Evolushun or Ruin?

As an instructor in general—and a grammar instructor in particular—I often have to consider the difference between prescriptive and descriptive grammar. I teach prescriptive grammar rules (what's "right"), but my students often consider instances of descriptive grammar (how it actually works). I have to concede that in certain contexts for certain audiences, the rules of Standard English may—or should—deviate. All great speakers and writers know how to bend language to their purpose. But those speakers know the rules and when to bend them.

Writers and speakers consult resources to learn or confirm those rules. My husband reaches for Garner's American Usage. As a poor speller, I frequent my dictionary. I've long held a good dictionary to be an ideal of knowledge; I expect its entries to be thorough and accurate. Why wouldn't I?

Today, a colleague shared this article with me. It chronicles incorrect pronunciations that have become commonplace (licorice oughtn't be pronounced lickerish) and how modern dictionaries perpetuate poor pronunciations. Even this Language Maven will concede that pronunciation changes—knight was once pronounced as it's spelled, after all—but the other examples listed triggered my gag reflex. Online dictionaries now provide audio pronunciations of li-berry, ek-setera, and ath-a-lete, pronunciations we'd call quaint at best. (These are reminiscent of the Brooklynese chim-in-ee.)

I suppose the issue here is not whether these pronunciations exist—I'm certain they do—but whether we should acknowledge nonstandard examples where English speakers seek the standard. When we compromise those standards, Merriam-Webster begins to resemble Urban Dictionary.

Freud would be proud.

Earlier this week, I met with a student who had questions about minute points in her thesis. She was worried that she had errors in her works cited page. I assured her, "A missed period is nothing to lose sleep over." Pause. "Actually, it is. But missed punctuation isn't."

Oops.

Searching for an Apprentice

Few things please me more than when I learn one of my students wants to be an English teacher. To hear that someone else has chosen my path—it's a selfish kind of joy.

Recently, one of my former students found me on Facebook. I taught Chris in my Gifted and Talented English 9 class, and he was one of the brightest young men I've ever had the privilege to teach. His understanding and excitement for Romeo and Juliet fueled my own enthusiasm, and later, Chris wrote me a letter of recommendation for a Folger Shakespeare workshop for teachers.

Now Chris is a freshman in college. From his profile, I learned that he was a biochemistry major. I wrote to him, "Biochem, eh? I guess I always secretly hoped you'd become a Shakespearean scholar."

He replied, "Yes, Biochem, sorry. I do love my literature, and I continue to read for pleasure, but my dream nowadays is to cure cancer."

Ah, crap. That's a good answer.

And why should I have aspirations for him to study literature? Graduates with degrees in the Humanities have difficulty finding careers in their field, and if they do, they're ill compensated for it. To wish him into Humanities is to wish him a life of struggle. Besides, isn't it more beneficial that this brilliant young man work to eradicate disease than study a 400-year-old text?

It is. I admit it. Maybe I want this brilliant mind on my team to validate what I do, what I've chosen. But instead, I'll support him, and we'll occasionally talk about literature, his hobby.

A Glimpse of the Past

Today I received the English Alumni newsletter from my undergrad program. It contained, among other things, an invitation to the First Annual Alumni Lunch. The keynote speaker is Howard Norman, my creative writing professor and one of my favorite teachers of all time.

HoNo, as we affectionately addressed him, effortlessly fulfilled the expectations of a writing professor: he regularly wore tweed, had no email address, and typed our syllabus on a typewriter. And he had endless experiences—or was very adept at making them up, or both.

I took two of HoNo's classes, the first in spring, the second the following fall. During the summer between, I found his novel The Museum Guard in a local bookstore. I had always respected him as a professor, but the depth and complexity of his novel gave me a new respect for him as a writer.

Now that I myself am a writing instructor, I struggle with my own identity as a writer. It's been years since I've penned fiction, and the hours my classes demand leave me with little time or desire to write.

But hearing HoNo's name, and remembering our class, and recalling my former work has stirred something in my core. I may be an alumna from the English program, but that doesn't have to mean my writing career has ended.