Keep it Simple, Stupid?

 

I read this morning that Pierre Poilievre is proposing a law requiring government to make itself more understandable to more people by cutting the jargon, communicating in simple words and simpler, shorter sentences. Apparently, the USA and New Zealand have already passed such legislation.

How we logically determine which words are “simple,” or how many words there can be in a “simpler sentence” might be tricky. Depending on whether you grew up with English as your main—or only—language, or if you have a university education from an English institution, or have qualified as a specialist in a field where specific, even long words, are essential to precise communication with others in your field, or if you’re an avid reader and news junkie or feel yourself hard pressed to read the instructions on your pill bottles, all these and more factors come into play when judging what’s appropriate in a country where simplicity/complexity of language is an issue.

(The sentence above would have a hard time qualifying as a shorter, simpler example in New Zealand, one supposes.)

A mom of a three-year-old might say, “Does your tummy have an owwie?” She won’t ask, “Are you experiencing midriff pain distress due, probably, to a surplus of stomach acid?” Tailoring our speech and writing to match the vocabulary and the likely knowledge reserves of our audience is too obvious to merit debate. But to set language complexity to some three-year-old maximum would be as stupid as deliberately baffling the majority of your audience with specialized political, medical or any other jargon.

It seems obvious. Spoken and written communication is to human community and necessary progress as food is to life. Progress and well-being are and will always be beholden to the quality and clarity of communication. And yet, we treat it as one of many options in school curricula. Why do most of us go through life with a competency in communication stalled at the level we exhibited on the day we left school? If a generation grows up with substandard nutrition, is that the grocery store’s fault? And who’s to blame if a person educated in an English language system can’t make head nor tails out of a T1 Short, government document? can’t enjoy (or even follow) the insights in Naomi Klein’s This Changes Everything, for instance?

And in the end, is it simpler words, shorter and simpler sentences that pave the road to broader understanding? I’m sure every editor of every government document—or every letter, poem, novel, essay, column, meeting minutes, speech, for that matter—should have in mind that literacy levels vary. But there are counterweights to this consideration. Language doesn’t only communicate basic information. It can also provide clarity and nuance to thought, rhythm and musicality in its art forms, it can light fires of joy or indignation at its most expressive.

Before simple language legislation: “The overuse of garish colours and kitsch destroyed the ambience of what used to be a charming restaurant.”

After simple language legislation: “That place sucks now!”

The legislation: It is hereby enacted that no government communication may contain words of more than six letters or two syllables, and that no sentence may contain more than ten words. Abbreviations in order to circumvent the number-of-letters directive are not to be tolerated. (Simple language version of this directive: Keep it simple, stupid. {KISS})