Arrant Pedantry


The Drunk Australian Accent Theory

Last week a story started making the rounds claiming that the Australian accent is the result of an “alcoholic slur” from heavy-drinking early settlers. Here’s the story from the Telegraph, which is where I first saw it. The story has already been debunked by David Crystal and others, but it’s still going strong.

The story was first published in the Age by Dean Frenkel, a lecturer in public speaking and communications at Victoria University. Frenkel says that the early settlers frequently got drunk together, and their drunken slur began to be passed down to the rising generations.

Frenkel also says that “the average Australian speaks to just two thirds capacity—with one third of our articulator muscles always sedentary as if lying on the couch”. As evidence, he lists these features of Australian English phonology: “Missing consonants can include missing ‘t’s (Impordant), ‘l’s (Austraya) and ‘s’s (yesh), while many of our vowels are lazily transformed into other vowels, especially ‘a’s to ‘e’s (stending) and ‘i’s (New South Wyles) and ‘i’s to ‘oi’s (noight).”

The first sentence makes it sound as if Frenkel has done extensive phonetic studies on Australians—after all, how else would you know what a person’s articulator muscles are doing?—but the claim is pretty far-fetched. One-third of the average Australian’s articulator muscles are always sedentary? Wouldn’t they be completely atrophied if they were always unused? That sounds less like an epidemic of laziness and more like a national health crisis. But the second sentence makes it clear that Frenkel doesn’t have the first clue when it comes to phonetics and phonology.

There’s no missing consonant in impordant—the [t] sound has simply been transformed into an alveolar flap, [r], which also happens in some parts of the US. This is a process of lenition, in which sounds become more vowel-like, but it doesn’t necessarily correspond to laziness or lax articulator muscles. Austraya does have a missing consonant—or rather, it has a liquid consonant, [l], that has been transformed into the semivowel [j]. This is also an example of lenition, but, again, lenition doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the force of articulation. Yesh (I presume for yes) involves a slight change in the placement of the tip of the tongue—it moves slightly further back towards the palate—but nothing to do with the force of articulation.

The vowel changes have even less to do with laziness. As David Crystal notes in his debunking, the raising of [æ] to [ε] in standing actually requires more muscular energy to produce, not less. I assume that lowering the diphthong [eɪ] to [æɪ] in Wales would thus take a little bit less energy, but the raising and rounding of [aɪ] to [ɔɪ] would require a little more. In other words, there is no clear pattern of laziness or laxness. Frenkel simply assumes that there’s a standard for which Australians should be aiming and that anything that misses that standard is evidence of laziness, regardless of the actual effort expended.

Even if it were a matter of laziness, the claim that one-third of the articular muscles are always sedentary is absolutely preposterous. There’s no evidence that Frenkel has done any kind of research on the subject; this is just a number pulled from thin air based on his uninformed perceptions of Australian phonetics.

And, again, even if his claims about Australian vocal laxness were true, his claims about the origin of this supposed laxness are still pretty tough to swallow. The early settlers passed on a drunken slur to their children? For that to be even remotely possible, every adult in Australian would have had to be drunk literally all the time, including new mothers. If that were true, Australia would be facing a raging epidemic of fetal alcohol syndrome, not sedentary speech muscles.

As far as I know, there is absolutely zero evidence that Australian settlers were ever that drunk, that constant drunkenness can have an effect on children who aren’t drinking, or that the Australian accent has anything in common with inebriated speech.

When pressed, Frenkel attempts to weasel out of his claims, saying, “I am telling you, it is a theory.” But in his original article, he never claimed that it was a theory; he simply asserted it as fact. And strictly speaking, it isn’t even a theory—at best it’s a hypothesis, because he has clearly done no research to substantiate or verify it.

But all this ridiculousness is just a setup for his real argument, which is that Australians need more training in rhetoric. He says,

If we all received communication training, Australia would become a cleverer country. When rhetoric is presented effectively, it enables content to be communicated in a listener-friendly environment, with well-chosen words spoken at a listenable rate and with balanced volume, fluency, clarity and understandability.

Communication training could certainly be a good thing, but again, there’s a problem—this isn’t rhetoric. Rhetoric is the art of discourse and argumentation; what Frenkel is describing is more like diction or elocution. He’s deploying bad logic and terrible linguistics in service of a completely muddled argument, which is that Australians need to learn to communicate better.

In the end, what really burns me about this story isn’t that Frenkel is peddling a load of tripe but that journalists are so eager to gobble it up. Their ignorance of linguistics is disappointing, but their utter credulousness is completely dismaying. And if that weren’t bad enough, in an effort to present a balanced take on the story, journalists are still giving him credence even when literally every linguist who has commented on it has said that it’s complete garbage.

Huffington Post ran the story with the subhead “It’s a highly controversial theory among other academics”. (They also originally called Frenkel a linguist, but this has been corrected.) But calling Frenkel’s hypothesis “a highly controversial theory among other academics” is like saying that alchemy is a highly controversial theory among chemists or that the flat-earth model is a highly controversial theory among geologists. This isn’t a real controversy, at least not in any meaningful way; it’s one uninformed guy spouting off nonsense and a lot other people calling him on it.

In the end, I think it was Merriam-Webster’s Kory Stamper who had the best response:



Yes, Irregardless Is a Word

My last post, “12 Mistakes Nearly Everyone Who Writes about Grammar Mistakes Makes”, drew a lot of comments, some supportive and some critical. But no point drew as much ire as my claim that irregardless is a word. Some stated flatly, “Irregardless is not a word.” One ignorantly demanded, “Show me a dictionary that actually contains that word.” (I could show him several.) Still others argued that it was a double negative, that it was logically and morphologically ill-formed and thus had no meaning. One commenter said that “with the negating preface [prefix] ‘ir-’ and the negating suffix ‘-less’, it is a double negative” and that “it is not a synonym with ‘regardless’.” Another was even cleverer, saying, “The prefix ir-, meaning not, changes the meaning of the word regardless, so not only is it not a standard word, but it’s also misused in nearly all cases.” But these arguments still miss the point: irregardless is indeed a word, and it means the same thing as regardless.

In my last post I argued that there’s a clear difference between a word like irregardless and a nonword like flirgle. By any objective criterion, irregardless is a word. It has an established form and meaning, it’s used in speech and occasionally in writing, and it’s even found in reputable dictionaries, including Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary and The Oxford English Dictionary (though it is, quite appropriately, labeled nonstandard). We can identify its part of speech (it’s an adverb) and describe how it’s used. By contrast, though, consider flirgle. You don’t know what its part of speech is or how to use it, and if I were to use it in a sentence, you wouldn’t know what it meant. This is because it’s just something I made up by stringing some sounds together. But when someone uses irregardless, you know exactly what it means, even if you want to pretend otherwise.

This is because words get their wordhood not from etymology or logic or some cultural institution granting them official status, but by convention. It doesn’t matter that nice originally meant “ignorant” or that contact was originally only a noun or that television is formed from a blend of Greek and Latin roots; what matters is how people use these words now. This makes some people uncomfortable because it sounds like anarchy, but it’s more like the ultimate democracy or free market. We all want to understand one another and be understood, so it’s in our mutual interest to communicate in ways that are understandable. Language is a self-regulating system guided by the invisible hand of its users’ desire to communicate—not that this stops people from feeling the need for overt regulation.

One commenter, the same who said, “Irregardless is not a word,” noted rather aptly, “There is absolutely no value to ‘irregardless’ except to recognize people who didn’t study.” Exactly. There is nothing wrong with its ability to communicate; it’s only the word’s metacommunication—that is, what it communicates about its user—that is problematic. To put it a different way, the problem with irregardless is entirely social: if you use it, you’ll be thought of as uneducated, even though everyone can understand you just fine.

On Google Plus, my friend Rivka said, “Accepting it as a word is the first part of the slippery slope.” This seems like a valid fear, but I believe it is misplaced. First of all, we need to be clear about what it means to accept irregardless as a word. I accept that it’s a word, but this does not mean that I find the word acceptable. I can accept that people do all kinds of things that I don’t like. But the real problem isn’t what we mean by accept; it’s what we mean by word. When people say that something isn’t a word, they aren’t really making a testable claim about the objective linguistic status of the word; they’re making a sociolinguistic evaluation of the word. They may say that it’s not a word, but they really mean that it’s a word that’s not allowed in Standard English. This is because we think of Standard English as the only legitimate form of English. We think that the standard has words and grammar, while nonstandard dialects have nonwords and broken grammar, or no grammar at all. Yes, it’s important to recognize and teach the difference between Standard English and nonstandard forms, but it’s also important to be clear about the difference between facts about the language and our feelings about the language.

But the irregardless-haters can also take heart: the word has been around for at least a century now, and although many other new words have been coined and become part of Standard English in that time, irregardless shows no signs of moving towards acceptability. Most people who write for publication are well aware of the stigma attached to it, and even if they aren’t, few copyeditors are willing to let it into print. It’s telling that of the Oxford English Dictionary’s eight citations of the word, two merely cite the word in other dictionaries, three more are mentions or citations in linguistics or literary journals, and one more appears to be using the word ironically. We talk about the word irregardless—mostly just to complain about it—far more than we actually use it.

So yes, irregardless is a word, even though it’s nonstandard. You don’t have to like it, and you certainly don’t have to use it, but you also don’t have to worry about it becoming acceptable anytime soon.

This post also appears on Huffington Post.

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