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Theory and practice in the discourse of language planning

ROBERT DE BEAUGRANDE*

ABSTRACT: In our `modern' societies, language planning confronts a situation wherein human rights
have become inclusive in theory but remain exclusive in practice, often deploying languages or language
varieties as pretexts for exclusion. Language planning should promote a dialectic between inclusive
theories and inclusive practices within its own projects and within its own discourse, and should
deconstruct exclusive ones. This precept is demonstrated with discourse samples, including ones
concerning `International English' and `World Englishes'.

INTRODUCTION

Social change can be said to occur when new groups gain the right to determine the theory
of the society and its relation to practice. But social progress can be said to occur only when
theory and practice converge to grant freedom and equality to a more inclusive range of
the total population. So far, the evolution of `modern societies' shows the official inclusive
theory of `democracy' providing for `freedom' or `equality' but being contradicted by
exclusive practices. Evidently, `modernisation' need not achieve social progress in the sense
proposed here through the trends routinely touted as `progress': urbanisation, indus-
trialisation, technology, and now the globalisation of the `free market'. In theory, all these
benefit the whole population; in practice, they merely render the division between the
theory of `democracy' and the practices of `unfreedom' and `inequality' more international
and more irresistible.
These trends have recently ushered in a global economy wherein `communication' and
`information' are now commodities. Like any commodity, they derive a high value from
limiting access, and high technology offers the most conspicuous means ± personal
computers, modems, internet subscriptions, encoders and decoders, and so on. Less
conspicuous but vastly more efficient limits can be maintained upon access to an
instrumental language or language variety. `Modernisation' generates novel domains of
discourse whose specialised terms include and empower the insiders whilst excluding and
disempowering the outsiders.
Yet a language or language variety remains a highly exceptional commodity. Unlike
cash, precious gems or metals, and other tangible assets, it cannot be locked up and
hoarded for yourself, nor taken away from others who have it; and giving it to others does
not incur any loss for you. Indeed, zealously restricting access to a language would risk
destroying its commodity value by constricting the user groups with whom you can use it
to interact.
So the restrictions in `modern' practice are always partial and never total; and instead of
language just getting locked up, it gets idealised. Within the total population who can
speak the language, incisive distinctions are erected between the higher-valued variety of
an elite (e.g. RP English) and one or more lower-valued varieties of the rest (e.g. Barbadian

* Department of English, University of Botswana, Private Bag 0022, Gaborone, Botswana. Tel. and fax:
00267/304124. E-mail: beaugran@ib.bw

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108 Robert de Beaugrande

English). The major advantage is plain: the elite can communicate and interact with the
rest, but always from a position of superior power.
A secondary advantage is that popular attitudes about language are both highly
irrational and deeply entrenched. Years or even centuries of linguistic discrimination ±
what Phillipson (1992: 47) has called `linguicism' ± have convinced most speakers of the
lower-valued varieties that their own speech is irredeemably inferior and thus improper for
participating in socially or professionally significant discourse. Trying to instil in them a
new respect for their own speech may seem both unreasonably difficult and vulnerable to
accusations from the elite of `lowering the standards'.
We can thus appreciate the recent trends whereby linguicism is steadily assuming the
functions of more conspicuous and discredited modes of discrimination, such as racism
and ethnocentrism. Precisely when access to privileged language varieties such as `Stand-
ard English' is closely implicated with the globalisation of an information economy, we
witness a resurgence of traditional attitudes even in high academic circles, who are gratified
at being able `once again to call something ``bad English'' ' (Pennycook, 1994: 32, citing
Randolph Quirk). Speaking `bad English' becomes the handiest pretext for the long-
standing campaign to blame the disadvantaged for their own plight, and the poor for their
own poverty (cf. Harris, 1980). The exploding global population living in abject poverty
can be dismissed for being `ignorant' of `world languages' or at least of the `standard
varieties' of world languages.

THEORY AND PRACTICE IN MODERN EDUCATION

`Modern education' also rests upon an official inclusive theory of `democracy' and
`equality' which is contradicted by entrenched practices of exclusion. Again, languages and
language varieties are the key: this time the limited access to the discourse of schooling,
which is supposed to be conducted in `educated English'. The underlying logic is circular,
since `educated English' could be at best the result of education and not its precondition.
But the practical outcome is expedient: language supplies a pretext to discriminate in
favour of learners whose home varieties are already close to the presumably `educated'
one, and against the other learners.
A similar process operates inside language education. When English is a school subject
for native speakers, discrimination against learners with home varieties remote from
presumably `educated English' is a routine operation to `uphold standards' and establish
`correctness'. For non-natives, the situation is complicated by a range of learner Englishes
and sometimes also by local Englishes, all of whose relation to the target variety called
`Standard English' is insufficiently accounted for.
The outcome has been succinctly described by Robert L. Cooper (1989: 135):
the model [of] language . . . favoured by elites is typically adopted by schools. . . . Those who
accept the model or ideal but are unable to use it serve to legitimise their own subordination. By
promoting the ideal without imparting to all the ability to use it, the schools help to reproduce the
social structure in each generation.

I am not suggesting some conspiracy among schools, administrators, teachers, or textbook

authors, to limit access to `Standard English'. The limits are the natural outcome of a
global process wherein the standards remain inaccessible whilst the size and diversity of the
world-wide population of prospective learners of English are rapidly increasing.

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Theory and practice in the discourse of language planning 109

THEORY AND PRACTICE IN LANGUAGE PLANNING

In the foregoing sections, I have outlined some factors which counsel us to assess theory
and practice in language planning. There also, contradictions can be diagnosed, but in a
special context. By definition, a `plan' is a theory expressly intended for implementation in
practice. Yet `language planning' confronts unique difficulties as long as the steps needed
to put a `language plan' into practice are unexplained and unresolved. We inherit all the
pending problems of theory versus practice in society, education, and language education,
along with linguistics (for discussion, see Beaugrande, 1997a, b). In effect, our `plans' are
intended to promote goals like `social progress' and `individual freedom' when the
fundamental conditions for these goals are not in place and their very meaning is widely
contested over whether they will benefit only the elites, who can buy expensive new
technology, and run the `free market' solely for their own enrichment; or whether they will
benefit the total population who seek a meaningful life and career.
Language planning naturally gets entrained in similar contests. The elites, who typically
dominate the academic and institutional setting where language planning is done, are
indifferent, unsupportive, or even hostile to plans which favour the interests of the total
population, and consider them at best naive and at worst subversive. So language planning
faces multiple dangers. We must guard against being so `theoretical' that the planning
process remains trapped inside the domain of theory whilst the practices of social change
keep moving in the opposite direction, and the gap between the elites and the population
keeps getting wider. Yet we must also guard against being so `practical' that we are
confined to theorising, after the fact, the `linguistic realities' of the setting, and to placing
an institutional seal of approval upon trends which do not count as the social progress
defined here. In the next section, I shall trace these dangers in the actual discourse of
language planning.

THE DISCOURSES OF LANGUAGE PLANNING

The discourse of language planning might be expected to address issues like these:

1. how language planning can be implemented in the practices of discourse in society;

2. how language planning can be constructed and negotiated as theories within and through our
own practices of discourse;
3. how our own discourse might itself be steered by explicit and conscious planning.

In the past, the discourse of language planning has centred on 1, although aimed more at
`language' than at `discourse practices', after the models of linguistics and sociolinguistics
(cf. Beaugrande, 1999). I would submit that language planning is not likely to be effective
unless carried out in an ongoing dialectic with discourse planning, for which I can see only a
little evidence so far.
The principal evidence I do see is the `Plain English Movement', whose chief architects
were not officially in language planning but in programmes of English, composition,
rhetoric, and English for Professional Purposes (cf. Redish, 1985). One applied linguist, H.
G. Widdowson (1988: 342±6), has oddly classified this movement together with that of
`self-appointed custodians of language correctness': both aim at `language limitation' and
`prescription of appropriate use'; `both attempt to intervene in the process of language
spread by appealing to notions of what is appropriate and in defence of social values' and

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110 Robert de Beaugrande

by `referring to some absolute criterion of correctness'. What Widdowson overlooked was

the diametrical opposition between the `social values': the `plain language' movements
favour social progress and promote inclusion, whereas `custodians of language correctness'
oppose progress and promote exclusion.
Such oversights may be due to the hallowed stance of an `objectivity' toward language
that does not `limit', `prescribe', or `intervene'. But in language planning, `objectivity' must
have a different meaning. We must be objective in recognising not just the diversity of
languages and language varieties but also the deployment of that diversity to legitimise
inequality and exclusion despite official theories of equality and inclusion. And we must
also be objective in assessing the conditions needed if social progress is to put those
theories into practice, as the `plain language movements' have been doing. We cannot
abstain from taking sides wherever controversies are already well under way, and where, in
absence of language planning, they will inescapably lead to vehement social conflicts.

A case study: the discourse of language planning amid `power' struggles

My case study will probe how discourse of language planning situates its concerns in
respect to the organisation and evolution of a presumably typical society. My data source
will be the volume with the programmatic title Language Planning and Social Change,
authored by Robert L. Cooper, a sometime associate of Joshua Fishman's. Cooper
`wanted to present a general overview of language planning, relate it to other fields,
outline its scope, and relate language-planning goals, procedures, and outcomes to one
another'; he also `hoped to relate language planning to public policy more generally and to
social change' (1989: vii). The back-cover blurb acclaims it to be `the first book to define
the field of language planning and relate it to other aspects of social planning'.
The book episodically reflects on the ratio between theory and practice, but arrives at a
stand-off. A `theory' is said to be a `scheme' whose few `propositions' `explain' many
instances of `human behaviour' (1). The timing in sample (2) seems to be: first you `formulate
descriptive classifications', next you `discover behavioural regularities' and finally you
`construct a theory'. But (3) adds a step: you `observe consistencies' among `individual
cases' in order to `build up generalisations' which you then `organise into theories designed
to explain all cases'; the `theory' is now ready to be `tested against new data'.
(1) A theory is a conceptual scheme which organises a relatively small number of propo-
sitions which, taken together, explain a relatively wide range of human behaviour
(pp. 56f.).1

(2) The initial construction of a theory follows the discovery of behavioural regularities, which in
turn depends upon the formulation of descriptive classifications (p. 57, his italics).

(3) Generalisations can be built up from individual cases by observing consistencies in the
relationships among descriptive classifications. Such generalisations can be organised into
theories designed to explain . . . all individual cases represented by the phenomenon of
interest. The validity of the theory can then be tested against new data (p. 57, his italics).

This outlook nicely fits the standard idealisation of science up into the 1950s, with no
provision made for the observer also being a participant, in this case, a speaker of a
language which has massive `descriptive classifications' built into it (Halliday, 1997).
Whether such an outlook could be put into investigative practice remains a moot
question when the field is said to be `still at the stage' of `discovering behaviour' (4) and

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performing `ad-hoc studies' `as a preliminary step in the formation of theories' (5). Indeed,
a `theory' is pronounced `unattainable at our present level of competence' (6).
(4) In language planning we are still at the state of discovering behavioural regularities
(p. 57).

(5) Without a theory of language planning, we have no principled means of determining what
variables should be included in descriptive, predictive, or explanatory studies of given cases.
Each investigator must make that determination on a more or less ad-hoc basis. But ad-hoc
studies serve as a preliminary step in the formulation of theories (p. 56).

(6) A theory of language planning would enable us to explain language-planning initiatives, the
means chosen to effect the goals, and the outcomes of the implementation. We would
understand . . . the motivation for setting particular status, corpus, and acquisition goals and
for choosing particular means, and the reasons that the means do or do not effect the goals
within a given social context. Such a theory . . . is unattainable, at least at our present level of
competence, not only because language planning is such a complex activity, influenced by
numerous factors ± economic, ideological political, etc. ± and not only because it is directed
toward so many status, corpus, and acquisition goals, but more fundamentally because it is a
tool in the service of so many different latent goals such as economic modernisation, national
integration, national liberation, imperial hegemony, racial, sexual, and economic equality,
the maintenance of elites, and their replacement by new elites (p. 182).

The `theory' is supposed to provide nothing less than the means for `explaining' and
`understanding' every aspect of `language planning' whilst keeping clear of conflicts among
`latent goals', such as `hegemony' versus `equality'. Yet such a theory cannot be built by
`discovering behavioural regularities', because our `goals' and `outcomes' just aren't there
to be discovered, which is why we need planning. What we require, I submit, is theory
which leads away from the widely observable `hegemony', which we'll see Cooper's own
implicit theory endorsing, and toward `equality'.
Having rendered a theory `unattainable' by making such strenuous demands, Cooper
does not `construct' one but ends his book with a list of `generalisations' (p. 183), perhaps
like those foreseen in sample (2) except that they don't get `tested against new data'. Still,
some of them do provide clues about his implicit theory (pp. 183ff.):
(7) Increasing differentiation of social institutions promotes the differentiation of linguistic
function and linguistic form.

(8) Language standardisation is more likely to be successful with respect to attitude than with
respect to behaviour.

(9) Language planning is not necessarily initiated by persons for whom language is a principal
focus, [e.g.] by writers, poets, linguists, language teachers, lexicographers, and translators,
but also by missionaries, soldiers, legislators, and administrators.

(10) Language planning contributes to change by promoting new functional allocations of

language varieties, structural changes in those varieties, and acquisition of those varieties
by new populations. Language planning contributes to stability because it is constrained by
the target language's structural requirements and by the values which the language variety
represents to its speakers.

(11) Language planning rarely conforms to a rational paradigm of decision-making or

problem-solving.

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112 Robert de Beaugrande

(7) singles out `differences' in `social institutions', whereas our real problem is exclusions,
e.g., when those institutions decline to use plain language. (8) seems to say people will
admire standards in theory more readily than put them into practice. (9) suggests that
`language planning' is often `initiated' by people without credentials or expertise ± without
theory, but with power. (10) displays an uneasy imbalance between two `contributions':
one to `change' by `promoting' (doing), and one to `stability' by `being constrained' (not
doing); yet what is `standardisation' but promoting stability? Finally, (11) seems to affirm
a general lack of `rationality' in `language planning' and in `making decisions' or `solving
problems'; Cooper (1989: 155) elsewhere warns that `uncompromising rationality' cannot
provide `workable solutions to corpus-planning problems'.
This lack might be understood by inferring Cooper's implicit theory of social
organisation from passages like (12±14).
(12) Elites attempt to maintain and extend their influence . . . over the distribution of scarce
resources or values; . . . the mass, to the extent that it is mobilised, seeks a more equitable
process; and counter-elites, speaking in the name of the mass or in the name of a new
ideology, seek to displace the elite and to seize control of the process (p. 119).
(13) Status planning can, in principle [i.e. in theory], focus upon any communicative function. In
practice, it tends to aim at those functions which enable elites to maintain or extend their
power, or which give counter-elites an opportunity to seize power (p. 120).
(14) Language planning . . . is unlikely to succeed unless it is embraced and promoted by elites or
by counter-elites . . . If language planning serves elites or counter-elites, it may also serve the
mass, particularly insofar as it strengthens the individual's sense of dignity, self-worth, social
connectedness, and ultimate meaning as a member of a group (pp. 183f.).

This grimly deterministic scenario of society follows Harold D. Lasswell (1936), a strangely
dated source for a 1989 survey, and one published back when fascism had openly `seized
power' in several important nations. The scenario has just three classes of participants. The
`elites' hold `power' and `influence' in practice ± in Lasswell's (1936: 3) own sinister terms,
they `get the most of what there is to get' (Cooper, 1989: 80) ± whilst the `counter-elites'
ceaselessly connive to `seize power' (13). The rest of the society constitutes the `mass'
(Lasswell again), presumably getting the least, even when power is `seized in their name'
(14). Their interests may, as if by accident, be `served' whilst the `elites' and `counter-elites'
are busily struggling. But in this grim scheme, the mass's `sense of dignity, self-worth', and
`social connectedness' is a patent illusion. So is their hope for a `more equitable' society if
the `aim' and `success' of language planning requires `promotion' by the `elites holding
power' or `counter-elites seizing power' (13±14), both groups being ruthlessly bent on
grabbing `scarce resources or values' (12).
The official theory for this same society, again following Lasswell (1936: 29f.), is an
`ideology' constituted by `symbols' and conveyed through `sanctioned words and gestures'
(15). Here, overtones of fascism are hard to ignore:
(15) Counter-elites assert and elites defend their legitimacy `in the name of the symbols of the
common destiny'; . . . `such symbols are the ``ideology'' of the established order, the ``utopia''
of counter-elites. By the use of sanctioned words and gestures, the elite elicits blood, work,
taxes, applause from the masses. When the political order works smoothly, the masses
venerate the symbols; the elite, self-righteous and unafraid, suffers no withering sense of
immorality. . . . A well-established ideology perpetuates itself with little planned propaganda
by those whom it benefits most'. . . . Language, of course . . . can be manipulated to help

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create the perception of a common destiny. Counter-elites seize or create whatever symbols
are available to them to mobilise mass movements. (p. 86, his italics)

Curiously, hegemony not merely wins out here over equality but creates a seemingly useful
stability: a `smoothly working political order' and a `well-established ideology'.
Such discourse implicates language planning in producing exclusive theories to fit
exclusive practices. Cooper doubtless had no such intention, but he was liable to drift
that way once he had declared that a `theory' is rendered `unattainable' by such goals as
`hegemony' and the `maintenance of elites' (sample (6)). There is little room in his vision of
social change to plan for what I have called social progress by theorising against the
`hegemony' of the `elites' and in favour of the mass's `sense of dignity, self-worth', and
`social connectedness' which would be neither accidents nor illusions, but which do not
currently show up among `behavioural regularities' (cf. sample (4)). Yet that is just what I
submit we must do lest we incur the danger of merely theorising, after the fact, the
inevitability of the exclusive practices sustained whilst the real or prospective `elites' do
battle for `the most of what there is to get'.
To explore this danger, I shall examine the first of the `four examples in search of a
definition' of language planning at the start of Cooper's book (pp. 3±28), namely `founding
the AcadeÂmie FrancËaise' (pp. 3±11). To summarise the social and historical context, he
cites another dated source published not just during the rise of fascism but inside Nazi
Germany itself.
(16) French integrity was threatened . . . by peasant riots and revolts. Crushed by taxation and
rising wheat and cereal prices, reduced to misery, peasants would arm themselves, march to
the nearest town, and attack the government tax officers. Scarcely a year went by without an
agrarian revolt which had to be forcibly repressed. . . . `Complete anarchy, confusion, and
exhaustion prevailed everywhere' (Burckhardt, 1940: 9f.; Cooper, 1989: 4).

By imposing an absolutist monarchy, Cardinal Richelieu can figure as the `architect' of

`the modern French state' who rescued its `integrity' from `dissension' (16) and `dismem-
berment' (17). `Order' can figure as `a superior moral end' on the side of `God' (18) and
thus sanctified can `exercise power relentlessly and ruthlessly', `pursue dissidents pitilessly',
and `condemn innocents' (19). And these were not just `a few', as we easily see from the
frequent `revolts' of `peasants' reduced to `misery' by `taxation', who, instead of being
relieved, `had to be forcibly repressed' (16).
(17) Had there not been a brilliant and strong minister to guide him [Louis XIII], France might
have been dismembered. . . . France became the arbiter of Europe, with Richelieu the
architect of her greatness. He created the modern French state (p. 4).

(18) All his life, Richelieu battled against disorder, `deÂreÁglement', the enemy not only of the state
but of God as well. Since disorder threatened the realm, disorder was the enemy of Richelieu,
the king, and God. Disorder was heresy, order a superior moral end (p. 4).

(19) In this struggle to impose order on an anarchic world, Richelieu . . . exercised power
relentlessly and ruthlessly. He believed that the state must be strong in order to restrain
individuals from folly, from irrational behaviour, from disorder; [and could perform] acts
which would be immoral if carried out by private persons for private ends. . . . His security
apparatus identified dissidents and he pursued them pitilessly. He manipulated state trials.
He was prepared to see a few innocents condemned if by doing so [sic; what seems to be
meant is: if his methods cowed the whole population] he could preserve order (pp. 4f.).

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114 Robert de Beaugrande

The Cardinal devised a splendid theory for his high-handed practices of imposing `order':
(20) He shared with contemporary philosophers the belief in humanity's ability to apprehend
what is consistent with natural reason, [and] the contemporary pessimism about humanity's
ability to act according to this knowledge. Thus people must be ruled so that they might not
act in defiance of reason or contrary to God, the author of reason (p. 5).

At least he certainly `believed' in his own `ability to apprehend' `natural reason', though he
could not recognise that precisely the `natural reason' of starving peasants might lead them
to `revolt'.
In Cooper's further narrative of Richelieu's `modern French state', the `peasants'
completely disappear, and no connection is remotely drawn between their agonising
poverty and the taxation-sponsored cost of Richelieu's `lavish patronage of artists' and
his `taste for personal magnificence' (21±22). Here too, His Eminence devised a splendid
theory, one that would have been adored by the Lasswellian `elites' manipulating the
`symbols of the common destiny' (15). Every benefit for himself was automatically for `the
state of France':
(21) Just as Richelieu valued order in government, he valued order in art. . . . art, like everything
else, must be controlled, directed, and regulated by the state. . . . While his lavish patronage
of artists contributed to his own glory, he was convinced that his own glory was inseparable
from that of the state. The beauty, dignity, and magnificence of art could contribute to the
might and grandeur of France. . . . His collections, his commissions, as well as his own
artistic productions reveal a highly sophisticated taste (pp. 5f.).

By now, `order' has been purged of all `ruthlessness' and decked out in `beauty, dignity,
and magnificence'. In parallel, the `pitiless pursuer of dissidents' and `condemner of
innocents' now shines as a `genuine enthusiast' with `a highly sophisticated taste'.
The `founding of the AcadeÂmie FrancËaise' can fittingly figure as yet another move for
securing `discipline and order' and repressing `anarchy' (22) (which, we are supposed to
forget, was caused by peasants yearning for bread ± let them eat `art'!). The final step into
language planning invokes `high culture' and the `purification' of language (23), along with
`polish, clarity, refinement, and discrimination' (24).
(22) The yearning for peace and the role of law and order, which had grown during the anarchy
of the sixteenth century, made the clarity, restraint, discipline, and order of classical models
appealing (p. 7).

(23) The purification movement also reflected an effort to establish . . . the narrow aristocratic
society . . . as the supreme arbiter of language. . . . Good usage became defined as that of the
elite, and bad usage as that of the mass of the people. . . . Thus the elite from which France's
rulers were drawn was able to invest its language with the aura of high culture and to clothe
its authority in this language (p. 8).

(24) The purification movement encouraged an excision of the coarse, the vulgar, and the plebian
from polite speech and from serious literature, and elevated polish, clarity, refinement, and
discrimination as literary and linguistic ideals (p. 9).

At this point, the discourse of language planning has indeed become implicated in
producing exclusive theories to fit exclusive practices, and in theorising, after the fact, a
justification for a frankly elitist state, wherein the `mass' (or the `peasants'), sternly

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condemned for `bad usage', were not even granted a Lasswellian illusion of `dignity, self-
worth', and `social connectedness' (cf. (14)).

The discourse of `International English'

The discourse of International English (IE) (or English as an International Language
(EIL)) is inclusive in theory: it projects a single `English' which is being offered equally to
all `nations' and which manifests one uniform set of standards in pronunciation, grammar,
and vocabulary. Yet the term is exclusive in practice by mystifying several factors: (1) the
wide diversity among real varieties of English both in their home countries (e.g. the UK
and the US) and in many other regions; (2) the prominent inequalities of access to English
in most of those regions; (3) the sharply unequal status of the respective `nations'; and (4)
the deployment of the standards and the distribution of English for reproducing and
sustaining all these inequalities (cf. Phillipson, 1992; Pennycook, 1994).
The historical roots of the discourse of IE can be found in the discourse of linguistic
imperialism linking English to empire-building as `the great medium of civilisation' (25)
and of the `thought' of all `mankind' (26).2
(25) English is rapidly becoming the great medium of civilisation; . . . of all living languages, the
one . . . bearing most directly of the happiness of mankind (Guest, 1838: 703).
(26) This heritage of the English-speaking people is something of stupendous importance to the
world . . . it is more important that mankind should learn to think Englishly than that it
should learn merely to speak English (West, 1934: 172).

Yet sometimes the discourse of imperialism warned against `teaching English

indiscriminately' lest the `population' (Lasswell's `mass') grow `discontented' with the
`manual labour' exacted by the Empire:
(27) The one danger to be guarded against is an attempt to teach English indiscriminately . . . I do
not think it is at all advisable to attempt to give to the children of an agricultural population
an indifferent knowledge of a language that to all but the very few would only unfit them for
the duties of life and make them discontented with anything like manual labour (Frank
Swettenham in the Perak Annual Report for 1890).

A balance was duly struck between inclusion and exclusion. Most English teaching in
the `Empire' intended to produce only the low fluency for assisting the exploitation of
labour through a hierarchy of language mediators; high fluency was reserved for top-level
mediators ± Macaulay's `class who may be interpreters between us and the millions we
govern', since he deemed it `impossible' `to educate the body of the people' (cited in
Pennycook, 1994: 78).
In post-colonial settings, the discourses of language spread and language planning have
undergone more complex mystifications. In theory, local languages are to be cultivated in
such areas as education and administration, much like Lasswell's `symbols of the common
destiny' back in (15); the elites can support local languages as a means of seeking consensus
(along with `eliciting blood, work, taxes, applause' in (15)) for their continuing hegemony
in an officially independent and democratic society. In practice, power is concentrated
among precisely those elites whose English is the closest to the British `standard',
whilst well-meaning policies for education and administration in local languages are
not given the economic and institutional support to make them practicable (Bamgbose,
Ç
1991). The linguistic imperialism of colonialism yields to the linguicism of post-colonialism

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116 Robert de Beaugrande

and neo-colonialism (Phillipson, 1992), and the inequalities based on language supply a
seemingly neutral rationale for maintaining inequalities based on race, gender, and ethnic
or religious allegiances.
In much of the discourses of IE, the use and dominance of English figure as purely
practical matters of keeping up with commerce, technology, science, and so on. The
implicit theory postulates that English is available for all nations, and that the choice of
English or another language is made by a society of free individual agents. This theory
persists despite heaps of contrary evidence because it is so close to established Western
theories of society, science, and education: free availability to all, and free choice to
succeed or fail (Beaugrande, 1997a).
The discourse of IE serenely takes the global spread of English to be an objective fact
that will inevitably lead to an all-inclusive world-wide communication transcending
national divisions or boundaries. Along the way, the problems currently stemming from
multiculturalism and multilingualism will be automatically resolved because everyone who
so chooses can communicate in a culturally neutral English.
The neutrality of English can thus be made a subtle theme in the discourse of language
planning, e.g. in Fishman's (1977) assertion that English is not `ideologically encumbered'.
Yet this same discourse acknowledges that English is chiefly used in many regions by the
elites (cf. Pennycook, 1994). The ideology here would be that English is inclusive and
neutral in theory, whilst exclusion arises through mere accidents of practice and through
the failings of isolated individuals ± just like the prevailing ideology of `modern
democracy'.
In this context, we ought to consider how far the discourse of IE explicitly describing the
global spread of English implicitly supports and celebrates it, rather like a Lasswellian `well-
established ideology perpetuating itself with little planned propaganda by those it benefits
most' (15). The discourse can imply, without announcing it, the vacuous neo-colonialist
theory, summarised by Pennycook (1994: 120), that `the world as described by English is
the world as it really is and thus to learn English is essential if anyone wants to understand
the modern world.'
In the discourse of IE, language planning is animated to theorise, after the fact, the
inevitability of geopolitical and historical facts, much as we saw in Cooper's adulatory
discourse about the AcadeÂmie FrancËaise. A palpable instance is Fishman's (1992: 21±4)
`no-nonsense view of English' in terms of a `balance of power resting solidly' on `realities':
there, English `reigns supreme' `in the cruel real world', `where econo-technical superiority
is what really counts', viz.:
(28) The lesson of History is quite clear . . . the real `powerhouse' is still English. It doesn't have to
worry about being loved because, loved or not, it works. It makes the world go round, and
few indeed can afford to `knock it'. . . . English gets along without love, without tears, and
almost without affect of any kind; . . . crying takes time, and as all the world has learned
from American English, `time is money' (Fishman, 1992: 24f.).

So: `regardless of what may have happened to the British Empire, the sun never sets on
the English language', whose speakers Fishman illustrates with `the highest circles',
`indigenous elites (``native foreigners'')', tourists `(``foreign foreigners'')', and `Third
World recipients of Western largesse' (1992: 20). Hardly by coincidence, English is also
called `a major medium' `of the metaphor of mastery' and of `technological modernity and
power' (1992: 19f.).

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Such discourse implies either that language planning can get along without theory
because the social and economic realities are deciding the practices in any case (Cooper
seemed to say so in (6)); or else that we only need theories `resting solidly' on the
`realities' of practice such as the `balance of power' (though the reality is a staggering
imbalance!). Problems relating to less tangible issues such as values and loyalties get
placed in a patronising sentimental association with `affects' like `love' and `tears', which
a language like English can `do without' and has no `time' and `money' for anyway; `the
market for poetry is down', whilst `computer programming manuals tell us whether or
not a language will be taken seriously' (Fishman, 1992: 24). What then of the real tears
of the masses living in poverty, who have no access to English and receive no `Western
largesse'?
The collocation `Western largesse' itself cynically mystifies the real colonial and neo-
colonial exploitation that has `underdeveloped the Third World' (Frank, 1979; Rodney,
1981) and has thereby made colonialist languages like English somewhat `unloved'.
And the collocation `veritable army of English-speaking econo-technical specialists,
advisors, and representatives' (1992: 20) makes the practical exclusion of ordinary
people who don't speak English but only the `little languages' (Fishman again)
disappear behind a practical inclusion ± the term `army' being exquisitely ironic in
view of the close alliance between the `specialists' and the military regimes held in place
by English-speaking elites.
In such passages, the discourse of IE lends a highly practical and rational cast to a forced
merger of theory with practice that is actually impractical and irrational for the majority of
the population in many parts of the world. I can see nothing genuinely practical in having
language planning pre-empted by `econo-technocrats' like the authors and publishers of
`computer programming manuals', nor in patronising the policies enacted to support
endangered languages like Irish and Yiddish as `panegyrics' about `intimacy and authen-
ticity', `suffused with love', which is just `a sign of weakness' in the `real world' (Fishman,
1992: 24). Apparently, language planning should remain `strong' (like Richelieu's `state' in
(19)) and give its stamp of approval when a language gets extinguished by the spread of
English, as could happen to Irish.
Fishman plays the role of specialist insider by inserting ponderous technical terms (e.g.
`relinguification and re-ethnification goals') among his value-laden terms, mostly pejora-
tive (e.g. `little languages') and even fairy-tale terms (English is the `Ugly Duckling', whilst
local languages are `Prince Charmings in overalls', 1992: 23f.), such that a technical aura
can enhance the scientific authority of large and disputable claims, e.g.:
(29) The shallowness of association with `Mother English' is in turn related to Anglophonie's
permissiveness toward non-native Englishes all over the world, each of which likewise has
little affect associated with it (1992: 24).

As so often in the discourse of IE, the neutrality of English is asserted in absolute terms, in
this case allowing the freedom from `affect' to straightforwardly carry over into its `non-
native' varieties, which, in my own experiences in such regions as Singapore, Egypt,
Nigeria, Jamaica, and South Africa, have intense `affect associated with them'. Putting
some value-laden terms in quotes (as Fishman sporadically does) is no substitute for a
critical analysis of how collocations like `powerhouse', `time is money', and `Mother
English' privilege exclusion over inclusion and therefore merit no place in the discourse of
accredited language planners. Still less does `Western largesse'.

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118 Robert de Beaugrande

In Lasswellian terms, the role of the `elite' goes to the `international' set of speakers of
`standard English', and the only mildly plausible candidates for a `counter-elite' would be
speakers of `standard French' plus a gallery of local elites speaking a standard version of a
language that still retains a `sense of dignity' and `self-worth', such as Classical Arabic and
Mandarin Chinese. The role of the excluded `mass' would go partly to speakers of local
varieties of English, and partly to speakers of local languages who have no knowledge of
any English. Which of these two groups will get `the least of what there is' remains a
question that the discourse of IE is unlikely to raise, since its own favourite protagonists
are the elites and their `army' of worshipful hangers-on.

The discourse of `World Englishes'

In contrast to `International English', the term `World Englishes' (WE) foregrounds the
plurality and diversity among varieties while asserting their equality as versions of `English'.
Instead of the `international' scene with its connotations of wealth and power (as in
`international diplomacy', `international tourism', `international currency exchanges'), we
have a `world' scene that connotes inclusion and the need to share what Lasswell would
call `scarce resources' (as in `world population', `world resources', `world hunger').
Predictably, the discourse of WE highlights the enormous geographical and cultural
range of these varieties, as in Kachru's (1992: 356) well-known scheme of `Inner Circle',
`Outer Circle', and `Expanding Circle', where the serendipitous term `circle' inclusively
projects items equidistant from a centre and located on the same plane. Kachru (1986: 8)
sees English `having acquired a neutrality' in contexts where local languages may have
`acquired undesirable connotations'. However, his view is by no means to be equated with
Fishman seeing English as not `ideologically encumbered' and not associated with `affect'
(quoted above). In the discourse of IE, the neutrality is assigned to a single stable
`International' variety which `works' and `makes the world go round' (Fishman in (28)),
and which, in theory, can be shared by all speakers everywhere, but is prevented in practice
by mysterious accidents and individual failures ± inclusive theory and exclusive practice. In
WE, in contrast, the neutrality is certified by assigning equal status to all those varieties
which support world-wide communication: inclusive theory and inclusive practice. And
whereas the discourse of IE trades on the implicit theory of English having one uniform set
of standards, the discourse of WE thematically opens and reopens issues and questions
relating to variable standards. For IE, the consensus is somehow already achieved on
formal grounds, thanks to cultivation by an elite of specialists in the `First World' at the
`Centre'; for WE, consensus is an ongoing inclusive project to be negotiated on functional
grounds among broad, diverse groups of users in their respective regions, whether in the
`First World Centre' or the `Third World Periphery'. Ultimately, WE could make a vital
contribution to the wider geopolitical negotiation for a `polycentric' world, wherein Centre
and Periphery no longer confront each other in the crass divisions we behold today (cf.
Amin, 1990).
In this context, the discourse of WE is primarily an inclusionary counter-discourse
against a long series of discursive and ideological exclusions extending all across society,
science, and education, and even into the discourse of language planning, as we have seen.
Similarly, the theory of WE is a counter-theory which seeks to deconstruct so many past
theories that have idealised language and especially `Standard English'.
Such a discourse faces great challenges whose direction might be traced in a sampling
from the WE discourse of Braj Kachru. Against the brisk `no-nonsense view of English' as

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the key to `econo-technical superiority' (Fishman quoted above), Kachru (1986: 101)
diagnoses `an unrealistic and unpragmatic attitude toward the non-native varieties of
English' and cites as a `main reason' a critical lack of adequate inclusive theorising:
(30) As yet, the role of English in the socio-linguistic context of each English-using Third World
country is not properly understood or is conveniently ignored. . . . Third World countries are
slowly realising that, given the present attitude of TESL specialists, it is difficult to
expect . . . any theoretical insights and professional leadership in this field which would
be contextually, attitudinally, and pragmatically useful (p. 101).

To illustrate this diagnosis, Kachru presents an explicit counter-discourse `responding to a

paper of Clifford H. Prator, a distinguished and active scholar in the area of Teaching
English as a Foreign Language', which `provides a good example of linguistic purism and
linguistic intolerance' (pp. 100f.).
Interestingly, Prator's paper itself purported as a counter-discourse aimed against what
he called `the British Heresy in TESL'. This `heresy' consisted of being too tolerant and not
purist enough in believing that
(31) It is best, in a country where English is spoken natively but is widely used as the medium of
instruction, to set up the local variety of English as the ultimate model, to be imitated by
those learning the language (Prator, 1968: 459; also Kachru, 1986: 101).

With seasoned irony, Kachru's counter-discourse retains the moralising and theological
metaphor of `heresy' by exposing `seven attitudinal sins'. These constitute `a set of fallacies to
mark as separate those members of the English speech community who (he [Prator] would
like to believe) do not have language attitudes identical to his, namely the British' (p. 102).
Kachru chooses not to expend his own discourse on `demonstrating that the linguistic
tolerance attributed to my former colonial masters is undeserved', although `it would be
easy'. His concern is with the ideologies of tolerance and intolerance in general. So his
roster of `sins' frankly deconstructs the misinformation entailed when exclusive
masquerades as inclusive as in:
(32) The sin of ethnocentrism. Prator has adopted (rather perversely) an intellectually and
empirically unjustified view concerning the homogeneity and speech uniformity of American
society, e.g., in saying that `social dialects show relatively little systematic variation' (Prator,
1968: 471; Kachru, 1986: 102).

Kachru cites `empirical evidence' of `language differences' provided by a series of authorities

on American English (McDavid, Marckwardt, Labov, Fasold, etc.). But such evidence
would have little effect on purists who, like Prator, are determined to misrepresent
differences as deviations from acceptable usage, as we shall witness in sample (36).
Whereas the first `sin' predicated an unjustified inclusion to fabricate a mythical
consensus about native (American) English, the second `sin' predicates an unjustified
exclusion by fabricating `distrust' and even welcoming exclusiveness as `pleasant' and
`reassuring':
(33) The sin of wrong perception of language attitudes . . . The British attitude is presented as one
of `deep-seated mistrust of the African who presumes to speak English too well'; `if an
Englishman is himself a proud speaker of RP, he may find each encounter with a person who
obviously does not speak his language well a pleasantly reassuring reminder of the
exclusiveness of his own social group' (Prator, 1968: 471; Kachru, 1986: 133).

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120 Robert de Beaugrande

Such discourse signals that purists may not really favour getting everyone's English to be
the `standard', but are just seeking to ensure that their own `standard English' continues to
lend them exclusive privilege.
Further `sins' Kachru finds in Prator's discourse (again like that of purists in general)
arise from ignoring the factors of `intelligibility', `communication', and `acculturation':
(34) The sin of overlooking the `cline' of Englishness in language intelligibility, [which] has yet to be
related to the concepts of appropriateness and effectiveness in a speech situation (Kachru,
1986: 105).
(35) The sin of not recognising the non-native varieties of English as culture-bound codes of
communication . . . Prator ignores the inevitable process of acculturation which the English
language has undergone in Third World countries [and assumes that] English is . . . taught as
a vehicle to introduce British or American culture, [whereas in fact] English is used to teach
and maintain the indigenous patterns of life and culture, to provide a link in culturally and
linguistically pluralist societies and to maintain a continuity and uniformity in educational,
administrative, and legal systems (p. 103).

The inclusiveness of WE discourse is prominently signalled here in such terms as `link',

`pluralist', and `continuity'.
Moreover, once again like purists in general, Prator cannot see other varieties as
language systems but only as an adventitious chaos of deviations:
(36) The sin of ignoring the systemicness of non-native varieties of English: `very few speakers limit
their aberrancies to the widely shared features; each individual typically adds in his own
speech a large and idiosyncratic collection of features' (Prator, 1968: 464; Kachru, 1986: 104)

This wilful blindness blots out the very existence, let alone the value, of other Englishes.
The contrast between the `heresy' denounced by Prator and the `sins' deconstructed by
Kachru within Prator's discourse nicely illustrates my own contrast between exclusion and
inclusion in language policies. Prator's IE discourse is impelled to construct both a totally
unsupported theory of uniformity in native-English regions like the US, and an equally
unsupported theory of `aberrant' and `idiosyncratic' diversity in all non-native-English
regions. Kachru's WE discourse programmatically does just the reverse: foregrounding the
diversity in all native-English regions and the `systemicness' and communicative func-
tionality in all non-native-English regions where `the English language is used to integrate
culturally and linguistically pluralistic societies' (p. 107). He urges us all to `see the function
of these varieties with reference to the country in which English is used', and `its roles in the
sociocultural network' (p. 111). For its `users', each `variety' is `formally distinct because it
performs functions which are different from the other varieties', and `performs those roles
which are relevant and appropriate to the social, educational, and administrative network'
(p. 111).

CONCLUSION
I have attempted to show how language planning, and in particular the discourses of
language planning, are continually involved in explicit or (more often) implicit choices
between inclusion and exclusion. In the past, language planning has at times been either
inclusive in theory and exclusive in practice, or else exclusive in both theory and practice in
conformity with presumed `realities'. Today, these trends seem profoundly disturbing as
we brace for an uncertain new millennium, whilst globalisation is proliferating exclusion

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Theory and practice in the discourse of language planning 121

on an unprecedented world-wide scale and making the lives of the excluded horrendously
inhumane.
At such a time, our priorities for language planning should be firmly committed to
inclusion in both theory and practice. Fortunately, a language is by nature inclusive,
although it has often been turned to exclusive purposes, notably by withdrawing into
ostentatiously technical language, such as `relinguification and re-ethnification goals'
(Fishman). In the new millennium, World Englishes are probably the only group of
language varieties that could decisively turn the tide toward inclusion, provided we can
mount a consistent initiative based upon a clear and steadfast consensus among those
responsible for language education, language pedagogy, language policies, and, as I hope
to have demonstrated here, language planning.

NOTES
1. To conserve space, I give just the page numbers for the samples from Cooper (1989).
2. I am indebted to Pennycook (1994: 99, 131, 86) for this source and sample (27).

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(Received 2 February 1999.)

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