Education is about connections - of ideas, of people, of synapses in our nervous system. Why, then, is it constantly draped in language that distances, obscures and alienates?
Our world is beset by technocratic jargon that takes the humanity out of teaching and learning. Scotland is not unique - I hear that this linguistic gruel is rife in other countries, too - but we can certainly lay claim to some egregious examples.
One primary teacher writing for Tes Scotland recently complained of a “staggering” number of “acronyms and shorthand codes” that teachers must remember, including - and her list is by no means exclusive - Girfec, Sip, Shanarri, SNSA, CEM, LIs, Es and Os and Hgios. Although we should remember that that’s not always necessarily a negative: sometimes jargon acts as shorthand that allows people in a certain sphere to communicate more easily with one another.
But jargon is about far more than names for policies and initiatives. It reveals itself in a reluctance to use straightforward language: in education documents, simple words such as “make” and “use” are often excised, while woolly, polysyllabic terms such as “facilitate” and “utilise” pop up everywhere, like escapees from a badly translated TV manual.
The four capacities of Curriculum for Excellence (CfE) are perhaps the most pervasive jargon. They are now appearing in classroom displays and being parroted by pupils. Whatever their merits or otherwise, this seems to miss the point: the four capacities (whose worth is called into question by the interchangeability of the four nouns and adjectives - is it “effective”, “successful” or “responsible” contributors?) are ideas that should infuse education. They should not be mantras to be trotted out dutifully.
Why does jargon take hold? There’s no easy answer. Jargon can be a deliberate attempt to confuse - see the legalese in the terms and conditions in your phone contract - or it can betray a lack of confidence, with the jargon acting as a crutch for those who find it tricky to convey what they really mean. Intellectual snobbery offers another explanation: demonstrating a mastery of jargon is way of lording it over those not steeped in it.
Education, of course, is not alone in embracing a soulless lingua franca. Politicians often seem like malfunctioning androids when pressed on a question: they simply repeat a series of stock phrases in slightly different orders. This penchant for communicating without saying anything has helped to create a vacuum for despots and populists, who style themselves as straight-talking men (it usually is men) of the people.
And this is a crucial point: jargon is far more than a nuisance - it can do serious damage.
Jargon may drive away the very people who really need to be reached. It is, for example, incredibly off-putting for parents - at a time when we’re told that parental engagement in schools is supremely important.
Jargon also undermines accountability. Who has time to wade through impenetrable infographics and abstruse policy documents to work out what they’re really getting at?
And it perpetuates muddled thinking. Remember a few years ago, when aghast MSPs learned that online advice about CfE had proliferated to 20,000 pages? Perhaps first minister Nicola Sturgeon would never have faced the awkward questions about education standards she did in Parliament last week had the worst examples of education jargon been stripped out over the years - perhaps greater clarity of language would have led to better policy decisions and a more trusting public.
In short, we must collectively guard against jargon to prevent it becoming a corrosive force that damages us all.
@Henry_Hepburn
This article originally appeared in the 15 November 2019 issue under the headline “What the Girfec? Too much jargon is damaging education”
