Taking Issue
A lesson in lengthening language.
Welcome, students, to your first Tuesday of classes. Hopefully, you’re reading this newspaper in class instead of listening to the professor drone on. A professor who probably possesses a sharp mind but cannot get to the point.
Most professors I’ve had can’t make an argument or explain anything without some serious circumlocution. Talking around topics like a dog walking around a sun-warmed spot in the grass before lying down is ludicrous. What you and I can say in a few short words requires a mind-numbing display of obfuscatory jaw-flapping from most professors.
For those of us who love the English language for its wide and subtle vocabulary, the abuse instructors impose on the tongue causes some concern.
It seems that in academia, vagueness of language is prized over precision. After a decade or two of reading and listening to their peers, even the most eloquent professors fall prey to academic gibberish. Doctoral degrees almost uniformly confer the tongue and pen with a bastard breed of English, branding the holder as an academic with the certainty of a scarlet letter.
When one reads a piece in a magazine from an unfamiliar author, one can almost unfailingly tell within the first few pages whether the writer holds a doctorate. The following example is from an article on the state of books in the Arab world:
“‘Koolaids’ is an attempt to weave a narrative that make (sic) sense in this post-modernist labyrinth, and to construct a self out of the shreds of representation by the other and one’s own self-presentation.”
The author is Fadia Faqir, a professor at England’s Durham University, writing in a British journal. Besides a blatant grammatical error, the quotation shows how to use 33 words to say absolutely nothing. Telltale signs of academia are easy to spot: using the phrase “post-modernist labyrinth” or the word “self” as something that is constructed. And, of course, no academic discourse would be complete without employing the word “other” to denote something foreign.
Professors at this university are no better. In the political science department, professors use the word “problematic” like a kid who’s just learned his first obscenity. Professors say it when they mean to call something fallacious, unworkable, nonsensical or just plain wrong but don’t have the capacity to say it. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.
This language mixes pomposity and cowardice. Professors often use language to set themselves apart — they need a way to justify why they stand at the lectern drawing a salary and you sit in desks paying them. The best professors do this by impressing students with penetrating intelligence and a lifetime of accumulated knowledge. Several such professors exist at this university. Others, however, take on airs.
The cowardice is the result of vague language used to sugarcoat bold statements, usually of opinion. Every professor has opinions, and how they deal with them generally falls into four categories: Some come out openly with their opinions but give other views a fair shake. Others try to hide their opinions but can’t and end up shortchanging students by ignoring alternative views or the justifications. A small minority of professors succeed in hiding their opinions. Then, of course, a few professors advance a viewpoint without giving others a fair shake or justifying their stands. You’ll find professors who deal honestly with their opinions usually deal honestly with language.
Why does a professor’s writing and speaking abilities matter? Universities provide a forum to sound ideas and learn. Ideas and learning take shape through language, and vague language leads to vague ideas and missed chances to learn. George Orwell recognized, in his famous essay “Politics and the English Language,” that ” … the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts.”
We live in a time that demands clear and precise thought, especially from those who quite literally think for a living. That can only occur with clear and precise language.
