The last time I checked the Office of Undergraduate Admissions' statistics regarding literacy at Tufts, it seemed to me that the vast majority of students attending Tufts could read and speak English at a satisfactory level. It occurred to me that literacy happens to be a prerequisite for most institutions of higher education, and that makes sense I guess. Of the people I have met, befriended and loved at Tufts, all have been well−read, well−spoken and knowledgeable in the English language, if only as a result of the hours of reading homework they have each night.
That's not to say that everyone must be a grammatical expert or a Shakespeare enthusiast. Being a Midwestern lady myself, I consistently end my sentences with unsightly prepositions (WHERE MY LINGUISTS AT?). I also couldn't tell you the difference between Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë. In spite of my linguistic and literary failings, though, I have achieved a level of literacy that makes my sentences decipherable and my thoughts mostly understandable.
There is a trend, however, that currently threatens to destroy this image of literacy we uphold on campus. You all might be familiar with its proliferation, but not with its associated detrimental side−effects on our culture. It is the abbreviation, and it is an abomination.
More fondly referred to as the "abbrev." or "abbr." by skilled users, the abbreviation was once an innocent tool used to shorten a word or phrase for easier usage. Though abbreviating has been a common lingual tendency for centuries, the first trend of abbreviating originated in Boston in the 1830s with the usage of "OK" in a newspaper joke, which was the shortened and incorrect use of "all correct," or "oll correct". Though we have adopted OK as an acceptable abbreviation, the slippery slope of shortening promises worse results.
Take, for example, the abbreviation "presh." Cut in size from the already annoying word "precious," "presh" represents the further belittling of the subject. Its usage alone is irritating and slightly demeaning, but the joint usage of "presh" with other modern abbreviations demonstrates my point of lingual decline more accurately. Say that you saw a cute couple eating dinner at a nice restaurant on Valentine's Day, and your friend deemed them "totes def presh." Aside from not representing real language, this phrase suggests something lessened and demeaned. What's more, your friend is "probs jealy" of their relationship. She's letting her ire affect her language, and that's NOT OK.
The abbreviation's evil sidekick, the acronym, has also found its way into our campus culture in an undeniable manner. For every student group or association on campus, there is often an acronym to accompany its official title. The average Tufts student is likely involved with TCU, SOC, EPIIC, LCS, MTW, LAL or ZAT (I made up the last three, but they sound convincing, right?). Though each group has a legitimate reason to exist, its purpose is often boiled down to a handful of letters that do not accurately convey meaning. Every organization deserves a little more recognition than a bunch of letters can provide.
Therefore, I propose a counterrevolution to this lingual trend. We could restore our literary legitimacy by vowing to speak and write in old Victorian English. The affected tone of our voices and writing would render the student body immediately more sophisticated and classy. A joint trend toward monocles and top hats would not be disagreeable, either. Admittedly, the formality of the dialect might suggest an ugly elitism.
If that doesn't work, we can always just change our sentence structures to resemble those of Yoda to restore lingual integrity. Speak well we can, if only we believe!
--
