In the rough-and-tumble, cutthroat world of linguistics, there is a famous and longstanding debate between precriptivist and descriptivist approaches to grammar and language.
Prescriptivists fit the stereotype of the old school Grammar Nazi. They're a rules-first people. They have a firm notion for how English (or any language) should be structured and get prickly when people break the rules. Prescriptivists are liable to insist that infinitives shouldn't be split, that you shouldn't use which to introduce a restrictive phrase, and that you should only use the word unique when referring to something truly one of a kind (as opposed to merely very rare). Don't even get them started on literally, whose definition is now an endangered species due to Millennial misuse.
Descriptivists are the Montessori-school hippies, a live-and-let-live people. They have a notion for how English (or any language) should be structured, too, but they also pay keen attention to how the public is actually talking and writing. Sure, people should obey the "rules," but if a large segment of the population starts breaking a given rule in a consistent way... well, then perhaps the rule is outdated, and the new way of speaking should become the new rule. Descriptivism is the reason that, in 2013, Merriam-Webster updated their definition for literally to read "1) in a literal sense or manner; 2) in effect; virtually -- used in an exaggerated way to emphasize a statement or description that is not literally true or possible."
Prescriptivism and descriptivism are better understood as poles on a spectrum than as a binary. Few people are diehard adherents to either camp. In our heart of hearts, most of us are descriptivist sympathizers with closet prescriptivist beliefs. ("Of course language and grammar should evolve... but I will throw myself over a cliff before I accept irregardless as a word.") We're willing to be flexible, to a point.
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Several years ago -- ten years ago, in fact! -- I wrote an aggrieved li'l post about patriotism, inspired by the disappointment I felt when plans to build an Islamic center in NYC sparked Islamophobic protests. I used the process of elimination as an analogy to describe how I arrive at my sense of national pride. "It's hard for me to define how, if, or in what ways I might be considered patriotic," I wrote, "but it's easy for me to pick out the people who don't belong at my Independence Day party. I don't like it when people fail to distinguish between the honor of military personnel and the debatable virtue of the wars in which they fight. I don't like it when people wax poetic about their desire to expatriate to other countries without first thoughtfully considering our own. I don't like utter apathy or non-voters, particularly if such people then complain or criticize the government. I don't like it when people fly the American and the confederate flags side by side."
Even in 2010, though, I was conscious of the limits of this "PoE Patriotism." My system assumed that it's possible to declare ABC values to be patriotic, while writing off XYZ values as nonsense spouted by kooks. I worried over journalists' attempts "to sensationalize and even rationalize the actions of bigoted, albeit frightened, individuals, who (whatever their motivations) will alienate, wound, and anger thousands of American citizens." When we give the kooks our attention -- and/or when they become larger, louder, and more aggressive -- they're harder to write off. "I can no longer take solace in the knowledge that the more accepting, tolerant view is the dominant one," I wrote, "because it is difficult for me to assess that this is truly the case."
Ten years later, the same issues are keeping me up at night, only now they're way more troubling and dire. And I think the grammarians can help. They can't solve our problems, but they can reframe the issue.
What I described in 2010 as my own "PoE Patriotism" was a form of prescriptivism, with me defining America according to its ideals (pluralism, equality, optimism, a love of peanut butter, the democratic process) while rejecting rule-breakers (bigots, racists, the closed-minded). It's worth remembering that strict prescriptivists don't need to trouble themselves trying to figure out how the rule-breakers fit into the system, because the system isn't the problem. The ideals are perfect. It's the rule-breakers who are conclusively wrong, and they need to reform their ways.
The fear I articulated in 2010 was my own creeping sense of descriptivism, the nagging worry that America is more properly defined according to its actions and its people, as they actually behave. This is a much scarier prospect, because descriptivists insist that we can't simply write off the bigots, the kooks, the deniers, the people who say "irregardless." They're present at your Independence Day party, rudely hogging the guacamole and refusing to wear a mask, whether you want them there or not.
The benefit of prescriptivism is its idealism. While descriptivists wade in the muck of the now, prescriptivists concentrate on how things should be and refuse to accept otherwise. The iron will of prescriptivism is what enables Americans in the 21st century to still feel patriotically stirred when the Declaration of Independence is read aloud.
The benefit of descriptivism is its flexibility. While prescriptivists cling to a static vision, the descriptivist future isn't yet set in stone. And nothing says we're doomed to the changes wrought by inertia: If enough people decide to follow the rules as written, the rules don't need to change. If someone comes up with an idea for a better rule, it can be enshrined with enough public traction.
What grammarians' longstanding prescriptivist/descriptionist debate tells us is that rules are valuable. Ideals matter. But ultimately, for better or for worse, the dictionary can be rewritten, and the quorum to make it happen might be smaller than you think.
