The Last Speakers (29 page)

There are many leaders and pioneers in the domain of language revitalization. And there are probably as many different notions about how to save a language as there are last speakers and their descendants. I've devoted over a decade to talking personally with hundreds of last speakers and their descendants, as well as other interested observers of language death. I make no judgments about what works; all I am sure of is that a language cannot be “saved” by outsiders. Scientists and other outsiders can assist or enable, but the decision to keep a language alive, and most of the hard work required to implement that decision, must be undertaken by the communities that own and cherish the languages.

The following list gives some tactics that I have seen being employed by actual last speakers of languages I have met. I simply present them here, without making any judgment as to their effectiveness. Every situation is different, involving a subtle interplay of attitudes, politics, and practices. We have far too few success models to draw firm generalizations about what works. But in some cases, these strategies can lead to a dramatic revitalization. In other cases, they help to sustain a language or arrest its decline. In yet other cases, they have no effect or may even hasten the disappearance.

These first two strategies reflect a tension between two processes I call “visibilization” and “invisibilization.”

Keep it secret, private, and restricted.
This practice protects the language as a type of intellectual property that is proprietary, owned, and not to be shared or taught to anyone who is not entitled to learn it. This seems odd to many of us, but small groups do have a much clearer vested interest in owning their own knowledge and, by extension, their language. The extreme version of this strategy has been used by some groups, most notably the Hopi, who, as we saw earlier, reportedly shut down a planned immersion kindergarten program because it was discovered that a few non-Hopi children were enrolled. This is an unusual strategy, though given the strong ideology of ownership, it may help to perpetuate the language. On the other hand, it may ensure its rapid demise. Many communities enforce secrecy by protecting their language from outsiders to a lesser degree. The Kallawaya of Bolivia enforce language secrecy in their own community by teaching the language only to men, and they share it with outsiders only under special circumstances and with limitations on what knowledge can be made available.

Make it public, visible, and freely shared.
As intellectual property in the public domain or creative commons, teach it to anyone who is interested. This strategy is typically how large languages behave. You don't need anyone's permission to learn English, and there is no sense that anyone owns it. But many small and endangered language communities also practice this idea. The Welsh put Welsh names on local street signs. The Lenape of Pennsylvania, as we just saw, want everybody to learn the language, and they delight in the fact that people have to learn Lenape words when they read or utter the names of local rivers. The Lenape do have some knowledge they consider sacred or secret, but in general they want to put their language to public use. They have made a strategic decision to increase its visibility, since for so long it was hidden from sight.

Keep it strictly oral, only spoken.
Do not export it into any other media such as writing, computers, text messages, or street signs. All languages were once oral, and some have adopted other media such as writing, typing, and messaging. But others are aware that meaning is lost in this technological transition and have made a strategic decision that the language should not be written. Even when languages do adopt literacy, they may have only one book (typically a Bible translation) available and may choose not to produce much other written material, thus keeping the oral character of the language primary.

Make it literate, write it down.
Push it out in written form through all possible new domains and technologies. Expand its footprint by adopting it for Facebook, text messaging, and road signs, regardless if anyone takes it up or not. By achieving a permanent presence, a language extends its usefulness and its longevity.

Elevate it, promote it, express pride in it.
A positive attitude toward a language is the single most powerful force that will keep it alive, especially when that attitude is transmitted to the youngest members of the community. Whenever I meet Richard Grounds, who is a linguist and a speaker and promoter of the Yuchi language, he grasps my hands and greets me warmly in his tongue. Similarly, when he calls me on the phone, even if he only talks to my answering machine, he speaks first in Yuchee, then English. He does so with such warmth and conviction that even though I don't understand a word, I feel I have been truly blessed. Richard, like my Ojibwe colleague Margaret Noori, who puts her language on Facebook, leads by example. They show what it truly means to embrace, promote, and elevate a language, putting it out into the public ear regardless of whether it is understood by the hearers. Though I don't understand what they are saying, the message is loud and clear: “We love and value our languages, and we respect both them and you by sharing it publicly.”

The opposite of this would be to put it down, to disparage it. Many consider small languages backward, obsolete, old-fashioned, and unsuitable for modern life. They may call it “just a dialect” or a “patois.” Negative attitudes toward a language emanate from many sources—often official educational or political establishments, amplified by the press and popular culture. Regardless of the source, these attitudes quickly become internalized, and speakers will disparage their own languages. Many speakers feel their language is not suited to the modern world or not compatible with computer and Internet technologies. But at the same time, others insist that they are suitable and make great efforts to bring their languages across the digital divide.

Replenish the language with new words.
If speakers are not overly concerned with keeping the language “pure,” they may borrow words freely, adopting loanwords and useful expressions from other languages. Some languages eschew loanwords but readily coin new native terms for new objects. As one Mohawk speaker proudly told me, “We call it ‘lightning brain box' in our language, not ‘computer.'” Languages that readily coin new words can enjoy a wonderful source of renewal and keep pace with technology. On the flip side, if this is done artificially or imposed from above by a language purity committee, it can have negative effects on the perceived adaptability of the language. A first step is to recognize the need for new words. Nazareth Alfred, a speaker of Australia's Kulkalgowya tongue, told me, “Our language is standing still. We need to make it relevant to today's society. We need to create new words, because right now we can't say ‘computer.'”

Embrace new technologies.
New modes of communication like texting, chat, SMS, or Skype can be deployed to save endangered languages. Can the lowly text message lift a language to new levels of importance and prestige? My answer is yes, and I've seen some wonderful examples. It's done at the micro level, by individual users, but also by large corporations. Microsoft's new Local Language Program, for example, allows users to customize software to their preferences in nearly 100 languages. Some are very large, emerging ones, like Tamil and Kiswahili; others are small and regional, such as Macedonian. Some were once or are still endangered and undergoing active revitalization: examples include Irish, Maori, and Welsh. Similarly, Wikipedia offers content in about 50 languages, most large but a few small or endangered (Navajo, Hawaiian). I can imagine a time when software and Web content of all types will be readily available in the full spectrum of languages, and how the world of ideas will be enriched. I predict that language localization will be one of the most dynamic trends of the next decades, and I urge corporations of all kinds—but especially those in the information technology industry—to get on board.

Document it.
Linguists typically embrace documentation, with the knowledge that even if all speakers die out, a language can, with great difficulty, be reclaimed from written records or recordings. But some indigenous communities feel documentation is exploitative or does not serve their interests. Some resist it as an unreasonable burden on the elders, or as benefiting only outsiders. Some say that having their language only in recorded media would be the ultimate triumph of colonialism—the language would have been captured and placed in an archive; it would be better to have it disappear entirely than to suffer that fate. As speakers themselves take on a greater role in documentation, exerting ownership and control over their linguistic and intellectual property, we can hope for a time when documentation will always show positive effects that support revitalization.

 

THERE ARE MANY reactions people have to language loss, and diverse strategies for addressing it. Some blame others, assigning culpability to schools and governments. Others blame themselves, feeling they have failed. Some stick to tradition, while others innovate. And all over the world, a growing movement of language activists lobbies, promotes, teaches, records, speaks, and renews.

There are many strategies for saving a language, and enterprising speakers are using all of these methods. We may not know for decades which strategies succeed. But we can observe and admire their efforts, and perhaps as scientists or outsiders contribute to their cause.

GLOBALIZATION: GOOD
AND
BAD

Globalization and technology affect the fates of small languages in surprising ways. Tyler Cowen, in
Creative Destruction: How Globalization Is Changing the World's Cultures,
argues that we are all enriched by the market forces that bring us new goods, services, and ideas. “If we consider the book,” he writes, “paper comes from the Chinese, the Western alphabet comes from the Phoenicians, the page numbers come from the Arabs and ultimately the Indians and printing has a heritage through Gutenberg, a German, as well as through the Chinese and Koreans. The core manuscripts of antiquity were preserved by Islamic civilization and, to a lesser extent, by Irish monks.”
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Cowen's view of the market operates at the elevated level of empires and nation-states, entirely neglecting the thousands of smaller peoples and cultures that comprise them. Occasionally, we find breakthrough phenomena such as Tuvan throat singing, where a cultural product from a tiny nation becomes a globally famous and valued art form. More often, the process goes in the other direction, where art forms valued by large nations become adopted by thousands of smaller cultures who, even though they may improve on the original, enjoy no reciprocal exchange. For example, nothing from Aka culture is borrowed back into American culture as the Aka absorb hip-hop. Americans are deprived, in this one-way cultural exchange, of partaking of the knowledge and cultural richness of the Aka.

More powerful nations wield greater influence; they exert a gravity on smaller cultures. Individuals within these smaller cultures may creatively resist by appropriating, changing, altering, and reinterpreting. A New Guinea tribesman's ceremonial feather headdress may contain bright strips of tin cut from a Coca-Cola can. Tyler Cowen's real argument is that an exchange of cultural ideas (piggybacking onto globalize trade relations) promotes greater diversity and thus a higher quality of ideas and arts. He is making an argument for the value of diversity, and showing that globalization (as it plays itself out in greater trade, enhanced communication, more urbanization, and mixing of peoples) enriches us all. He argues, counterintuitively, that globalization culminates not in a “homogenized pap” of sameness, but rather in a richer, more varied mosaic of ideas. True, we may all end up listening to hip-hop performed in hundreds of different languages, but by that point, it is no longer the same hip-hop—instead, it is a much richer, deeper, more culturally diverse art form.

The downside to globalization occurs when big languages crush small languages and the knowledge they contain. The most common vector for this is national education systems. Where a curriculum planned in Lima or Mexico City or Moscow is imposed on all schools across the land, enshrining one set of received knowledge in textbooks, it effectively discounts any alternative ways of knowing.

An upside to globalization is that small language communities around the world can now communicate and exchange ideas. The Siletz of Oregon can travel to Hawaii or New Zealand to observe a successful language-revitalization effort. The Ho of India can petition to have their bizarre alphabet included into the Unicode standard and can access a Ho talking dictionary website hosted in the United States. Such communities can cleverly leverage all the modern technologies, and they can learn that they are not alone in their struggle.

A fully standardized product—say, the McDonald's Big Mac—is more “global” than a local specialty such as Kansas City barbecue. Why? Because the latter relies on strictly local knowledge. A cook needs more knowledge and skill and expertise, learned through practice and mentoring, to prepare Kansas City barbecue than she does to produce an assembly-line McDonald's meal that was planned in a central facility to be absolutely the same, regardless of locality.

No matter how widely a language may expand, it still becomes localized, because language is endlessly adaptive. There are so many different varieties of English, yet each has local traits that are sometimes baffling to outsiders. In India, the phrase “by and by” is common in everyday conversation, but may be puzzling to speakers of American English (it means “soon”). In Britain, words like “twee” and “right the way” are obtuse to Americans, while an Americanism like “spunk” is a vulgarity to Britons. Even within American dialects, localisms abound. Pennsylvanians tend to say “down the shore” and “yinz,” and New Yorkers say “wait on line” or “uptown,” while Tennesseans say “fixin' to” or “might could”—all expressions that can cause puzzlement outside the local region. These are all minor local adaptations, and they are not going to disappear anytime soon. Research shows that the varieties of American English are continuing to diverge rather than converging on a norm.