendant
pleads guilty to a charge, and a judge ascertains that this guilty plea conforms to legal requirements. Typically, these are that the guilty plea is
made with the defendant’s understanding of the nature of the charge, as
well as the nature and range of possible sentences, and the constitutional
rights which the defendant forgoes by pleading guilty, as well as the fact
that the defendant has the right to plead not guilty. This is a very short
and procedural event, basically a discussion in court between a defendant and a judge, with no tricky lawyer questions, and no witnesses. But
Philips’ careful discourse analysis of the ways in which judges check that
the guilty plea is made in conformity with legal requirements found patterned variation. This procedural diversity is tied up with the ideological
diversity she found during extensive ethnographic interviews with the
judges.
Judges with a liberal ideological stance hold the view that people are
not all equally capable of protecting their own liberty, and that the state
should take on the role of protector of human liberties, particularly for
powerless people. On the other hand, the judges with a conservative
ideological stance believe that all individuals are equally capable of taking care of themselves and don’t need the state to help. These judges
expressed the view that the state should interfere in the lives of individuals as little as possible. So, these ideologically conservative judges
follow the minimal requirements of case law, involving the defendant
as little as possible in questioning during the guilty plea, thus taking a
“record-oriented” approach. On the other hand, the judges who are more
ideologically liberal are more likely to vary the order of topics they ask
the defendant about, as well as the formulation of questions, consistent
with their concern to determine in each instance that the defendant
is pleading knowingly and voluntarily. (Philips termed this approach
“procedure-oriented”.) Philips’ conclusion is that even in the apparently
simple courtroom event of taking the plea, judges are practicing not only
law and courtroom control, but also politics.
A methodological feature of these studies which address the social
consequences of courtroom talk is their move from the examination
of isolated linguistic features, such as hedges, or individual question–
answer pairs, to longer stretches of courtroom discourse. Broadening
the scope of analysis to discourse, rather than decontextualized features,
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enables sociolinguists to address other questions concerning communication in the courtroom.
Using a research method which they term “ethnography of discourse,”
Conley and O’Barr (1990) carried out research in small claims (civil)
courts, where litigants present their case without a lawyer. This contrasts with most of the research on courtroom talk, which has been
done in criminal courts, where the highly adversarial nature of interactions results in constraints imposed by lawyers on what witnesses can
say. Conley and O’Barr’s small claims courts research was interested
in how litigants present their case when their courtroom participation
is not organized and constricted by lawyers. They found two different
approaches used by litigants in telling their story in court: Some present
their case, for example in a dispute between neighbors over who is liable
for damage caused by a fallen tree, in terms of people and their relationships, histories, and their general social conduct. This approach, which
Conley and O’Barr term the “relational” approach, contrasts with that
which they term “rule-oriented.” Litigants who take this latter approach
to telling their story in court are concerned with rules, duties, and obligations, an approach which is generally more consonant with the logic
of the legal process, and the legal concern with relevance. Interestingly,
not all judges in small claims courts use a rule-oriented approach, and
the greatest satisfaction appears to be experienced by litigants whose
approach most resembles that of the judge hearing their case. While
identifying these two approaches, Conley and O’Barr found that they
represent points at the extremes of a continuum of approaches.
Something similar was found in Heffer’s (2005) study, not of the ways
in which litigants or witnesses talk in court, but of “unidirectional communication” in court, namely the language used by judges and lawyers
in criminal trials, particularly language that is received by the jury. In
a dichotomy which is reminiscent of the “relational” vs. “rule” dichotomy of Conley and O’Barr’s litigants, and the “record-oriented” vs. “procedure-oriented” dichotomy of Philips’ judges, and the “powerful” vs.
“powerless” dichotomy of Conley and O’Barr’s witnesses, Heffer found
that there are two quite different ways of viewing a criminal trial: as
crime narrative or as legal argument. He exemplifies the ways in which
lawyers and judges balance these two different approaches in a careful linguistic analysis of a number of different kinds of courtroom
talk (including lawyers’ questions in examination-in-chief and crossexamination, and judges’ summing up and directions to the jury). So, for
example, in their summaries of the evidence, judges need to balance the
legal need to remain neutral, and the narrative desire to express their
point of view. Heffer analyzes some of the discourse strategies which
judges use in achieving this balance, which include intensification, normalization, hedging, attribution. and disclamation. Heffer discusses his
findings about different discourse approaches used in communicating
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with the jury in relation to discussions in the law about jury reform. This
work makes an important contribution to the central question of what it
is that makes legal language different. While this question has typically
been addressed in terms of morphosyntactic and lexical features of written legal language (e.g. Tiersma 1999), or of prepared (“pattern”) instructions to the jury, Heffer uses sociolinguistic analysis of oral courtroom
discourse structure to shed new light on this question.
21.2
Police interviews
The main focus of sociolinguistic research in police interviews has been
on issues of comprehension and comprehensibility. Most of this work
has dealt with interviews with suspects (referred to as “interrogations”
in the USA). The main concern has been with the ways in which suspects
are advised of their rights, for example to a lawyer, to an interpreter if
needed, and in most places (but not in the UK since 1994), to silence. The
communication of these rights is known in the USA as the Miranda warning. More generally, ways in which these rights are communicated to suspects can be referred to, following Rock (2007), as “rights texts,” and they
can be delivered orally or in writing, or in both modes. It is common for
rights texts to be delivered in formulaic language. Oral delivery is often
followed by a question such as Do you understand? Early linguistic interest
in this speech event was concerned mostly with the syntactic structure
of rights texts, and the ability of second-language-speaking suspects to
understand oral rights texts at the beginning of the police interview (e.g.
Brière 1978; Gibbons 1990, 2001).
Two sociolinguistic analyses have revealed a number of problems that
arise when a suspect’s rights are communicated to a second language
speaker through an interpreter, from English into French (Russell 2000)
and Japanese (Nakane 2007). Russell shows how an examination of the
difficulties experienced by interpreters with the complex language in
the original version highlights problems both in the original and in
attempts by police officers to explain. Nakane shows problems with the
ways in which police officers break the written caution into phrases suitable for consecutive oral interpreting.
In a large study in the UK, Rock (2007) goes beyond linguistic analysis
of the form of rights texts (i.e. the wording of these texts), to investigation of the ways in which rights texts are presented and explained,
and how detainees respond. Her sociolinguistic approach problematizes
“restrictive notions of comprehension and comprehensibility” (p. 12),
in which the text is examined without its users and contexts of use,
and it focuses on meaning-making both by police officers who deliver
the rights, and by detainees who receive them. Her multifaceted study
included observations of 52 detainees, of six different versions of the
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written rights text, and of the delivery of 151 oral cautions, and interviews with 48 police officers. One of the most interesting findings of this
research is that there is much more than explanation going on in the
seemingly highly regulated conversations surrounding detainees’ rights.
Rock shows how both police officers and detainees can also be variously
engaged in reassuring, persuading, making suggestions, empathizing,
learning, presenting identity, and showing affiliation. We can see from
this study that the communication of rights in police interviews involves
much more than the form of words used.
While the power asymmetry of police interviews is widely recognized,
it has not been a focus of most of the sociolinguistic research. However,
Berk-Seligson (2002) analyzes an interview with a Spanish-speaking suspect in which the interviewing officer also acted as interpreter, blurring
what should be two distinct roles, and using coercion to elicit a confession. And Ainsworth’s lengthy (1993) law journal article addresses the
“pragmatics of powerlessness” in US police interviews, through an examination of a large number of appeals relating to the issue of whether
particular suspects had waived their Miranda rights (e.g. to silence, or
to a lawyer). Ainsworth shows how the legal doctrine which underpins
the exercise of these rights privileges a direct, assertive speaking style,
for example saying to the police officer I want to have a lawyer here. But,
taking up on sociolinguistic writings in the 1970s and 1980s on the tendencies of women to communicate in a less assertive, more indirect style
than men, Ainsworth argues that women are disadvantaged by this pragmatic difference. A statement like I think I need a lawyer, which contains
a hedge (I think), can be ignored in a police interview, because it is not
seen as not clear and unambiguous. While Ainsworth refers to the less
assertive, more indirect style as the “female register,” she believes that it
is also used by members of certain ethnic communities and people who
are “socio-economically powerless,” consistent with the findings of the
Duke courtroom research, discussed above. This important pragmatic
issue raised by Ainsworth is yet to be researched for other social and
cultural groups (but see the discussion of related issues for Australian
and Canadian Aborigines below). In a new analysis of more recent cases,
Ainsworth (2008) is concerned not with gender differences, but with linguistic ideologies which underlie the legal insistence on the use of such
bald and completely unmodified imperatives as Give me a lawyer or I want a
lawyer in order to exercise this constitutional right. Ainsworth finds, for
example, that language is seen to be “essentially a transparent and objective medium of communication” and that the dominant view is that it is
“entirely fair to require speakers to conform to objective norms of communication, as those norms are imagined by the courts” (2008: 16–17).
Based on this view of how language works, the legal rules governing the
Miranda rights are “applied acontextually, without regard for either conversational implicature or for the ways in which power asymmetry may
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affect register selection.” Similar issues are also addressed by Solan and
Tiersma (2005).
21.3
Second language and second dialect speakers
The focus of this chapter so far has been on monolingual interactions in
legal contexts. But some of the most important sociolinguistic work on
language and the law has examined second language and second dialect
speakers, predominantly in courtroom hearings or police interviews.
International law guarantees the right to an interpreter for accused
persons who do not speak the language of the legal system. However,
such protection is not necessarily extended to witnesses or jurors, or to
complainants, or litigants in civil matters. Some courts do also provide
interpreters for witnesses, although this is not consistent, and it is not
generally protected by law. And in a few rare jurisdictions, interpreters
are provided for jurors. This contrasts with the much more common situation where it is not possible to serve on a jury if you do not speak the
dominant language.
Beginning with Berk-Seligson’s important (1990) book, several sociolinguists have examined bilingual courtrooms, using microlinguistic analysis to shed light on how interpreting works in the highly constrained
speech situation of the courtroom (e.g. Cooke 1995; Berk-Seligson 1999;
Hale 1999, 2004; Moeketsi 1999). These studies have found that courtroom
constraints present many challenges on top of the already complicated
task of providing in a target language an instant oral translation of what
someone has said in the source language. For example, slight differences
in expression can be used by a lawyer to trick a witness, or to develop a
strategy in which a witness can be shown to be inconsistent. But there are
a great number of texts for which the nuances possible in one language
may not be easily translated into another with exactly parallel nuances.
In addition to linguistic challenges such as this, there are cognitive
challenges, for example relating to the difficulties faced by interpreters
in remembering exactly what has been said, and translating every part
of it with full accuracy, while not omitting or adding anything, or changing the emphasis attached to any particular part. Several researchers
have found evidence supporting the observation of Hale and Gibbons
(1999) that interpreters are more likely to achieve accuracy in interpreting utterances or parts of utterances which deal with the external reality
or the propositional content of questions (e.g. the events about which the
witness is being questioned), than the courtroom or pragmatic reality
(e.g. the discourse markers which index the questioner’s stance of sarcasm) (see also Hale 2004).
Research on courtroom interpreting problematizes the widespread
view within the legal system that the provision of an interpreter can
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place the second language speaker on an even footing with witnesses
who speak the dominant language. Many legal practitioners view interpreters as equivalent to language machines, and it is common for courts
to treat them as effectively invisible. But sociolinguistic studies show
that the presence of an interpreter brings a new dynamic into courtroom
interaction. At times the interpreter can be necessarily quite intrusive,
as, for example, when the utterances requiring interpretation are confusing, and the interpreter has to ask clarifying questions. And the use
of any interpreter necessitates that lengthy utterances are avoided, or
broken up to facilitate consecutive interpreting.
Studies of courtroom interpreting have highlighted a number of deficiencies in the ways in which the rights of second language speakers
to equality in the law are protected. The central role of interpreters to
the proper functioning of the legal system is generally unrecognized,
with interpreters being typically quite poorly paid, and afforded little
professional respect. In my discussions with legal professionals, I note
that while some lawyers, judges, and magistrates are happy to “work
with” interpreters, many talk about “using” interpreters, an interesting
insight into the way in which their participation in the legal process is
undervalued. Further, the fact that interpreters are frequently poorly
paid, and have to work on a part-time sessional basis, means that legal
interpreting work is rarely viable as a career option. It is thus done either
by qualified and skilled interpreters in addition to their full-time work,
or by people who are unable to find other employment. Another issue
relates to expectations placed on interpreters by the different parties
involved in adversarial courtroom hearings. While legal professionals
often expect an interpreter to be an invisible “language machine,” witnesses may view the interpreter as an ally or advocate, especially when
he or she is the only other person who speaks the witness language. The
first expectation is unrealistic and reflects a lack of understanding of the
interactional nature of interpreting. The second expectation is contrary
to the ethics of interpreting, and the legal rules under which courtroom
interpreting works, and it reflects a lack of understanding of the interpreter’s role.
While all second language speakers face disadvantage in the legal process, within this group Deaf people experience additional disadvantage,
as many people do not recognize that Deaf sign languages are autonomous languages. Sociolinguistic research is still in its early days (see
Lucas 2003), but is already shedding light on such issues as the misunderstandings which may arise when hearing people, for example police
officers, jurors, and judges, fail to recognize differences between spoken
and sign language in the interpretation of specific facial expressions
(Castelle 2003).
While second language users, including Deaf people, often have access
to interpreter services, the situation of second dialect speakers’ access
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to justice is more complex. Although communication difficulties are not
as extreme as with second language speakers, in some ways second dialect speakers can be at a greater disadvantage, especially when they are
speakers of an unstandardized dialect which is stigmatized and denigrated in the society generally. They are often wrongly assumed to be
speakers of the dominant language, or people who are too uneducated,
lazy, or ignorant to speak “properly,” and such assumptions can impact
not only on understanding, but also on character assessment, both of
which are fundamental to the legal process.
This negative relationship between the use of a non-standard dialect and legal reactions to its speakers is revealed in Jacquemet’s (1992)
study of dialect use in the large mid-1980s trial of Mafia gang members
(camorra) from the Naples area of Italy. Defense lawyers tried to impugn
the credibility of prosecution witnesses on the basis of their use of nonstandard dialect in their courtroom testimony. However, this use of dialect caused no comprehension difficulties for any of the participants, and
the judge refused to disallow its use.
Despite the indications that in many countries a large number of participants in the legal process are likely to be speakers of non-standard
dialects, there is remarkably little relevant research. Indeed, although
African-Americans in the USA are imprisoned at a much higher rate
than white Americans, there is virtually no (socio)linguistic research
which examines African-American interactions in the legal process. And
Morrow’s (1993, 1996) work with Yup’ik Alaskans shows that even when
they speak “local Yup’ik influenced English,” the norms of interaction
relating to the management of talk are fundamentally different from
those of mainstream American? speakers of English. This has serious
consequences for the delivery of justice, particularly in relation to the
central role of interviews in the legal process, and the sociolinguistic
mismatch with Yup’ik ways of speaking.
Most of the research on speakers of non-standard dialects in legal contexts has focused on Australian Aborigines, who are twenty times more
likely to come into contact with the criminal justice system than nonAboriginal people (Findlay, Odgers & Yeo 2005: 326). Discourse analysis
of Aboriginal English speakers in legal contexts highlights a number of
pragmatic features which are largely unrecognized or misinterpreted,
and which clearly affect their dealings with the law. For example, in contrast to the Anglo legal system and society generally, where silence in an
interview is generally taken to mean that a speaker has nothing to say,
many speakers of Aboriginal English (as well as traditional Aboriginal languages) use silence as a positive and productive part of communication.
But this use of silence is often not understood by legal professionals – of
whom very few are Aboriginal – and considerable miscommunication
can arise in legal interviews, whether in a lawyer’s office, a police station, or a courtroom. Many people who interview Aboriginal people are
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unaware that their answer will often begin with a silence. Not hearing
an immediate reply to the question, the interviewer often moves on to
another question. In effect, the interviewer has interrupted the first part
of the reply and thus prevented the Aboriginal interviewee from providing an answer (see Eades 1992, 2007).
The Australian Aboriginal use and interpretation of silence is relevant
to Ainsworth’s (1993) call for the legal process to examine pragmatic differences in the ways in which suspects respond to the communication of
their rights in custodial interviews. Her suggestion, discussed above, that
the less assertive, more indirect style, which she terms the “female register,” is also used by members of certain ethnic communities and people
who are “socio-economically powerless” is borne out in Fadden’s (2007)
analysis of Canadian Aboriginal English speaking suspects. Fadden finds
that, in contrast to non-Aboriginal suspects, the Aboriginal suspects say
very little in police interviews, and that when they do directly address
the investigating officer, they are non-confrontational and use hedges.
Speakers of second dialects are often also members of sociocultural
groups that differ significantly from the dominant group. Thus, some
of the disadvantage faced by second dialect speakers relates to a lack of
understanding by legal professionals of relevant aspects of their lifestyle
and culture. Eades (2000) shows how this lack of understanding can be
compounded by an obsession on the part of judges and lawyers with the
discourse structure of the court, resulting in the silencing of Aboriginal
people in court.
There is still much research to be done in relation to speakers of second
dialects and people in other cultural minorities in many countries. A
related issue concerns speakers of pidgin and creole languages, whose
sociolinguistic situation has many similarities with those of second dialect speakers. Many people are unaware of the distinction between a
pidgin or creole language on the one hand and its lexifier language on the
other, and thus the same issues arise concerning ignorance about differences in language and communicative style, as well as frequent prejudice
against speakers. Brown-Blake and Chambers (2007) show how the lack of
understanding of differences between Jamaican Creole and English leads
to communication problems in police interviews in the UK.
21.4
Lawyer interviews
Another important legal context is one which has received little attention from sociolinguists, namely the lawyer interview. As with police
interviews, confidentiality issues make this a complicated area in which
to negotiate research access. But the role of lawyers in reformulating the
stories of their clients to fit legal frameworks means that this could be
a fruitful context for future research. As Conley and O’Barr (1990: 176)
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put it: “Most lawyers spend most of their time trying to understand problems stated in lay terms and transform them to meet the requirements
of legal discourse” (see also Maley et al. 1995).
Lawyers’ focus on this role can result in miscommunication between
them and their clients. Sarat and Felstiner’s (1990) study found that
lawyers in divorce cases mostly talk past their clients. An Israeli study
(Bogoch 1994) of lawyer–client interviews in a legal-aid office examined
the interpersonal nature of the interaction. On the basis of her examination of a number of linguistic features (including conversational openings, expression of emotion and forms of address), Bogoch concluded that
these interviews were conducted in an authoritarian approach, which
was characterized by professional dominance, neutrality, and distance.
The groundbreaking work on lawyer interviews has been done by
Trinch (e.g. 2003) who examines interviews by lawyers and paralegals
with Latina survivors of domestic abuse in the USA. Over a period of
thirteenth months in two different cities, Trinch observed and recorded
163 protective order interviews, and she also did ethnographic research
in nine agencies that support battered women. A major theme of her
analysis concerns the discrepancies between the women’s oral stories
and the written affidavits, produced by the interviewers, to be used in
seeking a protective order from the courts. Trinch’s study has found that
although the lawyers and paralegals enable the women’s stories to be
heard by the court, they are at the same time transforming the stories
and selecting those parts of them that they consider important to the
legal process. This results in the silencing or distortion of parts of the
women’s stories. For example, in order to present the women as “victims” rather than “survivors,” the written affidavits remove any details
of their agency, for example in trying to stand up to their abuser, and
thus significant aspects of the women’s identity and actions are removed
or altered. Trinch’s analysis addresses the politics of disadvantage, showing that the women’s powerlessness is reproduced by the ways in which
their stories are distorted. In this way, a temporary and individual solution can be found to the widespread societal problem of violence against
women. While Trinch’s research is with Latina women, her work does
not suggest that the role of language in reproducing the powerlessness of
survivors of domestic abuse is limited to this sociocultural group.
21.5
Alternative legal processes
Sociolinguists have not yet paid much attention to alternative legal settings, such as mediation, despite increasing interest in the legal profession and the community generally in alternatives to the formal legal
system. It has been suggested by sociolegal scholars that the communicative assumptions and practices used in mediation can disadvantage
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women, and particularly black women in the USA (as reported in
Conley & O’Barr 1998). But in Greatbatch and Dingwall’s (1999) conversation analysis of one particular divorce mediation setting, the selective facilitation approach of the mediators favors the outcome sought
by the wife. Although mediator impartiality is seen as central to the
philosophy and practice of mediation, Greatbatch and Dingwall’s fi negrained analysis questions what they term “a false opposition between
neutrality and bias” (1999: 639). It would be fruitful to extend this
work on the discursive management of mediator impartiality – which
they term “neutralism” – to intercultural mediation, especially where
second language and second dialect speakers are involved.
Mediation is one of many alternatives to formal courts, which also
include healing circles, indigenous courts, family group conferences,
youth justice conferences, and circle sentencing. Regarded by many
sociolegal scholars and criminal justice practitioners as central to muchneeded reform of an adversary system that is seen to be “out of control” (Conley & O’Barr 1998: 138), these alternatives to formal courts have
introduced a restorative approach to criminal justice, juvenile justice,
and family law. Much of the inspiration for these new developments has
come from traditional indigenous law practices, particularly from New
Zealand and Canada.
These innovative restorative justice hearings are new and still pilot
projects in many jurisdictions, but they should be important settings for
sociolinguistic research in the future. From my understanding of the new
indigenous sentencing court in New South Wales (Australia), there are
important ways in which its discourse structure differs from traditional
courts. In “circle sentencing,” as this new court is named, there is no
rigid control of discourse structure. While the magistrate convenes the
circle, and acts as the facilitator, the aim is to encourage participants to
talk, not to control their contributions. Thus, the talk is free-flowing, and
typically participants often take long turns. Repetition is not a problem,
and relevance is not an issue – there is a widespread recognition that the
issues facing the circle are complex, and interrelated, and that many factors need to be considered. But, being sentencing hearings for defendants
who have already pleaded guilty, or been found guilty, they replace hearings in which there is often a reduced role for cross-examination. Thus,
no matter how successful and popular such sentencing courts become, it
is hard to see how they can replace trials, where cross-examination is an
essential ingredient to the presumption of innocence until proven guilty,
which is the cornerstone of the common law legal system.
21.6
A common theme: entextualization and power
While sociolinguistic studies of language in legal contexts began almost
three decades ago with a major focus on situational power, a common
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theme in contemporary work revolves around storytelling and retelling, and connects to the current wider interest in sociolinguistics and
linguistic anthropology in the entextualization of stories. Much of this
work addresses the power relationships involved in these processes.
Entextualization is defined by Bauman and Briggs (1990: 73) as “the process of rendering discourse extractable, of making a stretch of linguistic
production into a unit – a text – that can be lifted out of its interactional
setting.” To oversimplify, we can think of entextualization as involving
decontextualization – taking discourse out of one context, and recontextualization – recasting it in another context (see also Blommaert 2005).
Entextualization is examined in sociolinguistic studies of language in
the legal process in the following contexts:
1.
the transformations and omissions made in the process of the production of police suspect and witness statements (e.g. Jönsson & Linell
1991; Rock 2001; Komter 2006) and affidavits produced from lawyer
interviews (Trinch 2003);
2. the ways in which witnesses are questioned in court about earlier
accounts (e.g. from police interviews, or examination-in-chief) (e.g.
Matoesian 2001; Cotterill 2002a; Eades 2008);
3. the ways in which courts ask second-language-speaking witnesses to
recognize a translated account of an earlier interview as their own
account, and then to face detailed cross-examination, not on what
they said, but on what the law counts as their actual words – namely,
the interpreted version (e.g. Cooke 1995; Maryns 2006);
4. the ways in which the stories of asylum-seekers are repackaged and
retold as they go through the bureaucratic and legal steps in verifying their claims to refugee status (Maryns 2006). Maryns demonstrates the “filtering process” by which significant elements of
asylum-seekers’ stories are sometimes transformed or deleted, and
the consequences for their chance of escape from persecution.
What all of these studies show is that the legal system ignores the
co-constructed nature of the stories which are presented in legal proceedings. While the stories have been produced interactionally, for example
in a police interview, they are treated as the product of an individual.
But as they are reformulated and recycled throughout the legal process
and shaped by the interviewer’s questions, any discrepancy between the
original telling and later entextualization of it can form the basis for discrediting a person’s credibility and truthfulness, by showing that their
story is inconsistent. However, as Matoesian (2001) argues, this inconsistency is not necessarily an attribute or failing of an individual: it is
interactively constituted and sustained. The failure of the legal system
to recognize the ways in which inconsistency is achieved are dealt with
in several of the studies mentioned above, in terms of the power relationships involved. Rape victims, asylum-seekers, victims of family violence, and Aboriginal Australians are among the groups of people whose
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attempts to tell and retell their story in the legal process can be seriously
compromised by what Matoesian (2001: 68) labels the “linguistic ideology of inconsistency.”
21.7
Conclusion: applying sociolinguistics
in the legal system
This chapter closes with brief consideration of two different ways in
which sociolinguistic research is applied in the legal system.
21.7.1 Forensic (socio)linguistics
A number of sociolinguists, including this author, were originally motivated to do research in legal contexts following involvement in one or
more specific legal cases in which they were asked to prepare an expert
witness report. For example, more than two decades ago I analyzed dialectal differences in a case in which a speaker of Aboriginal English
claimed that the allegedly verbatim confession attributed to him was
not in his words (Eades 1993). Presentation of linguistic expert evidence
in legal proceedings is referred to as forensic linguistics, using this term
in its narrow sense. The term is also used more broadly to refer to linguistic research in legal contexts. Any area of (socio)linguistics can have
a forensic application. In order to do forensic (socio)linguistics, a person
must qualify as a (socio)linguist, specializing in a particular area, such
as Aboriginal English, or second language comprehension, or a method,
such as conversation analysis. This topic is examined and illustrated in
Coulthard and Johnson (2007), and Solan and Tiersma (2005).
21.7.2 Sociolinguistic activism and legal education
Another way in which sociolinguists turn research into practice (Rock
2007: 245) is in arguing for or working on aspects of reform to sociolinguistic practices in the legal process, or the education of legal professionals about language use. Central to this applied sociolinguistic work are
partnerships between linguists on the one hand, and legal professionals
and organizations on the other. A few examples of this work follow:
Rock (2007) used her research findings in work on revisions to the written explanation of rights and entitlements of detainees in UK custodial
interviews, (see also Gibbons 2001 for the application of linguistic analysis of the police caution in one Australian state in the rewriting of this
rights text). Rock’s practical work was done in conjunction with a police
sergeant whose task was to produce a revised version for national distribution. However, the final version distributed to police stations involved
alterations made without consultation with either the sergeant or Rock,
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which resulted in making the document unnecessarily complex, with
problematic sentences as “The police will help you get in contact with a
solicitor for you” (Rock 2007: 259).
Eades (1992) wrote a handbook for lawyers about communicating with
speakers of Aboriginal English in the legal system. This handbook is
widely used in law schools and legal practices, and cited in judgments.
In Eades (2004, 2008) I discuss the complex issues involved in its use.
Despite my intention that it should be a tool for more effective communication in the legal process, in one particular case it appeared to be used
in misconstruing the evidence of Aboriginal witnesses, thus providing a
telling lesson about the politics of intercultural communication. A tool
which had been designed to assist with intercultural communication
in the legal system can become subordinated to the political struggle
for neocolonial control by the state over the movements of Aboriginal
people.
There has been growing (socio)linguistic concern in a number of countries about the ways in which immigration departments use so-called
“language analysis” in order to assess the claims made by asylum-seekers
about their national origins (e.g. Eades & Arends 2004; Corcoran 2004;
Maryns 2004; Singler 2004). The assumptions on which this analysis
are often based are generally problematic – for example, ignoring such
sociolinguistic realities as bilingual language practices (including codeswitching and language-mixing), and language diffusion and change.
(Socio)linguists have been asked to give expert evidence in such cases,
when they go to an appeal court. An international groups of nineteen linguists and sociolinguists from six countries – the Language and National
Origin Group – developed a set of plain language guidelines to be used
by government officials, lawyers, and refugee advocates in assessing
the usefulness of such language analysis reports, and when such analysis should not be undertaken (Eades 2005a). The Guidelines have been
cited in some legal appeals against immigration department decisions in
Australia (Eades 2005a). Members of the group have also lobbied governments in their own countries about the misuse of “language analysis,”
and in this way have engaged in (socio)linguistic activism.
The research on sociolinguistics and the law which has been introduced in this chapter is dealt with more fully in Eades (2010). Future
sociolinguistic research in legal contexts is likely to continue to impact
on the legal process, as the reflexive relationship between research and
practice develops, along with greater interdisciplinarity and multidisciplinarity, and a growing tendency of legal practitioners to study linguistics, and linguists to study law.
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22
Language and the media
Susan McKay
22.1 Introduction
It should not be surprising that, given the pervasiveness of the mass
media and their potential ability to influence social and cultural understandings, a range of approaches employing differing research agendas
has engaged with the study of media language. Along with researchers
from media studies, cultural studies, sociology, education, and psychology, communication researchers and sociolinguists have been interested in the ways the media use language as part of their communicative
process but also how the media reflect and shape the experiences and
realities of everyday life, although the various disciplines and fields
configure their data differently and ask different questions. The study
of media is increasingly considered as part of the sociolinguistic enterprise, not just through attention to the lexico-grammatical features or
structural aspects of media texts, but in discursive terms to demonstrate
connections between texts, discourse practices, and sociocultural or political contexts, and to uncover something of the underlying influences
on their production, presentation, and reception.
The mass media encompass print (newspapers and magazines) and
electronic or broadcast media (including radio and television), with the
Internet and various computer-based technologies included, although
many of these, such as email, instant messaging, and online chat
would more properly be termed interpersonal media. Classification of
the media in terms of their communicative functions through relationships with their intended audiences permits useful distinctions
to be made between and across various forms of media communication. However, there is no distinct sociolinguistic approach to media
language. Researchers interested in language as used in the media
have considered instances of language in use by applying linguistic
concepts in isolation, or in combination with semiotic or discursive
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approaches to complement and expand approaches from media and
cultural studies.1
This chapter indicates three major approaches to media that demonstrate connections to a broad sociolinguistic enterprise – semiotics,
critical discourse analysis, and conversation analysis – before turning to a discussion of some media discourse genres. These approaches
are not mutually exclusive. Semiotics, in particular, has contributed
ways of understanding media language that have influenced the other
approaches. These approaches are not, of course, the only possibilities
for the study of media, rather they represent those that have a clear path
through linguistic theory and application and which have supplied a
range of conceptual tools for analyzing the structures and functions of
language in media contexts.
22.2 Semiotics
Semiotics can be used to consider media language as part of a sign system, or as a process of communication with complex social and cultural
influences affecting how media texts are produced and understood.
Marcel Danesi’s work on media semiotics (2002) provides an extensive
overview of semiotic theory from its foundations in the writings of
Aristotle, through the work of Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure and
the American philosopher Charles S. Peirce on the nature of signification, to its development and application to artifacts of popular culture
by Roland Barthes and then to more recent work by Thomas Sebeok and
Umberto Eco and others. This trajectory traces the ways in which semiotic theory, which was developed as a way of thinking about how meaning is produced in language, has come to have such a lasting influence in
the analysis of visual media through its application to advertisements,
film, and television.
In semiotic terms, one of the key differences between verbal language and images as signs is the relative arbitrariness of the relationship
between the signifier and the signified in language (between the word
and the concept it evokes) and its dependance on systematic association
and accepted convention through a process of signification rather than
any apparent natural correspondence (although onomatopoetic words
are an exception). As speech operates progressively, so then meaning is
created syntagmatically in terms of word order, but also paradigmatically through word choice. Saussure’s principles of structural linguistics
focusing on the rules of language (langue) rather than on speech ( parole)
have been abstracted for use in analyzing many kinds of “signs” and signifying practices in advertisements, popular culture, photography, and
film. Semiotic analysis can be used to unpack levels of meaning by investigating the relationship between signs and their signifieds, as well as
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the relationship among the signs in a text, to determine the range of possible interpretations. By investigating signs, semiotics can make explicit
the rules and codes that underpin them.
When applied to media texts, a semiotic approach is able to emphasize and problematize the process of representation, in other words,
to look beyond the manifest content of texts to investigate underlying
meanings or latent content through the connotative levels of their signifiers. Stuart Hall noted the polysemic potential of media texts to signify
multiple connotations. However, he has drawn attention to the way that
these are not equally available to decoders but depend on social and
cultural constraints which provide varying degrees of closure according
to domains of dominant codes and definitions.2 Using a television newscast as an example, he puts forward a series of positions for decoding
media texts which have become influential in understandings of how
media texts act ideologically, especially in work on cultural studies: the
first where the connoted meaning is taken “full and straight” where the
meaning is interpreted within the code in which it was created (i.e. as a
dominant reading); the second where he acknowledges that most audiences would be aware of dominant defi nitions, especially those that try
to connect events to large views and the national interest but nevertheless adapt the meaning to their own situations within the hegemonic
constraints of the dominant code (a negotiated reading); and the third
as a contrary reading using some alternative frame of reference or code
(an oppositional reading). Hall’s approach has been influential in reconceptualizing media audiences as active interpreters rather than passive
recipients.
While some semiotic analyses remain focused on uncovering connotative meanings in a range of media texts including advertisements, or on
furthering structuralist approaches in applications to studies of narrative in television and film editing, others have become more concerned
with higher-level organization of texts. Under the title, social semiotics, Kress, Hodge, and van Leeuwen have developed conceptual tools
for analyzing texts which use combinations of semiotic modes such as
writing, images, and sound to generate meaning (see Hodge and Kress
1988; van Leeuwen 2005). Although originally grounded in critical linguistics, much of the recent work has become centred on the concept of
multi-modality, which places language as but one of the semiotic modes
available in communication and representation, and where the choice of
genre itself acts as a signifier and has meaning. It is here that the social
semiotics approach asserts its difference from mainstream linguistics
and an emphasis on meaning as separable from form. Instead, social
semiotics challenges what has been taken as the arbitrary and conventional relationship between signifiers and their signifieds, arguing for
examinations of the motivations of signs through the affordances associated with genre and mode, and their cultural and social histories.
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22.3
399
Critical discourse analysis
Discourse analysis is an umbrella term for a range of approaches to the
study of language including those that take a predominantly linguistic
approach, and those that take a more applied or critical approach to take
account of ideology and power in the representation of social reality (see
Bell & Garrett 1998; Titscher et al. 2000; Schiffrin et al. 2001; Phillips &
Jørgensen 2002). The trajectory of much of the latter work has stemmed
from concerns to understand media texts and reading practices in terms
of discursive practices, and the wider social and cultural order. Probably
the most influential work in the discourse analysis of media texts has
been in the area of critical discourse analysis (CDA), which has offered
insights into the ideological workings of the media, especially around
questions relating to power, equity, and social change. CDA has developed into an interdisciplinary movement, with scholars from a range
of fields contributing their expertise to their theoretical and descriptive
understandings of how dominance and power relations are reproduced
in language, although at times the approach and the political inflections
in it have attracted criticism.3
The critical discourse analysis movement derives its theoretical frameworks from Althusser’s theories of ideology, Bakhtin’s theory of genre,
the writings of Gramsci, the traditions of the Frankfurt School, and in
some but not all cases, Foucault’s understanding of power (Titscher et al.
2000: 144–45). It shares with systemic functional linguistics and critical
linguistics a concern to use linguistic analysis as the basis for social critique, using elements of language as evidence of ideological and social
processes. Over the past twenty years, critical discourse analysis has come
to encompass the work of Norman Fairclough, and the social-cognitive
approaches of Teun A.van Dijk and Ruth Wodak, among others.
Fairclough and Wodak (1997) outline CDA as understanding discourse
as a form of social practice where a discursive event is shaped by the
situations, institutions, and social structures that surround it so that
its focus is not so much on the use of language but on the linguistic
nature of social processes and structures. Fairclough has produced an
extensive body of work developing this approach to CDA based on the
connections between language and other aspects of social life. For him,
the analysis of a communicative event involves the understandings of
the relationships between the text (using functional linguistics to give
a detailed description), discourse practice (how the text is produced and
consumed), and sociocultural practice (how the text is situated in wider
social and cultural structures), asserting that detailed textual analysis
alone is not sufficient (Fairclough 1995a: 57–68). Much of his early work
was on media texts and factual genres, especially the news, as he developed and refined his approach and methodology. In contrast, van Dijk’s
approach to CDA is based on a social-cognitive dimension. Part of his
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considerable research as a discourse analyst has been his work on news
texts (1988), which shows how schematic structures of texts (at both the
macro-level of the organization of the news story, and at the micro-level
of the semantic, syntactical, and lexical choices) can influence content.
His early work on racism in the press (1991), which demonstrated how
news practices and language contributed to power and domination and
the reproduction of racism, has provided a starting point for many other
studies.
CDA scholars tend to focus on social problems and consider themselves and their analyses as agents for social change by uncovering
and critiquing situations of oppression and inequality based on criteria
that might be used to differentiate or marginalize people, like gender,
age, ethnicity, religion, or sexual orientation. By categorizing groups of
people together and attributing them with a group identity based on
stereotypical characteristics, and by using language which foregrounds
“our” in-group characteristics positively while presenting “their” outgroup characteristics negatively, discrimination can be perpetuated.
The concern to investigate the discursive reproduction of discrimination
through textual representations of us and them underpins the CDA
approach to the study of minorities and marginalized groups.
While many of the studies using CDA approaches tend to be language
focused, it is accepted that the relationship between language, image,
and sound are integral to the understanding of media discourse, and the
social semiotic approach multi-modal text analysis (Kress & van Leeuwen
2001) is also included as an important contribution to this field. Van
Leeuwen (2000) shows how visual racism can operate in texts by showing members of some social groups always as a group in identical poses
and without depicting them as individuals with unique characteristics.
He argues that this kind of visual representation creates a “they are all
the same” or “you can’t tell them apart” effect.
22.4
Conversation analysis
In contrast to those approaches which emphasize critical readings of
media texts, Conversation analysis (CA) looks at routine practices of
social interaction evident in the media. In the CA approach, talk in interaction is a fundamental way in which to understand everyday life (see
Hutchby & Wooffitt 1998). The approach owes much to the study of faceto-face interaction outlined in the work of Erving Goffman in his formal
study of talk, especially through his notions of face, footing, and frame,
and to the work of Harold Garfinkel on the nature of shared understandings in everyday interactions. Harvey Sacks and Emanuel Schegloff used
Goffman and Garfinkel’s work to develop the foundations of CA, based on
the understanding that social action is orderly and that talk is organized
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not randomly but through sequential ordering of turn-taking. CA is
interested in the way that turns at talk are planned and organized to
perform actions and how they are to be understood in a particular way.
Turns at talk are meant to be recognized as such by the participants, and
their interactions can be understood in terms of expectations and rules.
Initially, CA focused on ordinary conversation but has extended its focus
to a range of institutional forms of talk and social interaction, including
doctor–patient interactions, classroom interaction, courtroom, political
interviews, and court proceedings.
Much of the research into broadcast talk as interaction applies methods and concepts from conversation analysis. Rather than offer critical
readings of media talk, this approach focuses on the instances and routine practices of spoken interaction on radio and television, emphasizing
the organization and relational aspects of how interactions are accomplished within the media context. In contrast with other approaches
which link structural institutional constraints to the production of
media texts, a CA approach emphasizes the specialized nature of media
talk and aims to understand the role that the participants undertake in
maintaining it.
CA investigations rely on recordings of talk, and in order to capture the
details that help organize the interaction and make it intelligible, most
CA analyses use a transcription notation system which represents the
basic features and approximates the texture of the conversation in terms
of its prosody and turn-taking (for example, by using brackets to indicate overlap, numbers in parenthesis to indicate the length of silences in
tenths of seconds, underscoring for stress).4
22.5
Media discourse genres
As stated earlier, there is no single sociolinguistic approach to the study
of media language, but investigations of language in the media can
reflect sociolinguistic interests.
The output of particular media can be described in terms of different forms or genres (for example, newspaper content can be divided up
into news stories, feature articles, opinion pieces, editorials, advertisements, etc.). This type of generic classification enables comparisons to
be made across different media, permitting, for example, print news to
be compared with broadcast or internet news, radio interviews with television interviews, or print advertising with advertising in other media,
as a way of understanding the impact of the medium and its technological constraints on the nature of the communication. Media can also
be classified, depending on their principal communicative purpose, as
persuasive (advertising), informative (like news stories or documentaries), entertaining (television dramas or soap operas), expressive (weblogs),
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social (messaging and chat) etc., so that once classified, a medium (or a
genre) can be considered in terms of its influence on how language is
structured and used. In these ways, argues Herring (2003), a medium
can be taken as an independent variable or as a contextual factor, where
the dependent variable, as the focus of study, is a linguistic element. The
media produce a variety of forms both using written and spoken modes
as well as visual images and thus supply a range of discourse types for
study. However, media genres often exhibit a degree of hybridity too,
and converging technologies and intertextual borrowings along with the
complexities stemming from multi-modal domains open up other possibilities and approaches to media discourse.
The next section focuses on just three: advertising, news, and media
talk, taking them as the most prominent semiotic and linguistic formations in recent media study.
22.6
Advertising discourse
The language of advertising is the language of persuasion, extolling the
virtues of particular products or services, exhorting people to change
their behavior (perhaps to give up smoking, or to save water), or to vote
for a particular political candidate. Advertising relies on sophisticated
marketing research into the demographic characteristics of the target
audience, including age, sex, occupations, a measure of their interests,
habits, values and aspirations, or some other determinant of the social
groups to which they belong. Web advertising promises even more exactitude with the possibility of tailoring advertising according to users’
past search histories.
Advertising covers a variety of forms and modes: print advertising
makes use of written language and visual elements; radio advertising
uses spoken language and music or sound effects; television advertising uses written language, moving images, speech, and music; web
advertising in banners and pop-ups can use all these modes too. At the
heart of advertising is the signifying structure of the elements that
constitute the message. This type of structuralist understanding owes
much to Saussurian semiology and Peircean semiotic study, although
neither was especially concerned with the social use of signs, their
production processes and practices, their cultural context, or their
reception by their audiences.
Advertisements work ideologically by building relationships between
the producer/advertiser and the audience, establishing images of their
products, and by building the consumer through the subject positions
they construct. Since both the producer and the audience are relatively
indeterminate (the producer as a complex speaking position and the
receivers as a mass audience), Fairclough argues that both need to be
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personalized in advertisements. This can be accomplished through the
use of direct address and the use of ordinary language, which simulate
conversation and minimize the sense of distance between the advertiser
and the consumer. Product image can be built up through the assertion
of facts with positive connotations. This is achieved visually through the
association of appealing images, and verbally through word choice and
even the accent of the person uttering the lines. The subject positions
constructed for consumers are based on the needs, values, and tastes
depicted in the advertisement so that consumers become inscribed by
the advertisement as members of the same group or consumption community (Fairclough 1989: 202–11).
Since advertising is used across such a range of media, advertisers are
able to deploy creative combinations of written language, spoken language, images, and sound to market their products. Rhetorical devices
including the use of imperatives, figurative language, euphemisms,
appeals to common sense or to the emotions, evidence from scientificsounding studies, alliterative slogans, puns, hyperbole, brevity, ellipsis,
but also abstract and unprovable claims designed to activate consumers’
aspirations and dreams (a better home, a more desirable lifestyle, a more
attractive appearance) form the basis for an advertising register.
Sean Brierley (2002) traces the development of advertising and its role
by examining advertising from the perspective of the advertiser from
the marketing strategies of the 1920s through to the rise of lifestyle
advertising and the promotion of brand image so familiar today. His
detailed study of advertising principles demonstrates some of the ways
that advertisers go about building demographic profiles of their market
and positioning their “targets” to accept the message (pp.143–44). Since
advertisers want to target individuals who, paradoxically, can only be
known to them in terms of their group identities, advertisements rely on
group anxieties, prejudices, and aspirations and yet need to personalize
their address to their target consumers, to use their language, their ways
of talking about the world.5
The conversational qualities abstracted from everyday life into advertising can offer other opportunities for advertisers. Advertisements often
rely on what the industry calls “reason why” techniques which connect
advertiser’s claims to a specific attribute, but these connections are not
necessarily made clear. By presenting messages conversationally, advertisements are invoking Grice’s Cooperative Principle of conversation
whereby consumers, just as in their everyday conversations, expect that
information given should be relevant. Michaela Wänke (2007: 242–43)
shows how this strategy, based on assumptions of relevance, works both
in the presence of a feature and also in the absence of a feature: If a brand
is said to contain X, then X must be a feature that enhances this brand;
conversely, if a brand is advertised as not containing Y, then the lack of
Y must be an advantage.
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The use of pronouns in advertising is one of the distinctive features
of the advertising register. As Guy Cook points out, advertising uses pronouns in rather idiosyncratic ways: we is often the manufacturer or producer of the product; he/she is usually the person who did not use the
product and is therefore distanced in the advertisement; I is often the
expert or the narrator of the story leading to the purchase of the product
(2001: 157). The use of you in advertising is more slippery. It makes use of
its singular and plural referents to address both the individual (the real
you or your inner self ) and at the same time to encompass a group identity whose stereotypical characteristics have been determined by extensive demographic research. However as Cook (2001:158–59) argues, you
can also function simultaneously to refer to a character pictured in the
advertisement, but with a clear appeal or address to the receiver, making
the character both the addresser and the addressee of the advertisement.
In this way, receivers are positioned in the world of the advertisement
and can enjoy the pleasure of being the glamorous model, or the perfect
homemaker, or the environmentally aware consumer, and perhaps be
persuaded to purchase the product.
Advertisements employ tropes, spoken or visual, to make associations and bestow meaning on products through the signification process. The sounds and images of lush countryside and gently flowing
streams can be used to transfer, metaphorically, natural qualities to
manufactured products as diverse as canned goods or beauty products;
and small furry animals can be used to make associations between
their softness and paper tissue products. Brand names and logos can
mobilize chains of connotative meanings (for example, using animal names for car models or in logos can transfer qualities of speed,
strength, and stamina). Products and their promises can be personified: beauty products are given nurturing qualities that can “care” and
“replenish”; toothpaste and dental hygiene products can “fight” tooth
decay. Advertisers make use of metonymic associations, too, substituting one aspect of a sign to a whole concept, for example, by using a
group of four individuals of differing ages and genders eating a meal
together to connote happy families with middle-class values in a political election campaign.
Advertising is a dynamic and adaptive media genre whose techniques
are constantly changing, as too are the sites from which they hail their
audiences. Webpages now carry banner advertising in much the same
way as the pages of newspapers and magazines, or as in the advertising
break in radio and television programs. Advertising can attract strong
criticism because of its association with and dependence on economic
markets and a context of increasing and, for some critics, unnecessary
consumption. However, as Cook (2001: 237) argues, the prevalence of
advertising, the creative effort that goes into its production, the complexities of its discourse and the effect it has on its receivers can redefine
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understandings of language, discourse, art, and society, and as such it is
worthy of study.
22.7
News as discourse
The study of the news has for some time enjoyed preeminence in media
discourse research. Studies of underlying structures, codes, selection criteria, as well as studies of representations of specific issues, events, and
groups, have been the mainstay of much media analysis over the past
decades. Some media analysis, especially as published in the journalism literature, focuses on the search for evidence of media bias, assessing the news by its own criterion of objectivity, and assuming some
theoretical benchmark against which media reports can be compared.
However, from the perspective employed by discourse analysts, the news
is considered to take on a more social role by providing a frame through
which the social world is not only understood, but also constructed (see
Hartley 1982; van dijk 1988; Fowler 1991; Fairclough 1995b). News works
by de-emphasizing human intervention in its selectivity and construction, obscuring the evidence of its own production processes as it seams
together reports of disparate happenings to create a meaningful narrative for its audience.
The contents of newspapers and news broadcasts are restricted by spatial or temporal frameworks so that consistent amounts of local politics,
domestic events, international events, business dealings, and sport, as
collected by staff journalists covering each category, will be constructed
as news most days. Random occurrences in the paradigm of world of
events need to be fitted into the timetable of news production and its
deadlines, although the radio or television “live crossing” permits some
disruption to regular timetables. These constraints raise interesting questions relating to the news values associated with the selection of news.
Far from being rigid benchmarks, these editorial values must be flexible
enough to permit potential items to be ranked. This means that for any
one story, its likelihood of appearing as news will depend on what else
(and how much else) is happening in that category on that day. The news
then, rather than the unknown and the unexpected, at least at this general level, is contingent on medium constraints and the allocation of
staff to particular duties.
Not surprisingly, most editors and journalists employed in newsrooms
tend to share the values of their colleagues and superiors, infusing the
news they produce with a homogenized voice, a voice without an apparent narrator, that constructs the news and frames its meaning for its
audience. It leaves little space for opposing interpretations and it speaks
authoritatively on events of which few readers have any direct personal
experience or involvement, so it becomes the authentic voice of what
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has happened and what is happening in the world for its particular audience. The social consensus implied in mainstream media texts reflects
the dominant cultural position on newsworthy events, issues of law and
order, and the perennial moral and ethical preoccupations of community life. This social consensus involves the complicity of the audience
with the news media in a construction of mutuality – the position of the
addressee becomes the position of the media and vice versa. In addition,
news texts express community identity defining where “we” stand on
particular issues by reaffirming who “we” are. As such it can be considered a textual manifestation of discursive practice occupying a discursive space within the sphere of the everyday, creating and framing social
reality, creating and promoting consensual values among its audiences,
relying on but also fostering public opinion, and legitimating itself by
stressing its objectivity.
The selection of events as newsworthy are chosen, media analysts
argue, according to a set of news values which act in a gate-keeping or filtering role. The origins of news values are complex but are said to relate
to notions of consensus and hierarchy, as well as news structures and
practices. The news values used as determining factors for the publication of news have been listed by Johan Galtung and Mari Ruge (1981 : 60)
in their much-quoted study of overseas news as frequency, threshold,
unambiguity, meaningfulness, consonance, unexpectedness, continuity, composition, reference to elite nations, reference to elite people, reference to persons, and reference to something negative. The extent to
which these criteria are satisfied, they argue, determines the potential
likelihood of any particular event being registered as news.
In news, very few social positions are allowed to speak. These are usually limited to representatives of institutions of authority such as those
from government, medicine, law, the church, education, labor and business. Hall et al.’s work (1978: 58) on primary definitions has been influential in explaining how the use of these representatives establishes the
initial or primary interpretation of the event and sets the frame of reference within which all subsequent debate takes place, forcing oppositional sides to insert themselves into the already determined framework
of what is at stake. Ordinary people without institutional standing are
unlikely to have a voice in news media unless they are a direct participant in the story as perhaps a victim or a witness. One possible exception
to this is the use of individuals as metonymic (and often stereotypic)
representations for the reactions of specific interest groups (like the
low-income family, so favored around political election time and largely
ignored otherwise).
There is now a substantial body of work on news. There have been
many overviews of this work and the trajectories associated with various theoretical and analytical approaches (see Bell 1991; Bell & Garrett
1998; Fairclough 1995b). Other studies have developed their approaches
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to news to incorporate satellite broadcasts and transnational programming. The availability of continually updated online news, archived stories from yesterday or the distant past, hyperlinks to layers of supporting
information, along with discussion forums and weblogs have changed
the ways that news is produced and accessed (see Jucker 2003; Lewis
2003; Wodak & Busch 2004; Fairclough 2006).
22.8
Media talk
Most media output is one-way, providing information and entertainment through a variety of programming directed, for the most part,
at an absent and undefined mass audience, but it can adopt linguistic
styles and modes of address that anticipate audiences and reflect their
voices. Advertisers tailor their messages on the basis of assumptions they
make about their audiences, their value systems, and their anxieties by
adapting their linguistic style accordingly. News broadcasters adapt their
modes of address to their perceptions of their audiences and, particularly
on commercial channels, are increasingly using vernacular language,
even indulging sometimes in “unscripted” asides and humor, in order to
connect with their viewers. Teen magazines imitate the language codes
that teens use and incorporate them into the discursive structures of
their articles, again in an attempt to identify with their readers and their
interests.
In contrast, some media are able to offer more semblance of two-way
interaction. Letters to the Editor have for a long time offered those who
cared enough about particular issues to comment or express their opinion in the daily press. While many newspapers retain the Letters page
with its more formal conventions, many are now including briefer and
more informal comments sent in as emails or phoned messages. Although
ostensibly addressed to the editor, and without much expectation of a
response from their addressee, all these types of “letters” anticipate and
address a wider reading public.
Advice or agony columns in newspapers or magazines have been giving advice to those desperate enough to write in and entertaining their
readers for several hundred years now. Using a question and answer format, they operate in two discursive domains, a quasi-personal domain
and a more public domain. The popularity and longevity of some of these
columns suggests the importance of the construction of the identity of
the “agony aunt” (or “uncle”) as a trusted, informed, and reliable source
of advice. Such a construction is reinforced through impression management strategies like the use of a particular language style and idiom,
empathy, and a common-sense approach to readers’ problems and moral
dilemmas. Whereas magazine and newspaper columns maintain a veneer of interactivity, albeit where turn-allocations are limited to one, and
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where the interaction takes place within time and spatial constraints, the
Internet offers 24/7 access to archived advice already posted for others,
or the chance to pose a question with the possibility for extra questions
and requests for elaboration. There are many versions of online advice
which to a greater or lesser extent make use of internet technologies in
terms of offering confidentiality and privacy (not just through the anonymity of a pseudonym), fast response, and opportunities for discussion
with other users (see Locher & Hoffmann 2006).
Talk is a seminal part of both radio and television broadcasting with designated talk segments and interview shows, phone-ins, DJ patter accompanying music programs, and commentary on live sporting events. It is
for the most part unscripted and appears to be generated spontaneously in
the semblance of everyday conversation in a public setting for an overhearing audience. Andrew Tolson (2005: 7–8) has argued that these mundane
forms of broadcasting cater to a contemporary culture of talk associated
with a domestic rather than more public sphere so that the talk blends
into the life that surrounds it. Further, broadcast talk speaks to its audience as if it was “co-present (at least in time) and in ‘lively’ ways as if it was
spontaneous and interactive” (p. 13).
Much of the research into broadcast talk as interaction applies methods
and concepts derived from CA accounts of ordinary conversation and how
participants accomplish orderly turns at talk. Rather than offer critical
readings of broadcast talk, this approach focuses on the instances and
routine practices of spoken interaction on radio and television, emphasizing the organization and relational aspects of how interactions are accomplished within the media context. John Heritage and David Greatbatch’s
work (1991) on institutional talk pointed to how the pre-allocation of
roles of the interviewer and the interviewee determines the performative behaviors of the participants, the allocation of turns at talk, and
the length of the answers. Both are well aware that they are talking to
two audiences, their co-participant and an over-hearing absent audience,
which places them in the contradictory position of having to perform for
an audience which is unseen and whose reactions cannot be judged.
Phone-ins are a particular form of media interaction that has captured
the attention of conversation analysts (see Thornborrow 2001; Tolson
2005). The CA understanding of ordinary conversation is premised on
features like speech exchanges, sequencing, and turn-taking, but in the
phone-in situation, media imperatives override the basic rules of social
interaction. Unlike the distribution of turn-allocation one might expect
in informal face-to-face chat, phone-in hosts are in a powerful position
to allocate turns to their callers and have greater control over topic selection and length of the interaction. While the host and caller’s interaction
may have some of the qualities of a personal phone call, neither can be
in much doubt that their conversation is also a performance directed at
an overhearing audience.
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Some forms of broadcasting offer another level of audience involvement through the presence of a studio audience. Audience-participation
television chat shows construct a public space in which ordinary people
can participate by expressing their views on issues of concern, in this
instance, usually in the presence of invited experts. Some shows may
concentrate on current social or political issues, using the studio audience in a discussion forum constructing the participants as a measure
of more generalized interest and concerns. Others focus on the lives of
ordinary people by stage managing public confrontations on private
issues with resolution to be provided on the show where the host has to
facilitate the participation of the guests who are making the revelations,
the studio audience who provide advice or admonishments, and also the
overhearing audience (Hutchby 2001: 155–72).
Not all broadcast talk is interactive. News presenters, disc jockeys, and
sports commentators produce monologic discourse without the turns at
talk inscribed in interviews, phone-ins or talk shows. In his investigation of the monologues produced by DJs between music tracks, Martin
Montgomery (1986) found that the DJs simulated a sense of co-presence
with their listeners by foregrounding interpersonal connections, especially through greetings or questions and deictic references to you (the
audience) or to references to the immediate environment like this place.
In this way, the DJs are able to create a sense of intimacy with their audience. Sports talk as the continuous commentary accompanying a live
broadcast also is directed at a mass audience. It has a characteristic pace
linked to the sport (e.g. fast for football, basketball, athletics, car racing,
or horseracing; slower for golf, lawn bowls, dressage, or figure skating),
a characteristic pitch and volume (compare the often loud and exited
commentary of a football match with the low, more intimate sound of
the commentary of a snooker match), and while it may be prepared at
the production level with scheduling and background research, the discourse at the level of the delivery in terms of the words and phrases
used is relatively unprepared. Judy Delin notes the tense changes especially in football commentary, where time-critical utterances occuring
at the time of play are given in the present tense and structure the commentary. Other types of utterances occurring at less intense parts of the
game evaluate, elaborate, and summarize and are more often given in
the past tense. The two types of utterances and their tense shifts are
often demarcated by a switch in commentators (Delin 2000: 46).
22.9
Language, media, and technological change
Emergent technologies associated with the Internet have offered
different kinds of opportunities for those with access to interact initially through chat rooms, instant message platforms, and e-mail, but
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increasingly through global social-networking sites and virtual worlds.
The advent of instant messaging and online chat attracted the attention
of traditionalists worried about the effect that the use of truncated words,
abbreviations, and emoticons, together with a seeming inattention to
“correct” spelling, grammar, and punctuation, might have on the state
of language. David Crystal (2001) has taken a more measured approach
to language used in electronic channels. According to Crystal, an immediate consequence for English (as a dominant language of the Internet)
has been the emergence of a new range of language varieties as users
adapt creatively to the constraints and affordances of a channel of communication which relies on keyboard and screen-based technologies. He
elaborates “netspeak” in relation to writing and speech, arguing that
in contrast to webpages which use varieties of written language with
little stylistic change other than adaptation to the electronic medium,
e-mail and online chat, although expressed in writing, share many of
the properties of speech (Crystal 2001: 24–61). He describes netspeak as
more than an aggregate of spoken and written features but as a medium
with its own rules and linguistic norms which is constantly evolving in
response to technological innovation.
Young people have been fast to adopt instant messaging as a means of
communicating with and keeping in touch with friends as well as a place
to articulate and even experiment with their personal identity and social
status. It is a conversational medium which, unlike email, occurs in real
time. In her study of teen girls’ use of instant messaging, Shayla Thiel
(2005: 188–89) found that girls used different conversational norms from
those that they used in real life, using more profanity and exclamatory
language, asking more direct questions, altering their tone, word choice.
and subject matter. They also made frequent use of well-known internet chat abbreviations. The use of these norms helps to maintain group
identity, while not using them could serve to set outsiders apart. The
idiosyncrasies of computer-mediated communication have been accused
of adversely affecting the linguistic abilities of users, but Thiel’s study
suggests that her participants knew that they wrote differently online
from when they were communicating with adults.
Technological innovation continues to extend opportunities for interaction online. The recent popularity of social-networking sites like
MySpace and Facebook where members post information about themselves, their personal thoughts and opinions, their interests, photographs
and videos, have created communities where users can look at each other’s pages and communicate with whole networks of people. A different
form of global networking is offered by games like Second Life where users
adopt alter egos and avatars to live, work, and communicate in a virtual
world that they are building. These networking sites, like all other forms
of communication, involve identity construction and impression management but with arguably more opportunity for creativity. However, a
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darker side of social networks and messaging has emerged through an
increase in cyber-bullying (including tactics like name-calling, spreading rumors, posting video material without consent, and even sending
death threats) which, in an online environment, is impossible to anticipate and difficult to escape.
Weblogs have given many internet users the opportunity to post for
public scrutiny their thoughts, opinions, and experiences, augmented
with hyperlinks to other sites that have attracted the blogger’s interest or curiosity. While some blogs function as diarized self-promotion
or as an outlet to express personal preferences and ideas, others have
become platforms for comment on current affairs. In a move away from
traditional approaches to news, current affairs blogs offer their users a
different type of news characterized by a personalized narrative style,
an emphasis on its non-institutional status outside mainstream media,
participation in the creation of the content, and story forms that link
to other websites (Wall 2005: 153–54). Since blogs do not fall under the
constraints and regulations of mainstream media, they provide a space
for breaking stories as well as unrestrained personal commentary from
bloggers and also from their audiences through their posts. As such, they
provide the opportunity for more de-centred and participatory journalism, which many mainstream media organizations now accommodate
by hosting blogs on their own regular news webpages, as well as offering
their users discussion forums and opportunities to cast a vote in a poll
of opinion relating to the issues of the day. However, utopian ideals of
increasing public engagement and democratizing access to knowledge
associated with mass broadband access to the Internet have led to questions about the effects of the development of new participatory media
on traditional understandings of news where user-generated content can
now be posted anonymously or under a pseudonym, and expert views
can be displaced by those of amateur bloggers.
22.10 Conclusion
This chapter has sought to provide an overview of the traditional
approaches to media analysis that have connections to sociolinguistic
interests, noting how the various approaches tend to use different data
and ask different questions. It is intended as a broad rather than a definitive survey of advertising, news, and media talk as the most prominent
semiotic and linguistic formations in media study. The contemporary
media landscape continues to offer a range of opportunities for sociolinguistic engagement, to analyze media texts in terms of their representations and underlying ideologies, and to extend understandings of
how powerful elites use language to communicate their messages in
the media and how the media contribute to the discrimination of some
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groups (including women, children, the aged, immigrants, ethnic or religious minorities, and the disabled).
Contemporary media are depending more on vernacular and colloquial language as their genres and modes of address move even closer
to resembling everyday discussions. The incorporation of more opportunities for interaction has shifted media communication toward the
consumer, giving them the chance to generate content and asking their
opinions on current issues. Innovation, especially in terms of the Internet
and convergent technologies, offers researchers an increasing range
of media forms and content to investigate. While many internet sites
resemble pages of conventional text, others are creatively and dynamically designed and offer rich opportunities for multi-modal analysis or
studies of interactivity (see Pauwels 2005). It has been tempting to regard
the technological changes associated with the global reach of contemporary media as a democratizing process increasing public engagement
and knowledge through enhanced interactivity and the availability of
vast amounts of continually updated information. However, more critical approaches carry reminders about a “digital divide” separating those
with access to new technology and those without.
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23
Language in education
Christopher Stroud and Kathleen Heugh
23.1 Introduction
On the cusp of the first decade of the twenty-first century, we need to
acknowledge that language education is in disarray and beset with contradiction arising from the unprecedented scale and accelerated speed of
change in the global sphere. Change is occurring in and through political and world economies, regional confl ict, ecological/environmental
concerns, (trans)migration and dislocation of people, accompanied by a
revolution in information technology. Collectively, these are having demonstrable effects on the social, cultural, educational, political, economic,
religious, and ethical structures from remote communities to multicountry political-economic blocs. Today’s transnational, global world
order is radically changing how we need to approach an understanding
of language, multilingualism, and speech community. In particular, the
significance of the global economic meltdown of the last quarter of 2008
and the evidence of the failure of the capital-market-force labor requirements with increasing unemployment coinciding with shifting centers of global power will need to be understood and responded to from
within education and thus language education. Many of the political and
educational provisions currently in place were designed to respond to
radically different sets of sociolinguistic problems, and subsequently
offer today’s speakers only a very limited purchase. Social structures
are being reconfigured in multiple directions and systems and programs
which appeared to function with some degree of efficiency in the latter part of the twentieth century do not have the elasticity to accommodate new imperatives. Theoretical approaches, which were workable
twenty or even ten years ago are now woefully inadequate in a global
context of increasing heterogeneity. Furthermore, despite much sociolinguistic debate, current language education has little to do with contextualized use of language/s outside of or beyond the school itself and
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the imagined workplace of the 1990s and early years of the twenty-fi rst
century. Tensions and contradictions emerge with each attempt to understand and manage the rapidly changing dynamics of diversity framed
by today’s world order. Thus, the challenges facing language education
are increasingly challenges emanating from the diversities of multilingualism in transnational sites, in an unequal, evolving and connected
world. These concerns are salient in all transnational communities, but
especially so in emerging nations and contexts on the periphery of the
global economy, where settings are print and resource poor, and where
communities are vulnerable.
We introduce this chapter by noting how globalization is creating
complex translocal sites, and new complexities inherent in the very
meaning of language, as well as refiguring multilingualism and its
societal organization, and the nature of language learners and the language-learning processes. While in its intrinsic sense studying language
education is about understanding language practices in society and how
these practices are reproduced and or reconfigured through time and
space, through changing social and material conditions, it is also about
how language education is institutionalized and formalized in the education systems of the world. The development of linguistic repertoires
occurs simultaneously in both informal (within wider social) and formal (the narrow spatial and temporal confines of the schooling system)
educational contexts. We therefore also discuss here the discrepancies
between patterns of contemporary late-modern and globalized multilingualism, and educational approaches to policy and the teaching and
learning of languages.
In the second section, we explore some ways forward for educationally managing ongoing change and increasing diversity. The gist of
our approach is to emphasize how understandings of linguistic diversity have been conceptualized in analytical frameworks that in themselves heavily constrain the forms that discourses of linguistic diversity
may take. Essentially, we suggest that what is fundamentally at stake is
the need to deconstruct particular ways of talking about language and
multilingualism inherited from a colonial and modernist epistemology
and ontology of language designed to order and categorize diffuse semiotic practices into countable categories (Harries 2007). This legacy is perpetuated in much contemporary discourse on linguistic diversity which
thus attempts to deconstruct colonial and modernist understandings of
language with the very methodologies, epistemologies and ontologies
used to formulate them in the first place. We therefore focus our concluding section on discussing where alternative discourses of linguistic
diversity might be found – in reconceptualizing the nature and purpose
of language education itself; in close historiographical accounts of local
language practices; and in a careful consideration of the meaning of
linguistic diversity.
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23.2 Multilingualism in globalization
Language education needs to take as its point of departure how globalization has affected the constitution of speech community, the
organization of multilingualism, and language learning, the very idea
of language itself and the transformation of a politics of language in
contemporary society. One characterization of globalization is in terms
of the “widening, deepening, and speeding up of worldwide interconnectedness in all aspects of contemporary social life” (Held et al. 1999:
2); a process that “fundamentally restructures the way commodities,
ideas and people flow and interact, thereby problematizing traditional
notions of time and space (community, agency, ideas of history, politics)” (Mukul & Omoniyi 2010: xx). Giddens sees it as “the intensification of worldwide social relations which link localities in such a way
that local happenings are shaped by events occurring many miles away
and vice versa” (1990: 64), and Suá rez-Orozco and Qin-Hilliard (2004: 14)
describe it as “a set of processes that tend to de-territorialize important
economic, social and cultural practices from their traditional boundaries in nation states.”
23.2.1
Speech community
The accelerated interconnectedness of contemporary social life and the
linking of localities in globalization is refiguring speech communities
as fluid, stratified and complexly linked spaces rather than as the traditional bounded spaces of homogeneous speakers and uniform linguistic
practices. Cosmopolitan elites, itinerant guest workers, more permanent diasporic communities and indigenous dwellers partake of unstable,
plural settlements characterized by linguistic superdiversity, where the
heterogeneity of the community is constantly re-enacted in the form of
mixed linguistic repertoires, genres, and languages (Pujolar 2007: 78).
Contributing to the linguistic heterogeneity is the way in which local linguistic landscapes (Blommaert, Collins & Slembrouck 2005a; Vigouroux
2005, 2009; Backhaus 2006; Shohamy & Gorter 2009;) are semiotically
configured through multiple forms of media (Androutsopolous 2006,
2009: 286; Kelly-Holmes 2006), and material objects, and by images in
the form of branded products, adverts and signage that circulate across
communities and mediate consumer cultures for a stratified population (Stroud & Mpendukana 2009, 2010). These manifest as local blended
vernacular and translocal cultures and representations, encoding local
authenticity and global branding from nations of the political North as
well as the emerging economies of China, India and Brazil (Luke 2007;
Stroud & Mpendukana 2009).
Layered into these heterogeneous and multifaceted semiotic spaces
is the de-territorialized, but interconnected community of users of
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internet and mobile technologies. Here, communication is no longer
predominantly face-to-face, focused and monolingual, but increasingly
“distanciated,” and heteroglossic. Transidiomatic practices, (Jaquemet
2005: 264–65) allow the simultaneous and synergistic presence of local
and diasporic groups in a multiplicity of sites. Speakers are thus linked
into shifting communities across multiple media, technologies and other
forms of mobilities (Urry 2000; Aronin & Singleton 2008).
The way in which language education provisions have traditionally responded to the interconnectedness and complexity of translocal
mobile speech communities has been to offer high-speed delivery of
metropolitan language commodities, on the one hand, and more limited and cautious programs of minority language education on the other.
The assumption is that this solution will address the wider educational
implications of what it means to move and learn across both local and
more global contexts (Luke 2003). This is particularly apparent in sites
where linguistic communities displaced from the centre during the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (even earlier in some cases), seek
re-engagement through an international language of wider communication, such as; Spanish in Latin America; French and/or English in subSaharan Africa and India; and Arabic in North Africa and the Middle
East. Underlying the actual design of the programs is a view of globalization as primarily about the technologization of the flow of information;
an increased gravitational pull toward the liberal capitalism of the West
reproduces, what Spring (2006) calls, the industrial-security educational
complex.
In practice, one of the main ways in which the educational sector
has attempted to engage with mobilities of capital, goods and people is
through the teaching of English in particular. We witness an unprecedented demand for the delivery of commodified language educational
packages, cast as, for example: English as second, foreign, academic, additional, international or world language(es); or English for special purposes, the workplace, the professions, maritime law, trade and diplomacy
etc., on a contemporary globalized center stage. In a number of Asian
countries exhibiting rapidly growing economies, and an accelerated economic adjustment to the neoliberal markets of the West, English has
been made a compulsory subject, and in Korea, there are advanced plans
for moving toward English-medium education in the future. China has
introduced a rapid escalation of the teaching of English since its admission to the World Trade Organization in 2001 (Lo Bianco 2007). However,
although the teaching of English as a foreign language in China, Japan
and Korea, is highly valued as a commodity for international trade and
diplomacy, it does not come close to meeting students’ aspirations of linguistic portability to English-speaking contexts for purposes of higher
education, high-level trade and diplomacy (e.g. Sakui 2004; Aspinall
2006; Hu 2007; Seargeant 2008).
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Minority language education includes two sets of language program in
Europe and North America. The first are those developed among indigenous minority communities and designed for language revival or language maintenance, and also known as heritage language programs, for
example: Saami (see Hyltenstam & Stroud 1991; Huss 2001; Aikio-Puoskari &
Skutnabb-Kangas 2007; Skutnabb-Kangas 2010); Irish and Gaelic (Walsh &
McLeod 2008); Basque and Catalan (e.g. Cenoz 2009); Frisian (e.g. Gorter,
Riemersma & Ytsma 2001); and several Native American languages (e.g.
McCarty 2008). Some of these are also characterized by full-fledged bilingual programs, e.g. for Welsh (Williams 2001). The second are found in
countries of the South and often characterized as bilingual and intercultural education: in languages of Amazonian communities (e.g. Perez &
Trapnell 2010); and the first Australian languages (Simpson, Caffery &
McConvell 2009). In such contexts, discourses relating to human rights
concerns often accompany educational debates and these are frequently
construed as essentialized discourses, romanticized views of earlier
“Great Traditions” (Fishman 1974), “imagined communities” (Anderson
1983) and favoring anachronistic ethnolinguistic identities (see May
2001; Stroud 2001; Makoni 2003). Thus, language education in many settings is conceptualized as sites of contestation among conjoined options
as follows: either the international language or the local language; both
the international and local language/s; international, regional and local
language/s, conceptualized within a pastoralist and Eurocentric framework of language diversity and portability. Although bilingual education
has a long historical association with privilege and esteem, it has thus
more recently come to be perceived as a characteristic of marginalized or
minority communities, associated with heritage, maintenance and language revival programs, and often accompanied by discourses of social
equity, ethics, human rights, and democracy, and acquiring stigma from
without. This sometimes results in resistance against the programs from
the communities themselves, as “minority” languages are seldom seen
as providing valuable linguistic capital for participation in the global
economy. In general, learners’ aspirations are directed toward the metropolitan or international languages, in the absence of resourcing alternative and viable choices, thus resulting in particular manifestations of
coerced-complicit choice (Clayton 2008) in many developing contexts.1 In
more economically secure settings, there is renewed cachet in bilingual
education. In Hong Kong, class divisions seem to be drawn in relation
to Putonghua–English bilingual programs, considered by wealthy, professional parents to offer elite education, but as unacceptable to poor
working-class parents who associate Putonghua with immigrants whose
social status is not that distant from themselves (Davison & Lai 2007).
Much of the problem can be traced to the colonial and modernist categorization of languages as global, local, minority, majority, or indigenous, and the different meanings and economies of value into which these
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notions are habitually inserted. This typology cannot capture the local
understandings and historical complexities of these notions, and what it
means for specific groups of learners to learn such languages (Shohamy
2007: 131).
23.2.2 Notions of multilingualism
Global developments also challenge traditional conceptions of multilingualism in terms of separate and bounded linguistic systems. Such a view
no longer adequately captures the fundamental way in which languages
and speech repertoires “flow and interact” with people, commodities,
and ideas across new imagined, transnational “communities” and speakers. Aronin and Singleton speak of a new linguistic “dispensation” where
multilingualism is the norm, that is, where “sets of languages, rather
than single languages, now perform the essential functions of communication, cognition and identity for individuals and the global community”
(2008: 4). Agnihotri (2007: 80) refers to “multilinguality” as “constitutive
of being human,” and Canagarajah (2007b: 98) notes how “situatedness,
materiality, diversity, hybridity, and fluidity [is] at the heart of language
and identity.”
Rather than being merely a “collection of languages,” multilingualism
is better reconceptualized more broadly as a complex of specific semiotic resources, some of which belong to a conventionally defi ned “language,” while others belong to another “language” or even sublanguages
(Blommaert 2008), or other representational resources. These repertoires
of resources are organized across individuals, institutions, and at local
or translocal levels of scale in ways that reflect the fluidity and flux of
translocal speech communities; prescribed standard forms of a language may coexist with hybrid and non-standard elements from other
languages, but also with elements from other media and modalities.
On close inspection, most speakers’ multilingual portfolios present as
complexly piecemeal, semiotic traces of their life-histories of personal,
social and geographical movement (Blommaert 2008: 115; Grosjean 2008;
Vigouroux 2009;). In such cases, multilingualism manifests as differentiated repertoires of competences in different “languages” and as truncated
complexes of resources (Cook 1992; Dyers 2008). Thus, “[k]nowledge of
a language is always partial, as it is a function of the kinds of social
interactions that the individual participates in, and no individual ever
fully participates in all existing social practices” (Wee 2007: 329), which
means that notions such as mother tongue, first language, second language, with their assumed differences of access and proficiency, no
longer adequately capture the way new emerging multilingual semiotic
economies are organized. Conventional discourses on “mother tongue”
locate the term as anachronistic and restricting language varieties to
static fi xtures of the past. A more insightful stance would rather be to
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view the notion as a metaphor representing the linguistic repertoire of a
local community (see also Fardon & Furniss 1994). Such a figurative use
of the term does indeed have an extensive reach in most parts of the
world.
The variability and complexity of emerging forms of translocal multilingualism find little resonance in contemporary language educational
provisions. Although there are multiple variations of multilingual teaching programs for minority, migrant and community languages, these
options have been presented within the discourse of mother tongue,
monolingual, bilingual, and multilingual options for education (e.g.
UNESCO 1953; Cummins 1984, 1996, 2000; Skuttnabb-Kangas 2000;
Garçia & Baker 2007; Hornberger 2008; May 2008; Lo Bianco & Slaughter
2009) in hierarchically organized typologies. However, distinctions
between first language, second language, and foreign language teaching and learning which made sense even as recently as the late 1990s
are becoming blurred in institutions where students who may be first
language speakers of, for example, Mandarin (Putonghua) or isiXhosa
cohabit classrooms with students who are learning this language as a
foreign or second language.
Few, if any, existing programs cater to the varying needs of mobile
and flexible populations of learners. The only programs which have so
far demonstrated flexibility and success for wider cohorts of students are
those based on a model of bilingual education where the home language
(mother tongue) or language of the immediate community is used alongside one of the former colonial languages. Research in Africa (Malherbe
1946; Bamgbose 1984, 2000; Heugh 1999; Alidou et al. 2006; Heugh et al.
2007) show successful educational outcomes of bilingual education in
South Africa, Nigeria, Mali, Niger, Guinea Conakry, Ethiopia, and Eritrea.
These studies articulate with similar evidence of successful bilingual
education in other contexts, e.g. in the USA (Ramirez et al. 1991; Thomas
& Collier 1997, 2002). However, programs in developing contexts are usually based on subtractive (submersion) or early-exit bilingual education
and systems are characterized by high attrition and repeater rates, low
general enrolment in secondary education, and few of these students
exhibit adequate levels of spoken, reading or writing proficiency in the
second target language. The home language/s (mother tongue/s) are inadequately taught in these school systems, with a few notable exceptions
(currently in Ethiopia and Eritrea, e.g. Heugh et al. 2007; Benson et al.
2010).
In countries where the major metropolitan languages (such as many
countries in the political North) are considered the dominant languages
of use, education systems do increasingly acknowledge the advantages
of learning second, foreign or additional languages, although scant
attention is given to mainstream teaching and learning of indigenous languages (e.g. Aboriginal and Native American languages). The difficulty
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with the second/foreign/additional language programs is that for the
most part they are singularly unsuccessful because they are seldom sufficiently carefully designed and resourced to enable students to develop
high levels of independent language proficiency in the target language
(Lo Bianco 2010). Such limitations are paralleled in Asian countries vis à
vis the teaching of English as a foreign/second language (e.g. Seargeant
2008). Immersion and two-way immersion programs, where students
have or develop strong home language reading and writing skills to
accompany their listening and speaking skills, show the most promise of
facilitating high-level competence in the second language (Lo Bianco &
Slaughter 2009; Lo Bianco 2010). However, two-way immersion (bilingual) programs in the USA are considered elite programs for children of
professional parents as are the French immersion programs for Englishspeakers in Canada. Thus, most second/foreign/additional language programs in countries in which English is both a majority and dominant
language offer students little cultural or economic capital and enrolments are on the decline at a historical juncture when participation in
global heterogeneity demands more than monolingual expertise, even if
this were in English.
23.2.3
Notions of language
The widening, deepening and speeding up of world-wide interconnectedness, and the inherent multilinguality of speakers means that the social
meanings and values associated with different (local) languages are reappraised or revaluated as they are slotted into new semiotic economies
(Vigouroux 2009: 230). Both minority languages of the periphery and the
international languages of wider communication are hybridizing, most
particularly in the spoken form and in urban and electronic landscapes
(Ben-Rafael et al. 2006; Shohamy & Gorter 2009; Stroud & Mpendukana
2009), as the spread and development of digital and mobile technologies
is serving as a catalyst for new indigenous literacy practices and events,
genres and discourse structures (such as Facebook, blogs, and MixIT).
Importantly, here as with signage and other media, and modalities, (literalized) vernacular forms of multilingualism coexist with highly normative language and ideologies of language (e.g. Deumert 2009; Deumert &
Masinyana 2008).
The way languages evolve, mimicking spatial, temporal and social
change (Da Silva, McLaughlin & Richards 2007:185), forces a rethinking
of the notion of linguistic form and a new approach to the meaning of
linguistic competence (Canagarajah 2007a, 2007b). However, notions
of language and the concept of speaker used in educational provisions
remain conservatively sterile. The notion of linguistic diversity entertained in applied linguistics cannot escape the powerful momentum
toward homogenized, and increasingly behaviorist manifestation of
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rigid curricula, methodology and complex assessment grids, such as the
Common European Framework (COE 2001; Fulcher 2004) of practiced visual, spoken and written texts that deny diversity, creativity, and individual
responses and production of materialized discourse and communicative
practice of peripheries and in-between spaces. Among other factors, the
sheer scale of industrial demand for language commodities forces the
supply chain to adopt homogenized curricula, outcomes and assessment
standards, and to make materials’ production (publishing) more efficient
and cost-effective so as to compete in “commercial” educational markets.
This is particularly the case for the English language industry in the UK,
USA, and Australia. To this is added a highly regulated outcomes-based
and “benchmarked” assessment system encouraged by the OECD – World
Bank – IMF orientation toward the entrepreneurial, supply-demand
labor market chain (Lo Bianco 2010). The packaging of the language education commodity requires an efficient publishing industry, concerned
with high volume, low unit cost sourcing and high returns on investment. This is the business of centralized, centripetal (see Lo Bianco 2010),
homogenized (Blommaert & Verschueren 1998) responses, intolerant of
local settings and rapid diversification of communities, clientele, and
linguistic repertoires of global society in motion.
23.2.4
Language learning
Patterns and arrangements of language learning in globalised communities also depart from traditional understandings of what learning a
language entails. There is an emerging polycentricity and heterogeneity
in language-learning environments in late modernity, which finds reflex
in how the politics of location organize semiotic (and interactional)
resources (see Blommaert 2010), and governs learners’ investments in
languages (Lee & Orton 2009: 287; see also Bengani & Kapp 2007 on language practices and attitudes among black South Africans to tertiary
students’ English; Mckinney 2007; Jantjies 2009; Heugh 2009a; Banda
2010 on multilingualism in Cape Town townships; Dyers 2008, on the
notion of peripheral normativity in the South African context; and Stroud &
Wee 2006, for how Singaporeans are bypassing the state’s allocation of
languages on the basis of their ethnicity in their pursuit of personal economic trajectories).
In many language-learning contexts, language practices such as stylization, performance, stance and identification are replacing identity
(authenticity), allegiance, competence and style as drivers for language
learning, with implications for notions of speakership and linguistic ownership (see Stroud & Wee 2006). Specifically performance (Bauman & Briggs
1990; Stroud & Wee 2007) with its emphasis on language display, repetition and practice of linguistic form, and the re-entextualization – or lifting out of a performed routine from one context to another – has gained
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in importance as a mode of language learning. One context where this is
found in abundance is entertainment such as hip-hop and rap (Makoni &
Makoni 2007; Pennycook 2008), and other ludic contexts (Rampton 2006),
both commercial and informal, mobile, and multi-modal.
Learners thus present as migrants and refugees, speakers from peripheral communities in societies in transition, emerging elites and old
indigenous minorities. However, there is seldom any serious fine-tuning
to different student needs or functions or social trajectories of language
learning. In Australia, for example, a formulaic systemic-functionallinguistics-cum-genre-language curriculum given to Asian students is
identical in form and delivery to that offered students from refugee and
traumatized backgrounds of Afghanistan, Iraq, Sudan, and Kurdistan.
Lip-service is paid to the concept of student-centered pedagogy, but in
reality it is the pre-packaged curriculum and pedagogy which is delivered. Whereas local languages in various types of bilingual program
are often taught for reasons of cultural, artistic, humanist, ethical, and
democratic value, they are less often taught for purposes of utilitarian use (or any combination thereof) – despite increasing evidence of
their economic importance in new, regional economies (e.g. Stroud &
Wee 2006). The teaching of metropolitan languages of the global economy, on the other hand, has tended to converge toward the teaching of
a range of functional rather than aesthetic uses, despite the prevalence
of consumption, stylization, and entertainment as emerging drivers of
acquisition. Not surprisingly, an unavoidable implication of teaching that
builds on a singular, formal normative approach to language is the delegitimization of non-standard learner cohorts (e.g. Blommaert, Creve &
Willaert 2006).
23.2.5
Educational language policy
The dramatic major geopolitical changes, the emergence of Chinese,
new Eastern varieties of English and the expansion of Indian economy
and trade, as well as South–South political and trading blocks are radically altering power relations behind languages and their spread, and
hence also the accompanying planning and policy models. In rapidly
urbanizing countries such as India, English may no longer be considered as a language of colonial and neocolonial hierarchy, but as a language of decolonization (Vaish 2005: 89). Pennycook (1998) also notes the
new importance of English for the formulation of counter-discourses to
colonialism.
The de-territorialization of important economic, social and cultural
practices from their traditional boundaries in nation states (SuárezOrozco & Qin-Hilliard 2004: 14) is ushering in developments in statehood
and citizenship that disrupt “the traditional analytical and conceptual
frameworks through which policy making and implementation have
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been understood” (Kennett 2008: 3). The emphasis is increasingly shifting
to how polycentric actors at different levels of scale – the transnational,
regional, and sub-national level, as well as learners themselves, civil society and the corporate sphere – (see Wright 2004; Ricento 2006; Shohamy
2006) – create linguistic order and normativity in everyday language use
(Blommaert 2009; see also Ramanathan 2005 on language planning from
below).
However, language educational policy and planning responses to diversity continue to rely on an outdated idea of language politics and include
increasing emphasis on the teaching of languages in addition to the dominant language of power within a nation-state’s centric and scaled framework. So concerned is the European Commission, for example, about the
fragility of existing policies focusing on the management of diversity,
that it sets up multidisciplinary networks of scholars whose focus it is to
identify the illusive dynamics of diversity (e.g. Sustainable Development
in a Diverse World, www.susdiv.org), yet the jury remains uncertain, confused, contradictory. One practical European Commission response to the
management of linguistic diversity in education has been to formulate
a Common European Framework of Reference for Languages (CEF) (COE
2001) which sets out criteria for learning, teaching and assessment. This
is so that European citizens might obtain linguistic qualifications that
are portable and exchangeable across the European Union countries. The
framework is thus intended to lubricate mobility and opportunities of
employment across the EU. It is used, however, mainly in relation to the
official languages of the EU rather than very small minority, periphery,
or migrant languages of displaced people, and thus it offers only partial
portability for the more economically and educationally privileged and
those closer to the centers. And it re-engages with a nation-state centric
notion of language rather than the portfolios of language use at different scales of transnationalism. Both the ESL industry and the CEF have
contributed toward a synthesized, tightly regulated reconceptualization
of the nature of language teaching and learning in formal contexts. This
attempt to accommodate linguistic diversity has, as has many attempts to
diversify in other contexts, resulted in the reverse – namely, a shrinkage
of diversity. In this case, the shrinkage is in regard to language teaching
approach, content, methodology, and forms of assessment. It has resulted
in a homogenized (or centripetal, see Lo Bianco 2010) approach to language education which inevitably trims off opportunities for creativity
of and in linguistic performances (see also an earlier related discussion
in Blommaert & Verschueren 1998).
23.2.6
Summary
Global developments have brought into relief the sterility and inadequacy of a narrow systemic view of language in language teaching.
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The new multilingual dispensation and the increased mobility of populations, the porous nature of community, the incursion into everyday
lives of multiple electronic and multi-modal forms of literacy dictate the
need for instruction in a variety of semiotic resources. Furthermore, the
shifting semiotic landscape and the re-figuration of language as semiotic
resource, register, and genre, together with the move away from a singular emphasis on linguistic form to the importance of multilingual interaction suggest the need for a new approach to what is taught. Classrooms
and curricula need to be able to engage with and build upon the diversity in semiotic modes that learners bring into the classroom, not least
the modes of literacy that are linked to widening access to the flora of
electronic media (Meskill 2007). The shifting nature of learner personae
and subjectivities point toward the need for new understandings of the
teaching/learning process (see, e.g., Kramsch & Whiteside 2008; Todeva &
Cenoz 2009; Blackledge & Creese 2010), especially its individuation to
accommodate different types of learner biographies emanating from the
heterogeneity of learning environments and biographies, social trajectories, and related interactional experiences of speakers/learners.
We have suggested that little of this is found in the responses of institutionalized educational language policy and practice. Here, uniformity in the form of traditional normative approaches to language prevail,
fueled by an industrial and commercial market in search of profits from
the language commodity. A marriage of convenience between colonial
categories and postmodern critiques of language, and the industrialeconomic structures of post-colonialism deny “the very essence of these
environments, namely fragmentation, hybridization, destabilized identities, allowing the (re)emergence of language ideologies stressing uniformity, stability, homogeneity” (Blommaert et al. 2009: 204). In the next
section, we explore some of the directions along which educational language policy and practice might move in order to better accommodate
diversity.
23.3 On diversity and uniformity
A significant source of tension between language diversity and language
educational uniformity is to be found in the predominant “industrialconsumer paradigm” of education typical of the “consumer-oriented
educational security state” (Spring 2006, 2007). In this paradigm, a primary purpose of education remains to facilitate equitable access to sociocultural and economic goods, most of which are secured with highly
sophisticated linguistic skills in languages of power – including, on occasion, local or indigenous languages. The more sophisticated these skills
the easier the access to the goods at the apex of hierarchies. An educational focus on the economic and market value of languages, although
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understandable, overlooks other values in learning languages, such as
“bridging divides, repairing inequalities and redistribution of power”
(Shohamy 2007: 133) that could form the basis of an alternative educational philosophy for democracy, voice, care and empathy, environmental sustainability and respect (Sennett 2003; Coste & Simon 2009: 175).
It also overlooks the importance of social capital, inclusion, and democratic participation for mobility and economic advancement (see e.g.
Sen 1999). Language education should therefore not be constrained by a
narrow understanding of economic achievement but ought to consider
a variety of other important values as fundamental (Agnihotri 2007: 80;
Shohamy 2007).
In one approach to this, Stroud (2001, 2009) and Stroud and Heugh
(2004) introduce the notion of linguistic citizenship. This notion recognizes
the manifold sites and the many linguistic practices through which citizenship is managed, and attempts to account for the way both local and
transnational solidarities are built across categorical identities through
interpersonal negotiation in multiscaled spaces (fluid political identities,
broad alliances, etc). Deploying this notion allows us to capitalize on the
discursive nature of citizenship, that is, citizenship as a rhetorical or discursive trope that throws up issues (such as language) for public discussion and contestation in the search for alternative forms of normativity.
Repositioning language teaching in a framework of voice, agency, and
citizenship opens up a new set of discourses around language which
differ from those conventionally associated with language education.
Instead of a normative focus on standard and correctness of a language,
and the monoglot voice of linguistic authority, attention is directed
toward pedagogical strategies for crossing between semiotic resources that
is, the resemiotization or recontextualization of messages and the recognition of polycentric actors and a plurality of public voices at multiple
scales (see Canagarajah 2006a)
Various studies (Kell 2006; Roswell 2006; Archer 2006; Kerfoot, forthcoming) have shown how strategic use of different languages, language
varieties, registers and modes of representation across contexts “promote inter-group dialogue and […] reshape existing distinctions between
formal and informal speech along with the power relations bound up
in them” (Kerfoot, forthcoming). In a similar manner, the development
and deployment of multisemiotic means of representing problems and
issues may ease hierarchy and construct participants as equals capable of
collectively addressing social issues, “allowing voices previously silenced
to be heard in ways not possible through ‘normative’ literacy practices”
(Kerfoot, forthcoming).
A second related theme contributing to the tension between diversity and uniformity is that solutions to language problems are sought
solely within the canons and expertise of the political North, with
little caution and frequent negligence on behalf of the “experts” (see
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CHRISTOPHER STROUD AND KATHLEEN HEUGH
Spolsky 2004, Alidou et al. 2006) in transplanting new approaches
to language education which emerge from powerful settings to the
peripheries (see Heugh 2009b). Conditions and scale of marginalization have often been so complex in peripheral contexts that the communities simply have not had the resources to engage directly with
negotiations in the centre/s. Proxy agents have often performed this
role and the communities have been positioned as requiring external
assistance rather than as active participants. However, the perspective brought by proxy agents is often tainted by (neo)colonial misperceptions that have exacerbated rather than solved the problem. Thus,
European languages used as the primary focus of education since the
1880s have brought educational success only for a small minority of
students in Africa, while the European partition of Africa put an end
to well-functioning education systems across North and West Africa –
ones which included Arabic along with several African languages with
written scripts in Ajami (Arabic script). The French prohibited the use
of Arabic and the Ajami script for African languages, replacing this
with French and the Latin script (Alidou 2004). The advances of scholarship and literary studies in the Islamo-Sudanese centers in Africa, of
which the Sankore-University Mosque in Timbuktu is the best known,
was thus arrested with colonization.
An ethical, inclusive, and socially just language education needs,
therefore, to engage critically with the roles, functions and agency of
linguists and the field of linguistics, over and above examining language
practices in society. On the African continent, linguists have traditionally observed spoken language features in flux and assumed that the
speech communities in question were unaware of, or did not have strong
attachments to a core corpus. In so doing, Western historical documentation obscured a long tradition of literary scholarship dating back two
thousand years in Ethiopia, from the seventh to sixteenth centuries in
the Islamo-Sudanese centers of West and North West Africa and in more
recent well-established literatures in Southern and Eastern African languages. Even where there were no written traditions, oral traditions kept
the core corpus largely intact, while blurring of the edges is a regular
feature of language contact for every linguistic variety on earth. Gaps in
comprehension of both the oral and the written traditions have become
the axis upon which indigenous languages in Africa are considered too
unstable and vulnerable to shift for use in educational contexts. What
is overlooked in this position is the hegemonic, colonial, post-colonial,
and more recent neoliberal conditions or habitus that obscured the existence of and secondly arrested the production of texts. Had production
of texts in African scripts continued, there would have been responsive
changes in lexis, syntax and genre in written languages of the peripheries. The historical-political conditions which arrested literary traditions
in Africa have thus exacerbated power differentials among languages,
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stigmatizing the local, privileging the global. Choice under such circumstances is performed rather than informed.
A comprehensive reconceptualization of language education which
best serves the contemporary transmigratory globalized world requires
a revisitation and reconfiguration of core, regional, and local curricula
and languages, codes and registers designed to offer students opportunities to participate in local, regional, and global human activity. This is
possible only with the participation of linguists from every region and
context. Sociolinguists from India have for several decades made significant contributions to language education, literally from the periphery to
the center, although it is only very recently that valuable research from
Latin America has been accessed in English-dominant contexts. The glaring gap of knowledge is in the West and in relation to understanding the
dynamics of language education in China, Japan, and Korea. Canagarajah
(2000: 123) notes the need for “the micro-social analysis that has to be
carried out in different periphery communities to redress a historiography in English studies (undertaken mainly by center-based scholars)
that has not been adequately sensitive to the everyday strategies of linguistic negotiation of the local people.” Such an agenda would facilitate
a critical interrogation of how the reproduction of inequity is recycled
through intricate mechanisms and professional discourses on language
to coerce post-colonial complicity (see Bourdieu 1991; Foucault 1991;
Clayton 2008).
A third theme is that the complexities emanating from transnational
developments are exacerbated by a traditional disaggregation of the
broad discipline of linguistics to its subcategories of sociolinguistics,
applied linguistics, and psycholinguistics. The theoretical source of
contemporary bilingual education has a long history of association
within language acquisition and psycholinguistics (Malherbe 1946;
Peal & Lambert 1962; Pienemann 1998; Hyltenstam & Abrahamsson
2003; Garçia & Baker 2007), a field which has been overshadowed in
the last two decades by the rise of discursive debates in sociolinguistics and the significant economic rewards of the second language
industry and its dominance within applied linguistics. This division
is accentuated in contemporary contexts and contributes toward a dislocation of conversations about and within language education. While
sociolinguistics has contributed in the last few decades to post-colonial
discourses of the relationship between language and power, language
policy and critical pedagogy (what Martin-Jones [2007] calls the “why”
questions), psycholinguistics has contributed to a more nuanced understanding of how and when languages are learned (e.g. Pienemann 1998;
Hyltenstam & Abrahamsson 2003). Cognitive linguistics currently offers
new explorations of how the brain organizes languages and thought.
Sociolinguistics has also contributed to considerations of language, variety, code, and register on the edges and representations of identities
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CHRISTOPHER STROUD AND KATHLEEN HEUGH
as these articulate with citizenship (e.g. Rassool 2007; Canagarajah
2008; Stroud 2009), and approached questions of language ideologies (Blommaert & Verschueren 1998; Woolard 1998; Donahue 2002),
language policy and planning (Spolsky 2004; Tollefson & Tsui 2004;
Pennycook 2008; Ricento & Wright 2008; Phillipson 2009) as contextual
spaces of social, political, and economic intervention. They have been
positioned as observers and commentators of the sociopolitical, spatialtemporal, agency-positioning, and other contextual considerations of
language in use, shift, re-appropriation, reproduction, resistance and
identity in the broad context of society. Interventions inside the metaphorical school door, in both formal and non-formal educational contexts, have been considered, in the main, to be the purview of applied
linguists, sometimes psycholinguists, who specialize in language
acquisition and teaching. Applied linguists have got on with language
planning at the level of course design, pedagogy, teacher training, textbook production and translation. To this end, their focused attention
is drawn inexorably inwards – to the imperatives of market force supply and demand. Unsurprisingly, the perspectives offered by each subdiscipline are often incompatible, with divergence of position among
linguists emerging in the different emphases and views of what language education is or how it ought to be delivered in order to reach
the objective of providing access to sophisticated linguistic skills (see
Heller 2007; Martin-Jones 2007).
New theorizing of bilingual education would benefit from incorporating insights from recent language typological research on diversity
(rather than underlying uniformity) as a fundamental feature of human
language (Evans & Levinson 2009), and exploring the implications of
developing this notion as central to sociolinguistic theory and applied
linguistic work more generally. Furthermore, research within sociolinguistics/applied linguistics informs us that the most efficient route for
language education is to follow a bi/multilingual process in which the
linguistic repertoires known to the student are strengthened simultaneously with the teaching and learning of the international language. This
occurs in informal out-of-school contexts, where material features of the
target language are accessible, and in more explicit provision within formal school education. Monolingual educational options in most settings
today are insufficient responses to student needs and aspirations. An
interesting approach that moves away from teaching a language, and that
builds on notions of diversity and multilingualism would explore the
nature of boundaries in language learning and communication. Notions
such as mediating, bridging, crossing, blurring, transculturation, or symbiotic
interconnectivity all articulate with the idea of movement between a familiar semiotic system and a target, with, in the case of language, exhibitions of “interlanguage” and hybridity occurring as part of the process of
learning to use the additional language (e.g. Pienemann 1998).
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23.4 Conclusion
The scaling up of post-World War II migration from the late 1960s
onwards in Europe, North America, and Australasia, exacerbated by
regional and global confl ict and large scale human displacement, in
combination with the ascendancy of Western capital market economy,
technological advances. and ideological shifts has revealed the unprecedented diversity deriving from the practices of multilingualism.
However, responses to diversity, and the way in which it has been discussed and theorized, are conceptualized in inappropriate models of
linguistic uniformity, and multilingual contexts are typically subject
to pressures of both centripetal homogeneity and centrifugal diversity
(see Lo Bianco 2010). Thus, language education currently presents more
challenges than solutions, and more contradictions than symmetries,
something that at base is but one articulation of the problem of reconciling or managing diversity-homogeneity. If teachers are to be expected
to negotiate constantly hybridizing linguistic phenomena, ensure that
students achieve sufficiently high levels of academic literacy in the languages of education, and articulate with the entire curriculum, then
teacher education will require reconceptualization and provision for
ongoing re-tooling. Multilingualism is diversity and needs to be nurtured as such, which in turn, we have suggested, means a radical reconceptualization of the politics of language education, and a rethinking of
the epistemological and ontological premises of discourses of language
more generally.
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Notes
3
Linguistic anthropology
1 Recursion refers to that property of natural-historical languages that
accounts for the kind of repeated and potentially infinite application
of syntactic rules that produce complex sentences such as The book that
was on the table that you bought has disappeared.
2 The term habitus was also used by the French sociologist Marcel Mauss
(1935). For a discussion of possible sources of Bourdieu’s notion of
habitus and its relevance to the study of language, see Hanks (2005).
3 SPEAKING is an acronym with each letter standing for a major component of speech events. “G” stands for “Genres.” See Hymes (1972b).
5
Orality and literacy in sociolinguistics
1 The examples in this chapter are presented with transcription conventions adapted from Atkinson and Heritage (1984).
[
simultaneous or overlapping speech
(2.0)
pause length in seconds
.
falling intonation
?
rising intonation
…
trailing off
:
elongated syllable
::
paralinguistic drawl
(shrugs) non-verbal turn or move
→
utterance of interest
6
Sign languages
1 Throughout this chapter, we follow the current convention of using
Deaf to refer to people who are culturally Deaf, and lower-case deaf to
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Notes to pages 89–186
431
refer to audiological status. People who are deaf may or may not be
culturally Deaf.
2 xSL refers to any of the many sign languages found in Deaf communities throughout the world.
10
Language, social class, and status
1 In a Marxist analysis, an important distinction would be made between
“white-collar” workers and the petty bourgeoisie, or small capitalists
(shopkeepers and small businessmen), although both would probably
be lumped together as “middle class” on the status scales discussed
here.
2 A common variant used in other studies is SES – socioeconomic
status.
3 There are cases in the literature of stable sociolinguistic markers
showing relatively fine stratification – see, for example, Trudgill’s
study of (- ing) and (t) (1974a: 92–96). But what seems to be lacking are
changes in progress showing relatively sharp stratification, although
the fronting of the nucleus of (aw) in Philadelphia, reported -in Labov
1980, may be an example of this. It might be necessary to distinguish
between changes from above, such as New York City (r), and changes
from below, as this could certainly influence the type of stratification
which emerges.
4 For example, the descriptions of speakers’ life histories, on which
judges based their evaluations of a speaker’s standing in the linguistic
market, were not strictly comparable across speakers and could conceivably have been so as to bias the judges’ rankings.
5 Indeed, New York City has witnessed a dramatic increase in its linguistic diversity since Labov did his research: close to half of city residents
speak a language other than English at home. So it also may now need
to be treated as a conglomerate of multiple speech communities.
6 Of course it should be emphasized that sociolinguistic variation does
NOT necessarily imply change in progress. Many stable sociolinguistic
variables appear to have persisted in certain languages for generations
without one form winning out over the other.
7 This account arises from the network and neighborhood studies in
Philadelphia cited previously, and is in part my own interpretation
based on personal communications.
11 Language and region
1 Kansas, Virginia, and Michigan are, of course, US states with formal
and precise boundaries. “Midwest,” “Great Plains,” and “South” are
common informal designations for US regions, and different people
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NOTES TO PAGES 186–193
2
3
4
5
6
7
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put different states into each of them. The “Northern Cities Shift” is
one of three great systems of sound change in progress in the USA
proposed by William Labov and defended most extensively in Labov,
Boberg, and Ash (2006).’
If, on the other hand, we are willing to consider linguistic features
individually, not all at once in the aggregate as a linguistic system,
we can apply methods from technical geography. See Kretzschmar
(1996), (2009) for detailed exposition of this approach. Results from
each approach are quite different but complementary.
The Prairie Home Companion is a long-running radio show created
and hosted by Garrison Keilor, which features commentary on the
inhabitants and customs of Lake Woebegone, Minnesota, a place with
a strong Scandinavian ethnic flavor where, in a famous phrase, “all the
children are above average.”
“Rust Belt,” “Bible Belt,” and “Sun Belt” are common informal designations for US regions, parallel to “Midwest” and other more properly geographic designations but more colorful in expression. The “Rust Belt”
consists of Northern industrial states such as Pennsylvania, Michigan,
Illinois, and others whose mills and factories became outmoded and
uncompetitive in the 1970s and 1980s. Their workers then often tried
to find jobs in the “Sun Belt,” Southern states with a warmer climate
but without a tradition of trade unions, where new factories were then
being built. “Bible Belt” is the fuzziest of these informal designations,
referring to Southern and Midwestern states (really, anywhere besides
the urbane Northeast and West Coast) in which many residents practice conservative Christian religious beliefs.
Labov, for example, offers less commentary than he did for Martha’s
Vineyard on the contribution of place to the language in New York
(1994) and Philadelphia (2001). For these cities he focused on change
in progress and the style/class model, and his basic strategy was to
eliminate groups of speakers (African-Americans, the very poor, the
cultural elite) from his analysis in order to focus on what he perceived
to be the upper-working and lower-middle class core of vernacular
speech there. J. K. Chambers (2003) has argued that such a broad idea
of speech community makes it unnecessary to use sampling to collect
evidence of language behavior in Toronto. The problem has, however,
long been noted by sociolinguists. See Romaine (1982: 11).
Not everybody in even the most famous culture areas accepts the famous culture. Tamara Lindner (2009) has reported that, in the central
parishes of Cajun culture in Louisiana, only 60 to 80 percent of the
high-school-age residents she surveyed would call themselves “Cajun”
or “Cajun American” – and only 25 percent of residents surveyed in the
biggest city in the area, Lafayette, would do so.
For historical accounts, see Kretzschmar (2002), (2006). The variable
behavior of feature distributions is not a problem if we do not wish to
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Notes to pages 200–248
433
aggregate them as a linguistic system. Kretzschmar (2009) replies to
the“unreasonable expectations” noted by Pederson, with a programmatic account of what regularities emerge, if not systems, from observation of feature distributions per se.
8 General Southern features are those used historically by both Plantation
and Upland Southern speakers, excluding the marked features specific
to either.
13 Language, gender and sexuality
1 Lakoff (2004: 80) noted that women’s linguistic innovativeness had
indeed been remarked upon much earlier by Jespersen (1922), but she
maintained that his observations were probably based on pre-twentieth-century Western society.
2 Principle 1 has to do with social class and language change and states
that “linguistic change from below originates in a central social group,
located in the interior of the social class hierarchy” (Labov 2001: 188).
3 Studies of the Arabic-speaking world have demonstrated to sociolinguists that we cannot always conflate “prestige” and “standard” forms
and varieties, since prestigious varieties such as Classical Arabic may
be quite different from standard varieties in widespread, everyday use,
such as Cairene Arabic (see, e.g., Haeri 1987, 1994 for more on this
matter). Milroy (1998) further points out that even in the heart of the
English-speaking world, in Great Britain, there is a disjunct between
the prestige variety, Received Pronunciation (RP), and various supralocal standards that have arisen in recent decades.
4 These hearings were part of Thomas’s Confirmation Hearings for
appointment to the US Supreme Court and centered on Hill’s allegations of sexual harassment against Thomas. The allegations were
determined to be false.
14
Language and ethnicity
1 We must keep in mind, though, that any sociolinguistic feature we
study may have multiple, overlapping meanings with reference to
identity.
2 See also Baugh (1999) and Rickford (1999) for more discussion of language attitudes toward Standard English and not using AAE in AfricanAmerican communities, and Hewitt (1986) for a similar discussion of
Creole speakers in the UK.
3 This term is discussed thoroughly in Eckert and McConnell-Ginet
(1992).
4 See Fought (2006) for a more detailed discussion of this topic.
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NOTES TO PAGES 254–284
5 For a discussion of other language-use topics, such as complimenting,
joking, and indirectness, see Fought (2006).
6 See Smitherman (1977) and Green (2002) for more on this topic.
15 Multilingualism
1 The Ethnologue is generally considered to be reliable due to its large
network of professional linguists which supply most data updates.
However, see Paolillo (2006) for a critical assessment of the Ethnologue
data, its occasional use of out-dated sources, and the fact that staff
constraints can delay data updates.
2 However, as noted by Gracía (2002) in his discussion of multilingualism in New York City, these patterns, although amplified since the
1950s, are not entirely new. Many cities, especially port cities, have a
long-standing pattern of multilingualism, reaching back hundreds of
years.
3 There is some disagreement as to the age at which a child needs to
be exposed to these languages. Some suggest that only children who
have been exposed to more than one language from birth should be
considered in this category, while others have proposed age three as
the limit. For further discussion and references, see Romaine (1995:
181–82), and Genesee and Nicoladis (2007).
4 In extension of Ferguson (1959), related varieties as well as distinct
languages are included in this category. This is partially motivated by
the difficulty of distinguishing languages from varieties or dialects
(as discussed in Section 15.1 of this chapter). Among Ferguson’s own
examples, Haiti is probably better described as a society where two
different languages are used, given current debates about the status of
Haitian Creole and the role of African languages (in addition to French)
in its formation.
5 http://content.studentvillage.co.za/article/articleview/769/1/27/.
16
Pidgins and creoles
1 The word pidgin has been convincingly argued to originate in Chinese
Pidgin English, where it meant ‘business’ (Mühlhäusler 1986; Shi
1992).
2 Linguists call it Hawai’i Creole English, following the practice established by Bickerton (1981), and distinguish it from an earlier nonnatively spoken Hawai’i Pidgin English.
3 The word creole has Portuguese origins, and was originally used to designate any person of European ancestry born in “the New World,” i.e.
the Americas (Valkhoff 1966, cited in Mühlhäusler 1986: 6). Its use
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4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
435
was quickly expanded, first to designate people born there of African
ancestry, then to designate cultural and linguistic practices that arose
there.
Creolists make use of the terms lexifier, superstrate, and substrate. The
terms lexifier language’ and superstrate language are identical in meaning: they refer to the language of political and economic power in the
setting where a pidgin or creole is formed. The term lexifier reflects
the fact that the preponderance of the lexicon in the pidgin or creole
comes from that language. The substrate languages refer to the first
languages of the bulk of the population, specifically the labor force,
at the time that the pidgin or creole came into being. For Caribbean
creoles the relevant languages during the period of creole genesis
would have been the languages of the enslaved, primarily African
languages but also some Amerindian languages.
These listings are not intended to be exhaustive. There are other
languages designated pidgin or creole by their speakers. In addition,
there are many pidgin and creole languages that go by other names,
such as Papiamentu (spoken in Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao), Seselwa
(the Seychelles Islands), Patwa (Jamaica), and Bislama (Vanuatu). For
more complete listings, see Holm (1989) and Smith (1995).
Note, though, that Siegel (2008) retains the traditional term expanded
pidgin for Melanesian Pidgin, “because the vast majority of its speakers still speak other languages as well, and it is not the vernacular
language of any distinct, newly emerged community” (p. 4), and that
Jourdan (2008) uses pidgin for all varieties, including those more commonly designated creole.
Thomason and Kaufman (1988) distinguish a third type of contact
language, that of bilingual mixed languages. These prototypically
draw on two different source languages for lexicon and grammar –
but that this is an idealized view becomes clear when specific cases of
bilingual mixed languages are considered: more often than not, the
division of material between source languages is not all that clear-cut
(see case studies in Bakker & Mous 1994).
We don’t wish to imply that the study of language contact is recent:
its history goes back at least to the late nineteenth century and possibly even earlier (Winford 2003: 6). But its recognition as a specific
area of interest is relatively recent.
Nonetheless, modern proponents of cross-creole similarity can be
found; thus, Holm’s influential (2000) textbook holds that creole
grammar is essentially uniform in important respects.
Substratist positions have been articulated mainly, though not exclusively, with regard to Caribbean creole languages.
Bickerton changed his position on the single-generation pidgin-tocreole development in later publications; see the discussion in
Veenstra (2008: 227).
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NOTES TO PAGES 294–319
12 James and Youssef (2008: 662), for example, posit “basilect, mesolect,
and a local Standard English” for Tobago. Earlier, Winford (1975) had
applied the model to English creole and English in Trinidad, but
he subsequently rejected the model in favor of a coexistent system
model.
13 It may seem odd that the same speech variety can be designated
both “radical” and “conversative,” but the designations reflect competing views as to why the creole in question – more accurately, the
basilectal variety of the creole in question – is further from the lexifier than are other creoles with the same lexifier. Following from
the view that different creoles underwent creolization to different
degrees, today’s radical creoles are seen as the ones that underwent
the greatest degree of creolization when they were being formed,
e.g. the Suriname Creoles. In contrast, the term conservative implies
that the variety in question has resisted decreolization, holding on
to its original basilect. In opposition to “conservative” creoles, then,
the “intermediate” ones have apparently undergone some degree of
decreolization. Winford (2000: 216–17) is unusual in distinguishing
between basilectal and radical creoles, hypothesizing the latter as
being further still from the lexifier language.
14 Chapuis (2003) presents evidence that Standard French is a recent
addition in Réunion and argues against its inclusion in the Réunion
continuum. Crucially for present purposes, however, he accepts the
aptness of the continuum model for Réunion.
18 Language maintenance, shift, and endangerment
1 Known as “residential schools” in Canada and the USA, they have
also been a feature of Mexican, Russian, and Chinese education of
their indigenous minorities. Australia (1869–1969) notoriously compounded the sequestration of children from their language communities by permanently separating children from parents.
2 A further bibliography of language maintenance, courtesy of the
Yinka Déné Language Institute, can be found at www.ydli.org/biblios/
maintbib.htm.
3 In some few cases, these abstract foundations of language use have
been made the basis for a cultural artifact comparable to a literature. The abstract grammatical analysis of Sanskrit associated with
Panini, and of Tamil in the Tolkāppiyam, like the schoolroom tradition of GRAMMATICA in Latin associated with Donatus and Priscian,
served to preserve the use of those languages in the form of the most
ancient literature for over a millennium. In a very different context, one could compare the specialized linguistic skills, explicitly
taught in some traditional cultures. One such example is the Xhosa
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4
5
6
7
8
437
initiates’ language IsiKhwetha: another is Damin, an auxiliary language acquired orally by Lardil initiated men in Mornington Island in
Australia (McKnight 1999).
Mercator Media Forum, a journal put out for the last ten years by the
Mercator Media Project at the University of Wales Press, examines
media issues relating to the minority languages of Europe.
The Peruvian Felipillo, main interpreter for the Spanish during the
conquest of Peru, had, reportedly, “learnt the [Spanish] language without anyone teaching him… [and] … was the first interpreter that Peru
had” (Inca Garcilaso, according to Gómez 1995: 82).
It is interesting that the ultimate effect on the number of languages in
the world may not have been all that great, although the median size of
a language community will have increased markedly at the new population densities. Nettle (1999) (using population sizes and densities of
Australia, the one continent not touched by the Neolithic revolution,
and world population estimates from Hassan 1981) estimates there
were between 1,667 and 9,000 languages before the spread of farming. The current figure is close to 7,000, including of course many languages which must be the results of splits in languages which spread
with agriculture and herding: there have been up to 10,000 years for
this to happen. Language diversity, given enough time, will recover,
perhaps because – before the advent of modern communications – the
costs of long-distance contact between populations after they moved
has been prohibitive.
The Volkswagen-Stiftung Dokumentation bedrohter Sprachen (DoBeS;
www.mpi.nl/DOBES/ ), and the Hans Rausing Endangered Language
Programme (www.hrelp.org) are private funds which give grants specifically for language documentation projects and have created significant language archives. For similar purposes the US Government,
through the NSF, NEH, and Smithsonian Institution, has established
a program DEL (www.neh.gov/grants/guidelines/del.html). DELAMAN
(www.delaman.org) and OLAC (www.language-archives.org) in different ways integrate and support language archiving. Numerous
other archive organizations are regionally based (e.g. AILLA for Latin
America [www.ailla.utexas.org], ANLC for Alaska [www.uaf.edu/anlc],
ASEDA for Australia [www1.aiatsis.gov.au/ASEDA], Digital Himalaya
[www.digitalhimalaya.com], PARADISEC for the Pacific [paradisec.
org.au]).
In the proceedings volumes from the conferences of the Foundation for
Endangered Languages, the situations of specific languages are considered as they illustrate different aspects of language revitalization policy. So there are volumes on the role of expert advisers and linguists
(Ostler 1998; David, Ostler & Dealwis 2007), education (Ostler 1999),
literacy (Ostler & Rudes 2000), the media (Moseley, Ostler & Ouzzate
2001), literatures (Brown 2002), local connections (Blythe 2003),
9780521897075not_p430-439.indd 437
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438
NOTES TO PAGES 332–403
9
10
11
12
22
language rights (Argenter & Brown 2004), marginalization (Crawhall &
Ostler 2005), multilingualism (Elangaiyan et al. 2006/2008), language
teaching and learning (de Graaf, Ostler & Salverda 2008).
These currently include the Foundation for Endangered Languages
(FEL; www.ogmios.org), Gesellschaft f ü r bedrohte Sprachen (GBS;
www.uni-koeln.de/gbs), Terralingua (www.terralingua.org), which
are membership societies. Linguapax (www.linguapax.org) is a network sponsoring language diversity, based in Barcelona and closely
linked with UNESCO. The Endangered Language Fund (ELF; www.
endangeredlanguagefund.org) and FEL give small but unrestricted
grants for hopeful projects, especially in revitalization. The Living
Tongues Institute (www.livingtongues.org) appears to intend to
work directly on its own projects, in this respect resembling the
Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL), a vast organization for language documentation and literacy (www.sil.org), which has grown
out of the US evangelical Wycliffe Bible Translators (www.wycliffe.
org).
The text is at www.conventions.coe.int/treaty/en/Treaties/Html/148.
htm.
The date was originally designated by Bangladesh (formerly East
Pakistan) as Language Movement Day, commemorating martyrs
for the status of the Bengali language killed at a demonstration in
1952.
This estimate is often expressed as a rate of language loss at one every
two weeks. Krauss’ (1992) article, which kicked off the concern about
endangered languages, in fact conjectured that up to 90 percent of
the world’s languages are endangered.
Language and the media
1 For overviews of work in the field of media studies, see Marris and
Thornham (2000) and Downing et al. 2004.
2 A version of Hall’s original essay as a stenciled paper is re-published
as Stuart Hall “Encoding/Decoding” in Marris and Thornham (2000:
51–61).
3 See, e.g., van Dijk (1997a) and (1997b); Toolan (2002); Weiss and Wodak
(2003); Wodak and Chilton (2005); and the journals, Discourse and
Society, Critical Discourse Studies.
4 See, e.g., Clayman and Heritage (2002: 347–53) for a glossary of transcript symbols.
5 See Benwell and Stokoe (2006: 171). Their work points to some of the
ways in which identity is commodified in advertisements and other
texts.
9780521897075not_p430-439.indd 438
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Notes to page 417
23
439
Language in education
1 The Pan South African Language Board shows however, that where
choice is broadened to include options which offer access to the language of power and the local/home language simultaneously, surprisingly few select only the former (12 percent favoring English only vs.
88 percent favoring good teaching of the mother tongue and English,
PANSALB 2000). (See also a similar and earlier discussion in Krashen
1996.)
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Index
/ay/ pronunciation
Ocracoke Island study. See Ocracoke Island
study, 230
/l/ vocalization, 195–97
/r/, post-vocalic, 165, 171, 173, 174, 180
/t∫/, lenition of, 168
Aboriginal English, 378
and discourse analysis, 389
adjacency pairs. See conversation analysis
African-American English. see African
American Vernacular English
African American Vernacular English (AAVE),
18, 25, 81, 238, 239, 242, 243, 245, 249,
250, 252, 350
African-Americans
community of practice, 198
middle-class, 244–46
in sociolinguistics and law, 389
Ainsworth, J., 386, 390
American English, 20, 23, 26, 229, 336, 351
American Indian languages, 31
Cherokee, 253
Kwakiutl, 31
Auer, P., 153, 307
Austin, J. L., 58, 124, 126
Australian Aborigines, 382
back-channeling. See conversation
Baker, P., 289
Baquedano-Lopez, P., 45
Basic Variety, 290, 291
Baynton, D., 93
Beal, J., 214
Bell, A., 146–48
Ben-Rafael, E. et al., 277
Bernstein, B., 20, 69, 70, 80, 177–79
Biber, D., 71, 75
Bickerton, D., 288–89
Birmingham Centre for Contemporary
Cultural Studies, 129
Blom, J.-P. and Gumperz, J., 305
Blommaert, J., 371
Bloomfield, L., 93
Boas, F., 28, 29, 31–32
borrowing and crossing, 247, 277–78
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 523
in Asia Minor, 278
in Caribbean Creole, 278
vs. code-switching, 277–78
and ethnicity, 242
in sign language, 91
in South Africa, 278
Bourdieu, P., 34–35, 44
Brierley, B., 403
Britain, D., 211
British National Corpus, 378
Brown, P. and Levinson, S., 57
Brown, R., 56
Bureau of American Ethnology, 28
Bureau of Ethnology. See Bureau of American
Ethnology
Cajun, 247
Camfranglais, 269
Canagarajah, S., 368, 371
Cedergren, H., 168, 174
Chomsky, N., 49, 183, 184
Chouliaraki, L. and Fairclough, N., 130, 131
Circles of English, 345, 349
classificatory bias
in English, 33
in linguistic anthropology, 30–32
in Yucatec, 33
Cockney, 155–56
code-switching, 246, 268–70
in African-American drag queens, 233
in Alzheimer’s disease, 313
Auer’s five types, 306
vs. borrowing. See borrowing and crossing
defi nition, 301–04
demarcation, 301–04
diglossi, 305
East Africa, 306, 309–10
in ethnic identity, 241
extra-sentential, 307
in gay Cantonese-speaking men, 233
grammatical perspectives, 307–11
in immigrants, Italy, 305
inter-sentential, 307
intra-sentential, 308
markedness, 305–06
6/7/2011 4:28:33 PM
524
INDEX
code-switching (cont.)
methodology, 313–14
in Morocco, 305
in sign language, 91–92
single word, 308
sociolinguistic perspectives, 304–07
source of material, 313–14
speakers’ perspective, 311–13
and typology, 311
West Africa, 306
word internal, 308
colonialism, 168
Common European Framework of Reference
for Languages. See education
communication accommodation theory (CAT),
60–63, 67, 145, 147, 152, 307
communicative competence, 19, 22, 185
accents, 62
in ethnography, 108
receiver, 19, 22
sender, 19, 23
communicative context, 18–19
and power, 21–23
communicative universals, 22
community of practice, 152, 191, 198, 221,
231–32, 248
FBI, 232
Conley, J. M. and O’Barr, W. M., 384
contact linguistics, 287
contextualization cues, 74–75, 109
conversation
back-channeling, 255
as a collaborative phenomenon, 112–13
as a cultural phenomenon, 114
and feedback, 255
and interaction, 114–16
as a locus for action, 114–16
and silence, 254–55
as a structured and emergent phenomenon,
110–12
conversation analysis (CA). See also critical
discourse analysis, 39–40, 65, 72–74, 125
adjacency pairs, 60, 65, 110, 111
in conversational discourse, 107
in courtroom situations, 382
frame analysis, 112
Jefferson System, 119
in media, 400–01
sequencing, 110
speaker strategies, 73–74
turn-taking, 65
conversational discourse, 106–09
in conversation analysis, 106–07
in ethnography. See ethnography, 107–08
interactional sociolinguistics.
See interactional sociolinguistics
Cooper, R. L., 359
Cooperative Principle. See Grice’s maxims
copula
zero, 149
creole
basilectal, 294
Caribbean region, 294, 297–99
as a contact language, 286–87
continuum. See creole continuum
in courtroom situations, 390
decreolization, 295
defi nition, 283–85
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 524
diglossia, 296
fi rst language acquisition, 289
and gender, 298
genesis, 287–88
genesis, multi-generational/cascade model,
288–91
Guadeloupe, 299
Gullah, 229
Guyanese, 169
Haitian, 299
Hawai’i Creole English, 285, 288
interlanguage, 290–91
internal variation, 299
Jamaican Creole, 294
Jamaican Language Unit (JLU) survey, 298–99
Jamaican Patwa, 298
Kréyòl, 297–98, 299
Kwéyòl, 297
vs. lexifer, speakers’ attitudes, 296–99
mesolectal, 294
models for variation, 296
substrate vs. Universal Grammer, 288–91
and social class, 168–69
and stigma, 296–98
and superstrate, 293
Suriname, 293
transmission, break in, 291–92
uniformity, 287–88
and Universal Grammar, 288
variation, 293–99
creole continuum, 293–96
acrolect, 293, 294
basilect, 293, 294
Jamaica/Guyana, 294
in Melanesian Pidgins, 295
mesolect, 293
post-creole continuum, 295
critical discourse analysis (CDA), 115, 128–32
in courtroom situation, 382
critical language awareness, 131
in media, 399–400
power and ideology, 130–31
structuralism, 132
topics, choice of, 131
Crystal, D., 410
cultural area. See regions
Cutler, C., 154
Danesi, M., 397
data
analysis, 65, 116–20
collection, 49–51, 53, 116–19
in conversation analysis, 118
in ethnography, 118
in interactional sociolinguistics, 118
transcription, 119–20
deixis
social, 45
spacial, 33
temporal, 34
Delin, J., 409
dialect, 143
contact, 348
geography, 19th century, 204–05
mapping, 205
Northumbria, 214
Ocracoke. See Ocracoke Island study
Pittsburgh, 213
6/7/2011 4:28:33 PM
Index
second dialect speakers. See L2
Dialect Atlas of the Middle and North Atlantic
States, 207
dialect atlas surveys, USA, 206–07
Dictionary of American Regional English (DARE), 207
Dictionary of American Sign Language, 89
diglossia, 362, 365
broad, 275
classification, 276
in code-switching, 305
in creole, 296
and domains, 361
and group identity, 275
Latin, role of, 324
in multilingualism, 275–76
narrow, 275
pseudo, 276
in Switzerland, 275
triglossia in Tanzania, 276
Dijk, T. von, 399
discourse
in advertising, 402–05
and place, 211–13
discourse analysis (DA). See also critical
discourse analysis
Clinton–Lewensky Grand Jury testimony, 64–65
in courtroom situations, 383
rhetoric, 67–68, 76
in sign language, 96–97
in social pyschology, 63–65
sociolinguistic discourse analysis, 134–36
discourse, written
and reading, 77–79
and speaking, 82
and writing, 80–81
domains, 362
H(igh), 275, 296, 361, 365
L(ow), 275, 296, 361
in multilingualism, 273–75
Dubois, S. and Horvath, B., 247
Eades, D., 382, 395
Eckert, P., 152, 176, 191, 228, 231
ecological barriers, 27
education
Common European Framework of Reference
for Languages, 421, 423
diversity and uniformity, 424–28
Hong Kong, 417
language policy, 422–23
minority languages, 417–18
endangered languages
International Clearing House for
Endangered Languages (ICHEL), 333
English
classificatory bias, 33
and cultural globalization, 350–51
and the British Empire, 336–39
in globalization, 341–43, 416
as a language of decolonization, 422
in Malaysia, 375
as a medium of instruction, 374–75
New Englishes, 338
English as a foreign language (EFL), 352, 416
English as a second language (ESL), 352, 423
Erlich, D., 382
ethnic identity
and age, 247–48
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 525
525
and gender, 246–47
heritage language, 241
and language endanderment, 329
language function, 254–55
multiple, 250
sociolinguistic factors, 241
ethnicity
and borrowing, 242
code-switching. See code-switching
discourse features, 242
heritage languages, 243, 247, 295, 417–18
identity, 241–44
majority groups, 250–52
networks, 248–49
race, 241
and regions, 249–50
re-racing, 239
suprasegmental features, 242
whiteness, 251
ethnography, 152, 155
data, 118
in communication, 107–08
communicative competence, 108
in conversational discourse, 107–08
discourse in courtrooms, 384
and Latina women, 391
and law, 379
and style, 152
ethnolinguistics, 376
Ethnologue, 262, 274
ethnopoetics, 128
ethological barriers, 27
European Charter on Minority and Regional
Languages
and language revitalization. See language
revitalization
experimenter effect, 20, 117, 378
face, 113–14
Fairclough, N., 129, 399, 402
Ferguson, C., 275, 361
Ferguson, C. and Gumperz, J., 43
first language acquisition. See also L1, 266–68,
300
Fishman, J., 273, 316, 362
Franceschini, 269
fricatives, 165
gender
difference-based approach, 225–26
diversity, 228–31
dominance-based approach, 226–28
and ethnic identity, 246–47
gay speech, 233–34
identity, beyond mainstream, 232–34
inter-gender, 229
intra-gender, 228
Labov’s principles, 229
performance, 228–31
phonological and morphological variation,
228
phonological and morphosyntactic
variation, 223–25
and social class, 170
studies, approaches to, 220–21
women’s language. See also women’s
language, 223
General Southern, 200
6/7/2011 4:28:33 PM
526
INDEX
genres, 40–41
in media, 401–02
Samoa, 45
Giles, H., 61, 62–63, 67, 145, 307
Goffman, E., 18, 21, 56, 107, 108, 109, 110, 112,
113–14, 115, 141, 400
Goffmanian tradition, 106, 109, 117, 119, 120
Gordon, C., 111
Gould, P. and White, R., 193–94
grammars, 184
Grice, H. P., 124, 125, 126
Grice’s maxims, 56, 57–58, 124–26, 403
cooperative conversations, 58
Cooperative Principle, 124, 125
Griffey, N., 93
Gumperz, J., 305
habitus, 34–35
Hägerstrand, T., 208–09
Hall, S., 398
Halliday, M., 129, 132, 141–42, 143
Haugen, E., 20, 359
Heffer, C., 385
Helsinki Corpus of Historical English, 378
Heritage, J. and Greatbatch, D., 408
heterogeneity, 153, 369, 413, 415, 420, 421, 424
orderly, 161, 173, 184, 185, 208
Hill–Thomas hearings, 227–28, 235, 245
honorifics, 17, 45
in Samoa, 45, 75
Hornberger, N. H., 372
Horvath, B. and Horvath, R., 195
Humboldt, W. von, 30–31
Husserl, E., 33, 34
Hymes, D., 19–20, 21, 38, 40, 61, 107, 108, 142,
143, 145, 287
Hymes’ categories. See SPEAKING
identity construction, 111, 115, 248, 410
framing, 153
keying, 153
loading, 153
voicing, 153
- ing vs. - in’, 234
interactional sociolinguistics (IS)
in conversational discourse, 108–09
in sign language, 96
interlanguage
in creole. See creole
International Clearing House for Endangered
Languages (ICHEL), 333
International Corpus of English (ICE), 349, 378
Irvine, A., 294
Irvine, J. and Gal, S., 43
isoglosses, 192, 205, 206–07, 211
Italoschwyz, 269
Jocks and Burnouts, 153, 176, 228, 231
Johnston, B., 99
Kachru, B., 345, 350
Kachru’s Circles. See Circles of English
Kannapell, B., 94
Kiswahili, 270
Korean-American, 250
Kress, G. et al., 398
Kroch, A., 181–83
Kurath, H., 192
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 526
L1, 288, 291, 293, 296, 344, 345, 347, 418, 419
L2, 418
second dialect speakers, 390
speakers, 385, 387–90
La Bue, M., 95
Labov, W., 18, 20, 43, 139, 140, 164, 173, 174,
181–83, 208, 223, 224, 252
Lakoff, R., 221–23
Lane, C. et al., 93
language
attitudes, 278–80
and bias, 26
change, 51–52
and coercion, 379
contact, 348
and habitus, 37
habituation, 33–35
ideologies, 43–44
learning, 421–22
as a non-neutral code, 30, 33, 40
notions of, 420–21
and pedagogy, 347–48
and physical environment, 210–11
and regions, 186
and social context, 144
and social differentiation, 42–43
and social environment, 210–11
and social situation, 141–42
value of, 328–29
variety, 42–43
language acquisition. See also fi rst language
acquisition; second language acquisition,
316–17
types of acquistion, 267
language and colonization
models of, 339–41
Language and National Origin Group, 395
Language Bioprogram Hypothesis, 284, 289
language change. See also sound change
Labov’s principles, 223
role of women, 223
and social class, 179–83
language documentation
American tradition, 330
in language endangerment, 331
and missionaries, 331
language endangerment, 325–31
and colonization/invasion, 326–27
and documentation, 329
and ethnic identity, 329
historical background, 325–28
in LPLP, 369
and migration, 327
and revitalization. See language
revitalization
language loss, 351–52
in Deaf communities, 100
language maintenance, 271, 316–20, 361
generalizations, 317–18
in immigrants, 317
and literacy, 318–19
in LPLP, 369
and multimedia, 319–20
support for, 318–20
United Nations Educational, Scientific and
Cultural Organization (UNESCO), 333
language planning and language policy (LPLP)
acquisition planning, 359, 360
6/7/2011 4:28:33 PM
Index
coercion, 362, 365
corpus planning, 359
cost–benefit analysis in neoclassical
approach, 362–63
democratic models, 375–76
and discourse analysis, 371
early LPLP, 360
early LPLP, criticism of, 364–66
ecological approach, 369
in education, 358, 360, 361, 363, 364–65,
369, 370, 423
and ethnography, 371–73
governmental approach, 369
importance of, 373
medium of instruction, 361
neoclassical approach, 360–63
neoclassical vs historical approach, 366–67
new approaches to, 367–70
in New Englishes, 346–48
Peru, 372
planning process, 359
political theory, 373–75
revival of, 366–73
and sign language, 98–101
sign language, in South Africa, 102
Soweto Uprising, 364
status planning, 359, 360
in sub-Saharan Africa, 364
world-systems approach, 368
language revitalization, 331–33, 376
aim of, 332
European Charter on Minority and
Regional Languages, 333
in LPLP, 369
language shift, 271, 320–25
Australia, 271
and bilingualism, 325
and colonization/invasion, 321–22
and diffusion, 320–21, 328
individual immigration, 322
and infi ltration, 320–21
and language attitudes, 328
language teaching, role of, 324–25
and migration, 320–21, 323, 327
motives for, 323–24
scales of, 321–23
langue/competence- parole/performance, 123,
183, 184, 185, 397
law and language. See sociolinguistics and law
linguistic anthropology
classificatory bias, 30–32
history of, 28
linguistic bias, 35, 126–28
language socialization, 36–37
in multilingualism, 36
overcoming, 26
and reflexivity, 36
Linguistic Category Model, 60
linguistic citizenship, 425
linguistic discrimination, 23–24
against African-Americans, 18
in Russia, 24
in South Africa, 26
stereotyping, 37
talking white, 25, 26, 245
in USA, 20, 24–26
linguistic diversity, 369
linguistic dominance, 23–24, 27
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 527
527
linguistic landscaping, 214–17, 277
Israel, 277
linguistic marketplace, 166
linguistic relativity, 32–33
linguistics
contact. See contact linguistics
historical, 179
location theory, 208–09
Locke, A. and Edwards, D., 64–65
Lucy, J., 32, 33
Malay
as a medium of instruction, 374–75
Malinowski, B., 38
Maori, 243
Marx, K, 161
Marxism
and social class, 161–63, 181
and social confl ict, 161–63
Maslow, A., 66
mass media. See media
Matoesian, G., 382
McKenna Brown, R., 318
McWhorter, J., 288
media
advertising discourse, 402–05
broadcast talk, 408, 409
DJ talk, 408, 409
Facebook, 410
group identity, 400, 403, 404
instant messaging, 410
interactivity, 407, 412
the Internet, 409–11
mass media, defi nition, 396
media talk, 407–09
netspeak, 410
news as discourse, 405–07
phone-ins, 408
and rhetoric. See rhetoric
semiotics, 398
technological changes, 409–11
weblogs, 411
mediated discourse analysis, 126, 239
Mendoza-Denton, N., 227–28
Mesthrie, R., 24, 243, 287
Mesthrie, R. and Bhatt, R., 299
metapragmatics, 127
metropolitan languages, 324, 325, 327, 416,
417
Michael, J., 164
Miller, J. and Weinert, R., 71
Milroy, L., See social networks
Milroy, L. and Milroy, J., 210
Miranda rights, 385, 386
mixed varieties, 269
Modan, G., 212, 213
Montgomery, M., 409
mother tongue. See L1
Mufwene, S., 339–40
Mühlhäusler, P., 285
multilingual education, 417, 419–20, 427, 428
in Africa, 419
immersion, 420
in minority languages, 417–18
multilingualism
Australia, 273
in childhood, 266
and colonialism, 263
6/7/2011 4:28:33 PM
528
INDEX
multilingualism (cont.)
in the Deaf, 89
defi nitions, 264–65
diglossia, 276, 296
domains, 273–75
and environment, 262
and globalization, 417–24
individual, 264–71
Joseph Conrad, 265
language choice, 270–71
and language shift, 325
in linguistic bias, 36
linguistic diversity, 272–73
and multiculturalism, 280–82
notions of, 418–20
Papua New Guinea, 263, 272
and region, 263
in sign language, 89–92
societal, 272–80
in South Africa, 24
Switzerland, 273
window period, 266
multi-modal discourse analysis (MDA), 128,
132–34
semiotics, 133–34
Muysken, P., 292
Myers-Scotton, C., 305
narrative
and differentiation, 44–45
in families, 45
New Englishes, 330–38, 344
Nichols, P., 229
Northern Cities Vowel Shift, 223, 224, 228,
232, 248
observer’s paradox. See experimenter effect
Ochs, E. and Taylor, C., 44
Ochs, E. et al., 35, 37, 42
Ocracoke Island study, 230–31, 248
/ay/ pronunciation, 230
Southern Vowel Shift, 253
ontological commitment, 29–30
Padden, C. and Humphries, T., 94
Paget–Gorman Sign System. See sign language
Papua New Guinea
language attitudes, 279
Pederson, L., 192
Philips, S., 254, 255, 383
pidgin
as a contact language, 286–87
in courtroom situations, 390
defi nition, 283–85
expanded, 285–86
and jargon, 285
Melanesian, 284
and nativization, 285–86
pidginization, 286
and social class, 168–69
Solomon Islands Pijin, 286
stable, 285
Tok Pisin, 284
variation, 293–99
in West Africa, 352
place
and discourse, 211–13
and linguistic variation, 213–14
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 528
plantation, 198
politeness theory, 57, 113
Pomerantz, A., 111
power, 234, 379
communicative context, 21–23
and critical discourse analysis, 130–31
police interviews, 386
social psychology of, 55
and sociolinguistics and law, 379–83
pragmatics
integrative effect of, 123–26
prestige, 166, 223, 224
covert, 173, 275, 297
high, 61
low, 61
overt, 173, 275
Preston, D., 194–95
pronouns, 17
in advertising, 404
he vs. they, 37
and reader engagement, 76
tu vs vous, 53–54
Puerto Rican Americans, 251
questions. See also tag questions, 379
Quinto-Pozos, D., 92
race. See ethnicity
Rampton, B., 155, 278
reader engagement, 76–77
prepositional phrases, 76
pronouns, 76
Received Pronunciation, 61
regions
community structure, axis of, 198
as cultural areas, 186, 187
and ethnicity. See ethnicity
and language perception tasks, 194
traditional, 188, 190, 192
traditional, Southern, 198–201
vernacular/perceptual, 189–91
voluntary, 188–89, 190
register, 42, 143
baby talk, 42
foreigner talk, 42
in writing, 75
written, academic, 76
rhetoric
in advertising discourse, 403
discourse analysis of, 67–68, 76
Rickford, J., 169, 247
Rickford, J. and McNair-Knox, F., 148
Roberts, S., 288–89
Robinson, W. P., 59
Rock, F., 385, 394
Romaine, S., 266
Sacks, H. and Schegloff, E., 39–40, 60, 400
Sacks, H. et al., 110
Sankoff, G., 174
Sapir, E., 32
Saussure, F. de, 123, 397
Schilling-Estes, N., 154
Schneider, E., 346
Searle, J., 58, 59, 124, 126
second language acquisition. See also L2,
266–68, 289–91, 300
European Science Foundation research, 290
6/7/2011 4:28:34 PM
Index
semiotics
and media, 397–98
in multi-modal discourse analysis, 133–34
in multi-modal text analysis, 400
signifier/signified, 397–98
social, 216, 400
Sheng, 269
sign language
accents, 92
American Sign Language (ASL), 85, 88, 95,
97, 99
attitudes, 92–95
Auslan, 99
and bilingualism, 92
borrowing, 91
British Sign Language (BSL), 89, 95
children of Deaf adults (CODA), 90, 92
cochlear implants, 4, 98, 101
code-mixing, 91–92
code-switching, 92
compositional restraints, 85
Deaf Way, 94
discourse analysis, 97
in education, 93–95
European sign languages, 89
fi ngerspelling, 92, 100
functional restraints, 86
interactional sociolinguistics, 96
Ireland, 94
in language contact, 91
manual codes, 88, 90, 94, 95, 100, 101
New Zealand Sign Language, 89
oral education, 93
Paget–Gorman Sign System, 95
planning and policy, 101
sequential restraints, 85
Signing Exact English (SEE), 94
social factors, 88
South African Sign Language, 101
Usher Syndrome, 88
variation, regional and social, 84–89
Singlish, 352
Social categorization theory, 67
social class, 163–66, 244–46
and creole, 169
defi nition, 161–63, 166–68
elaborated codes, 17–18, 178–79
and gender, 170
and language change, 183
and language, current trends, 171–73
and linguistic theory, 183–85
and literacy, 81
Marxism, 161–63, 181
and pidgin, 169
and racism, 170
restricted codes, 18, 178–79
and status, 163–66
socioeconomic, 164, 172
in Third World, 167
social diversity, 21
social network theory, 210
social networks, 203, 208, 210, 211, 229, 232,
410, 411
social organization, 37–39
social psychology of language
discursive approach, 65
and gender, 68
and identity, 54–56
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 529
529
methodological hazards, 48–52
name changes, 54
policies and practices, 68–69
and power, 55
regulating behaviour, 56–58
speaker and listener, 53–56
terms of address, 55
Ypsilanti Project, 69
sociolinguistics
central aim, 197
code-switching, 307, 311–13
and discourse analysis, 134–36
forensic, 394
and globalization, 346–52
quantative, 348–49
spread of linguistic forms and practices,
208–09
variationists, 209
and World Englishes, 344
sociolinguistics and law
and activism, 394–95
alternative legal processes, 391–92
coercion, 365
courtroom contexts, 378–85
and the Deaf, 388–89
Duke University Language and Law Project,
378–79
entextualization, 392–94
interpreters, 387–88
lawyer interviews, 390–91
O.J. Simpson trial, 378
police interviews, 385–87
and power, 379–83
sound change, 252–54
South Africa
language attitudes, 279
Southern Vowel Shift
Ocracoke Island, 253
in Pittsburgh, 253
Spanglish, 269
SPEAKING, 40, 52, 57, 61–62, 108, 142, 145
speech act theory, 123
illocutionary force, 58, 59
illocutionary meaning, 124
implicature, 124, 125
in sign language, 96
performatives, 58
speech and writing
characteristics of, 70–75
communicative goals, 76
lexical choice, 71–72
reader engagement, 76–77
recipient design, 72
register, 75, 76
syntactic choice, 71–72
writing, characteristics of, 74–75
speech community, 171, 191–92, 193
density of communication, 171
and environment, 20
and globalization, 417–18
homogeneity, 183
and networks, 175–76
and schemata, 34
shared norms, 169, 171, 172
speech events, 38–39, 107
Statute of Kilkenny, 318
stratification
fi ne vs. sharp, 165, 169
6/7/2011 4:28:34 PM
530
INDEX
stratification (cont.)
linguistic, 23
linguistic, global perspective, 23–25
social, 23, 45, 140, 164, 276
studies, 173–75
style, 62, 139–41, 144
analysis, 146–48
audience design, 145–51
contemporary approaches, 153
DJ talk. See also media152
and ethnography, 152
and group identity, 152
loading, 155
and power, 379
shifting, 147, 148
speaker identity, 151–54
and stylized performance, 154–56
and variationism, 140–41, 143
voicing, 154
in youth, Midlands, UK, 155
style-shifting. See style
stylistics
analysis, 144
General, 138–39
tag questions, 221, 222, 227, 379
Taglish, 269
Tamasi, S., 195
Thiel, S., 410
Thomason, S.G., 287, 291, 292
Tok Pisin, 263
Trinch, S., 391
Trudgill, P., 174, 348
Tsotsitaal, 269
and group identity, 270
Turner, G. H., 100
9780521897075ind_p523-530.indd 530
turn-taking, 39, 40, 65, 72, 107, 110, 254
in media, 408, 409
United Nations Educational, Scientific and
Cultural Organization (UNESCO)
and language maintenance, 333
Universal Grammar
in creole, 288
Upland Southern, 198
urbanization, 167
variationism, 223, 224
Weldon, T., 245
Wenker, G., 205
Whinnom, K., 27
Whorf, B. L., 32–33
Winford, D., 287, 292
Winston, E., 97
Wittgenstein, L., 37–38, 58
Wolfram, W., 214, 249
Wolfram, W. et al., 248
women’s language. See also gender379
lexical and pragmatic features, 221–23
World Englishes
classification, 344–46
International Corpus of English, 349–50
sociolinguistic settings, 343–44
Ypsilanti Project, 69
Yucatec, 33
classificatory bias, 33
Yup’ik Alaskans
in sociolinguistics and law, 389
Zelinsky, W., 186–90, 198
6/7/2011 4:28:34 PM