William Blake once wrote, “One Law for the Lion and Ox is
Oppression.” He made a point about equality: if it’s accorded to all while
hiding qualities that differentiate the one from the other, it eventually
becomes a tool against itself.
If we take Aristotle’s dictum about equality, then we can’t
compare unlike with unlike without depriving the less well off, whether in
terms of ethnicity, class, or any other criteria that separate the many from the
few. Violating this dictum is self-defeating, and if not at least unearths
those aforementioned qualities that distinguish one social group from another
so much that, while all appear to be equal, some are privileged or unprivileged
by degrees.
This week’s column is about one of those qualities:
proficiency in English. It’s an attempt at unearthing the flaws we’ve
institutionalised when teaching them to our children, how those flaws tend to
solidify class structures, and how, if we are to have the proverbial cake and
eat it too in terms of progress, we must overhaul and alter existing
structures.
The variants of
language
English is a lingua franca. It’s not the most used language
in the world but it certainly is used everywhere. It has a past and it has some
colonial(ist) accretions, which is probably why extreme nationalists question
as to whether we need it. Patriotic fervour can be good, but disagreeing on
principle with the need to learn a lingua franca will cripple a population that
has grown to interact with the world outside.
Put simply, it’s not a question of “Either/Or” or a matter
of “Learn it or don’t!” but “Struggle with it or suffer without it!” That’s a
stark way of putting it, but when it comes to assessing a language like English
that is, all in all, the reality.
On the other hand, “English as She Should Be Spoken” needn’t
be our priority. My experience with elocution and all those other exercises
aimed at getting your pronunciation correct has been that they are laudable
inasmuch as they are looked at in aesthetic terms: if you look at them in terms
of the separation between those who wield the language and those who stumble
with it, you’ll not only be falsely elevating yourself but also concede ground
to social stratifications that can only further divide an already fragmented
society.
Moreover, there’s no correct English. Indians speak it
differently. So do Sri Lankans. The Caribbean people have developed their own
version. Canada and the United States have openly violated certain norms of the
language. London has become a multicultural hub, to an extent where you don’t
come across the Queen’s English as much as you used to. Besides, as a renowned
anthropologist once observed, the further East you go from the Suez, the more
you become assimilated to the our part of the world, particularly (we can
assume) when it comes to articulating and pronouncing words.
The lesson to be drawn here, obviously, is that
globalisation works both ways: there’s no correct, prescribed method of using a
language, here or there. The debate between localising English and keeping it
intact, on the other hand, is different to the debate between localising
English and localising it to such an extent that those who script how it’s
taught manage to hide the inequity of equalising language-use between those who
can handle English well and those who can’t. That begs an obvious question: how
should be resolve the latter? More importantly, why should we?
The mistakes of
the teaching the medium
It takes two to tango and two to clap. You can’t conceive of a method of teaching without factoring in those exogenous factors that have a say in what we learn and how we learn. English is not that different. Artificially equalising students who can’t speak the lingo with those who can wield it well has, as I see it, done more harm than good, even if what’s promoted is a variant of English that’s supposedly suited for our way.
And it’s not hard to see why. Ever since 1956 we have been trying to get at “English Our Way.” We’ve set curricula and syllabuses to suit the common denominator without realising that a language is much more than a tool for communication: in the hands of a select few, it can become a weapon of privilege. There’s nothing wrong in promoting a language according to how it’s used in the country, but if in the end we separate the few who know more English than “Our Way” from those who get down to memorise other, more socially privileged variants thereof, what’s the use of learning it?
There’s more.
Sri Lanka’s education sector develops vertically, not horizontally.
Administrators are more concerned with infrastructure and inputs. Makes sense.
Quantity is easy to measure. Quality is not. The former is short-termist, the
latter long-termist.
Marie Perera, in a research paper titled “Student
heterogeneity in the English Language Classrooms” (written in 2010 for the
National Education Commission), points out the gap between resources allocated
to develop language methodologies and their outcomes, and draws a conclusion we
know all too well: most Sri Lankan students aren’t proficient enough in English
to secure stable and secure jobs. She argues, correctly I believe, that outside
Colombo and Kandy schools don’t teach the subject properly and even if they do,
the teachers allocated to it are constrained by the curricula and by what she
could have noted down as the manifest shortcomings of textbooks.
Those who write textbooks, I believe, are to be blamed. We
needn’t drive Chapman’s English or Heinemann’s English into our children’s
heads, but that isn’t a license to abandon quality altogether. As Perera notes
in her study, there’s a link between quantity/inputs and the ability of a
student to understand the subject, provided that those inputs are simplified
and put across in a more comprehensive way.
There’s no point trying to make Grade Three students
memorise the names of animals and plants, for instance, if they weren’t taught
how to connect letters to form words in Grades One and Two. Some schools don’t properly
teach English at those levels, owing to a lack of teachers. Some schools,
particularly the private and international ones, either have their own
textbooks or import them from India and Europe. Small wonder we’re lagging
behind and small wonder that we’re parading inequity as an artificial equality
in our classrooms.
The truth then is that a language is more than grammar and
syntax. It’s more than memorising and dictation. It’s not about reciting
answers. It develops and isn’t constrained by what administrators consider as
the “standard form.” Take a typical textbook, preferably from the lower and
elementary classes, and you will see how misconceived we are about that:
riddled from beginning to end with standardised texts and activities that have
no real reference point outside themselves, they cater to students who take
what they’re taught as the only correct answers.
But even the most pedestrian text can become a Bible in the
hands of an able teacher. The problem here isn’t really the textbook, but those
who teach it. I’ve come across students who’re relegated to the back of their
class if they can’t understand the subject. I’ve come across students who’re
bright enough but are ignored by callous teachers who, for some reason, focus
on those who wield the language properly. And this isn’t just because of the divide
between Colombo, Kandy, and other parts of the country, or for that matter the
divide between social groups and classes: I’ve come across students from what
many would consider to be “outstation schools” (the term smacks of contempt and
snobbery) who are quicker at the language than their considerably more
privileged counterpart in the typical popular school.
So no, it’s not a question of whether we need more resources.
It’s a question of where existing resources are allocated to. There’s no point
spending millions on a teacher training program, after all, if the teacher
discriminates between those who are exceptionally talented at a subject and
those who aren’t. There’s no point spending the same amount of money on
District A and District B if District A has schools where students come from
English-speaking backgrounds and District B has schools where the students are,
for the most, impoverished.
Acknowledging all that can help us understand why equalising
our students through textbooks does more harm than good. The solution, as
always, is to improve. But how?
The perils of
distant reading
There are more ways than one of skinning a cat. There are, however,
only two broad ways of learning a language.
One, you commit to memory massive amounts of data, a method
practised in Sri Lanka and in other countries where memorising has become the
norm. This is referred to as “distant reading”, where you don’t zoom in on a
particular text but aggregate the rules of grammar, construction, and punctuation
so much that you generalise what you take in. The advantage with this is that
it’s easier to standardise. The disadvantage, however, is that it tricks the
student into believing that language construction is as stark as “two plus two
equals four.”
Two, you pick out bits and pieces of information from a
particular text. You study a poem like Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” and dwell on
rhetorical devices, metaphors, and the philosophical dimensions embedded
therein. You don’t learn much by way of generalised punctuation or grammar
rules, but you do eventually. And why? Because the student’s appreciation of
the text grows so gradually (and not, as it’s wont to today, mechanically
through rote learning) that he or she absorbs the sentences, the words, the
letters, and how they are constructed. This, being the opposite of the other
method, is obviously referred to as “close reading.”
Being a student from a fee-levying, private school, I
studied the latter method. I believe it helped. Not because it was prescribed
by outsiders, but because it’s self-evidently useful. There’s little to no
point, after all, in writing sentences in the present tense and converting them
to, say, the past perfect if all what students are taught is the formation of a
sentence in the latter tense.
I don’t remember being asked to memorise grammar rigidly,
obviously because I wasn’t. In the end, that helped when I was studying poetry.
I believe that this holds true for other students in the country and that students,
whatever their background (which shouldn’t be a factor in this matter anyway),
should be encouraged to respond to Keats, Shelley, and Wordsworth intelligently
and individually.
No, I’m not suggesting that we import “English as She Should
Be Spoken.” But I suspect we have confused not importing the lingo for not
adapting methods used by outsiders. Close reading, let’s not forget, has been
known to work, and by adapting accordingly we can do more, much more, than what
we’ve achieved so far. True, distant reading isn’t without its champions (who
tend to argue that literature and language are the result of centuries of
evolution, which means that learning particular texts is unhelpful), but it’s
almost dangerous when taken as a license to make the student memorise.
And you know what? Those who are conditioned to distant
reading take time to get used to reading a text cohesively. They may memorise
grammar and they may be bright at remembering, but when it comes to dealing
with those exceptions to conventional rules of construction and syntax in
English, they are at a loss.
A few years ago I tried a little experiment with the son of
a friend. The topic was the present perfect continuous tense. I gave the boy
(in Grade Eight at the time) four or five rules of construction, including the
use of the auxiliary “have / has been” and how the auxiliary should be used
with the relevant subject (“have been” for I, You, and We, and “has been” for
everything else). I asked him to memorise these rules. He had a memory he
underestimated, so to his own surprise he was quite able to do what I asked
him. We went through certain sentences and I asked him to check whether the auxiliary
corresponded with the subject. Going by what I suggested, he inserted them
correctly when it came to a definite subject (I, you, they, we, he, she, it).
A little later on we came to sentences that had indefinite
subjects and pronouns. He was lost. Having struggled with them for some time,
he opted for the wrong auxiliary: “has been” for “Jack and Jill” and “have been”
for “Each of the children.” He grinned sheepishly at me and admitted that he
thought he’d made a mistake. I smiled and corrected him. We’ve remained friends
ever since.
The lesson that boy learnt is that not even Mr Chapman and
Mr Heinemann can help us if all we do is memorising. There has to be
intelligent, individualised responses to particular texts, because in a world
which focuses on specifics and not generalisations, it’s best to adapt and
adopt a language based on its actual use by writers. I suspect this holds true
even for writers deviated errantly from accepted norms of grammar, such as
Shakespeare’s “most unkindest cut” and Joyce’s hazy sentences which would have
horrified those rigid on punctuation.
Concluding remarks
Some months back I read an account of a lecturer and
academic who’d passed out of school in the early eighties. He had as far as I
could ascertain studied in the Sinhala medium, but his take on how his O/Level
teacher taught his class a textbook passage aptly debunks the myth that one
needs to study IN English to KNOW or LEARN English:
First he
gave us some matter-of-fact questions about the passage (reading
comprehension); then he did a spelling test (memorising); this was followed by
a fill-in-the-blanks exercise (more memorising); next came a lengthy discussion
of the use of phrasal verbs and the subjunctive mood in the passage (grammar);
and only then did the teacher tackle the aesthetic and philosophical dimensions
of the passage, by which time even I, an average kid, could recite it from
memory. I have been taught English and other languages before and since, but
not quite like that.
No one, not even Mr Chapman, can quite match this kind of
teaching. But that was a different time: when teachers owned a vehicle, didn’t
indulge in as much tuition as they do now, and above all, were individualists.
Academe in Sri Lanka has gone away and with it the student’s ability to
individualise and adapt a text to his own reading of it. Nietzsche’s dictum that
there are “no facts, only interpretations” could have held true for how we once
taught our students English, a long time ago.
And so we have a choice: either we continue to equalise
English to hide the inequity which exists in our classrooms, or we emancipate
our children by teaching them, not English as She Should Be Spoken, but an
English superior to that used by the authors of education policy, who in their
myopia think that the solution is to churn out textbooks which teach the most
essential, generalised, and hence useless rules of grammar and syntax to the
less well off. Whether they like it or not, these policymakers are playing into
the hands of the enemy: snobs from the city, who continue to see the world in
black and white and wish (whether consciously or unconsciously) to draw a line
between themselves and their less privileged brethren.
Going by all that, I don’t think the choice is difficult to
make. We’ve already taken the wrong option. We’ve suffered. If we don’t take
stock of that, we’ll do what those policy-authors have done: violating
Aristotle’s dictum about equality, equalising unlike with unlike, and along the
way creating one law or structure for the Lion and for the Ox.
If you want (cultural) oppression, ladies and gentlemen,
that is the way to go. If you don’t, there’s another option. It’s not too late
to choose.
Written for: Ceylon Today, September 13 2016
Written for: Ceylon Today, September 13 2016
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