Says Who? summary

Some examples of “politically correct” language can feel excessive –⁠ just take “vertically challenged” as a replacement for “short”. Critics are quick to reference these examples to denounce political correctness as silly or equate it with censorship. But these folks are missing the bigger picture.

What’s really involved in discussions of “pc” language are questions surrounding the benefits and drawbacks of using inclusive language. Do attempts to promote respectful, inclusive terminology inappropriately limit free speech, as some claim? Or do they give voice to marginalized groups and help everyone feel respected?

Some words just rub people the wrong way. Take “funner”. Saying this one out loud might cause a grimace. But why does it sound so weird? As it turns out, the explanation is surprisingly complex and fascinating.

Believe it or not, there are people who think “fun” shouldn't even be used as an adjective –⁠ that it should only be a noun, as in “I'm having fun”. This argument stems from the fact that for the first hundred years or so of its history, “fun” was only a noun and a verb, not an adjective. “Fun” only took on adjectival duties in the mid-twentieth century, and now we can say things like, “That was a really fun party.”

As an English professor, the author finds herself in a conundrum when it comes to using “who” versus “whom” in her emails. On the one hand, “whom” sounds overly formal and stuffy. But “who” often gets people in a fuss because it makes them think she doesn’t know proper grammar! So should she say “I wasn’t sure to whom to send this message” or “I wasn’t sure who to send this message to?” 

The traditional grammatical rule is that “who” should be used as the subject of a sentence, while “whom” should be used as the object. So, you’d say, “Who invited you to the party?” because “who” is the subject. Conversely, you would ask, “Whom did you tell the secret to?” because “you” is the subject and “whom” is the object. 

If you’ve spent any time around internet word nerds, you’ve undoubtedly come across the debate about the infamous Oxford comma. In case you haven’t, that's the comma that comes before the “and” in a list, as in “eggs, milk, and cheese”. The Oxford comma can clarify ambiguous lists, such as in the famous example: “This book is dedicated to my parents, Ayn Rand and God.” Without the Oxford comma, it seems like the speaker’s parents are . . . well, Ayn Rand and God.

But these kinds of examples are fairly infrequent, and research shows that Americans are heavily divided over whether to use the Oxford comma. Many copy editors would tell you it’s not so important which choice you make –⁠ what matters is that you’re consistent. But is consistency really that important? To answer this question, let’s take a historical detour to explore the history of punctuation more generally.

Writing that “flows” is often touted as a hallmark of good prose. But what does it actually mean for writing to “flow” –⁠ or, conversely, to be “choppy”? And how do you make it not choppy?

In general, a choppy piece of writing is one where the connections between sentences aren’t clear. It’s when readers’ expectations about where the writing is headed are not being met, which makes for a jarring reading experience.

Many of us grow up learning the “rule” that you shouldn’t start sentences with words like “and” or “but”. But, as it turns out, this is far from a hard-and-fast rule. All the way back in the 1920s, notorious grammarian H. W. Fowler called the idea that you can’t start a sentence with “and” a “faintly lingering superstition”. 

The origins of this supposed “rule” can probably be traced back to English teachers trying to encourage kids to write in a more formal, less colloquial style. They wanted to steer them away from stringing together too many short, simple sentences using “and”, which would be their natural tendency when speaking. Interestingly, the preference for more formal sentence structures is a relatively recent development in the English language. In Old English, written text often mirrored the grammar of speech, with fewer restrictions on how to begin sentences.