I feel and have always felt that I’m perpetually changing states, constantly moving between worlds. I grew up poor, but had a childhood that was in some ways very middle class. I’ve dug ditches and I’ve taught creative writing at a major university. I’m a native Californian, but have lived in the Deep South, the Midwest, and now live in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve lived in integrated and segregated communities, in affluent neighborhoods and ghettos. The result of all this environmental fluidity is that I’m a code-switcher, switching between different modes of speech when communicating with family members, friends, acquaintances, or various types of strangers. My vocabulary, grammar, diction, and intonation directly depend on and reflect my audience. I know everyone does this to some extent, in speaking and writing, but I notice it most sharply with regard to the Black community, perhaps because I see it firsthand in my own family and personal experience, and also perhaps because the modes of speech can be so dissimilar.There are good reasons to code-switch. Languages and vocabularies reinforce the social integrity of the communities using them, while presenting a barrier to outsiders. Using the “code” of the audience is an act with both literal and symbolic significance, as it facilitates communication, indicates a closer relationship between the speaker and the audience, and can even be perceived as a gesture of respect. And ultimately, some things can only be (effectively) expressed within particular languages, because only those languages have the required vocabulary, and/or only those language communities share the particular knowledge or experience that gives their vocabulary its weight.
But there is another, more political reason to code-switch. In a society where assumptions based on class, gender, ethnic, and racial stereotypes are at work under the surface of our interactions, language is one of the many markers used to classify strangers and determine their social status, what communities they belong to, and any accompanying appropriate, permissible, or merely possible behavior. Especially in encounters with representatives of the state, language can be the difference between being treated with respect or disdain. It can mean the difference between empowerment and disenfranchisement, freedom and imprisonment, and sometimes even life and death.
My life and the lives of family members are full of instances where vitally important outcomes hinged on the ability or inability to effectively code-switch. I have an aunt who suffers from diabetes, heart disease, and high blood pressure, and who, after having a stroke, spent an hour on a gurney in the hallway of a major hospital in Fresno, California because she couldn’t effectively switch from the colloquial code used within her community to the “semi-professional” code used by the health care professionals she was forced to deal with. When the doctors did get around to actually treating her, they talked down to her, dictated the terms of her care to her, and were flippant about the extent of her sickness and her need for treatment. My aunt and her personal crisis were viewed dismissively by the doctors and nurses because these individuals were accustomed to assigning credibility to college-educated middle-class speakers of Standard English. The colloquial code my aunt used rendered her invisible to them.
My mother, her sister, experienced a similar stroke-like event, but her experience was nearly the polar opposite. She’d worked in healthcare in her youth and knew medical jargon and procedure, and so was able to communicate with the doctors as an equal. From first contact she impressed them with her knowledge, and more importantly with the fact that she was “articulate” (in ’96 Chris Rock had some interesting things to say about how that word gets used in reference to Black people). As a result of the way my mother spoke to them, the doctors listened to her, communicated with her, followed her wishes, and treated her with respect.
While it’s not fair that the way an individual uses language can determine whether she is treated humanely, the world is not a demonstrably fair place. Children get cancer. Innocents die in wars, or the electric chair. Candidates steal elections. While I don’t believe it’s something that should just be accepted without a fight, the present, practical truth is that we are at the mercy of language. A disenfranchised individual can and should, when possible, use language to shift the balance of power in her favor. My mother and my aunt were equally human, equally worthy of being treated with dignity and care. Key was that my mother, who grew up in the same household, and could and often did use the same colloquial speech as her sister, took care to switch to a different mode when speaking to people inhabiting a different cultural “world”. My aunt did not.
I’m not done with this topic, but for now let me just alter a common adage to use as illustrative of this cautionary family tale: “When in Rome, speak as the Romans do”.
[Editor’s Note: Coby Jackson’s column, “Other Worlds,” takes us across the threshold.]
