There’s been a lot of ink spilled in the past few weeks (and, frankly, since long before) on the subject of ‘correct’ spelling for Louisiana’s French and Creole languages. I would like to put this perspective out into the ether as a contribution to that discussion.
First, permit me to define a few terms. Orthography: ‘correct writing.’ Alphabet: ‘a symbolic system representing one or more languages.’ These definitions were paraphrased from the Merriam-Webster Dictionary’s website. So before we get to Louisiana, it’s important to bear in mind that there is a difference between a language’s orthography, which is a writing system that’s considered ‘correct,’ and an alphabet, which is simply a set of symbols for representing languages. Orthography is language-specific, but an alphabet may be shared by multiple languages.
Why is the difference important? Because alphabets and orthographies are not neutral, and all sorts of things can get associated with them—like one’s identity, for instance (cf. Sebba 2007[1], 2012[2]). Let’s look at a non-Louisiana example of this. Montenegrin is a Slavic language spoken in the country of Montenegro, although not every speaker of the language agrees that it is distinct from another Slavic language, Serbian (http://omniglot.com/writing/montenegrin.htm). Montenegrin orthography recognizes the use of two alphabets, Latin and Cyrillic. What might be signaled by the choice between these two alphabets? Well, given that Serbian orthography uses the Cyrillic alphabet, a choice to use Cyrillic to write Montenegrin might mean that one feels closer to Serbians linguistically and culturally than a Montenegrin who uses the Latin alphabet.
However, even orthographic use of the same alphabet can vary. Let’s take an English example. What do you call the middle of something? More importantly for our discussion, how do you spell it? Is it <center> or <centre>? Our friends at Merriam-Webster say both of these spellings are correct. What’s the point of having two acceptable ways to write the same word? The first spelling is more common in American English, and the second spelling is more common in British English. The choice to spell the word <centre> could therefore signal a more British identity.
Turning to Louisiana, what alphabets do we have on the ground? The base of every major alphabet in Louisiana’s history has been the Latin alphabet (i.e., territorial Louisiana was not using Cyrillic symbols or other symbols to represent the languages being spoken at the time). To this base, certain symbols have been added (e.g., <ç, ñ, é, à>, etc.), but the foundation has still remained Latin. What orthographies do we have on the ground? Well there’s French, Creole (a.k.a., Kouri-Vini[3], which is still coalescing), Spanish, English, Vietnamese, as well as numerous Native American languages that have developed a written tradition (e.g., Tunica, Koasati). None of these orthographies represents a more or less correct way to write. Rather, each orthography is language-specific. Additionally, each orthography has its own internal variation.
Take the utterance, “It’s good.” In the spoken language, there is no difference between the French and the Creole equivalent in Louisiana. We could transcribe the phrase in IPA (International Phonetic Alphabet) as </se bɔ̃/>. But how do we write that in something other than IPA? Well, that depends on what I want you to think I’m speaking/writing. If I am trying to signal a specifically French identity, I might write it using French orthography: <C’est bon>. If, however, I’m trying to signal a specifically Creole identity, I might write it using Kouri-Vini orthography: <Çé bon>. There is nothing inherently better or worse in either of these representations, but they do different things. One establishes a closer relationship between the French language and myself, and the other establishes a closer relationship between the Creole language (or more precisely, Kouri-Vini) and myself.
What’s the benefit of orthography? It helps unify the written face of a language. The unified, written form then becomes something that can be rallied around as a symbol of shared (linguistic) identity. Very often the standardization of a language’s orthography masks at least some of the variation in the language itself, and different languages deal with this problem in a number of ways. One tactic is to ignore variation entirely. Another tactic is to adopt small changes in the orthography to accommodate the variation (e.g., <asteur> as a replacement for <à c’te heure>). But what happens if I feel like none of the available orthographies really represents how I see myself? There also exists something called ‘allography.’ Allography is the practice of writing differently. An example of this in English might be text message abbreviations (e.g., <u> for <you> or <l8r> for <later>). While these abbreviations may have originally been invented for convenience, today they can also serve to represent a tech-savvy, youthful identity. That’s one reason why a teenager might bristle if their parents were to use such spellings.
To wrap this up, let’s look at a potential example of allography in Louisiana: <sha>. This spelling is widely explained as an English phonetic representation of the French word <cher/chère>, and it attracts much attention. Is it wrong to spell the word that way? As I have tried to make clear, there is no predetermined, ‘correct’ way to write anything. Languages do have orthographic conventions (usually with some amount of internal variation) that help standardize their written representation. But ways of writing are often tied to identity, and when one’s sense of identity is at odds with orthographic practice, individuals might use allography to signal that difference. I would simply like to point out that the alternative spelling <sha> may be tied to a lack of identification that some Louisianans sense with regard to French identity (as signaled by French orthography).
Identity practices are inherently multi-faceted and resistant to generalizations. Recognizing that the act of writing has inherent identity consequences may well enrich our future discussions on writing and literacy in the Gulf South. In the coming weeks, I will be writing three articles that deal with the particularities of writing three Louisiana languages: Kouri-Vini, Louisiana French, and Tunica. Stay tuned.
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[1] Sebba, Mark. “Orthography as Social Action: Scripts, Spelling, Identity and Power.” In Orthography as Social Action: Scripts, Spelling, Identity and Power, edited by Alexandra Jaffe, Jannis Androutsopoulos, Mark Sebba, and Sally Johnson, 1–20. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012.
[2] ———. Spelling and Society: The Culture and Politics of Orthography around the World. Cambridge, UK; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007. http://public.eblib.com/choice/publicfullrecord.aspx?p=288660.
[3] http://www.mylhcv.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/Creole-Orthographic-Guide.pdf
I would say that the determination to continue writing “sha” makes sense: it is used mostly by Cajun-identified, who are overwhelmingly Anglophone and disinterested in speaking French as a way to “authenticate” their identity. So, English phonetics for a repurposed adjective from French and KV (the word is almost never used in those languages as used in English) make perfect sense.
Louisiana Francophones chaffe at this, and it is understandible why: Cajuns have been the principle challenge to any movement to regallicize Louisiana, and that remains the case today. It’s a classic phenomenon all over the world for resuscitating languages – those who speak, or whose parents do/did, are least likely to support the movement for all sorts of reasons. Cajuns tend to see French orthography as foreign, since their identity hinges on the idea of their speaking a “broken” language not taught in schools; ergo, French teachers are big bad boggymen who beat them to write French in the one universal French orthography. From this we get a kind of phobia among Cajuns (usually only those who speak/read/write no French) for all things written/spoken “correctly” in French, thus total rejection of education in French, writing/speaking in French without “errors.” They instantly view said writer/speaker as foreign. Sha becomes their badge of Cajunness rejecting French language and its orthography, and demonstrates their most important reality as Anglophones happy being Anglophones with occasional gallic seasoning like some words/expressions.