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<WH WH> (Hx) () (( ))
speaker attribution and turn beginning intonation unit boundary* continuing intonation contour final intonation contour appeal (i.e., yes/no question intonation) truncated intonation unit truncated word long pause, 1.0 seconds or more medium pause, .4-.9 seconds short pause, .3 seconds or less glottal stop laughter lengthening primary accent speech overlap indecipherable syllable uncertain hearing laugh quality quotation quality low voice whisper utterance is in another language exhalation vocal noise (e.g., cough) researcher’s comment
*For intonation units that do not fit on one line, the part that does not fit is continued on the next line and indented towards the right margin.
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Abbreviations in transcripts acc adv comit cond cont des gl hes hon hum inst it lk loc
accusative adverbial comitative conditional continuous aspect desiderative goal hesitation honorific humble instrument interactional element (particle) linker locative
neg nmz nom pol pred prs pst q qt reas se sta temp top
negative nominalizer nominative polite predicate formative presumptive past interrogative marker quotative reason connector sentence extension stative temporal connector topic
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Chapter 1
Preliminaries The relationship between genre, social structure, and culture 1.1 Introduction Scholars in many disciplines have long been interested in the relationship between social structure and culture. In particular, the role of actors in creating the different social structures and social institutions that are found in different cultures has been questioned. Do actors create social structure as they act and interact in everyday situations? If so, how? A common indicator of some of the regularities that constitute what we understand as social structure within a culture is language. As such, language is a useful tool for exploring how actors instantiate the events, situations, and even the institutions that make up the reality of our daily lives. In particular, examining similar genres across cultures gives us insight into how people from different cultures create the social institutions that constitute their societies. In this study, I compare the language used in a common, everyday situation (cooking classes) that occurs in Japan and the United States, two cultures that are believed to be very different. I will show how the participants in the Japanese and American cooking classes constructed this rhetorical situation in similar yet different ways through their verbal interaction. More specifically, I will compare regular patterning at three levels in the language used in the Japanese and American cooking classes. Though there are some similarities at all levels that allow us to define these two genres as similar, there are also many differences that are the product of how the participants in each culture construct the situation in different ways. At the level of interaction, regular patterns in the structure of participation reflect the different ways in which the participants construct the role relationships between teacher and student. At the level of discourse, regular patterns in the content of the talk reflect the differing expectations of the participants in each culture concerning what type of event a cooking class is. In addition, like the regularities in participation structure, the regularities at this level reflect the different role relationships between teacher
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and student. At the level of grammar, regular patterning of clause types and transitivity in the teachers’ talk reflects differences between the grammatical resources available in the two languages and the differences seen at the higher levels. In addition, there are similarities in the way the teachers in both cultures performed the task of teaching cooking that are particularly apparent at the level of grammar. This study, then, shows how regular patterns of verbal interaction at three different levels work together to create the structures of the cooking classes (as an institution) in the two cultures.
1.2 Genre theory The rhetorician Miller (1984) was perhaps the first to suggest that genre must be defined as inherently social because it concerns language use. Thus she defines genre as “… typified rhetorical actions based in recurrent situations” (Miller 1984: 159). Crucial to this definition are the notions of exigence (Bitzer 1968) and typification (Schutz 1962), which she uses to define recurrent situation. More specifically, Miller suggests that exigence is a mutually construed social motive through which actors’ personal intentions can be realized. As such, it is the defining feature of situation. She suggests that actors come to understand exigence through experience with typified patterns. Typification refers to the idea that human knowledge is organized into types based on experience. When we encounter new information, it is compared with previously experienced types and interpreted as one of these (or possibly as a new type) (Schutz 1962).1 Through repetition, typified patterns become objectified and are understood as situations, institutions, and ultimately, reality itself. The basic idea, then, is that reality is socially constructed and interpreted based on experience. Since Miller first presented this definition of genre, other researchers have made contributions along the same lines (cf. Halliday and Hasan 1985; Hanks 1987; Bazerman 1988; 1997; Devitt 1989; 1991; 1993; Luckmann 1992; Yates and Orlikowski 1992; Smart 1993; Günthner and Knoblauch 1995; Berkenkotter and Huckin 1995; Bawarshi 2000; Coe et al. 2002). In addition to Schutz, some of these scholars draw on the work of other sociologists, especially Garfinkel (1967), Bourdieu (1977), and Giddens (1984). In particular, Giddens’ structuration theory is cited. This theory suggests that social structure (including macro-level institutional structure) is created and sustained by recurring patterns of human action. At the same time, these existing patterns influence human actions, resulting in the maintenance, elaboration, and modification of
Preliminaries
existing social structures. Genre theorists have applied this theory to genre, suggesting that regular patterns of social interaction mediated through language use also constitute social structure. At the same time, our expectations about how language is used in particular situations also shape our interactions.
1.3 Why is genre theory useful for cross-cultural research? The definition of genre given above suggests that examining genres can tell us about social structure, but what does it tell us about culture? It is clear from the definition that genres must be seen as culturally specific. Indeed, the basic idea is that rhetorical situations are socially constructed. Thus within a culture, actors may be expected to have similar experiences and develop a mutual understanding of the same basic situation types. However, across cultures this may or may not be true. Günthner and Knoblauch’s (1995: 8) definition of genre makes this explicit: Genres are “historically and culturally specific, prepatterned and complex solutions to recurrent communicative problems.” (My emphasis.) The reasons for investigating similar genres across cultures are manifold. For example, one reason is to develop educational curricula that provide all people with equal access to the genres of power. Proponents of this idea suggest that this requires first determining which genres are valued by the members of the different communities that make up a multicultural society (Heath 1983; 1986; Kress 1993). Another reason for studying similar genres across cultures is that such studies can be used to increase the public awareness of the potential for cross-cultural miscommunications. This awareness may lead to improved communication, which is becoming increasingly important in today’s interdependent world (Günthner and Knoblauch 1995). Perhaps a more fundamental reason for comparing similar genres across cultures is that they provide a natural laboratory for investigating basic differences (and similarities) between cultures. This is simply because people with different cultural backgrounds may act differently in similar situations. For this reason, a number of genre theorists have mentioned the idea of using genre theory to analyze language from a cross-cultural perspective (cf. Luckmann 1992; Bergmann and Luckmann 1994; Günthner and Knoblauch 1995). However, few studies have actually attempted to apply the theory to empirical data collected from different cultures. Some exceptions include Jenkins and Hinds (1987), Dressen and Swales (2000), and Busch-Lauer (2000). In addition,
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there are studies of empirical data that focus on how a particular genre has changed over time (e.g., Hanks 1987; Bazerman 1988; Devitt 1989; Yates and Orlikowski 1992). This type of research is somewhat similar to research comparing genres across cultures in that it involves comparing similar genres across different societies (i.e., societies that have changed over time). However, all of these studies and other genre studies that examine empirical data tend to focus on written language. (See also Freedman 1990; Swales 1990; Kress 1993; Smart 1993; Bhatia 1993; Paré and Smart 1994; Freedman, Adam, and Smart 1994; Berkenkotter and Huckin 1995; Paltridge 1997; Christie and Martin 1997; Trosborg 2000.)2 To my knowledge, there are no studies that attempt to apply genre theory to spoken language collected from similar situations in different cultures. This study is designed to fill that gap. In order to accomplish this goal, I compare regular patterns of language use in the Japanese and American cooking classes from the level of interaction to the level of grammar. The study is important from two perspectives: If, as genre theory suggests, actors construct reality through interaction, then examining regular patterns of language use tells us how people construct reality in culturally specific ways. It is also important from the perspective of functional linguistics, which suggests that grammar is shaped by the communicative functions that speakers use (Du Bois 1985; Duranti 1994; Hopper 1998). By examining how the participants are interacting, what they are saying, and what grammatical forms they are using, I will show that the grammatical patterns that occur in the cooking class genres are motivated by what is occurring at the higher levels of discourse and interaction. It might be thought that examining specific genres will tell us only about language use in one situation (i.e., in this case, cooking classes). Indeed, I do argue that situation-specific variables must be taken into account before making cross-genre generalizations about language. However, as I pointed out above, it is also possible to discover some general facts about the relationship between language, culture, and social structure through the study of a specific genre. This is particularly apparent if, as many scholars contend, genres are considered to be intertextual and continuous. Intertextuality refers to links to prior discourse, and a number of researchers have argued that this is an important characteristic of genres (Halliday and Hasan 1985; Hanks 1987; Bazerman 1988; 1994a; 1994b; 1994c; 1997; Devitt 1989; Freedman 1990; Briggs and Bauman 1992; Freadman 1994; Günthner and Knoblauch 1995). The idea is that, in interaction, there is much repetition of linguistic constructions and even of entire discourses (or types of disourse).
Preliminaries
Briggs and Bauman (1992) suggest that the notion of intertextuality originally comes from Bakhtin, who argued that by using reported speech, which suggests that an utterance initially occurred in a prior discourse, speakers are linking those discourses. Briggs and Bauman suggest that genres also create a link to prior discourse. However, unlike reported speech, which is linked to a prior utterance, genres are linked to abstract models of how language users produce and process speech in particular situations. Thus the concept of intertexuality suggests that linguistic patterns are repeated within as well as across genres. Related to intertextuality is the idea that genres are continuous, ranging from highly institutionalized types to spontaneous interaction (cf. Halliday and Hasan 1985; Devitt 1989; Luckmann 1992; Kress 1993; Günthner and Knoblauch 1995). The more institutionalized the genre, the clearer the relationship to prior discourse. Also related to intertextuality is the idea that genres occur not in isolation but in systems (Devitt 1991; Bazerman 1994a; Freadman 1994). A genre system encompasses all of the genres by all of the participants that occur in response to an initiating event. Bazerman (1994a) uses the patent application process as an example of a genre system: The initial application and the following activities (i.e., the granting of the patent or the rejection) are both part of the same system. It also seems that a genre system could be larger than just the texts that mutually interact. For example, the patent documents might be a sub-system that is part of a larger complex that constitutes the legal system. Thus patent documents bear certain characteristics that make them easily recognizable as legal documents rather than other types of written documents such as newspaper reports. Indeed, Bergmann and Luckmann (1994) suggest that there are “families of genres” which are more or less related, according to their characteristics and functions. The idea that genres are intertextual and continuous allows us to explain how they evolve and how new genres might be created. This makes the case for studying genres all the more compelling. By comparing genres, we can learn not only about the language used in a specific rhetorical situation but also about language in general — about what aspects of linguistic structure become conventionalized across languages and cultures, across situations, and across time.
1.4 What counts as similar? Before I explain the details of my cross-cultural analysis, it is necessary to address the question of how to tell whether two genres from different cultures
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are similar enough to be considered relative equivalents. This issue is only discussed in passing in the genre literature. For example, Luckmann (1992) and Bergmann and Luckmann (1994) mention the theoretical possibility that there may be similar genres in different societies, but they do not provide any specific examples to support their contention. They suggest that while the repertoire of genres probably varies across cultures and historical periods, some genres are likely to be universal or at least quite similar across societies.3 … one may be sure that there are some basic problems to be resolved in all societies, that these problems will have a basic similarity one to another, and that therefore some kinds of communicative issues may be universal and, therefore, some kinds of similar genre-like solutions to communicative issues will be found everywhere. (Bergmann and Luckmann 1994: 23)
Devitt (1989) discusses the comparability of situations across historical periods for the purpose of analyzing the standardization of Scots-English during the 16th and 17th centuries. She notes that rhetorical situations can be expected to change with time. However, the similarities between instances of a particular situation type, associated with different periods, can be understood in contrast to other types of situations. … these generally similar situations share major aspects of the context and they contrast with other situations, just as the different occasions of reading a wordlist contrast generally with the different occasions of narrating a near-death experience. (Devitt 1989: 52)
In a similar vein, Freadman (1994) argues that genres are constituted by place and function. By this, she means that genre types can be characterized by how they function within a system of contrasts. For example, the death of a famous person may be considered “news” if it occurs in the first few pages of a newspaper, but in the obituary section, it is seen as an obituary. These researchers seem to suggest that two situations (and genres) can be considered comparable if they have similar functions within their respective systems (i.e., within the relevant culture or time period). Though in some cases they use different terms, many others have also suggested that function is one of the key factors in defining a genre (Levinson 1979; Gumperz 1982; Miller 1984; Halliday and Hasan 1985; Swales 1990; Yates and Orlikowski 1992; Bhatia 1993; Bergmann and Luckmann 1994; Freedman et al. 1994; Günthner and Knoblauch 1995). The task here, then, is to determine what is meant by function. I suggest that Miller’s (1984) notion of exigence is again useful. As I mentioned above, she defines exigence as a mutually construed social motive
Preliminaries
through which actors’ personal intentions may be realized. Thus the function of a genre can be considered to be this mutually construed social motive or exigence. Miller suggests that exigence is constituted as actors enact recurring patterns, interpreting them as objectified events and situations. Below I will outline the regular patterns that occurred in the Japanese and American cooking classes that allow us to identify them as having a similar exigence. Because my purpose here is to compare how language is used to construct similar rhetorical situations, I use a number of regularly recurring, nonlinguistic patterns to define the exigence of the Japanese and American cooking classes. From these patterns, the exigence of the cooking classes in both cultures may be understood to be the teaching/learning of cooking. There are three types of patterns that I use to define the cooking classes as similar situations and thus similar genres. The first involves the locale of the classes. Giddens (1984) uses the term locale to refer to the time-space interface. Thus locales are “internally regionalized”, meaning that there is “… zoning of time-space in relation to routinized social practices” (Giddens 1984: 118–19). For example, a house is zoned in terms of time and space and the activities that occur: Sleeping occurs in the bedroom at night, cooking is done in the kitchen at various, more or less, set times, etc. The second regular pattern involves the social positions of the participants. The term social position also comes from Giddens (1984: 84) who defines it as a “social identity” that has certain privileges and responsibilities associated with it. The actor who fills a particular position is able to (and usually expected to) access or realize these privileges and responsibilities. The relationship between genre and social position has been discussed by several researchers who suggest that this relationship is basically invariant. That is, the same social positions will always be associated with a particular genre (Paré and Smart 1994; Freedman et al. 1994; Bawarshi 2000).4 The third regular pattern I use to define the Japanese and American cooking class genres as similar is the fact that the classes were organized around one major activity (i.e., cooking demonstrations). The three regular patterns in the Japanese and American cooking classes that allow us to consider them similar genres are summarized below: 1. The locale of the classes in the two cultures was specific and regularized. This was true in terms of the time and space for each specific class. – Classes met on a regular basis in the same classroom. – The classrooms contained similar equipment, which was used for demonstrating the recipes. These included a stove, oven, sink, and a
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–
counter with a mirror above it. The mirrors were placed so that the students would be able see the teachers’ hands from their seats. The use of space was regularized not only in terms of the concrete location (i.e., the classroom), but also in terms of the relative locations of participants in the classes. Most of the time, the teacher stood in the front of the room at the counter, and the students sat at tables facing her/him.
2. The social positions of teacher and student were invariably enacted in each class in every lesson by the same participants. 3. Though there were differences in how class activities were organized in the two cultures, for the most part, both the Japanese and American classes were centered around the teacher’s demonstration of the recipes.
1.5 The data and method Cooking demonstrations from three Japanese and three American cooking classes were audiorecorded. The Japanese classes were recorded at a branch of the Better Home Cooking School in Tokyo. The American classes were recorded in Santa Barbara, California. They were offered by Adult Education, which is operated by the State of California. Permission was obtained from the teachers prior to recording, and the students were all informed that the classes were being recorded. Both the Japanese and American classes were designed for lay people rather than professional cooks. The Japanese classes met once a month and ran for a six-month period. I attended all six lessons for two of the classes (a class centered around cooking with rice and a basic cooking class), and my research assistant attended all six lessons of a third (basic cooking) class. The American classes met once per week and ran for a period of 6 weeks. I attended all six of the lessons of three classes (a class for making international dishes, a bread making class, and a vegetarian cooking class). The recorded interaction was augmented with field notes based on participant observation and informal interviews in both the Japanese and American classes.5 Five 15–20-minute segments were selected and transcribed from the demonstration portions of five Japanese and five American cooking lessons. 15–20 minutes was generally the time necessary to capture most of one recipe. In the case of each data set, the five transcribed segments were extracted from
Preliminaries
five different lessons taken from the three classes. The segments were transcribed according to the (slightly modified) transcription conventions of Du Bois et al. (1993). In this system, the data are transcribed in intonation units (IUs). Du Bois et al. (1993: 47) define an intonation unit as “… a stretch of speech uttered under a single coherent intonation contour”. I transcribed the English data, and a native Japanese speaker transcribed the Japanese data.6 Participation structure and the content of the talk in the cooking demonstrations are analyzed qualitatively on the basis of the transcribed data and field notes. The grammar is analyzed both qualitatively and quantitatively. Quantitative analysis is based on a portion of the data for each language that were coded for a number of grammatical parameters and entered in a relational database management system (Microsoft Access). The construction of the databases will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 5. 1.5.1
The participants
Each of the three Japanese classes had a master teacher, an assistant teacher, and 35–45 students. All of the participants were women. Table 1.1 matches the transcripts with the class, lesson number, master teacher, and number of students. Table 1.1.Japanese cooking class, lesson, and participants Transcript
Class
Lesson #
Teacher
Number of Students
Sushi Makizushi Daikon Guratan Torirebaa
Rice Cooking Rice Cooking Basic Cooking 1 Basic Cooking 1 Basic Cooking 2
3 6 2 4 1
Suzuki Suzuki Kikuchi Kikuchi Nishima
45 45 43 43 35
The teachers’ ages were roughly comparable: Suzuki was 52; Kikuchi was 55; and Nishima was 47. Teaching cooking was the only employment for all of these teachers. When they were hired, the school provided one two-hour orientation/training session. However, they were not given scripted lesson plans to follow. The ages of the students fell into two groups. The rice cooking class had older students, most of whom were in their mid- to late-forties. Both of the basic cooking classes had younger students, in their twenties and early-thirties. There are two reasons for this split. Unlike the basic cooking classes, the rice cooking class concerned a specialized topic. As such, it attracted an older group of women who had some cooking experience. In addition, it was held in the
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morning, making it inconvenient for professional women and college students. Indeed, most of the students in the rice cooking class were housewives who did not work outside of the home. On the other hand, the basic cooking classes were designed for students who had very little cooking experience and needed to learn basic techniques. Therefore, they attracted a younger group. Both of the basic cooking classes were held at night, and most of the students were working women or college students. In each American class, there was a teacher and 14–25 students. There were both male and female students in the American classes; two of the teachers were female and one was male. Table 1.2 matches the transcripts with the class, lesson number, teacher, and number and sex of the students. Table 1.2.American cooking class, lesson, and participants Transcript
Class
Lesson # Teacher
Number of Students
Crab Cakes Beef Carbonade French Bread Generic Bread Vegetarian Cooking
International Cooking International Cooking Bread Making Bread Making Vegetarian Cooking
5 1 2 4 1
6 men; 8 women 6 men; 8 women 8 men; 13 women 8 men; 13 women 4 men; 21 women
Gary Gary Pam Pam Jean
Like the Japanese teachers, the teachers in the American classes were fairly close in age: Gary was 63; Pam was 65; and Jean was 55. Pam and Jean taught several classes through Adult Education. In addition, they occasionally taught at other schools or gave demonstrations at other events around town. Gary was a professional hospital cook, who taught cooking classes from time to time, as a supplementary job. The international and vegetarian cooking classes were both held at night, and the ages of the students ranged from mid-twenties to late-forties. The bread making class was held in the morning on Saturdays and had a similar constituency to the other two classes. The students were all working people. 1.5.2 The format of the classes There were some general similarities in the formats of the Japanese and American cooking classes as well as a number of differences. I will describe the Japanese format first. All of the Japanese classes had a similar format.7 The duration of each lesson was three hours. At the beginning of the lesson, the teacher gave the first part of the demonstration, which usually lasted for
Preliminaries
approximately forty-five minutes. After the initial demonstration, the students performed the portion of the procedure that had just been demonstrated in groups of five or six students. After they had finished, the teacher demonstrated the remaining procedures for that day’s recipes. This part of the demonstration usually came about 90 minutes into the class period and ranged from fifteen to thirty minutes in duration. After the second part of the demonstration, the students completed the day’s cooking tasks in their groups. At the end of the class period, they ate the food they had prepared with their groups.8 The format of the American classes was more varied, but the following generalizations can be made: Like the Japanese lessons, the American lessons were three hours in duration. However, in contrast to the Japanese format, there was no time set aside for the students to prepare the recipes in class. The general plan was for the teachers to demonstrate the recipes (sometimes with the help of one or more students) as they were cooking a meal for the entire class. At the end of the class period, the students (and teacher) ate the food that had been prepared together. The variation in the American classes was due to differences between the teaching styles of the instructors. For example, some instructors preferred longer demonstrations than others; thus the length of the demonstrations varied from 20 minutes to two hours. Jean’s lessons were the most varied. Sometimes she gave a short 20-minute demonstration of particularly noteworthy techniques at the beginning of class. At other times, she did not give any demonstration at all unless a student asked a question. In this case, she would use the question as a cue to demonstrate a confusing part of the recipe. From an observer’s point of view, her class seemed disorganized and rather haphazard. The other two teachers gave more lengthy, orderly demonstrations.
1.6 An overview of the study As I mentioned, the goal of this study is to compare how the participants in the Japanese and American cooking classes enact the exigence of teaching/learning cooking in similar yet different ways. In Chapter 2, I begin by discussing genre and related concepts, such as frame, schema, activity type, and speech activity, from an interdisciplinary perspective. After discussing these concepts at length and proposing a definition that highlights the most important points discussed in the literature, I use a genre analysis framework to compare regular patterns of language use at three different levels.
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My analysis begins in Chapter 3 with the level of interaction, where I compare the structure of participation in the Japanese and American classes. I will show that though there is a basic similarity in that the teacher was the primary speaker in both classes, there are also many differences. The most important difference is that, in the Japanese classes, it was rare for students to take the floor, but in the American classes, students often spoke out to ask questions, make comments, etc. I suggest that this difference is due to differences between how the participants constructed the social positions of teacher and student. The Japanese participants constructed a relatively professional relationship between teacher and student in which the teacher was the expert and the students were relative novices. On the other hand, the Americans constructed a comparatively friendly relationship between teacher and student, which became increasingly friendly with time. By routinely enacting and reenacting these expected role relationships through their verbal participation, the students and teachers continually constituted and reconstituted the structure of the cooking classes in their respective cultures. In Chapter 4, I examine the discourse level of the interaction, showing that there is a basic similarity in the Japanese and American participants’ construction of the cooking class exigence: The participants in both cultures focused at least some of their attention on task-oriented content (i.e., the recipes being demonstrated). However, there is also a major difference in that the Japanese participants only discussed task-oriented content, whereas the participants in the American classes also discussed non-task-oriented content such as jokes, personal stories, and gossip. In addition, I show that all of the Japanese teachers’ cooking demonstrations had an orderly, predictable structure, but the Americans’ demonstrations were quite variable and unpredictable. I suggest that these differences reflect the fact that the participants in the Japanese and American classes seemed to have different views of what a cooking class is supposed to be like: The Japanese participants seemed to see the cooking class as a serious, taskoriented event, whereas the participants in the American classes seemed to see the cooking class as an entertaining, social event. The different ways in which the participants viewed the classes also seem to be related to the differences in the social positions of teacher and student, mentioned above: Thus the Japanese teachers’ focus on task-oriented content reflects the professional relationship between teacher and student, and the Americans’ partial focus on conversationlike interaction reflects the friendly relationship between the teachers and students. I also suggest that another way in which differences at the levels of interaction and discourse worked together is that, in the American classes, shifts
Preliminaries
in content sometimes coincided with shifts in participation structure; thus shifts in participation structure contributed to the lack of predictability in the American teachers’ talk. I argue that the regular patterns at the discourse level work together with regularities at the level of interaction to produce the institutional structures of the cooking classes. The regularities at the levels of interaction and discourse also motivate regularities in the grammar, which are discussed in Chapter 5. The question of how the teachers used the grammars of their languages to teach cooking is addressed by examining two grammatical patterns in the teachers’ task-oriented talk. More specifically, the two patterns investigated are the clause types (i.e., independent and dependent) used to perform the communicative functions involved in demonstrating recipes and the frequency of transitive and intransitive clauses in the teachers’ task-oriented talk. I show that there are both similarities and differences between the taskoriented talk of the Japanese and American teachers. A basic similarity is that the task-oriented talk in both languages consists of two types of information, instructional and explanatory. I refer to these as instruction and explanation, respectively.9 Yet a basic difference is that the Japanese teachers’ talk had more instruction than explanation, whereas the American teachers’ talk was precisely the opposite — more explanation than instruction. I will also show that there are similarities and differences between the types of clauses the teachers in the two cultures used to express the communicative functions involved in teaching cooking. For example, both the Japanese and American teachers used more independent clauses than other clause types for most communicative functions. On the other hand, the Japanese teachers frequently used dependent clauses to give sequentially ordered instructions, while the Americans more often used sequentially ordered independent clauses to give this type of information. I will suggest that this finding reflects both the different grammatical resources in the two languages and the different ways in which the participants in each culture constructed the cooking class situation (i.e., the genre). Another finding that shows the interaction between grammatical resources and the way the participants constructed the situation is the different ways the Japanese and American teachers used conditionals. Unlike the Americans, the Japanese teachers used conditional clauses to give instructions and warnings, setting up a contrast between the “right way” and the “wrong way” to do a particular procedure. The Americans, who were less concerned with task-oriented talk, also seemed less concerned about right and wrong ways of doing things, even as they
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presented task-oriented information. This was reflected at the clause level by the fact that the teachers in the American classes gave fewer instructions and fewer warnings. Indeed, in the American classes, it seemed that perhaps there was not a “right way” to perform the procedures. We can interpret this on a broader cultural level: In Japanese culture, cooking is a rather precise activity and is considered something of an art, with many traditional, well-established techniques. Perhaps this explains the focus on task-oriented content. On the other hand, American cooking, if there is such a thing, is usually an assortment of different types of dishes, for example, from different regions or ethnic backgrounds, or from different types of diets (e.g., vegetarian cooking). In at least one of the American cooking classes, the teacher made a point of saying that she wanted the students to be able to invent their own recipes. Thus the purpose was not to follow some preexisting procedure. In the example below, the teacher, Jean, explains her philosophy to a student, Kathy. Prior to this excerpt, Kathy had asked if the students would receive a written recipe for each of the dishes they cooked. (1) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean, the teacher) J: you’re not gonna get a recipe for this. … ^why=. .. because I want you to think about uh, you just put- - ((17 LINES OMITTED)) .. see, the idea Kathy, .. is to .. make people ^thi=nk, … and make something very simple, .. so teach a concept. … you go home, .. you don’t have to put dill in …(1.3) there, .. if you don’t want to.
This example suggests that creativity and individual tastes were emphasized in the American classes, whereas it seems that time-honored procedures may have been more important to the Japanese participants. I will also suggest that the clause-level differences reflect the different ways the participants in the Japanese and American classes constructed the social positions of teacher and student. As mentioned, in the Japanese classes, the teacher was the expert and the students were relative novices. It makes sense
Preliminaries
that an expert would focus on task-oriented content and on giving precise procedural instructions. On the other hand, though the teachers in the American classes might be considered experts relative to the students, there was less focus on this professional relationship and more on creating a friendly relationship. It seems that part of creating a friendly relationship is displaying one’s personality. The teachers in the American classes did this not only through their jokes and stories, but also in the way they conducted the task-oriented talk: They focused comparatively little attention on already established cooking procedures and focused more on cooking as an evolving, creative process. All of this is reflected at the clause level in their comparatively fewer instructions and warnings and in the fact that they gave more explanation. In Chapter 5, the clause-level property of transitivity is also investigated. Since I define transitivity in some detail in that chapter, here I will only give a simple example illustrating the difference between transitive and intransitive clauses. (2) is a transitive clause: It expresses two arguments, an agent (we) and a patient (them). The agent performs an object-manipulating action on the patient. (3) is an intransitive clause. Thus it has only one argument (it). (2) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean, the teacher) J: … this morning we washed them, ((REFERENCE TO MUSHROOMS)) (3) Generic Bread (P=Pam, the teacher) P: it’s sleeping. ((REFERENCE TO YEAST))
Because transitive clauses express object-manipulating actions, I expected to find the following three results: 1. A high frequency of transitive clauses in the teachers’ task-oriented talk (because cooking demonstrations involve describing object-manipulating actions). 2. A higher frequency of transitive clauses in instruction than in explanation (because instruction consists of at least some clauses that convey objectmanipulating actions).10 3. A higher frequency of transitive clauses in the Japanese teachers’ talk than in the American teachers’ talk (because instruction was more frequent in the Japanese teachers’ talk). I will show that while the second prediction is accurate, the first is not, and the third prediction may be considered only partially supported. The fact that the first prediction was not found to be accurate is perhaps surprising. Why isn’t
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transitivity high in the teachers’ task-oriented talk? Again, I explain this finding with reference to the higher levels of interaction and discourse. In order to understand how and why the participants used various grammatical constructions, it is necessary to look at what they were doing as they constructed the cooking class situation. When the teachers gave instructions about how to perform the object-manipulating actions involved in the recipes, they often did use clauses that could be considered high in transitivity. However, I will show that this is not all that they did. They spent a lot of time contextualizing the instruction through explanation. (In general, explanation did not express objectmanipulating actions.) The results for the third prediction are also explainable by looking at the larger context. What these results show is that high or low transitivity is not an inherent feature of a language, as some researchers seem to believe. Rather, the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses is a product of language use. This is not different from other aspects of the situation and the genre (e.g., participant roles) that emerge during interaction. The linguistic resources of a particular language may be seen as a fairly schematic aspect of grammar. How the participants use those resources is an emergent aspect that develops moment by moment. In Chapter 6, I summarize the findings and discuss the implications and areas for further research. I suggest that, taken as a whole, my findings show that language works together at all levels as participants use it to construct particular culturally specific situations. The recurring linguistic patterns then (along with other patterns of social interaction) constitute the structure of the cooking classes as an institution in each culture.
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Chapter 2
A closer look at genre and related concepts 2.1 Introduction Before beginning to analyze the Japanese and American cooking class genres, several issues need to be addressed. Recall that the goal of this study is to explore the relationship between language, social structure, and culture. This will be accomplished by examining the communicative actions of the participants in the classes as they are reflected in regularly recurring linguistic patterns. I argue that the participants’ communicative actions enact the organizational structure of the classes which is in effect the institutional structure. At the same time, because the participants draw on previous experience in enacting each class session, the existence of these patterns makes it more likely that the same basic structure will be reproduced every time. In addition, the fact that many of the patterns differ across the two cultures indicates that the institutional structures of the classes also differ. This is simply because people with different cultural backgrounds may behave differently in similar situations. Thus by examining the patterns of interaction, it is possible to see how seemingly similar institutions differ across cultures. This tells us a lot about the relationship between language, social structure, and culture. It is first necessary to situate this study by giving some background about genre theory and clarifying the relationship between social structure and genre. In this chapter, I will address the following questions: (1) What is genre? (2) What is social structure, and how is the term used in this study? (3) What is the relationship between genre and other similar concepts such as frame, speech event, speech activity, etc.? (4) What is the relationship between genre and social structure? Recent cross-disciplinary research in rhetoric, sociology, anthropology, linguistics, and literary studies has led to a redefinition of the term genre. There were several reasons for redefining this term. One is that genre has been used in a wide variety of disciplines and ways, and the confusion surrounding its meaning has in some cases discouraged its use. Indeed, the following quote from Swales (1990: 33) makes this point clear: “Genre is a term which, as Preston (1986) says, one approaches with some trepidation.” Another reason is
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that the term genre has been thought of as lacking a strong theoretical foundation. A brief examination of the history of the use of this term provides some insights into how it developed this stigma. An extensive review of the use of the term genre in literary studies, linguistics, rhetoric, sociology, and anthropology is provided by Bazerman (1994b; 1997). I will just touch on some of the main points. The term genre was originally used in art and art criticism. In English, it referred in particular to a style of painting of rustic scenes by artists associated with the French Academy. Its use was later expanded to other works of art, including literature (Bazerman 1997). In the field of literary studies, genre became associated with text types. It was later borrowed from literary studies and used in some branches of linguistics to refer to a system for classifying texts. Because these studies were primarily descriptive, consisting of taxonomies relating linguistic features to text types (e.g., essays, sermons, political speeches, etc.), some scholars have assumed that the notion of genre lacks a theoretical foundation. In the early ‘80s, however, rhetoricians and sociologists began suggesting that social theory has long provided a sound theoretical basis for the notion of genre that is useful for investigating the relationship between language, social structure, and culture. Recently, anthropologists and linguists have also begun to use this newly redefined concept to study discourse. However, as we will see, most of that work centers around writing practices. In this study, I use genre theory to examine speaking practices. In this chapter, I will first outline some of the most important features of the redefined notion of genre. Then, I will review the three social theories upon which genre theory is largely based. Next, I will discuss literature concerning several concepts that are similar to genre (e.g., frame, schema, speech event, speech activity, etc.). The significance of this literature for genre theory is apparent when we consider the abundance of literature in multiple disciplines, outlining concepts similar to genre. Finally, I will discuss literature in four disciplines that elaborates the definition of genre given in Section 2.2.
2.2 What is genre? As I pointed out in Chapter 1, genres are typified communicative action associated with recurrent situations (Miller 1984). In other words, genre is similar to such notions as schema, frame, prototype, speech activity, etc., and even the more general social structure. These concepts are all based on the idea that our ability to interpret the actions of others and act appropriately in a given
A closer look at genre and related concepts
situation is based on previous experience with situations that are perceived as similar. Another important characteristic of genres is that they have both schematic aspects (i.e., aspects that are predictable based on experience with typified patterns) and emergent aspects (i.e., aspects that change as interaction occurs). Related to the idea that genres are both schematic and emergent is the idea that they are both constituted and reconstituted by actors’ actions. In addition, as was discussed in Chapter 1, genres are continuous and intertextual. The former refers to the fact that they range from highly conventionalized (institutionalized) genres to less conventionalized (spontaneous) genres. Intertextuality refers to the fact that, based on prior discourse, genres are linked to abstract models of situation-specific language use. Also discussed in Chapter 1, was the related idea that genres are part of a system, which means that they do not occur in isolation: Deployment of one genre entails a response. In Section 2.3, I explain the connection between genre theory and social theory and give some general background concerning social theory, before examining the three social theories that are relevant to genre.
2.3 Genre and social theory As I have explained, the new genre theory is based on current social theories and suggests that there is a fundamental relationship between genre and social structure (e.g., Miller 1984; Bazerman 1988; 1994b; 1997; Hanks 1990; Luckmann 1992; Yates and Orlikowski 1992; Bergmann and Luckmann 1994; Berkenkotter and Huckin 1995; Günthner and Knoblauch 1995; Bawarshi 2000). In redefining genre, scholars have drawn primarily on three social theories: phenomenology (Schutz 1962; Schutz and Luckmann 1973; Berger and Luckmann 1966), ethnomethodology (Garfinkel 1952; 1967; 1972), and structuration theory (Giddens 1979; 1984). Though these theories differ, they seem to agree on one key point that has been adopted by genre theorists: Social structure does not exist apart from human action; rather, human action constitutes social structure. This idea was developed to counter extreme versions of functionalism and structuralism in sociology, which some sociologists consider to be dogmatically objectivist (cf. Heritage 1984; Giddens 1984). In sociology, as in other branches of the humanities and social sciences, including linguistics, there has long been a debate between so-called “objectivism” and “subjectivism”. Since my point is to provide background information, not discuss the theoretical issues involved, I will give a simplified summary
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of this theoretical split: In general, “objectivism” is associated with analyzing a phenomenon in terms of its “objective” existence in the world, not as it is perceived by the individual. In addition, in this type of approach, there is an emphasis on using positivistic methods (i.e., the empirical methods often associated with the physical sciences). On the other hand, “subjectivism” is associated with analyzing a phenomenon according to the role of individual actors in its production. Parsons (1937), a functionalist, developed a theory that is often cited as an extreme example of objectivism in sociology (Garfinkel 1952; Heritage 1984; Giddens 1984). The primary reason for this criticism is that Parsons characterized social structure as external to human action, but as also causing that action. According to theorists who advocate subjectivism or a theory in between the two extremes, the problem with this approach is that human cognition is not taken into account (Heritage 1984; 1987; Giddens 1984). In other words, the theory assumes that actors blindly follow a set of pre-existing social rules without considering why they are doing so and without considering the consequences of their actions. As I mentioned, the three social theories I will review were all developed to counter this idea. Two of these, phenomenology and ethnomethodology, are sometimes labeled “subjectivist”. Structuration theory is somewhere in the middle, between the two views. The important point drawn from all three theories is that humans come to understand the meanings of their actions and experiences by mutually construing a set of types based on past experiences. The human actor is seen as a knowledgeable agent, and social structure is nothing more (and nothing less) than an inferred set of repeated patterns of action that are interpreted as a whole in relation to each other. Thus social structure is not external to human action but is constituted by human action. The importance of this idea to genre theory is readily apparent if we consider Miller’s (1984:159) claim that genres are “… typified rhetorical actions based in recurrent situations”. Thus a genre is inseparable from the situation in which it occurs and is constituted by regular patterns of communicative action associated with that situation. Of course, the situation and recurring patterns of action also shape the genre. The three theories mentioned above, phenomenology, ethnomethodology, and structuration theory, all suggest that social structure is a part of human action (rather than external to it) because it is constituted by action. In addition, the proponents of these theories argue that actors’ knowledgeability must be incorporated in any comprehensive theory of social action. All of these
A closer look at genre and related concepts
theories have drawn substantially on the pioneering work of the phenomenologist Alfred Schutz, whose theory I introduced briefly in Chapter 1. Schutz (1962) provided a detailed analysis of how humans understand and categorize their own actions and the actions of others. According to Schutz (1962), in everyday situations, human beings adopt a “natural attitude” in which doubt that things (i.e., objects, experiences, etc.) might not be as they seem is suspended. Thus each person believes, for the most part, that his/her own perception is “reality”. Schutz also suggested that information about objects and experiences is perceived in an “on-line” fashion. That is, this information is constantly being updated. For example, if we look at an object, constant adjustments are being made so that regardless of the angle from which the object is perceived, it is still recognized as the same object. Objects and experiences are also evaluated according to a system of “relevance structures” and categorized into types. The types that prove to be most relevant and useful enter into what Schutz called the “stock of knowledge”. The types that are used most often become routine or automatic (Schutz and Luckmann 1973). This “typification” is not a static notion: Information in the stock of knowledge is constantly undergoing the same kind of “on-line” updating referred to above. Typification is perhaps the idea for which Schutz is best known. It is found in a number of other disciplines, including the work on genre theory. Another essential concept from Schutz’s work is “the reciprocity of perspectives” in which actors treat their experiences as the same “for all practical purposes”.1 This principle suggests that “intersubjective understanding between actors” is an active process (Heritage 1987: 230), and it suggests that actors are not just randomly performing actions according to their subjective motivations and interests. Intersubjectivity is a key concept in explaining how social structure is mutually constituted and construed. It is also a key point in genre theory. The fact that actors believe that their experiences are basically the same as those of other actors is what allows us to understand the exigence or mutually construed social motive associated with a genre. Many of Schutz’s ideas are also found in the theory of ethnomethodology which was developed by Garfinkel. Garfinkel took the actor’s knowledge of the social world as the starting point from which social action could be explained, viewing actors’ judgments about how to act in particular circumstances as a key factor (Heritage 1987). Through a number of ingenious experiments, Garfinkel (1952; 1963) provided evidence for some of Schutz’s major tenets, including the natural attitude, typification, and the reciprocity of perspectives. Particularly important were “the breaching experiments” which were designed to violate the
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reciprocity of perspectives. In these experiments, the researcher behaved in an unexpected way towards the experimental subject. Garfinkel found that the subjects of these experiments had varying reactions, ranging from confusion to anger. The following quote gives some examples as well as Garfinkel’s interpretation of the results of these experiments: These events ranged from those that, according to sociological commonsense, were ‘critical’, like standing very close to a person while otherwise maintaining an innocuous conversation, to others that according to sociological commonsense were ‘trivial’, like saying ‘hello’ at the termination of a conversation … It was conjectured therefore that all actions as perceived events may have a constitutive structure, and that perhaps it is the threat to the normative order of events as such that is the critical variable in evoking indignation (Garfinkel 1963: 198).
Garfinkel’s theory has several other points in common with structuration theory (which will be reviewed below). First, the context of the situation in which action occurs is not pre-existing, but rather, constituted and reconstituted through action (Heritage 1984; 1987). Second, the norms of action by which a particular type of situation is recognized are not fixed; rather, they are constantly being adapted and reformulated as social practices occur. Third, rather than seeing norms as external forces which determine behavior, norms are viewed as inferred through actors’ actions. Thus they are inherently cognitive and moral (Heritage 1984; 1987). The idea that social structure is driven by the moral character of actors’ judgments is a key point in ethnomethodology. Actors treat behavior as “morally accountable”. Basically, this means that actors expect that, based on moral grounds, social norms will be followed and that they can explain their behavior with respect to these norms, whether that behavior is compliant or deviant. Garfinkel also suggests that knowledge of how deviant behavior will be analyzed by others may promote normative conduct and thus contribute to the stability of social norms (Heritage 1984). Garfinkel’s work showed that even the most mundane events have a regular structure that is usually adhered to unless there is some reason for a deviation. The third social theory to be discussed is structuration theory (Giddens 1979; 1984). Giddens situates his work between the two extremes of “objectivism” and “subjectivism”. He says that examples of the latter are extreme versions of phenomenology that, “… tend to regard society as the plastic creation of human subjects” (Giddens 1984: 26).2 Though the idea that social structure is both produced and reproduced through human action seems to have originated in the work of phenomenologists and ethnomethodologists,
A closer look at genre and related concepts
Giddens has made this idea explicit through the theorem known as the “duality of structure” (to be discussed below). He makes a point of explicating how individual actions taken collectively can constitute, reaffirm, and change social structure, even on the macro-level of institutional structure. Indeed, in the literature on genre, it is most often Giddens (1979; 1984) who is credited with bringing these ideas to researchers’ attention.3 Unlike the ethnomethodologists, Giddens takes into account the relationship between social development and the development of the personality, and he argues for placing less emphasis on individual activities and subjective reasoning and more emphasis on social conduct within collectivities (Cohen 1987). Thus intersubjectivity is given more prominence in his theory than it has in ethnomethodology. I will rely substantially on Giddens’ (1979; 1984) structuration theory to define and analyze institutional structure in the context of the cooking classes, but first, I will discuss some of its major points. Giddens sees the actor as a knowledgeable agent.4 He argues that actors’ knowledgeability about their circumstances and the consequences of their actions (and the actions of others) is an essential factor that guides their conduct. He suggests that actors are constantly engaged in “reflexive monitoring” of their own actions and those of others: … actors not only monitor continuously the flow of their activities and expect others to do the same for their own; they also routinely monitor aspects, social and physical, of the contexts in which they move. (Giddens 1984: 5)
The idea of reflexive monitoring may seem similar to Garfinkel’s notion of “moral accountability”, whereby actors are expected to uphold normative conventions and are held responsible if they do not. However, reflexive monitoring does not play as key a role in structuration theory as the notion of moral accountability does in ethnomethodology.5 In elaborating the notion of actors’ knowledgeability, Giddens suggests that there are two types of consciousness, “discursive” and “practical”. Discursive consciousness refers to what the agent is aware of and able to verbalize about any aspect of social practice, and practical consciousness refers to what the agent is aware of but cannot verbalize. Evidence of the latter may be found by observing social practices. The boundary between these two types of consciousness is fluid (Giddens 1984). There is also a third type of consciousness: the unconscious. According to Giddens, in some theories of psychology and sociology, the unconscious has been treated as the center of agency (e.g., Freud’s theory in psychology and
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Parsons’ theory in sociology). In contrast, Giddens (1984: 51) argues that this is an “impoverished conception of the agent”. Though the unconscious has a role in the development of the human psyche (and therefore in social development), he suggests that the unconscious is less involved in routine social practices than is the conscious part of the mind. Giddens is not specific about the nature of the unconscious, but he says that it “… refers to modes of recall to which the agent does not have direct access”, suggesting that the flow of information between the unconscious and conscious psyche is somehow limited. He suggests that this process begins in infancy and involves various stages of repression of negative emotions such as mistrust and anxiety. He contrasts the repression of negative emotions with the fostering of trust, which along with the routinization of daily activities, are key factors in explaining human behavior. A sense of trust in the continuity of the object-world and in the fabric of social activity, I shall suggest, depends upon certain specifiable connections between the individual agent and the social contexts through which that agent moves in the course of day-to-day life. (Giddens 1984: 60)
The idea of routinization provides a “master key” that unlocks the relationship between “reflexively constituted social processes” and what Giddens refers to as the “basic security system” or “ontological security” (Giddens 1984: 60). Notice that these ideas are based on Schutz and are also discussed by Garfinkel, but Giddens makes the relationship between these factors explicit. He explains that ontological security, which is basically Schutz’s natural attitude, develops through routinization, which is Schutz’s typification. Giddens also strengthens these ideas by including some basic ideas from psychology concerning the development of the personality. Ontological security is fostered when the infant learns to trust its caregivers, repressing feelings of mistrust and anxiety. Particularly important in the initial development of ontological security are the predictable routines that the parents establish from the infant’s birth (i.e., when the infant learns to trust that when the parents leave, they will return). Later on, as the child develops s/he encounters other ways in which ontological security is protected, including “tact and other formulae that preserve the face of others”, but that ontological security is protected “… in a more fundamental way by the very predictability of routine …” (Giddens 1984: 50). The concept of routinization, as grounded in practical consciousness, is vital to the theory of structuration. Routine is integral both to the continuity of the
A closer look at genre and related concepts
personality of the agent, as he or she moves along the paths of daily activities, and to the institutions of society, which are such only through their continued reproduction. (Giddens 1984: 60) (Giddens’ emphasis.)
One of the most basic tenets of structuration theory is the “duality of structure”, which refers to the notion that structure and agent are not independent entities, but represent a duality in which structure is constituted by agents’ actions. According to the notion of the duality of structure, the structural properties of social systems are both medium and outcome of the practices they recursively organize. Structure is not ‘external’ to individuals: as memory traces, and as instantiated in social practices, it is in a certain sense more ‘internal’ than exterior to their activities … Giddens (1984: 25)
Giddens (1984: 25) goes on to suggest that structure is a type of abstract model of rules and resources which is “recursively implicated” in “social systems”. Social systems, in turn, make up the situated social practices that occur in real time, i.e., “across time and space” (Giddens 1984: 25). Because the term structure may have several senses, Giddens (1984: 185) breaks it into three components, for which he gives formal definitions: 1. structural principles: Principles of organization of societal totalities; 2. structures: Rule-resource sets, involved in the institutional articulation of social systems; 3. structural properties: Institutionalized features of social systems, stretching across time and space. For my purposes, the most important aspect of structure is structural properties because they are used to define institutions: Institutions are systems that exhibit “… the greatest time-space extension” of structural properties (Giddens 1984:17). This basically means that institutions are systems that are recognized by the members of a community as long-standing social practices that routinely recur. Giddens does not give specific examples of structural properties. However, he suggests that the types of practices that are seen as institutionalized are generally those that are associated with specific social roles and locales.6 For example, when discussing locales, he says, “Locales provide for a good deal of the ‘fixity’ underlying institutions” (Giddens 1984: 118). I suggest that the regular patterns of communicative action that constitute genres are also structural properties. Like social structure, linguistic regularities may seem to be fixed, but in actuality, they exist only when actors use language (Hopper 1998). In Chapters 3, 4, and 5, I will use the concept of structural properties to
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examine regular patterns in the cooking class genres at the levels of interaction, discourse, and grammar. Giddens goes on to explain that the apparent fixedness of structural properties is due to their routine reproduction. The concept of routinization thus explains why institutions may seem to exist on their own, apart from human social practices. These routine aspects of social practice, which may appear quite fixed and rigid, are no doubt what the structuralists and functionalists focused on in their analyses of social structure. Because of this observed fixedness, they also saw social structure as constraining. In other words, human action was constrained by existing social norms. In structuration theory, social structure is seen as both “constraining” and “enabling”. This means that the existence of routine practices may limit an agent’s actions in any given situation, but it does not necessarily do so. The fact that structure can be enabling is what allows for social change, which may begin with actions of one individual that deviate from the expected patterns. This aspect of the theory allows that any two individuals may choose different responses to the same situation, and there are many examples in history of social changes that were initiated by the action(s) of an individual (Bazerman 1994c). Indeed, Bazerman’s (1999) recent study of how Thomas Edison was able to use the discursive systems of the late 19th Century to pave the way for his development of incandescent light is a good example. The three theories discussed above, phenomenology, ethnomethdology, and structuration theory, all have some similarities. First, in contrast to functionalist/structuralist theories, they all suggest that human cognition is an important factor in explaining the social practices that constitute and reconstitute social structure. Second, they suggest that agents are invariably aware of their actions and able to account for them. Third, they suggest that humans have a basic level of trust in the “reality” of their surroundings that is based on routinely recurring patterns. These ideas were all apparent in the works that preceded structuration theory. Structuration theory builds on this foundation, clarifying certain points and addressing issues that are not addressed in the other two theories. First, in structuration theory, the notion of the duality of structure makes explicit the link between structure and the regularly recurring patterns of human action that create structure. Second, structuration theory accounts for the existence of stable institutional structures (i.e., they consist of social practices that are persistently repeated over time). In contrast, researchers working in ethnomethodology tend to see each social situation as separate with its own social structure. Thus they rarely attempt to make generalizations about
A closer look at genre and related concepts
macro-level social structure. Finally, drawing on the notions of power and agency and the idea that structure can be enabling, structuration theory provides an avenue through which agents can effect change in social institutions. Neither phenomenology nor ethnomethodology attempt to account for social change. I have suggested that many scholars have argued for a genre theory based on social constructionism. This trend began with work in rhetoric and sociology and has recently extended to linguistics and anthropology. I will review some of this work in detail in Section 2.5, but first, I will discuss some ideas found across disciplines that are similar to Giddens’ notion of social structure and Schutz’s notion of the stock of knowledge.
2.4 Related work in other fields Schutz’s theory that the stock of knowledge is formed through processes of typification is similar to theories proposed by researchers in a number of fields. These theories concern how humans categorize experience, which is a topic of interest not only to sociologists, but also to psychologists, anthropologists, and linguists. Depending on the researchers’ interests and perspectives, different points have been emphasized, but the notion of expectation is common to all of these theories (Tannen 1993). Such expectations are based on repeated encounters with similar experiences, and they include not only expectations about how we interact with one another but also about experiences on the most basic level. Various terms have been employed to designate these ideas, including schema, frame, script, and prototype. There is a clear link between these ideas and the social theories discussed above: Schutz (1962) says that typified experiences (those that are repeated often and are thus relevant) form the stock of knowledge, and Giddens (1984) contends that social structure can be inferred from routinely repeated patterns. Thus in both of these notions there is the idea that actors determine how to act in a given situation based on expectations that are drawn from repeated past experiences. Tannen (1993) has given a concise synthesis which draws together much of the research on this topic. I will rely substantially on her work, supplementing it where relevant. In cognitive psychology, social psychology, artificial intelligence, and linguistics, the terms schema, frame, script, and prototype have been used to discuss how humans categorize, store, and talk about objects, events, and experiences. On the other hand, in anthropology and sociology, the term
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frame has been used to discuss the relationship between social action and context. The frame lets actors know how actions and experiences are to be interpreted. The use of the same terms in different ways has created much confusion, so Tannen and Wallat (1993) have adopted different terms for the two different notions. They use the term knowledge schema to refer to the former concept: “… participants’ expectations about people, objects, and settings in the world …”; and they use the term interactive frame to refer the latter concept: aspects of context that signal how a particular interaction is to be interpreted (Tannen and Wallat 1993: 60). I will follow their use of these terms. 2.4.1 Knowledge schemata Tannen and Wallat (1993) attribute the concept of knowledge schema to Bartlett (1932), a psychologist who studied human memory. He argued that memory is not based on storing all of the detailed elements of an experience. Rather, memory is constructive: people get a holistic impression, which is then augmented during recall by reconstructing the most likely details (Tannen 1993). The most important part of this concept that has interested researchers in many fields is the idea that stored knowledge about past experiences (whatever the exact form) leads to expectations about subsequent experiences, and those expectations may in turn affect the way we perceive and react to the new experiences. Bartlett used the term schema, but he actually preferred “active, developing patterns” (Tannen 1993: 16). He wanted to emphasize the dynamic nature of recall, which he argued is fluid and develops moment by moment. His concern with the term schema was that it would be interpreted as a static template for categorizing actions and experiences. His concerns were apparently valid. In some of the work that has followed Bartlett’s, his original contention that schemata are dynamic has been all but lost. Researchers in several other fields, who use the term frame to refer to knowledge schema, see it as a static structure. For example, in artificial intelligence, Charniak (1975) says “I take a frame to be a static data structure about one stereotyped topic” (Tannen 1993: 16). Another example is found in the work of the discourse analysts, Brown and Yule (1983: 239): “… a frame is a fixed representation of knowledge about the world”. The two sides of this controversy (i.e., static templates versus dynamic, evolving patterns) are similar to the controversy between functional/ structuralist views of social structure as static, externally imposed norms versus the view held by structurationists, ethnomethodologists, and phenomenologists
A closer look at genre and related concepts
that structure develops as social encounters occur. As will be discussed below, there is a similar controversy in the genre literature. In the field of artificial intelligence, Schank teamed up with Abelson, a social psychologist, in order to build a computer model of story comprehension (Schank and Abelson 1977). They developed a notion of knowledge schema, known as a script, which was specifically designed to deal with sequences of events. Their work followed Minsky’s (1975) notion of frame, which, again, was a static structure. A well-known example of Schank and Abelson’s work is the restaurant script, which illustrates the idea well: (1) a. John went to a restaurant. b. He asked the waitress for coq au vin. c. He paid the check and left. (Schank and Abelson 1977: 38)
The evidence that there is a “script” at work here is that we do not find it odd to hear “the waitress” or “the check” in referring to items that have not been previously mentioned. Our expectations about what happens in restaurants make the implicit introduction of waitress and check possible with the mere mention of the word restaurant. The notion of script concerns primarily cognitive aspects of interaction, but according to Tannen (1993), Abelson was also interested in the social aspects of human behavior, for example, what happens when people act differently than might be expected according to the script. Linguists have also been interested in knowledge schemata from the point of view of studying the relationship between stored information and verbalization. For example, Chafe (1980; 1994) is interested in how active a concept is in the consciousness of the individual and what that means in terms of linguistic coding. Fillmore (1975) also uses the concept of knowledge schema (but he calls it frame) to refer to the set of linguistic possibilities that are associated with particular types of events. In addition, in cognitive linguistics, the term prototype is used to refer to a concept that is similar to knowledge schema. Anthropological field studies on folk classification systems inspired the research on human perception from which prototype theory developed. The basic question to be addressed was how directly linguistic categories reflect human perception. The pioneering study conducted by the cognitive psychologist, Eleanor Rosch (1973: 113), found that humans perceive the world as structured according to a system of categories (“concepts designable by words in ‘natural languages’”), but that the categories reflect a continuous array of physical features, not discrete stimuli. Notice that this is similar to Bartlett’s notion of schema in that categorization involves a holistic impression rather
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than an entire set of individual features. This means that even though lexical categories may not specifically refer to all of the physical features of an object, those physical features are still accessible to human perception. Rosch (1973:113) explains this as follows: natural language categories are not necessarily composed of combinations of simpler, already-learned attributes; and in most, if not all, natural language concepts, some stimuli are clearly better exemplars of the concept than others.
The “better exemplars of the concept” that Rosch refers to are the prototype members of the category. For example, in the case of the category red, crimson is a better example (or prototype) than maroon or rose. Though Rosch’s initial research was done on color and object categories, prototype theory has since been applied to other types of conceptual categories such as experiences and events. For example, Lakoff (1987: 54–5) discusses “prototypical causation”, which he illustrates with simple transitive clauses such as Max broke the window. The idea is that the transitive clause signifies an incident that is a best exemplar of a causative event. Thus this definition of prototype, as the way human beings categorize objects, events, and experiences, is basically the same as the concept of knowledge schema. A number of terms have been employed to refer to the concept of knowledge schema, and research on this topic has been approached in various ways by scholars who draw on very different backgrounds. Still, it is easy to see certain commonalities in these works. The most important claim of this research is that humans categorize experiences according to types based on a set of focal features (all of which do not necessarily have to be present). Based on expectations gleaned from this knowledge, actors know how to react to newly encountered situations. 2.4.2 Interactive frames The concept of interactive frame was first introduced by Bateson (1972), though he simply used the term frame.7 The idea behind this concept is that social actors make assumptions about how their actions will be interpreted and how to interpret the actions of others in particular contexts. The notion of interactive frame is similar to knowledge schema in that these assumptions are based on expectations that are drawn from prior experience with situations that are perceived as similar. Bateson (1972) argued that even animals use frames, suggesting that actions are only meaningful when interpreted within a particular
A closer look at genre and related concepts
context. Thus animals may use the same actions, for example, chasing, stalking, or biting, in play fighting or in actual fighting, and these actions will be interpreted differently depending on whether the activity is framed as playing or fighting (Goffman 1974). Since Bateson’s pioneering work many others have used this notion, most notably Goffman (1974) and Frake (1980). These authors see frames not as static structures, but as actively evolving within interaction. … the anthropological/sociological view stresses frame as a relational concept rather than a sequence of events; it refers to the dynamic relationship between people, much like Bartlett’s “organized mass” of experience which is “actively doing something all the time”. (Tannen 1993: 19; the italics is attributed to Bartlett.)
Goffman (1974) provided a detailed analysis of how people draw on linguistic and non-linguistic cues in ongoing activities in order to interpret events. In his later work, he developed the notion of “footing”, which is related to frame in that changes in footing often indicate a change in frame. Footing has sometimes been equated with participation structure (cf. Levinson 1988), and indeed, I discuss this aspect of footing in Chapter 3. However, it seems that Goffman had a broader concept in mind: He seems to have intended footing to refer not only to the roles the participants are playing, but also to what activities they are involved in (e.g., whether they are rehearsing a play, participating in a political rally, or telling stories). As we will see in Chapters 3 and 4, these aspects of interaction (i.e., the structure of participation and the type of interaction that is occurring) are interdependent, and may both be considered part of the notion of interactive frame. There are several other terms that have been used in anthropology and linguistics to refer to something like interactive frames. These are speech event, activity type, and speech activity. In the seminal paper “The Ethnography of Speaking”, Hymes (1962) put forth what was at the time a new approach to the study of human behavior. The speech event was a central concept in this approach because it allowed for the use of native categories to investigate language use in situated contexts within speech communities. Hymes’ use of the term speech event evolved over time. Initially, it seems to have meant any event where speaking occurred that was recognized by the speech community as a particular type of event. Hymes (1962: 24) explains: “one good ethnographic technique for getting at speech events, as at other categories, is through words
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which name them”. He gives examples such as sermon, pledge of allegiance, sales talk, etc. In a later article, he further defined speech events as “activities, or aspects of activities, that are directly governed by rules or norms for the use of speech” (Hymes 1974: 52). Though Hymes’ work is still recognized as a groundbreaking development in the study of natural discourse, the original conception of the speech event is sometimes seen as overly simplistic in light of more recent work. Indeed, the speech event model was essentially dyadic, including only the basic participant roles of a transmitter of information and a receiver. Researchers who follow Goffman (1981) have suggested that real interaction is much more dynamic and complex (Goffman 1981; Goodwin, C. 1981; 1984; Levinson 1988; Goodwin, M. H. 1990; Hanks 1990). Indeed, Goffman (1981) argues that the structure of participation is in constant flux and not simply limited to interactions between designated speakers and hearers. Another criticism has been that the concept of the speech event is sometimes used by analysts as though it were a theoretical construct external to interaction itself (Frake 1980; Gumperz 1982; Duranti 1985). (Notice that this criticism is similar to criticisms that have been made with respect to functionalism/structuralism in sociology, i.e., that social structure is viewed as a set of externally imposed norms.) Noting the criticisms, Duranti (1985) has attempted to rehabilitate the speech event model. He suggests that the original concept was designed to be an “etic grid” that provided a list of at least some of the most relevant properties of interaction that could be compared across cultures. It was then up to the researcher to construct an “emic” description of the relevant aspects of the event in that particular culture (Duranti 1985). He defines the speech event as a set of bounded social actions that are primarily, but not necessarily, linguistic in nature. Speech events are characterized by at least two components: the type of activity that is occurring, and the spatiotemporal boundaries of that activity (Duranti 1985). Duranti’s definition of the speech event seems similar to the concept of interactive frame discussed above in that type of activity and spatiotemporal boundaries are real properties that participants orient to when interacting with others. Gumperz (1982) also criticizes the speech event model. He says that in the ethnography of speaking approach, speech events are defined as “sequences of acts bounded in real time and space, and characterized by culturally specific values and norms that constrain both the form and the content of what is said” (Gumperz 1982: 154). This definition of speech events has led some analysts to treat them as “miniature social systems”, with independent norms and values
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that are separate from language itself (Gumperz 1982: 155). Instead of trying to redefine speech event, however, Gumperz suggests we need a different concept. Following Levinson (1979), he suggests that the goal of the activity as seen by the participants is the central factor affecting language use; thus this must be the factor upon which such a concept is based. Citing Wittgenstein’s (1958) work on “language games”, Levinson (1979) suggests that linguistic structures should be examined in context, with specific attention given to the activity, or activity type with which they co-occur. In a detailed analysis, Levinson shows that questions are used in different ways and receive different interpretations depending upon activity type. For example, the questions that a teacher might ask his/her students and the questions that a prosecutor asks a defendant on the witness stand function very differently in the interaction because the participants in these two activities have different goals in mind. Levinson (1979: 69) defines activity type as any “culturally recognized activity” which may or may not co-occur with speech: In particular, I take the notion of an activity type to refer to a fuzzy category whose focal members are goal-defined, socially constituted, bounded, events with constraints on participants, setting, and so on, but above all on the kinds of allowable contributions.
The notion that activity type is a fuzzy category is important because it suggests that any type of interaction can be an activity type and that what might be considered the more prototypical members of the category are highly institutionalized. From this definition, it seems that activity types unfold in the interaction, and are thus less likely to be interpreted as existing apart from language. Gumperz (1982) follows Levinson in suggesting that communicative goal is a central factor that determines how language is used in a particular context, but he uses the term speech activity to signify a slightly different concept than activity type. A speech activity is defined as, “A set of social relationships enacted about a set of schemata in relation to some communicative goal” (Gumperz 1982: 166). Thus not only is communicative goal important, the relationship between the participants is also a key factor. In the discussion of Goffman’s notion of footing, above, I said that participation structure and what the participants are doing are key factors in identifying a particular interactive frame. This is basically the same as Gumperz’s idea of speech activity. Indeed, we will see in Chapters 3, 4, and 5 that participation structure (and social positions) and exigence (which can be considered a mutually construed communicative goal) are key factors in constituting the structures of the cooking classes at all levels.
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According to Gumperz, speech activities include examples such as “discussing politics”, “chatting about the weather”, etc. Though these labels may seem similar to the labels used for speech events, the important point that Gumperz makes is that they are not constructs of the analyst, and they do not exist outside of participants’ actions. In addition, they differ from Levinson’s activity types in that Gumperz does not see speech activities as bounded events. They are goal-oriented, negotiated sequences of talk that unfold in interaction: Activities are not bounded and labelable entities but rather function as guidelines for the interpretation of events which show certain general similarities when considered in the abstract but vary in detail from instance to instance. … What the usual labels reflect are Wittgensteinian family resemblances rather than analytical categories. (Gumperz 1982: 167)
This definition shows that Gumperz’ speech activity is quite similar to the definition of genre proposed by Miller and other genre specialists. Genres are “typified rhetorical actions based in recurrent situations”. However, as was pointed out in Chapter 1, they are also continuous and intertextual; thus they develop moment to moment and cannot be considered “bounded”. As was the case for the concept of knowledge schemata, interactive frames are also designated by a number of terms. In this discussion, again, the problem of whether interactive frames are static, external constructs or actively, emerging patterns has turned up. Below, I will discuss the work of Hanks (1990; 1996) which suggests a reason why this concern is repeatedly discussed in fields engaged in investigating human behavior. 2.4.3 The relationship between knowledge schemata and interactive frames The previous discussion of knowledge schemata and interactive frames brings to mind the following question: Is human knowledge actually divided in this way — one part devoted to cognitive processes and one part to social interaction? Though Tannen and Wallat (1993) address this question to some extent, their solution is to suggest that knowledge schemata and interactive frames work together during interaction. I suggest that a more natural approach would be to merge these two concepts, despite the fact that they have been dealt with separately in the literature. Hanks’ (1990; 1996) framework does seem to merge the two concepts. Thus he does not distinguish between cognitive and interactive schemata, but he does distinguish between “schematic knowledge” and
A closer look at genre and related concepts
“local knowledge”, arguing that this distinction is basically the same as Schutz’s theory of how the stock of knowledge is formed. In other words, based on routinely repeated actions and experiences schematic knowledge is built up, but it is also updated on an ongoing basis with local knowledge. Hanks (1990: 70) defines schematic knowledge as follows: Schematic knowledge is embodied in prefabricated representations of objects and their relations. These objects are vastly many and include social spaces, individuals, and categories of events.
On the other hand, local knowledge evolves in the immediate context: … local knowledge is necessarily diachronic in the sense that it is constantly changing, whereas schematized categories are more enduring. (Hanks 1990:70)
In accord with the above discussion of knowledge schema, Hanks (1990: 81–2) suggests that the term schema is often viewed as representing “… a prefabricated conceptual structure that remains relatively invariant throughout successive instantiations and that provides for holistic understanding of some portion of reality”. However, in his view schematic knowledge is not a static structure, though it does have a pre-existing aspect. During interaction, actors must combine both schematic and local knowledge, resulting in the “… creation and revision of schemata” (Hanks 1990: 70). In his later book, Hanks (1996: 233) further reiterates this point, suggesting that interaction has “schematic aspects”, which are “… stable, prefabricated aspects of practice that actors have access to when they enter into engagement”. In addition, there are also “emergent aspects”, which are “… those parts of practice that emerge over the course of action, as part of action” (Hanks 1996: 233). He suggests that time is important in this distinction: Schematic aspects already exist, but emergent aspects come into being moment by moment. In addition, a property may change from schematic to emergent during interaction, and emergent aspects can become schematic through repetition and routinization. He sums up as follows: So in describing communicative practices, we need not reduce utterances to types. It is rather the ongoing tension between schematic and emergent aspects (none as complete as a type) that accounts for regularity and novelty, reproduction and production. (Hanks 1996: 233)
Other researchers have made similar claims (cf. Auer 1992; Briggs and Bauman 1992). Also notice the similarity between Hanks’ practice theory and Giddens’ structuration theory, in which structure is seen as both constraining (i.e., schematic) and enabling (i.e., emergent). Considering Hanks’ and Giddens’
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work, we can explain the controversy over whether knowledge schemata, interactive frames, and even social structure, which are all similar types of theoretical constructs, are static, external structures or, to use Bartlett’s words, “active, developing patterns”: Communicative practices, and social practices in general, have both schematic aspects (i.e., those that meet our expectations) and emergent aspects (i.e., those that unfold in the ongoing activity). Much of the past research has tended to focus on one aspect without addressing the other. Briggs and Bauman (1992) make a similar point but they relate it specifically to the intertextual nature of genre. They suggest that the notion of intertexuality can explain the emphasis in the literature on viewing genres as static objects with definable sets of structural properties as well as the opposing view that genres are dynamic speaking practices that occur in situated contexts: When genre is viewed in intertextual terms, its complex and contradictory relationship to discourse becomes evident. We suggest that the creation of intertextual relationships through genre simultaneously renders texts ordered, unified, and bounded, on the one hand, and fragmented, heterogeneous, and open-ended, on the other. Each dimension of this process can be seen from both the synchronic and the diachronic perspective. (Briggs and Bauman 1992:147)
Since the relationship between genre and intertextuality has come up here, this is a good point to turn to a more in-depth discussion of genre as it has been treated in the literature.
2.5 Genre theory Below I will review the genre literature in rhetoric, sociology, anthropology, and linguistics, considering how ideas drawn from social theory have been used to redefine genre. Because Miller seems to have been the first to conceptualize genre in terms of social constructionism, I will begin with the work of the rhetoricians. 2.5.1 Genre in rhetoric As noted, Miller (1984) was one of the first genre theorists to suggest envisioning genre as primarily a social concept rather than a structural one. Since then other rhetoricians have continued to follow her lead. Using a “semiotic framework” and drawing on the work of Schutz, Miller (1984: 159) defines genres as
A closer look at genre and related concepts
“typified rhetorical actions based in recurrent situations”. Recurrent situations are recognized as socially relevant events, which are categorized, interpreted, and acted on in certain ways. What recurs is not the material situation (a real, objective, factual event) but our construal of a type. The typified situation, including typifications of participants, underlies typification in rhetoric. (Miller 1984: 157)
As I pointed out in Chapter 1, the key element of rhetorical situation is exigence which is gleaned from typified actions: Exigence is a set of particular social patterns and expectations that provides a socially objectified motive for addressing danger, ignorance, separateness. It is an understanding of a social need in which I know how to take an interest, in which one can intend to participate. By “defining” a material circumstance as a particular situation type, I find a way to engage my intentions in it in a socially recognizable and interpretable way. (Miller 1984: 158)
Miller goes on to propose a hierarchical model that links human experience and genre. In explaining how the model functions, she further explicates how the relationship between exigence and recurring situations invokes a particular genre: … at the level of the genre, motive becomes a conventionalized social purpose, or exigence, within the recurrent situation. In constructing discourse, we deal with purposes at several levels, not just one. We learn to adopt social motives as ways of satisfying private intentions through rhetorical action. This is how recurring situations seem to “invite” discourse of a particular type. (Miller 1984: 162)
Others have also discussed the fact that social motive is a defining factor of genres, though they use other terms, such as communicative goal, purpose, or end. (See Hymes 1962; 1974; Levinson 1979; Gumperz 1982; Duranti 1985; Swales 1990; Bhatia 1993.) Several scholars have also suggested that the notion of goal should be analyzed in terms of society’s goals and the individual’s goals (cf. Duranti 1985; Günthner and Knoblauch 1995). However, Miller suggests that genres allow expression of individual goals through social goals. (See the previous quotation also.) A genre is a rhetorical means for mediating private intentions and social exigence; it motivates by connecting the private with the public, the singular with the recurrent. (Miller 1984: 163)
Drawing on Miller’s work, Bazerman applies the notion of genre to text analysis (1988; 1994a) and to the teaching of writing (1997), but more generally, he is
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concerned with exploring how discursive practices act as a locus and conduit of social and cultural ideologies and norms (1988; 1994a; 1994b; 1994c; 1997; 1999; Bazerman and Russell 2002). His work is informed by a multidisciplinary definition of genre that emphasizes its social aspects. He suggests that genre is an internal part of cultural systems which is realized through aspects of the culture such as social positions, institutions, ideologies, and other variables. He argues that genres are fundamentally intertextual and social: They exist as systems of activity that are realized through recognizable patterns of social action. As such, they are a fundamental aspect of our lives: Genre appears to offer a constitutive mechanism in the formation, maintenance, and enactment of society, culture, psychology, imagination, consciousness, personality, and knowledge, interactive with all the other processes which shape our lives. (Bazerman 1994b: 15)
Bazerman (1994c) suggests that social structure (including genres) is fundamentally intersubjective. It is created through actors’ actions (including communicative actions) in response to each other and to situations, which unfold moment by moment. Social structure is then built up through typification of these actions, which can yield either “shared orientations” and “mutually recognized moments” or “mutual stereotyping” and “reification of differences” (Bazerman 1994c: 13). This type of social regularization occurs not only between individuals, but also among larger social groups, sometimes leading to the structures we recognize as institutions. As I mentioned in Chapter 1, the idea that genres exist in systems is related to their intertextuality. A genre system consists of “… interrelated genres that interact with each other in specific settings” (Bazerman 1994a: 97). Freadman (1994) has a similar idea, arguing that genres are dialogical in that they consist of at least two texts. For example, in a situation in which a tenant submits a rental application that generates a rental agreement, both documents are part of the same system. Any documents or communication generated between the initial application and the rental agreement are also part of the same system. According to Bazerman (1994a: 99), a genre system … embodies the full history of speech events as intertextual occurrences, but attending to the way that all the intertext is instantiated in generic form establishing the current act in relation to prior acts.
A similar, but perhaps broader, notion is Bergmann and Luckmann’s (1994) “families of genres” which are genres that are more or less related, according to their characteristics and functions. The fact that genres are part of a system is an
A closer look at genre and related concepts
important point that makes their intersubjectivity and intertextuality apparent. It also supports the idea that genre analysis affords more than just situationspecific information about language. I will return to this issue in Chapter 3 where I discuss the intertextual relationship between the cooking class genres and other types of classroom discourse. The issue of how genres are related and how new genres might be created from existing genres is relevant to the research of Yates and Orlikowski (1992). Following Miller (1984), they define genres as “… typified rhetorical action in the context of socially defined recurrent situations” (Yates and Orlikowski 1992: 300). They also follow Giddens (1984), arguing that “… genres can be viewed as social institutions that both shape and are shaped by individuals’ communicative actions” (Yates and Orlikowski 1992: 300). In structurational terms, genres are social institutions that are produced, reproduced, or modified when human agents draw on genre rules to engage in organizational communication. (Yates and Orlikowski 1992: 301)
They analyze the development of the office memo from the business letter as a structuration process that occurred in American organizations over the last century. They explain that in mid-19th century corporations most correspondence was external and was accomplished by business letters exchanged between firms. Between 1870 and 1920, with the increase in manufacturing, the need for internal communication also increased. At first, the business letter was used for this purpose, but the formality of the language and length made it an inefficient means of internal documentation. Changes began to occur in the way these internal letters were formatted. As the new formats were routinely used, memos gradually became standardized within and across organizations. This standardization was reinforced by the development of the typewriter in 1870, which made it easier to accomplish certain formatting features such as underlining and making lists in columns. Yates and Orlikowski argue that the changes in production and management styles that occurred in response to the increase in manufacturing produced a new exigence (Miller 1984) and in turn a new rhetorical situation that led to the development of the memo genre. Following Barley and Tolbert (1988), they argue that there are three ways in which established social institutions can be instantiated: “maintenance, elaboration, and modification” (Yates and Orlikowski 1992: 306). For example, by continually re-enacting the already established norms for the production of business letters, the workers “maintained” and reproduced that genre. In the intermediate stages, when the
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workers began to use business letters internally, they “elaborated” the existing genre. In the final stages, when they departed from the existing norms and created the new memo form, the workers were “modifying” the existing genre. In constructing their approach to genre, Berkenkotter and Huckin (1995) bring together research in a number of disciplines. In addition to structuration theory, ethnomethodology, conversation analysis, and rhetoric, their work is informed by Bakhtin’s (1986) theory of genres, and by work in situated cognition.8 Rather than analyzing genres in terms of textual structures, they analyze the process through which genres are produced. Thus genres are defined not only by linguistic structures, but also by the actor’s “genre knowledge”. They list the five features summarized below as important in their conceptualization of genre (Berkenkotter and Huckin 1995: 4): 1. Dynamism — Genres change with time as users’ “sociocognitive needs” change. 2. Situatedness — Genre knowledge is acquired by participation in routine communicative activities. 3. Form and Content — Genre knowledge includes both form and content, as well as knowledge concerning in which situations it is appropriate to use particular patterns. 4. Duality of Structure — When users employ genres they constitute social structures and, at the same time, reconstitute these structures. 5. Community Ownership — The “epistemology, ideology, and social ontology” of a discourse community are reflected in its genre conventions. Using this framework, Berkenkotter and Huckin examine writing practices in several fields. For example, they analyze the initial writing, peer review, and revision of a journal article written by a biologist, arguing that the genre conventions enact the ideology of the discourse community. They also trace the development of discursive practices in the journal of the Modern Language Association from its beginning as a newsletter in 1976 to a full-fledged journal. They show that as membership grew, new rhetorical situations developed leading to standardization of writing practices as the institution evolved. Bawarshi (2000) connects work on genre in literary studies with recent work in rhetoric, linguistics, and sociology. He begins by arguing that, with the exception of Bakhtin, most literary studies scholars fail to recognize the profound nature of genre and assume that the concept only has meaning in the literary world. Following Bakhtin and others such as Halliday (1978), Miller (1984), and Devitt (1993), he argues that genres “… do not just constitute
A closer look at genre and related concepts
literary reality and its texts. They constitute all speech communication.” (Bawarshi 2000: 348). Bawarshi (2000: 357) goes on to suggest that Miller’s definition of genre as “typified rhetorical actions based in recurrent situations” should be broadened, arguing that “genres are both rhetorical actions and recurrent situations”. (Emphasis in the original.) Thus he is arguing that genre is not only the language associated with a situation but also the situation itself, as constituted through participants’ social actions. He also contends that genres are instrumental in the construction of actors’ social identities, suggesting that there are specific social positions that are instantiated each time a particular genre is enacted. This is an important point, which will be discussed in detail in Chapter 3. Drawing a parallel with Foucault’s (1994) “author function”, Bawarshi (2000: 357) concludes by defining the genre function as “the social and rhetorical scene within which we enact various social practices, relations, and identities”. The above discussion cites some of the important recent studies of genre in the field of rhetoric. Though in much of this work the authors focus on the application of genre theory to written language, the theoretical points that they make are equally applicable to spoken language. 2.5.2 Genre in sociology Schutz’s work has also been linked with genre by a number of sociologists. Genre is not directly mentioned in the work of Schutz, nor in the early work of his student, Thomas Luckmann (Berger and Luckmann 1966). However, Luckmann’s later work and that of his colleague Jörg Bergmann (Luckmann 1992; Bergmann 1993; Bergmann and Luckmann 1994) directly connects genre with the concepts of typification and the “stock of knowledge”: For the purpose of communication within an institution, available elements of social communication such as styles, registers, and — to anticipate an important point — even entire communicative genres are selected from the general social stock of knowledge and put to more or less specialized use such as are required by the organization of work within institutional settings … (Luckmann 1992: 223)
Luckmann (1992: 226) uses the term communicative genres, which he defines as “… socially constructed communicative models for the solution of communicative problems”.9 In addition, he discusses the “reciprocal adjustment of perspectives” (Luckmann 1992: 220), which is basically Schutz’s “reciprocity of
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perspectives”. Luckmann argues that all social interaction is based on intersubjectively negotiated understanding and that communicative processes provide one of the most obvious forums for such negotiation: Evidently, this intersubjective process involves situational, substantive empirical adjustments of the basic principle of human social life, the principle of reciprocity of perspectives. And just as evidently, this process is “dialogical” in the broadest sense of the term. (Luckmann 1992: 223)
Bazerman (1994c) argues for a similar point, though he does not refer directly to the reciprocity of perspectives. As I mentioned in Chapter 1, Luckmann contends that there is a continuum from highly “institutionalized” genres to “‘spontaneous’ communicative acts” (Luckmann 1992: 225). How much adjustment of perspectives is necessary is directly related to where a particular genre falls on this continuum, highly “institutionalized” genres requiring less adjustment than more spontaneous interaction. While Luckmann suggests that genres may be extremely conventionalized, he does not regard them as institutions per se. However, he contends that they are mechanisms for maintaining social order: The communicative problems for which such solutions are socially established and deposited in the social stock of knowledge tend to be those which touch upon the communicative aspects of those kinds of social interaction which are important for the maintenance of a given social order. (Luckmann 1992: 228)
Bergmann and Luckmann (1994) are more specific about the relationship between genres and institutions, arguing that genres form an intermediate level between linguistic structures and social institutions. They also say that there are many instances where social institutions and genres “… overlap almost to the point of identity” (Bergmann and Luckmann 1994: 88). In addition, they introduce the idea of the “communicative budget”, which is attributed to Luckmann’s earlier work. This term refers to “… the whole communicative dimension of social life” and is thus part of the stock of knowledge. Within the communicative budget, there are “families of genres” which can be found by varying one or more of the features of a genre. As I mentioned, this notion is similar to the idea of systems of genres. The sociologists Günthner and Knoblauch (1995) build on the work of Luckmann and Bergmann and Luckmann. They contend that genres “… represent central communicative means in the construction of social reality”, and they also suggest that genres are of the utmost importance because institutions only exist over time due to the transmission of knowledge (Günthner and
A closer look at genre and related concepts
Knoblauch 1995: 5). Of course, knowledge is most often transmitted through routine communicative practices (i.e., genres). The social stocks of knowledge — which are the resource for most of the objectified knowledge taken for granted within a given society — are being built up, maintained, transmitted, and also modified in communicative processes. (Günthner and Knoblauch 1995: 5)
Thus they suggest that genres are central to the study of social systems because, in effect, they provide a link between an individual and his/her world view. Günthner and Knoblauch also follow Luckmann’s contention that genres are continuous, ranging from “fixed”, conventionalized patterns to spontaneous speech. They refer to the most conventionalized patterns as “prototypical genres”, which are highly complex and reinforced by institutionalization. They refer to other less “crystallized” patterns of interaction as “communicative patterns”. Their point does not seem to be identifying whether or not a particular interaction is a prototypical genre; rather, it is to show that there is variation in the structures of generic forms and that genre is a continuous notion. Indeed, they note that genre analysis of any patterned communicative activity is a worthwhile endeavor. They follow Hanks (1987) in suggesting that genres are a means for producing and interpreting communicative practices that are enacted through specific historical and cultural conventions. They also argue that the historical aspect of genres points to their intertextuality: “By reproducing a genre, a prior discourse becomes ‘recontextualized’ and the participants create links to historical and social connections” (Günthner and Knoblauch 1995: 21). Notice that this statement is a more specific version of the contention that social structure is produced and reproduced through agents’ actions. Günthner and Knoblauch also suggest that the connection between language, everyday speaking practices, and social identity is intrinsically linked to participants’ linguistic ideology.10 In addition, the “relevance structures” (Schutz and Luckmann 1973) associated with communicative practices are determined by linguistic ideology. The relationship between linguistic ideology, communicative patterns, and social structures can be elucidated by examining the communicative budget of a particular society. (See above discussion of communicative budget.) Though their article is theoretical and does not include empirical data, like Luckmann (1992), Günthner and Knoblauch emphasize the point that genres are culturally specific. They also emphasize the importance of studying genres
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as a way of increasing cross-cultural awareness and decreasing intercultural miscommunications. 2.5.3 Genre in anthropology Briggs and Bauman (1992) review research on genres in several branches of linguistic anthropology in an attempt to show that both the nature and significance of this concept have been widely misunderstood. As in literary studies and linguistics, in anthropology, initially, the term genre was used to refer to a system for classifying texts. With the advent of the ethnography of speaking, the term was discussed more often, but it was seen as a mere component of speech events. In general, linguistic anthropologists who study performance have given more attention to genre because of the ties between performance and artistic forms associated with literary studies (Briggs and Bauman 1992). An example is Duranti’s (1984; 1994) work on the Samoan fono, which is a type of formal discussion concerning community political and judiciary issues. Duranti’s work is based on the idea that grammar occurs in situated contexts and that analysts must understand the nature of the social interaction in order to begin to make sense out of the grammatical patterns found in such interactions. He argues that social events provide a “frame” through which speech and actions are interpreted by participants (1984). He uses both the concepts of speech event and genre; however, in keeping with the ethnography of speaking tradition, he regards genre as a component of a speech event. Briggs and Bauman (1992: 145) suggest that the main problem with much of the existing genre research in linguistic anthropology is that the concept has been “under-theorized”. They argue that the notion of intertextuality provides a theoretically sound means for explaining how genre is motivated by social action. They draw on Bakhtin who viewed texts not as static objects, but as dynamic dialogical processes which are inextricably linked to prior discourses. Briggs and Bauman (1992: 146) argue that there are two important points about Bakhtin’s notion of intertextuality: First, structure, form, function, and meaning are seen not as immanent features of discourse but as products of an ongoing process of producing and receiving discourse. Second, this process is not centered in the speech event or creation of a written text itself, but lies in its interface with at least one other utterance.
Briggs and Bauman apply the notion of intertexuality to genres, arguing that genres are abstract models of how language is used in specific situations. This notion of genre is similar to Giddens’ notion of social structure.
A closer look at genre and related concepts
Briggs and Bauman (1992) point to one study in linguistic anthropology that stands out in its attempt to synthesize a theoretically based approach to the study of genre: Hanks (1987) combines the practice theory of Bourdieu (1977) with the sociological poetics of Bakhtin (Bakhtin and Medvedev 1985), generating a framework that takes into account the diachronic nature of genre as well as its linguistic form.11 Hanks examines the historical development of 16th century Mayan, showing how form, function, and meaning evolved over time to reflect the political and social influence of Spanish colonization. By adopting some of the linguistic features of official Spanish documents, the Mayan writers were able to invoke the appropriate ideological notions that would make them appear legitimate and authoritative to their Spanish addressees. Hanks (1987: 668) defines genres as “… historically specific elements of social practice, whose defining features link them to situated communicative acts”. He argues that discourse cannot be separated from the actors’ values which form the ideological environment in which actions are performed and interpreted. However, he also cautions that a genre cannot be reduced to just a reflection of the belief systems of its users; “social value, linguistic convention, and the world portrayed” must also be taken into account (Hanks 1987: 671). Nor are genres produced according to a set of rules; rather they can be viewed as “… a set of focal or prototypical elements, which actors use variously and which never become fixed in a unitary structure” (Hanks 1987: 681). (This idea is apparently the precursor of Hanks’ contention that communicative practices are both schematic and emergent, discussed in Section 2.4.3.) Hanks does not regard the notion of genre as a way to classify texts based on structure; rather, he sees it as “an orienting framework for the production and reception of discourse” (Briggs and Bauman 1992: 142–3). Indeed, though Hanks (1987) focuses on specific grammatical features of the texts, he also provides a social motivation for why these features might become associated with a particular context. 2.5.4 Genre in linguistics In linguistics (as in the other fields discussed above), much of the genre research has been inspired by the work of M. A. K. Halliday (1978; Halliday and Hasan 1985). His “social-semiotic” approach to language has been adopted by a number of researchers in areas such as sociolinguistics, second language acquisition, and language pedagogy. Though Halliday uses the term register, rather than genre, he discusses many of the features that define the concept that
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others refer to as genre.12 He maintains that meaning should be analyzed not only within the linguistic system, but also taking into account the social system in which it occurs. In order to accomplish this task, both text and context must be considered. Context is a crucial ingredient in Halliday’s framework: Based on the context, people make predictions about the meanings of utterances. Halliday’s notion of context is what Auer (1992) refers to as “reflexive”. Auer (1992) explains that context is not a pre-existing construct; rather there is a tension between how much of context is “brought along” and how much is “brought about” in interaction. Thus the relationship between language and context is “… one in which language is not determined by context, but contributes itself in essential ways to the construction of context” (Auer 1992: 21). Notice the similarity between these ideas and those of Hanks and others discussed above. In Halliday’s terms, what this means is that the predictions that people make occur in both directions, from context to text and vice versa: What I am saying is that we can and do (and must) make inferences from the situation to the text, about the kinds of meaning that are likely to be exchanged; and also inferences from the text to the situation. In the normal course of life, all day and every day, when we are interacting with others through language, we are making these inferences in both directions. (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 36)
Halliday’s notion of context draws on Malinowski (1923; 1935) and Firth’s (1950) work on the “context of situation” and on the ethnography of speaking (Hymes 1962). He suggests that the context of situation includes three variables: field, mode, and tenor. His definitions of these variables are summarized below: 1. The field of discourse refers to what social action is taking place. 2. The tenor of discourse refers to the participants and includes their social roles and social relationships, both those that are directly related to the interaction and those of a more permanent nature. 3. The mode of discourse refers to the role that language plays in the interaction. This includes the status, function, channel (spoken/written), and rhetorical mode (persuasive, expository, etc.) of the text. (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 12) Halliday defines the notion of register as “… a configuration of meanings that are typically associated with a particular situational configuration of field, mode, and tenor” (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 38–9). He goes on to say that there are phonological or morphosyntactic features that are associated with these
A closer look at genre and related concepts
configurations of meanings and that there is a continuum from what he calls “restricted registers” to more “open registers”. Restricted registers are conventionalized, or as Halliday puts it, “the range of possible meanings is fixed” (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 39). An example of this type of register is the language of air traffic control. On the other hand, examples of open registers include informal narratives and spontaneous conversation. However, Halliday says that “… even these are never totally open-ended. There is no situation in which the meanings are not to a certain extent prescribed for us” (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 40). These ideas are very similar to those of Luckmann (1992) and others, who discuss genre as a continuous concept. The major difference is that Halliday is specific about defining the continuum in terms of the meanings associated with linguistic forms, whereas Luckmann defines the continuum in terms of other contextual variables. He says that to invoke a highly conventionalized genre, “all that is needed is the routine application of previously established, socially constructed and transmitted knowledge about typical settings, situations, social roles, and courses of action” (Luckmann 1992: 224). As we will see in Chapters 3, 4, and 5, both linguistic forms and other contextual variables such as social positions and participant roles work together to make a genre what it is, whether it be conventionalized or more spontaneous. Like other researchers Halliday discusses intertextuality: … in fact the relationship between text and context is a dialectical one: the text creates the context as much as the context creates the text. ‘Meaning’ arises from the friction between the two. This means that part of the environment for any text is a set of previous texts, texts that are taken for granted as shared among those taking part. (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 47)
He uses the education system as an example to illustrate this point, suggesting that the classroom can be thought of as a continuing text that develops from year to year based on an “… ‘intertextuality’ that embodies the theory and practice of education as institutionalised in our culture” (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 47). In a recent article, Christie (1997) has demonstrated this point, showing how classroom genres encountered early in childhood socialize and prepare students for the “curriculum macrogenre” that they encounter in the upper grades of elementary school (e.g., sixth grade). Another similarity between Halliday’s work and the work of many of the genre theorists is that he sees exigence as useful in defining a register (i.e., a genre).
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A register we can define as a variety according to use. In other words, the register is what you are speaking at the time, depending on what you are doing and the nature of the activity in which the language is functioning. (Halliday and Hasan 1985: 41)
In a more general way, Halliday’s framework has many similarities to the ideas advocated by other researchers: The relationship between Halliday’s participants’ expectations, context of situation, and text has been repeatedly mentioned in the work discussed so far, in terms of the relationship between typification (or schematic patterns) and genre.13 From Halliday’s theory, a framework, often referred to as the “Sydney School”, developed. Though the Sydney School developed from one framework, these scholars use two different approaches to genre.14 Of interest here is the work of Kress (and also Threadgold). These researchers emphasize the relationship between language and the social features of the situation in which language is used: In my approach I have focused … on the structural features of the specific social occasion in which the text has been produced and have seen these as giving rise to particular configurations of linguistic factors in the text which are realisations of, or reflect, these social relations and structures. (Kress 1993: 33)
Thus Kress’s principal interest lies in determining the relationships among participants and social structures such as institutions, considered from the perspective of power differentials. His agenda is overtly political, with a goal of providing multicultural and class-stratified communities equal access to genres (particularly those associated with power). He argues that there is a fundamental relationship between power and genre: The stability of a social structure reflects the degree of power associated with that structure, and more stable social structures are likely to be associated with more stable text types. Like other genre specialists, Kress suggests that genres occur along a continuum. However, he contends that this variation reflects the degree of power connected with the social structure with which the genre is associated. In other words, highly institutionalized genres reflect a greater degree of power available to the actors than do less institutionalized genres. He advocates using factors associated with various institutional structures such as professional roles as well as social variables such as age, class, and gender to examine the relationship between power and social structure as it is reflected in the linguistic patterns found in genres. He argues that this type of research is necessary before equal access to genres can be provided through education.
A closer look at genre and related concepts
Kress’s notion of the relationship between power and social institutions accords with the views of Giddens and Bourdieu. For example, Giddens (1984) suggests that power depends upon access to resources, which includes linguistic resources. He uses the notion of power to explain how social structure can enable change: Change is dependent upon the transformative capacity of agents, which in turn depends upon power. Kress and Threadgold (1988: 219) suggest that genre is “… a category that is potentially both reality-maintaining and reality-changing: both conservative in maintaining the status quo, and subversive in always presenting the possibility of challenging it”. Thus access to particular genres carries with it access to the power to enact social change. Below I will discuss the work of several linguists who have applied genre theory to empirical data. Like researchers in the other disciplines discussed so far who have used genre theory to analyze empirical data (i.e., Hanks 1987; Bazerman 1988; 1994a; Yates and Orlikowski 1992; Berkenkotter and Huckin 1995), these scholars examine writing practices. Though the cooking class genres I analyze are spoken rather than written, the studies discussed here are of interest because they support some of the theoretical points made so far, and they apply the theory to empirical data. Aviva Freedman (1990) draws together the work of Miller, Halliday, and Freadman to analyze the writing practices of an introductory undergraduate law course. Since the work of literary theorist Anne Freadman (1994) has not been discussed in detail, I will summarize the points that are most relevant to Freedman’s study.15 Like Bazerman (1994a), Freadman sees genres as intertextual (“dialogical”) practices that occur in a system. Thus a genre consists of at least two texts, for example, “brief and report” and “play and audience response” (Freadman 1994: 48). She explains her concept of system in terms of place and function. My argument leads me to suggest that it is place … that constitutes genre, and that the functions and roles entailed by place determine the interlocutory structure of a genre. (Freadman 1994: 60)
In essence, Freadman is defining genres in terms of the situation type (i.e., place) and exigence (i.e., function) associated with a specific activity, and importantly, as differentiated from other activities within a system. Of course, she says that differences in linguistic structure accompany these differences in place, but her point is that “… the ‘place’ of the text in some sense precedes the features that we take to be characteristic of it” (Freadman 1994: 56; her emphasis). She uses as examples newspapers and television programming. These
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genres are interpreted according to their functions and where they are placed within a relational system. Thus the same news item may appear twice within the same issue of a newspaper, having different meanings depending on the genre with which it is grouped. Likewise, television programming is slotted to appeal to different audiences at different times of the day, and each program is interpreted according to its placement in the system. Freadman (1994: 59) goes on to explain that the reason we know how to interpret the meaning of a genre is that we consider its placement with relation to other genres: “Meaning is not content; it is place and function”. Using Freadman’s notions of place and function, Aviva Freedman analyzes essays produced by undergraduates in an introductory law course. She suggests that place and function are intrinsically linked, arguing that the setting of the college classroom signaled the function of the essays. For example, if the same essays had been written on stationery with the letterhead of a law firm and addressed to clients, they would be interpreted as legal advice rather than student papers. Freedman also suggests that the reason the students’ papers are interpreted as law essays rather than some other type of paper (e.g., history) is not only due to place but also due to their substance and form. In comparing the academic writing produced by the same students for other courses, she did not find the characteristic features of the law essays. Thus following Miller (1984), she argues that substance and form are inextricably linked in a way that reflects social action. She explains that the social action performed by the law essays is that of fulfilling part of a contractual obligation between student and instructor, which is implicit when a student registers for a university course. Also implicit in this obligation is the agreement that students produce papers of a specific type: “… not just any kind of writing would do. Certain words had to be presented in a certain order …” (Freedman 1990: 288). Indeed, Freedman shows that the law papers had specific content and textual features, including specialized vocabulary, complex syntax, and contrapuntal movements (i.e., possible counter-arguments were discussed when the author presented his/her argument). She suggests that the writers of the law essays were acting based on a “shared interpretation of reality”, or in Miller’s terms a shared “exigence” (Freedman 1990: 289). Over the course of the semester, as they saw the professor modeling “… the lexicon as well as the persuasive strategies or lines of reasoning that are conventionally accepted as valid in the discipline” the students not only learned the textual conventions, but also became socialized to
A closer look at genre and related concepts
the kind of thinking that was necessary to produce the appropriate type of writing (Freedman 1990: 290). Freedman also contends that the intertextuality of the law essays is apparent if we consider that they occurred in response to the professor’s assignment. However, she argues that they should be seen not just as a response to a specific assignment but as a response to the disciplinary context and to the institutional context of the university. This idea concurs with Halliday’s contention that the classroom is a continuing text that develops from year to year and embodies the institutionalized practices associated with education (Halliday and Hasan 1985). Freedman goes on to suggest that perhaps the most important conclusion to be drawn from her analysis is that the law class serves as a kind of “initiation rite” that indoctrinates the students into the mindset that is common to students of law. In other words, the class is a mechanism for socializing the students with respect to the ideology and value system held by this particular disciplinary community. Thus the student writing reflects “… the habits of mind and stances towards experience appropriate to members of the disciplinary community” (Freedman 1990: 290). Freedman et al. (1994) build on Freedman’s previous work. They compare two written genres: case studies produced by students in a university-level financial analysis course, and documents produced by workers in a government financial institution. The curriculum for the university course was supposed to simulate the type of position the students might apply for (e.g., a financial analyst in a government institution). Freedman et al. chose to compare these two genres in order to determine the effectiveness of this type of curriculum. In addition to textual analysis, they analyzed the institutional context using various ethnographic techniques. Freedman et al. found that though the student papers were similar to the workplace papers in terms of textual features such as format and style, the social positions (social roles in their terms) of the participants and the exigence (shaping context in their terms) with respect to the two genres were very different. For example, the expected social positions for the simulation participants would be employee for the students and supervisor for the professor, but Freedman et al. found that neither the students, nor the professor internalized these roles. In interviews, when the students were asked who they were supposed to be, most said that they were unsure. Others made comments that made it quite clear that they saw themselves as students who were completing an assignment.
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Directly related to these differences in social position is the exigence of the situation. Freedman et al. found that the government employees who produced and read documents in the workplace did so in order to analyze and solve problems. On the other hand, through tape-recorded composing and reading sessions, they found that the students produced their case studies in order to demonstrate their knowledge to the professor. Likewise, the professor’s motive was to determine whether or not the students had indeed mastered the material so that he could evaluate them. Thus the exigence of the simulation differed greatly from that of the workplace. The differences in social positions and exigence led to differences in the content of the two genres. For example, the students sometimes presented more information than was necessary in order to demonstrate their mastery of the material. Of course, the government employees had no such motive, so they eliminated extraneous information. Indeed, Freedman et al. found that one of their primary concerns was brevity. On the other hand, as I mentioned above, the student papers looked like the workplace papers in terms of formatting. For example, the two sets of papers were divided into similar types of sections, with an “executive summary” at the beginning; both sets of papers used graphs and charts in similar ways, etc. Though this similarity in textual features might seem rather superficial, the authors argue that this is actually a very important finding. They suggest that the fact that the student papers emulated the workplace documents indicates that the students had internalized the ideology and value system of the work world which they hoped to enter. They contend that this socialization process is the less obvious but more significant effect of the simulation. This analysis supports the previous findings of Freedman (1990) with respect to the essays written by students in the introductory law course. In addition, the findings of Freedman et al. are further supported by two subsequent studies: One compares how students in the simulation (finance) course and interns who had just entered the workplace learn to produce the genres appropriate to their particular situation (Freedman and Adam 2000a); the other examines an advanced university practicum in which groups of students were assigned to an actual workplace (Freedman and Adam 2000b). The groups completed their course assignments in conjunction with the workers in their assigned workplace. In this latter case, the contextual variables were closer to those of a real workplace situation, and the students’ writing was more similar to what might be expected in the workplace situation. The authors argue that because this course was very different from regular university
A closer look at genre and related concepts
courses (including simulation courses), it is the exception that proves the rule. These studies provide a powerful demonstration of the intrinsic link between the contextual variables, social position and exigence, and the textual variables, content and form. The work of Freedman and her colleagues seems to support the contention made by Paré and Smart (1994) that the same social positions (social roles in their terms) are present every time a given genre is enacted, regardless of who the actors are. Paré and Smart recognize that an individual may play many roles within an organization, and a given genre may entail a number of relationships with others who are also playing various roles with respect to the enactment of the genre. However, they suggest that “roles and the networks of relationships that connect them are often generic — they serve to regularize the social interaction … involved in the production of knowledge” (Paré and Smart 1994: 149). The issue of whether or not the social positions associated with a given genre vary from one enactment to another has also been discussed by other researchers. For example, Luckmann (1992) and Auer (1992) argue that just as genres themselves vary from highly conventionalized to more spontaneous, the conventionality of the social positions associated with a particular genre also varies accordingly. This makes sense if we consider more spontaneous spoken interaction in which there could be shifts in the social positions played by the actors which are not necessarily linked to shifts in genre. Indeed, the analyses of Paré and Smart (1994) and Freedman et al. (1994) involved writing practices in highly institutionalized settings.16 Thus they may be seen as providing support for the contentions of Luckmann and Auer that the more “institutionalized” the genre, the more likely it is that there will be specific, constant social positions associated with it. In Chapter 3, I will return to this issue when I discuss participant roles because social positions and participant roles are intrinsically linked (Hanks 1990; Duranti 1997). Thus social positions are often realized through participant roles, and shifts in the structure of participation can sometimes effect shifts in social position. Again, this seems to depend on how institutionalized the interaction is. The sociolinguist Devitt (1989) uses genre theory to analyze empirical data from a diachronic perspective. In analyzing the standardization of Scots-English during the 16th and 17th centuries, she examined a number of linguistic variables, showing how changes in the variables reflected the changing rhetorical situation. She shows that different rhetorical situations were associated with different rates of anglicization of Scots-English. For example, whether or not a
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document was intended for publication was found to be a significant factor that influenced the degree of anglicization. Devitt (1989: 54) defined genres as “… textual responses to recurring rhetorical situations”, but in a later article (Devitt 1993), she expands this definition, saying that “genre not only responds to but also constructs recurring situations” (Devitt 1993: 577). This idea concurs with those discussed so far, in particular, the ideas of researchers who suggest that structuration theory is applicable to genre. Devitt (1993) suggests that genres are dynamic social actions that create and react to new situations and changes in old situations, thus constituting social change. At the same time, existing patterns (or prior texts) influence the ways in which participants choose to construct and respond to these situations. Like Briggs and Bauman (1992), she suggests that this intertextual aspect of genre explains why some researchers have viewed it as a static notion, a mere taxonomic categorization of linguistic patterns, while others emphasize its dynamic nature. Intertextuality, the participants’ awareness of and expectations based on prior texts, influences how they respond to recurring rhetorical situations. At the same time, no two situations are exactly alike, and participants are certainly free to choose their responses. Like Luckmann (1992), Günthner and Knoblauch (1995), and others discussed above, Devitt sees genres as continuous, from the highly constrained types of discourse associated with institutions to less constrained forms which still have recognizable patterns. She notes the importance of the notion of intertextuality in the evolution of institutionalized genres and even in the evolution of less conventionalized types of discourse. In her earlier study, Devitt (1989) used both formal features and contextual variables to determine whether or not two texts are of the same genre. In her later article, she reiterates the point that content, situation, and context as well as form must be all included if we are to achieve a comprehensive definition of genre: Based on our identification of genre, we make assumptions not only about the form but also about the text’s purposes, its subject matter, its writer, and expected reader … Our theory of genre, therefore, must allow us to see behind particular classifications (which change as our purposes change) and forms (which trace but do not constitute genre). Genre entails purposes, participants, and themes, so understanding genre entails understanding a rhetorical and semiotic situation and a social context. (Devitt 1993: 575)
Though much of the genre research in linguistics focuses on the writing practices found either in workplaces or classrooms, the theoretical issues discussed by the authors of these studies are applicable to spoken genres. In
A closer look at genre and related concepts
addition, they echo the concerns of researchers in other disciplines who are interested in more general issues such as the relationship between language, culture, and social structure. Below I will summarize the important common points found in the research reviewed above.
2.6 A definition of genre The concept of genre, which was once thought of as only a descriptive classification system, has been redefined by scholars in various disciplines, yielding a powerful, far-reaching theoretical framework. This framework is useful in investigating not only language itself, but also the social systems and cultures in which language is used. The research discussed in this chapter leads to a definition of genre that includes the following points. 1.Genre is typified communicative action associated with recurrent situations (Miller 1984). In other words, genre is similar to such notions as prototype, schema, frame, typification, speech activity, etc., and even the more general social structure. These ideas are all based on the notion that our ability to interpret the actions of others and act appropriately in a given situation is based on previous experience with situations that are construed as similar. 2.Genres are dynamic. They are not simply based on formulas for static types; many aspects of genre emerge in the moment. 3.Related to 1 and 2, is the idea that genre is a continuous concept, ranging from highly conventionalized to less conventionalized genres. 4.The notion of intertextuality explains how the process of typification occurs specifically with respect to language. It also explains how genres can be both typified and emerging at the same time, and why genre is a continuous notion. As Hanks (1996) suggests, time is the key factor here: schematic (or typified) aspects already exist as abstract models of how language is interpreted and produced (Briggs and Bauman 1992); emergent aspects develop moment by moment. 5.Like other aspects of social structure, genres are both produced and reproduced by actors’ actions. As such, they are limited by existing communicative patterns, and at the same time, they constitute new patterns, thus enabling social change. This principle is referred to as the duality of structure (Giddens 1984). 6.Genres are part of a system. As Bazerman (1994a), Bergmann and Luckmann (1994), and Freadman (1994) have all suggested, genres do not occur in isolation. They are interactive and dialogical; deployment of one genre entails a response.
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The six items listed above are general facts about what constitutes the notion of genre. As I explained in Chapter 1, I have defined the Japanese and American cooking classes as similar genres based on a number of non-linguistic properties that indicate that the classes in the two cultures have a similar exigence. Crucial to my definition of genre are the following key terms: exigence (Section 2.5.1) — a mutually construed social motive through which actors’ personal intentions may be realized; social position (Chapters 1 and 3) — a “social identity” that has certain privileges and responsibilities associated with it; and structural properties (Section 2.3) — “ institutionalized features of social systems, stretching across time and space” (Giddens 1984: 185). Though these three terms are not specifically mentioned in the six characteristics listed above, they are necessary constituents of those characteristics. For example, exigence is an important factor that explains why actors enact the typified patterns that are genres; social position explicates the social roles actors take in creating these typified patterns; and structural properties can be understood as the typified patterns themselves — those typified patterns that taken together constitute a genre.
2.7 Summary Genre theorists have recently redefined genre based on theories of social constructionism. These social theories were developed to counter functional/structuralist social theories that have been criticized for neglecting the role of human cognition in social action. These theories, phenomenology, ethnomethodology, and structuration theory, have differences, but they also have a number of similar points. A particularly significant common idea is that social structure is not external to human action, as was assumed by functional/structuralists; rather, social structure is constituted and reconstituted through human action. This point has been formalized in structuration theory and is known as the “duality of structure”. Using this basic tenet, Giddens (1979; 1984) developed a theory that is able to explain the stability of social structure, as it is constantly reified and reaffirmed in an ongoing cyclic process. In addition, using the notions of agency and power, structuration theory explicates how individual actions, viewed collectively, can effect social change, even on the macro-level of the institution. A second similar point in the three theories is that actors interpret their actions (and the actions of others) according to expectations that are based on prior experience. Schutz (1962) and the ethnomethodologists refer to this idea
A closer look at genre and related concepts
as “typification”, and Giddens (1984) refers to it as “routinization”. The basic idea is that routinely repeated experiences (and also objects, events, etc.) are categorized as types according to their relevance to everyday life. According to Schutz, these types form our “stock of knowledge”, and they are the basis of our expectations when we encounter new experiences. We draw on this knowledge when reacting to those new experiences, thus continually reifying as well as modifying our expectations. Similar ideas are found in a number of disciplines. The notions of knowledge schema (i.e., schema, frame, prototype, etc.) and interactive frame (i.e., frame, speech event, speech activity, etc.) are essentially similar to Schutz’s stock of knowledge; and these ideas are similar to Giddens’ concept of social structure as a kind of abstract model that can be inferred from the routinely repeated structural properties of everyday actions. It seems that, in general, knowledge schema is often assumed to be a more “fixed”, less dynamic construct, whereas interactive frame is seen as evolving over time. However, Hanks’ (1990; 1996) discussion makes it clear that this dichotomy is artificial. All knowledge, whether it is knowledge of objects or of the practices involved in interaction, involves both schematic (pre-existing) aspects and emergent (evolving in the moment) aspects. A number of other researchers have made similar points (e.g., Giddens 1984; Halliday and Hasan 1985; Bazerman 1988; Devitt 1989; Auer 1992; Briggs and Bauman 1992). Researchers in several fields have applied the ideas discussed above to genre theory. Miller (1984) was perhaps the first to argue that genres can be analyzed according to typification. In defining genres as “… typified rhetorical actions based in recurrent situations”, she suggested that linguistic form, function, and context are inextricably linked and are realized in routinely repeated patterns (Miller 1984: 159). Through experience with typified patterns actors come to understand the exigence (i.e., social motive) of their actions in specific situations. Much of the subsequent research on genre has incorporated Miller’s insights. Some researchers have also linked structuration theory and genre theory. Yates and Orlikowski (1992) suggest that the “duality of structure” can explain how based on their knowledge of prior texts, interactants routinely produce and reproduce a particular genre in a particular type of situation. It can also explain how individuals elaborate or change these prior texts, thus enacting new ways of responding to evolving situations and creating new genres. The notion of intertextuality, which is discussed in much of the research reviewed above, may be considered a version of the duality of structure that is specific to genre.
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Q>. ((ALL LAUGHING VERY LOUDLY)) Æ P: he’s a chauvinist. .. he is, 15. .. entirely. … he’s Italian. … um. … anywa=y, … and Lilah Drake was like that. 20. .. you know, there’s only one way to do it.
As this excerpt begins, Pam is talking about another teacher, who reportedly practices an inflexible style of cooking (and teaching). Just prior to the laughter in line 9, one of the students made a joke, which was most likely directed at the other students who were sitting at the same table.20 Some of the participants in
Regularities at the level of interaction
the class, including Pam, could not hear the joke, but judging from the laughter, it got the attention of many of the students. Thus in line 10, Pam asks what was said. Diane, one of the women seated at the table, then repeats the joke (line 11). Pam agrees with the substance of the joke (lines 13–15) and then continues on with what she had been saying (lines 18–21). The shifts in participation structure in this example are actually fewer than in the English examples discussed so far. In lines 1–10, Pam is the speaker, and the class is the recipient/addressee.21 At line 11, there is a shift in the participation structure so that Diane is the speaker; Pam is the addressee; and the rest of the class is the recipient. In repeating the joke, Diane quotes the student who originally told it. Thus there is also the role of that student to consider. Levinson (1988: 170) suggests that when necessary a distinction can be made between speaker (i.e., the “utterer”) and source (i.e., the “informational/illocutionary origin of the message”).22 Thus the student who originally made the joke is the source. Irvine (1996:147) also discusses the participation structure of reported speech, arguing that it denotes a “projective relation” between utterance-events. In other words, the participation structure of the utterance-event in which the utterance originally occurred is invoked along with the participation structure of the utterance-event in which the reported speech occurs. Irvine suggests that, in using reported speech, the speaker explicitly indexes the relationship between the report and a prior utterance; thus reported speech is a canonical example of intertextuality. When Diane repeats the utterance in line 11, indeed, we feel that it comes both from her and from the student who originally said it. This is perhaps why the students find it so amusing on repetition. It is as if the joke is being told for the first time because there is a different speaker (utterer). Example (15) also shows that after a shift in participation structure, the dominant communication invariably returns to the default participation structure of teacher as speaker, students as recipient/addressee. After the joke, there is an immediate shift back to the default structure (lines 13–21). (16) is an example of additional information contributed by a student: (16) Generic Bread (P=Pam, the teacher; K=Ken) 1. P: … I don’t think it’s essential%. … it doesn’t matte=r. .. some people would say, .. just pour it out into the water, 5. .. and let it sit, .. like that, .. never sti=r it.
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Æ
K: … you know, .. I found that when I’ve stirred it, 10. .. before it has a chance to really disso=lve, it sticks to the spoon. <X you [know] X>. P: [oh], that’s a thought, 15. .. maybe that’s the reason. K: .. I don’t know. P: .. then a pinch of salt, .. uh% oh sorry, sugar.
Just prior to this segment, Pam was explaining that there are two methods for dissolving yeast, one advocates stirring it, and one suggests that it should not be stirred. She also indicated that she was not sure why some cooks prefer one method over the other. In lines 1–7, Pam is the speaker and the class is the recipient/addressee. At line 8, there is a shift in participation structure, as Ken takes the role of speaker, suggesting a possible reason for one of the preferences. At this point, Pam is the addressee and the class is the recipient. There are two more shifts in participation structure (lines 13 and 16), in which there is an exchange between Pam and Ken. Finally, there is a shift back to the default structure in which Pam is the speaker and the class is the recipient/addressee (line 17). The next example is of a request made by a student. Though questions might perhaps be viewed as requests for information, other types of requests, involving the teacher performing some action for a student, are rare in my data. (17) is the only example in the transcribed portions of the cooking demonstrations. I should point out that this segment is taken from Jean’s class, which was the most casual of the American classes in several ways: First, as I have mentioned, there often was not a demonstration or the demonstration was fairly short.23 In general, the demonstrations were not well-organized, and many of the students helped Jean throughout the class. As a result, there were often several conversations occurring at the same time. (That was the case just prior to this segment.) In addition, several of the students in the class were well acquainted with Jean because they had taken her classes several times. Terry, who makes the request, is one such student. I believe that this is what allows her to make a special request. Students who did not know the teacher may have been more hesitant to make such a request.
Regularities at the level of interaction
Just prior to the excerpt, there was a pause in the demonstration, and several students and the teacher were talking among themselves. As the segment begins, Jean is adding some spices to the artichokes she is boiling. (17) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean, the teacher; C=Carol, the student assistant; T=Terry; a student; S=a student; Ss=students) 1. S: <X did you say you X X> - Æ T: could you not put any dill on tha=t. C: … (1.4) the dill would [be] - X: [X]X - 5. C: the dill would be good with the sour cream. X[XXX] - J: [the dill]’s gonna be in the sour cream. … now the thing is Terry, .. I can see going easy on cilantro, 10. S: @@ T: no, .. cilantro, .. you can go heavy on. J: I know. 15. … I can see why people would not like cilantro, .. but if I start saying, .. gee, .. <WH would you like to have, S: .. @@ 20. J: <X you know X> XX WH>, Ss: @@@ J: we’ll put em all on, .. but one. T: … okay.
In line 1, a student has just begun to ask Jean a question, when she is interrupted by Terry who asks Jean not to put any dill on the artichokes (line 2). That the request is addressed to Jean is evident because she was the one who was adding the spices to the pan. (And more generally, she is responsible for running the class.) However, despite these facts, it is Carol, the student assistant who initially responds (lines 3–5), thus effecting a change in participation structure in which Carol is the speaker and Terry is the addressee. Like example (14) above, here too a student speaks for the teacher.24 First parts of adjacency pairs like these (i.e., a question in (14) and a request in (17)) project a specific
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participation structure for the immediately following utterance (Schegloff and Sacks 1973). In other words, we expect that the teacher will be the one to answer a question or a request that is addressed to him/her.25 Indeed, Schiffrin (1993) suggests that there is a social norm or “rule” that is known idiomatically as the “speak for yourself rule”. However, she finds many examples in which this rule is violated for interactional purposes. By speaking for another, interactants not only change the participation structure, they also create a sequential coherence that emerges in the interaction. In addition, speaking for another can display a social identity that is aligned with the other person and is a way of assuming the role of the other (Schiffrin 1993). In (17), when Carol responds to the request, she is aligning herself with Jean and taking the role of the teacher, much as Dave did in example (14). This example demonstrates the interaction between the schematic participation structure (i.e., the default structure) and emergent structures, as well as the interaction between social positions and participant roles. There is another shift in participation structure at line 7 when Jean interrupts Carol and responds to the request herself. (Notice that her response is aligned with Carol’s.) There are several more shifts in participation structure, but basically what transpires is an exchange between Jean and Terry. The role of the rest of the class here is interesting. They could perhaps be considered to be more like an audience than recipients because the interaction between Terry and Jean seems not to concern them. However, the import of Jean’s message (i.e., that she cannot honor everyone’s requests) is relevant to all of the students, and they may still be considered recipients. The long pause in line 3, after the request, and the explanations included in the utterances of both Carol and Jean are features that characteristically precede dispreferred responses (Atkinson and Drew 1979). Thus we expect the request to be refused. Yet, Jean finally agrees to a modified version of the initial request (lines 22–23). However, in (18) below, which occurred shortly after (17), she denies the request altogether. (18) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean, the teacher; T=Terry, a student; Ss=students; S= a student) 1. J: … okay, 2. … (1.1) so one of em doesn’t have - Æ 3. … t- Terry, ((HIGH TONE)) 4. … forget it. 5. … it’s gonna be hard, 6. .. because they’re all gonna be smashed together and,
Regularities at the level of interaction
7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.
S: T: Ss: S:
T: … all right, .. Jean. .. okay, … all [right]. ((DISAPPOINTED TONE)) [oh]. just one request a night, .. that’s all I make. @@@ @@@
This example is interesting for several reasons. First, it shows that participation structure can change in the middle of a turn, as Levinson (1988) pointed out in his discussion of what counts as an utterance-event. In lines 1–2, the class is the recipient/addressee, but Jean does not complete the sentence. Instead, she begins addressing Terry in line 3, as is evident from the vocative. At that point, she denies Terry’s request. Though Terry addresses Jean (lines 7–10 and 12–13), the class is also a recipient. Specifically, they are the target, which Levinson (1988: 170) defines as the “informational/illocutionary destination” of the message. Terry teases Jean about refusing the request, ironically pointing out the impractical nature of responding to individual requests in a large class (lines 12–13), a point which Jean had previously made. (See lines 8–20 in (17).) Terry accomplishes much of this interactive work through prosody by exaggerating her disappointed resignation. Notice that the targeted recipients, the other students, respond favorably by laughing at the joke. In (19), which occurred shortly after (18), Jean also manipulates the participation structure in order to tease Terry. (19) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean, the teacher; T=Terry, a student; Ss=students; S= a student) T: I’ll try it, .. sure, J: good. T: I’ll try it. J: good. S: .. @@[@@] Æ J: [she] likes dill.
In this example, the participation structure shifts several times, with Jean and Terry alternating between the roles of speaker and addressee. Finally, however, Jean makes a comment about Terry, referring to her in the third person. In this
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case Terry, is not the addressee. She is the target, and the class is the recipient/addressee. Jean uses this change in participation structure to tease Terry about her inconsistent complaint about using dill in the recipe. (Terry had started out complaining that she did not want dill on the artichokes; later, she said that she likes dill, but not with artichokes. Finally, she admitted that she had never tried dill with artichokes.)
3.5 Participation structures found in the subordinate communication As was discussed above, in the subordinate communication, as opposed to the dominant communication, four types of participation structure are found. The first is an exchange between the master teacher and the assistant teacher. This type is found only in the Japanese data. (In the American classes, one or more students sometimes assisted the teacher, as in (17), but they were not officially designated as assistant teachers.) Interactions between the two teachers in the Japanese classes were most often framed as asides, as is evident from the teachers’ low volume and use of fewer polite forms than when addressing the class. These exchanges were also set apart from the demonstration in terms of content. For example, they were often requests for help or questions about the status of certain ingredients that would only appropriately be addressed to another teacher. For example in (20), the assistant teacher Hayashi is making tamagoyaki (‘egg pancake’) to be used in another recipe. At several points in the example, she is confused about what to do next. Her questions cause shifts in participation structure. (20) Makizushi (S=Suzuki, the teacher; H=Hayashi, the assistant teacher) 1. H: ..? ((TO TEACHER)) repeat ‘(should I) repeat (it)?’ 2. S: .. . as.is good qt think-pol reas ‘okay, (I) think that’s enough.’ 4. 5.
… ee nurebukin o kakete ne, ((TO CLASS)) hes damp.cloth acc cover it .. oite oki-masu.
Regularities at the level of interaction
place keep-pol ‘(we’ll) cover (the tamagoyaki) with a damp cloth and leave (them) here.’ 6. H: …. temperature nom fall-pol it ‘if (we) don’t turn (them) over, (they)’ ll get cold.’ 9. S: . place receive(hon) ‘(it’s) okay. Just leave (it) like this.’ 12. H: . ((TO TEACHER)) right pred:pol q ‘really?’ 13. S: . ((TO ASSISTANT)) yes ‘yes.’ 14.
ee soo shi-mashi-tara, ((TO CLASS)) hes this do-pol-temp
‘when (you’ve) done this,’
Before this excerpt began Suzuki was demonstrating the recipe to the class. In line 1, the first shift in participation structure occurs as Hayashi asks Suzuki if she should make another tamagoyaki (‘egg pancake’). At line 2, there is another shift, as Suzuki responds, saying that they already have enough. During this exchange, both participants use a relatively low volume. At line 4, there is another shift in participation structure, as Suzuki raises her voice to indicate that the students are the intended recipient/addressee. Then at line 6, there is another shift, as Hayashi tells Suzuki that the tamagoyaki (‘egg pancakes’) will get cold if they do not turn them over. Again, Hayashi lowers her voice making it clear that the utterance is not addressed to the class. Another shift occurs at line 9, as Suzuki responds to Hayashi, and there are two more shifts at lines 12
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and 13, as they continue the exchange. At line 14, there is a shift back to the default participation structure, as Suzuki raises her voice, once again directing her instructions to the students. Notice that Suzuki uses un (‘yes’) twice in this example (lines 2 and 13). This is an informal form, which may be used in addressing members of ones’ own group (i.e., uchi). The teacher uses it here when talking to her coworker but not to the students. Another example of this type of exchange is given below, but it differs from (20) and the majority of examples of this type of exchange in that the teachers do not lower their voices when addressing each other. However, the use of direct address in line 7 makes it obvious that the utterance is addressed to the assistant teacher, not the class. (21) Daikon (K=Kikuchi, the teacher; O=Ogawa, the assistant teacher) 1. K: … sanbyaku rokujuu miriri- - three-hundred sixty milliliter2. .. shiri- ano, - - - - hes 3. .. shiishii, cc’s (cubic centimeters) 4. …(.7) hakatte gozai-masu. measure exist:sta(hon)-pol 5. .. kore soo desu yo ne. this right pred:pol it it 6. …(2.6) kore, this 7. … Ogawa-san, Ogawa 8. .. hakatte aru-n desu ne. measure exist:sta-se pred:pol it 9. O: hai soo desu, yes right pred:pol 10. … sanbyaku rokujuu de. three-hundred sixty at K: ‘Three-hundred and sixty millimeter- uh cc’s (of rice) have been measured out. This is right, isn’t it? This, Ogawa-san, (it’s) been measured out, right?’ O: ‘Yes that’s right. At three-hundred and sixty.’
Regularities at the level of interaction
In lines 1–4, Kikuchi is demonstrating how much rice to use in a particular recipe, and the class is the recipient/addressee. She initially states that the rice has already been measured out for the students (line 4). At line 7, there is a shift in participation structure, as Kikuchi directly addresses Ogawa, asking her to confirm that the rice had in fact been measured out. (Ogawa was responsible for preparing the ingredients for the demonstration.) There is another shift at line 9, as Ogawa responds. In most of the examples of exchanges between teachers, the teachers lowered their voices. Perhaps the reason that they did not do so here is that the information is directly relevant to the students. They need to know whether or not the rice has already been measured for them. Thus (21) is in this respect similar to the English examples above in which there is an exchange between the teacher and a student, but the rest of the class is the recipient (e.g., examples (15)–(16)). In (21), there is also an example in which the same information is repeated using different levels of politeness, depending on who is the intended addressee. In line 4, when addressing the students, the teacher says hakatte gozaimasu (‘be measured’). This expression contains gozaru, an extra polite form of the verb that means ‘to exist’, and the teineigo (‘polite language’) ending -masu. Compare this with line 8, for which Ogawa is the addressee. In this case, while hakatte arun desu (‘be measured’) ends in the polite teineigo form desu, gozaru is not used because the assistant teacher is uchi (‘in-group’) with respect to the master teacher (i.e., they are coworkers). Thus the more usual, non-polite form aru (‘exist’) is used. The second type of participation structure to be discussed here occurs when an utterance seems not to be addressed to anyone in particular. This type is found in both the Japanese and English data. Levinson (1988) suggests that in such examples the same person (in this case, the teacher) takes the roles of both speaker and addressee. We might consider these utterances to be verbalized portions of what Vygotsky (1986) refers to as “inner speech” (i.e., thinking aloud). Like the exchanges between teachers, discussed above, these utterances are framed as asides, and contrast with talk addressed to the class in several ways: First, they are spoken in a low voice; and second, they are usually very brief. In addition, in the Japanese data, this type of utterance does not contain referent honorifics, though interestingly, sometimes it does contain addressee honorifics or teineigo. In the next example, after giving an instruction about how to divide the rice, Suzuki hesitates and in a low voice says soo desu ne (‘let’s see’). Notice that she pauses before and after this utterance. The pauses seem to set the utterance off from the utterances addressed to the class that precede and
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follow it. Perhaps the pauses indicate that the teacher was having difficulty formulating her next utterance, which supports the idea that examples like this can be understood as instances of thinking aloud. (22) Makizushi (S=Suzuki, the teacher) S: .. sore o wakete itadaki-masu keredomo, that acc divide receive(hum)-pol but … e=, hes ‘divide that (the rice) but, um’, Æ
… (1.4), hes right pred:pol it ‘let’s see’, … (1.2) kochira wa ne, this top it … kono kore ga kaite ari-masu no ga, this this nom write exist:sta-pol lk nom ‘this this what’s written here’, … denbu no no wake-kata de, fish.flakes lk lk divide-way adv ‘about how to divide the fish flakes’,
In example (23), the teacher counts to herself before giving an instruction to divide the spinach into four parts: (23) Makizushi (S=Suzuki, the teacher) 1. S: .. mizuke o juubun kitte kudasai. moisture acc as.much.of cut give(hon) 2. … kitte itadaki-mashite, cut receive(hum)-pol 3. … e==, hes 4. .. hoorensoo wa desu ne, spinach top pred:pol it ‘take out as much of the moisture as you can. take it out, and um, now for the spinach’, Æ 5.
..
Regularities at the level of interaction
6. 7. 8.
.. nii, two .. san, three .. shi LOW>, four
‘one, two, three, four’, 9.
… e yontoobun shite itadaki-masu. hes four.equal.parts do receive(hum)-pol
‘uh divide (it) into four equal parts’.
In this example, Suzuki introduces the topic of the spinach to the class in line 4. In lines 5–8, she lowers her voice while counting to herself, and in line 9, again projects her voice. The aside is framed as an “off-stage” comment, and the teacher assumes that the students either do not hear or are not paying attention to such comments; thus she repeats the important information after returning to “the stage” (line 9). Notice that there is a hesitation at the beginning of line 9, as the teacher shifts to addressing the class once again. Perhaps this serves to get the attention of those students who were not attending to remarks not directly addressed to them. At the point where the teacher begins addressing the students again (line 9), honorific language is again used, as it was in lines 1–4. A similar example is found in the English data. In this example, Gary and Steve are discussing boiling gnocchi. (24) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary, the teacher; S=Steve, the student who is assisting) 1. S: about how many of these should go in there at a time. 2. G: (COUGH) 3. .. just enough .. like uh, 4. … it looks like maybe uh, Æ 5. … (1.0)LOW> ^ei=ght. 9. S: .. okay.
In line 1, Steve asks Gary how many gnocchi should be cooked at a time. As Gary begins answering this question, he seems to be addressing Steve. (His voice is at a normal level). However, at line 5, he lowers his voice and counts to himself. As he arrives at the answer, he again raises his voice, addressing Steve. Thus there is a shift in participation structure at line 5 and in the middle of line 8.
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The third type of participation structure seen in the subordinate communication consists of exchanges between two or more students that occur while the demonstration is going on. These occurred in both sets of data but seemed to be more frequent in the American classes. I have not included any examples because they were usually not picked up by the tape recorder. The fourth type of participation structure seen in the subordinate communication consists of exchanges between a student or subgroup of students and the teacher. I consider these exchanges to be subordinate communication when they do not involve the entire class (i.e., as recipients). This participation structure is seen only in the English data and is actually fairly rare. (25) is an example: (25) Crab Cakes (G=Gary, the teacher; L=Lance, a student) 1. G: … (2.3) a tablespoon of ^capers, 2. … (2.0) a dash of ^taba=sco, 3. L: … hi. ((JUST ARRIVING)) 4. … how are you. 5. G: .. good. 6. how ya doin. 7. L: .. good. 8. G: … a dash of taba=sco, 9. … some … (2.0) um= %, 10. … a tablespoon of uh … chopped green onions.
In this example, Gary is giving the students a recipe that was omitted from the handout; thus initially, the class is the recipient/addressee (lines 1–2). At line 3, a student who is arriving late, Lance, greets Gary (lines 3–4), and Gary responds to the greeting (lines 5–6). Thus there are three shifts in participation structure between lines 3 and 7 (lines, 3, 5, and 7). At line 8, there is a shift back to the dominant communication and the default participation structure. This is apparent from Gary’s repetition of what he had said before the first shift. (Compare lines 2 and 8.) Another example of this type of participation structure occurred when the teacher and the student(s) who were assisting him/her interacted. Though these instances might be compared to the Japanese examples in which the master teacher and assistant teacher interacted, they differ in several respects. For example, in the American classes, though there was usually a difference in voice quality when the teacher addressed a single student (or a group of students), as opposed to the whole class, it was not as obvious as in the Japanese classes. In the Japanese classes, the teachers almost whispered when they addressed each
Regularities at the level of interaction
other. On the other hand, in the American classes, it was only possible to notice a slight shift in the way the teacher projected his/her voice in shifting from addressing the entire class to addressing a student and vice versa. Thus in the American classes, this type of exchange did not seem to be as separated from the dominant communication as was the case in the Japanese classes. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the assistants were also students in the class. Thus the line between social positions is blurred, and these exchanges are similar to other exchanges involving the teacher and a subset of students (e.g., (25)). An example is given below. (26) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary, the teacher; S=Steve, the student who is assisting the teacher) 1. G: … (3.6) okay. 2. … (3.3) we wanna ^add the beef, Æ 3. … (14.4) oh I know why it’s not boiling, ((TO STEVE 4. WHO IS HELPING WITH THE GNOCCHI)) 5. S: .. [X] - 6. G: [<X you X>] don’t have it ^on all the way. ((REFERRING 7. TO THE BURNER)) 8. S: .. okay. 9. … (1.0) and you always put a little oil in there? 10. G: .. ^I always put a little oil in ^any, 11. … (1.1) any ^pasta that I’m doing, 12. .. just a ^little, 13. .. just a touch.
In lines 1–2, Gary is demonstrating how to make beef carbonade, and the class is the recipient/addressee. There is a shift in the participation structure at line 3, as Gary addresses Steve, who is standing at the stove boiling the gnocchi. There is another shift at line 8, as Steve responds to Gary and subsequently asks him another question concerning the gnocchi. As Gary answers (line 10), he again projects his voice, directing his answer toward the class, and effecting a shift back to the dominant communication and the default participation structure. Gary accomplishes this shift by incorporating Steve’s question into the demonstration and continuing on to explain his method for cooking pasta (lines 10–13). This example shows how the dominant communication emerges during interaction. In essence, the topic of the demonstration has changed from beef carbonade (lines 1–2) to gnocchi, the topic that was introduced during the subordinate communication (line 3).
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As I mentioned, the examples of subordinate communication in the English data do not seem to be as clearly separated from the dominant communication as they are in the Japanese data. Perhaps this is because in the American classes there is more variety in the participation structures seen throughout the demonstrations, and the shifts occur so rapidly that it is somewhat artificial to try and separate them as I have. In reality, they merge together inextricably. Indeed, as Goffman (1981) pointed out, analyzing the changes in footing found in a stretch of talk may make them seem mechanical, as well as rather static and easily performed. However, he suggested that these shifts are not discrete acts: When there is a shift in participation structure, the previous alignment is not terminated; rather, it is more like putting that alignment on hold, knowing that it may be re-engaged at any moment. The idea of putting an alignment on hold means that the ongoing participation structure projects structures for future utterances. Projected structures may or may not be immediately realized, as we saw in (17), but there is always the possibility of returning to a previous participation structure. Evidence for this claim can be seen in many of the examples I have presented. For instance, in (25), when Gary and Lance exchange greetings in lines 3–7, the default participation structure is put on hold, but Gary returns to it after the exchange between himself and Lance has ended. In the ideas discussed above, we again see evidence that interaction is both schematic and emergent. However, this time this idea is framed more specifically, suggesting that the participation structures seen in interaction are both predictable and unpredictable. This idea is not new. For example, the concept of insertion sequences, first introduced by Schegloff (1972), which refers to the insertion of a sequence of utterances inside an adjacency pair, would seem to suggest that participation structures are both predictable and unpredictable. (27) is an example from Levinson (1983: 304). (27) 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.
B: U:hm (.) what’s the price now eh with V. A. T. do you know eh A: Er I’ll just work that out for you = B: = thanks (10.0) A: Three pounds nineteen a tube sir
As was mentioned with regard to example (17), the first part of an adjacency pair projects the second part of the pair (Schegloff and Sacks 1973). In (27), the question in lines 1–2 projects an answer. However, notice that, in this example, the second part of the pair does not occur until line 6 due to the intervening
Regularities at the level of interaction
insertion sequence in lines 3–4. Insertion sequences have the effect of putting the second part of the adjacency pair on hold. This is a relatively simple example, and therefore, the participation structure seems quite predictable. However, as Levinson (1983) points out, many utterances and other types of interactions may be embedded within an adjacency pair. In this case, though the interaction might seem to be predictable at the local level (i.e., the level of the adjacency pair), this is not really the case. It is always possible that another utterance(s) (with a different projected participation structure) will intervene before the predicted one is realized. It is also possible that the second part of the adjacency pair never occurs, and thus the projected participation structure is not realized. I believe that this type of fluidity and multiple levels of embedding are what Goffman had in mind. Such embedding starts at the level of the genre, which projects a set of social positions and participant roles. Then at the level of the utterance-event, various other complex participation structures emerge, which in turn project other participation structures, which may or may not be realized, and there is always the possibility of returning to the default participation structure that is projected at the level of the genre. Whether and how often this possibility is realized depends on how institutionalized the genre is as well as on how the interaction unfolds at the local level. In the cooking class genres, the possibility of returning to the default structure is usually eventually realized. However, in the American classes, even the generalization that the default participation structure was the most prevalent one changed as the term progressed. In the next section, I will discuss these changes.
3.6 Participation structures over time Though in general the default participation structure was the most prevalent pattern in the American cooking demonstrations, it became less prevalent over time. As the term progressed, and the students and teachers became better acquainted, a more casual atmosphere developed in the classes. This is evident through changes in participation as well as changes in the body positioning of the students with respect to the teacher. For example, as the term progressed, students moved around the classroom much more freely. In the beginning, most of the students were seated at tables in front of the teacher, and they stayed in their seats throughout the demonstration. However, in the last few classes of the term, many students left their seats to stand in groups around the teacher. Concurrent with these changes in body positioning was a relaxation of
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the schematic pattern of teacher as primary speaker and students as recipient/addressee (i.e., the default participation structure). Thus when the students stood closer to the teacher, the turn-taking patterns became more like those seen in ordinary conversation, with the next speaker self-selecting (Sacks, Schegloff, and Jefferson 1974). The example below shows this change in participation structure. It also contains a metacommentary in which several students and the teacher joke about the relationship between time and the relaxation of social norms, as evidenced through body positioning. The excerpt is from the fifth meeting of the class. (The American classes all ran for a duration of six weeks.) (28) Crab Cakes (G=Gary, the teacher; M=Mary, a student; K=Karen, a student; S= a student) M: this is what, the fourth week, [X] K: [no, the fifth]. M: [[XXX]] S: [[the ^fifth]]. M: .. the ^fifth week, oh my. S: yeah. X: XXX. K: … we shoulda been going up there <@ to the- to the stove, and eating out of the @> - S: <@ yeah @>. M: that’s right. G: .. <@ that’s right @>. @@ S: [@@@] M: [<X that X>] - .. that’s the final week. … eat at the <@ stove @>. G: .. @@@ K: <@ it’s XXX at the table @>. [@@] G: [eat at] the ^stove, hm.
Regularities at the level of interaction
Such changes in the schematic, default patterns seen in the cooking classes over time provide evidence that structural properties are not static entities. Rather, they emerge over time and as such are only rough indicators of institutional structure, which is also evolving over time (Giddens 1984). In contrast, in the Japanese cooking demonstrations, there is no evidence of a shift in the patterns of participation structure or body positioning over time. I believe that there are several reasons for this difference: First, there were more students in the Japanese classes than in the American ones, so it was less likely that the entire group would get to know each other well.26 In addition, in the Japanese classes, students could enroll at any time and they could make up a class by attending a different class. Thus there were often new students. Finally, the level of politeness (and formality) in Japanese society is determined not only by the level of familiarity among the participants, but also by how the participants perceive their relative social positions (Ide and Yoshida 1999). Of course, this includes their construction of their uchi/soto (‘in-group/out-group’) relationships. Because these relationships did not change, there is no reason to expect a change in the patterns of interaction in the cooking demonstrations. However, I should note that the interaction that occurred within the groups of students may have changed as the group participants became better acquainted.
3.7 Genres and intertextuality In Chapters 1 and 2, I suggested that genres are intertextual and continuous. Recall that Briggs and Bauman (1992) argue that genres are linked to abstract models of how language users produce and process speech in particular situations, suggesting that patterns are repeated within and across genres. I also suggested that these ideas are related to the idea that genres are continuous, ranging from highly institutionalized discourse to spontaneous interaction. The examples above (and in particular (28)) illustrate both of these aspects. As the participants in the American cooking classes became better acquainted, the patterns seen became more like those associated with other genres, such as casual conversation. In addition, over time, the social positions associated with the cooking class genre (i.e., teacher and student) became more like the social position friend. This social position is associated with different participant roles (i.e., there is usually not a designated speaker). As this occurred, the participation structure also shifted to resemble the type of interaction that is perhaps most common among friends, conversation.
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I further suggested in Chapters 1 and 2 that the idea that genres occur in systems is also related to their intertextuality. As such, we might expect to find similarities across genres and, in particular, in “families of genres” (Bergmann and Luckmann 1994). Indeed, research on classroom interaction in Japan and the U. S. does suggest some similarities to my findings. For example, the default participation structure in which the teacher is the primary speaker and the class the recipient/addressee is found in all types of Japanese and American classrooms. However, research suggests that in American classrooms, though the teacher is the default speaker, students do engage in verbal participation and are encouraged to do so (Rohlen 1983; Philips 1983), whereas this is rarely the case in Japanese classrooms (Bereday and Masui 1973; Rohlen 1983). For example, Philips (1983) found that, in American classrooms at the elementary school level, student participation is often elicited by teacherinitiated actions such as questions or directives. In contrast, Conduit and Conduit (1996) claim that in Japanese elementary school classrooms, during lessons, students rarely spoke in front of the group unless specifically called on, and even then, sometimes they did not respond. In addition, they observed that even in organized encounters such as club meetings, where students do participate verbally, a specified structure is followed with respect to participation. In other words, students only spoke when their particular role within the group required it. Rarely did a student voluntarily speak. According to these authors, who will speak and even what will be said is determined according to “formulaic procedures” (Conduit and Conduit 1996: 78). At the high school level as well, Rohlen (1983) suggests that Japanese students prefer “… passive, … relatively anonymous listening to active participation” (Rohlen 1983: 244). He says that learning is largely accomplished through monologic lectures rather than through group discussions, which he suggests are much more common in American high school classrooms. He argues that there are crucial differences between the education systems in the two countries and that these are to a certain extent due to differing goals. While cautioning against idealizing the American education system, he suggests that its main goal is to foster individual critical thinking in students and that class discussion is a useful strategy for developing these skills. On the other hand, the main goal of the Japanese education system is “information loading” in preparation for university entrance examinations (Rohlen 1983: 244). Because discussions do not work as well for this type of learning, students are not taught to make comments or ask questions in classroom situations. After observing several failed attempts at classroom discussions in Japanese high schools,
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Rohlen (1983: 245) says “the fact is that neither teachers nor their students are used to the practice. Instruction almost entirely by lecture is a thoroughly entrenched pattern.” It is not surprising to find similar patterns in the cooking classes. Students follow the patterns for classroom behavior that they have come to expect from their previous experience with the education system (Christie 1997). As they are influenced by their expectations, the participants recreate the same types of social structures. Indeed, Philips (1983) suggests that the patterns of interaction found in elementary schools socialize children to expect similar types of patterns in other institutions. She suggests that, … these systems for regulating talk serve as resources for organizing interaction in a wide variety of institutional frameworks in which the students will participate as adults — resources they will draw on again and again in later life. (Philips 1983: 93)
From the above discussion, it seems that the participation structure in the cooking classes is similar in a general way to participation structures seen in other types of classrooms. However, while pointing out that some aspects of the interaction in the cooking classes may be similar to regular classroom interaction, I should also point out that there are aspects that may be quite different due to differences in the situation and the participants. For example, the use of hyperpolite language by the Japanese teachers seems to be specific to this genre and perhaps other, similar genres (i.e., classes for adults). There are several contextual reasons for this: First, in the cooking classes, the students are paying customers, and the teachers are performing a service for them. Therefore, the teachers see the students as okyakusama (‘honored guests’) who should be treated with respect. This is obviously not the case in a regular classroom. A second factor that may have prompted the teachers to use hyperpolite language is the fact that all of the participants in the cooking classes were women. Ide (1982) suggests that women are more likely than men to use honorifics of all types, and in particular, women have been found to use honorific language for the purpose of “beautification”. (See also Ide and Yoshida 1999.) “Beautification language” or bikago “… serves to demonstrate the quality of the speaker’s language” by indicating “… the quality or beauty of what is said” (Ôishi 1975, as cited in Wetzel 2003). This use of honorifics differs from both referent and addressee honorifics in that the speaker uses honorific forms to refer to objects that have no direct relationship to a referent of higher status or to the addressee (Ide 1982; Ide and Yoshida 1999). I found that the
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cooking teachers did use honorific forms in this way. For example, they commonly used the honorific o- prefix to refer to many of the noun phrases in the cooking instructions. In one instance, a teacher said odaikon (‘o-radish’) to refer the radish she was chopping, and in another instance, a teacher used obenkyoo (‘o-study’) to refer to the topic that was to be studied that day. The contextual differences discussed above are important factors to consider when examining how participants construct a particular situation. For example, students in a typical school would not be considered guests, and with the exception of a few private girls’ schools, there are students and teachers of both sexes. It is thus highly unlikely that we would find school teachers using many highly honorific forms. Therefore, though we can make some comparisons across genres and situations, and find some similarities, the specific characteristics of the situation and participants must also be taken into account.
3.8 Previous work on Japanese culture The contention that situational variables need to be considered before generalizing across genres becomes particularly important when researchers use the findings associated with a particular situation to make generalizations about the culture as a whole. Indeed, there is a body of work, known as Nihonjinron or Japanology, that suggests that Japanese culture is group-oriented and based on a vertical hierarchy with respect to social structure. Proponents of this model also suggest that the Japanese people have a propensity toward silence and distrust of language. Tanaka (1999) explains that these ideas began to circulate in the 1950’s, shortly after the publication of Ruth Benedict’s (1946) The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, and continued through the seventies with publications by anthropologists and sociologists (e.g., Nakane 1970; 1974; Doi 1973; Lebra 1976). Critics of this work argue that it is based on “a heavy reliance on anecdotal evidence, a lack of rigorous methodology, and a culturally nationalistic stance” (Tanaka 1999: 4). Recent research examining Japanese discourse often draws on Nihonjinron to explain the findings. Most often this picture of Japanese culture is contrasted with American culture, which is claimed to view language favorably and be more concerned with individual rights that with group harmony (cf. Carbaugh 1988; Polanyi 1989; Yamada 1992; 1997; Watanabe 1993). In particular, patterns of verbal participation are often held up as supporting the ideas that Japanese society is vertically structured and that there is a distrust of language.
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For example, Watanabe (1993) compared group discussions among Japanese students with group discussions among American students and found that in the Japanese group even a slight age difference was enough to cause a perceived status difference among the participants so that the oldest male member of the group did most of the talking. Similarly, Hayashi (1996) studied informal conversations among friends and found that in general in the Japanese conversations the highest status male initiated the topics and held the floor for a relatively longer period than the other participants. She says that the highest status male in the conversations was the “leader” and had the most control over the patterns of interaction that emerged. Both Hayashi and Watanabe argue that such interactional patterns reflect a hierarchical order. Hayashi (1996: 184) goes on to suggest that “… the formation of the single primary speaker floor is an essential part of Japanese interaction, as it gives a sense of ‘authorityship and security’”.27 Yamada’s (1992) findings would seem to counter the findings of Watanabe and Hayashi. She found that, in a meeting among Japanese bank officers, participation was not organized according to differences in status; rather, all of the members of the meeting participated on a roughly equal basis. Even though there was an age difference of three years between the oldest and youngest participant, the oldest participant did not take the role of speaker more than the others. Thus Yamada’s findings might indicate that it is not necessarily the case that the highest status participant is responsible for controlling the interaction. However, Yamada assumes that hierarchical structure is an important factor in determining who will speak and explains her findings by arguing that the relationship within the group she studied is not hierarchical. Rather, she suggests that the participants saw their relationship as uchi (‘in-group’), presumably because they had known each other for a long time and they all had a relatively equal rank within the company. Her study suggests that there are many variables that determine the context and relationship between participants, and these should be taken into account before assuming that a particular theory is supported. Indeed, there are situational variables in the studies conducted by Hayashi and Watanabe that were not discussed at length by the researchers. For example, in both cases, the situations were set up by the researcher rather than being naturally occurring events arranged by the participants for their own purposes. Thus even if the participants were an uchi group, the somewhat artificial context may have altered their perception of the situation so that they treated each other more formally, much as soto (‘outgroup’) participants would. In this case, the finding that the “highest status”
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male controlled the floor may not reflect what would happen in naturally occurring interaction. In contrast to the studies of Watanabe and Hayashi, the bank meeting that Yamada (1992) analyzed was a real, regularly occurring meeting; thus the social positions and participation structure had most likely been established in previous meetings. In other words, the interaction that Yamada recorded could be re-enacted based on previous experience, whereas this was not the case for the interactions recorded by Hayashi and Watanabe. The differences between Yamada’s findings and those discussed above point to the importance of examining each genre in terms of its distinct situation of occurrence before making generalizations about culture. Like the findings in these other studies, my findings concerning the participation structure seen in the cooking classes might be interpreted as providing support for the generalizations about Japanese culture discussed above. In Japanese society, teachers are usually considered to have a relatively high status, particularly in terms of the respect they are shown by students. Thus if we assume that the teacher is the highest status participant, it is true that she is indeed the person who speaks the most and controls the floor. However, I suggest that interpreting the data in this way simplifies the variables that are part of this kind of interaction. As I mentioned, the cooking classes are a rather unique situation, both similar to and different from other kinds of classes. For example, there are several expectations connected with the social position teacher based on experience in other kinds of classrooms. First, students expect the teacher to be an expert in his/her field, or at least, to know more about the topic than the students do. In this case, it makes sense that the teacher would do most of the talking. Second, as was discussed above, in Japanese schools, students do not often speak out in class, and thus adults would be socialized to expect that the teacher would do the talking. Still another factor that may have affected how the teachers and students constructed their relationship is the social position of the student. As was discussed above, unlike typical Japanese classrooms, the students in these classes can also be seen as having a “high status”, as evidenced by the teachers’ use of hyperpolite language. Indeed, these two aspects (i.e., the students’ status and the teacher’s role as expert) together may have created a situation in which the teachers felt obligated to do most of the talking. Additional factors that may have affected the situation include the fact that the Japanese classes were rather large and the fact that new students could enroll at any time. In this kind of situation, it is unlikely that all of the participants
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would get to know each other very well. Rather than argue that the Japanese participants were following a rigid hierarchical order in which the teacher is the highest status participant and thus responsible for doing the talking, I suggest that the situation they were constructing is much more complex, as are all situations. Indeed, all of the variables mentioned above interacted in such a way that both the teachers and students saw their relationship as soto (‘out-group’), and thus they constructed the classroom interaction in a rather formal way. This is reflected in the actions of both the teachers and the students — in the students’ attentive listening and the teachers’ use of honorific language and control of the floor.
3.9 Summary My findings show that in the cooking classes, during the dominant communication portions of the demonstrations, there is one participation structure that is more prevalent than others. I refer to it as the default participation structure, and it has the configuration of teacher as speaker and students as recipient/ addressee. Though this participation structure was the most prevalent structure found in both the Japanese and the American classes, it was particularly dominant in the Japanese cooking demonstrations. In other words, there were also other participation structures commonly found in the American cooking demonstrations, but these were rare in the Japanese demonstrations. In fact, there is only one example in the entire Japanese database of a student taking the role of speaker. Thus the Japanese data show that it was extremely rare for a student to take a turn when the teacher was speaking to the class. It might seem at first glance that the participation structure seen in the Japanese classes supports the idea that Japanese society follows a strict vertical hierarchy, with the highest status participant responsible for controlling the floor. However, I have suggested that in fact examining all of the situational variables leads to the conclusion that the situation is much more complex, and both teachers and students can perhaps be regarded as having a relatively “high status” in this particular context. Thus together the participants constructed a fairly formal situation in which they had a soto (‘out-group’) relationship. In the American classes, though the default structure was the most prevalent, there were also many changes in participation structure. These included students taking the role of speaker and performing various social actions, the most common of which was asking questions. Other student-initiated actions
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included making jokes, contributing additional information, and even making requests. In addition, students took the role of speaker in responding to teacher-initiated actions, for example, by answering questions and responding to jokes. These findings suggest that the default participation structure is less stable and perhaps less institutionalized in the American classes. Other evidence for this is the shift over time to a more conversation-like participation structure, and the fact that the social positions in the American classes were also less stable. Though the teachers might be considered experts relative to the students, the dichotomy between expert and novice is less clear. This was seen on a local level in that students could on occasion act as if they were the teacher and again on a more global level in that, as the term progressed, the relationship between the teachers and students became more like the relationship between friends. The organization of participation in the American classes can perhaps be characterized as somewhere between a formal classroom lecture and ordinary conversation, and it became more conversation-like as the participants became better acquainted. This is evidence for the intertextual nature of genres, and it exemplifies the link between social position and participant role. It also shows that structural properties such as participation structure are indicators of institutional structure, but they are also an inextricable part of that structure. Institutional structure emerges and changes as the relationships between people change, and this occurs in interaction.
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Chapter 4
Regularities at the level of discourse The content of the talk
4.1 Introduction In Chapter 2, I introduced the term structural property because it is a useful way to refer to the regular patterns of human action that are seen as social structure, even at the level of the institution. Recall that Giddens (1984: 185) defines structural properties as “institutionalized features of social systems, stretching across time and space”. In Chapter 3, I argued that the regular structure of verbal participation seen in the cooking classes in each culture is a structural property and thus one indicator of the structure of the cooking class as an institution. The regular patterns in the structure of participation constitute a structural property that occurs at the level of interaction. In this chapter, I examine another structural property that occurs at the level of discourse: regularities in the content of the talk. The fact that there is a connection between participation structure and the content of the talk may have been apparent from many of the examples in the last chapter. Often, changes in participation structure co-occur with changes in content. Example (25), repeated here, illustrates this: (25) Crab Cakes (G=Gary, the teacher; L=Lance, a student) 1. G: … (2.3) a tablespoon of ^capers, 2. … (2.0) a dash of ^taba=sco, Æ 3. L: … hi. ((JUST ARRIVING)) 4. … how are you. 5. G: .. good. 6. how ya doin. 7. L: .. good. Æ 8. G: … a dash of taba=sco, 9. … some … (2.0) um= %, 10. … a tablespoon of uh … chopped green onions.
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In lines 1–2, Gary addresses the class, as he lists the ingredients for a recipe that was not included in the class handout. At line 3, there is a shift in participation structure, as a student who has just arrived greets Gary. Notice that a change in the content accompanies the change in participation structure. Though there are two other shifts in participation structure (at lines 5 and 7), the exchange of greetings functions as a unit in terms of content (and projected participation structures). The final shift in participation structure is again accompanied by a change in content, back to the content of the recipe, as Gary again addresses the class in line 8. Notice that he repeats the content (as well as the wording) of line 2, the last utterance he made before the student greeted him. On the other hand, changes in the content of the talk are not always associated with changes in participation structure, as (29) shows. In this example, Gary is initially showing the class how to brown the meat for the recipe Beef Carbonade (lines 1–3). After a long pause in line 4, there is a shift in content, as he begins telling a story about his first experience working as a cook in a French restaurant. (29) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary, the teacher; Ss=students) 1. G: it’s gonna give you ^addi=tional flavor. .. you know, .. things that … stick to the bottom? Æ … (14.3) I always tell that story about the first time that uh, 5. … I worked in a French restaurant and, … boy I thought that was nea=t, that guy was stirring like that. ((GESTURING TO INDICATE)) … (1.2) so I walked <@ up @>, … (1.1) and I don’t know what I had in the pa=n, 10. .. something. … and I uh .. ^did that, ((GESTURING TO INDICATE)) and everything went ^up, ((GESTURING TO INDICATE DIRECTION)) … and ^that way. 15. Ss: @@@@@@
In this case, a change in participation structure does not accompany the change in content: Gary is the speaker and the class is the recipient/addressee throughout the excerpt. Changes of the type exemplified in (25) and (29) involve a shift from task-oriented to non-task-oriented talk, and they may or may not cooccur with a change in participation structure.1 This means that changes in content may either be initiated by the current speaker or by another participant.
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4.2 Content differences in the Japanese and American classes Though there are similarities in the content of the talk in the Japanese and American cooking classes, the differences are perhaps what is most noticeable. Therefore, in this chapter, I will focus primarily on the differences. In terms of the similarities, in the classes from both cultures, not surprisingly, the teachers devoted some attention to demonstrating the recipes (i.e., task-oriented talk). In fact, in the Japanese classes, the teachers’ talk was entirely task-oriented. On the other hand, the teachers (and students) in the American classes did not limit themselves to task-oriented talk. The teachers also told personal stories, made jokes, and gossiped about other teachers, and the students also joked and sometimes even joined in on the gossip. The examples in Chapter 3 showed this to a certain extent: Though most of them are task-oriented, examples (15) and (28) contain gossip and jokes. Below I will give some examples that show shifts to non-task-oriented talk in the American cooking lessons and the focus on task-oriented talk in the Japanese lessons. 4.2.1 The content of the American cooking lessons As I discussed above, changes in content often accompanied changes in participation structure. Thus student-initiated jokes, gossip, and questions often led to shifts in content away from task-oriented talk, as the teachers responded to the students. For example, in (30), Pam is initially demonstrating a recipe for French bread (lines 1–2). In line 3, Ann makes a joke. When Pam responds in line 7, she is also joking, and the content of the talk no longer concerns the recipe. (30) French Bread (P=Pam, the teacher; A=Ann, a student) 1. P: … (1.5) okay, .. and we’ll do another long one. ((POUNDING THE DOUGH)) Æ A: … (14.0) do you have anyone particularly in mi=nd, .. when you’re beating on that bread? 5. ((STUDENTS LAUGH)) S: XX[XXX] Æ P: [my Wed]nesday night class maybe. A: na= na=. ((SEVERAL STUDENTS ARE TALKING)) 10. P: … (17.4) the thing is, you know, the ^se=quence that you do this in isn’t that crucial.
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After the sequence of joke and response, Pam returns to the demonstration in line 10, much as Gary did after the greeting sequence in example (25). Again, we see that the shifts in participation structure are related to the shifts in content. The shift back to the default participation structure is accompanied by a shift back to the task-oriented talk, which can be thought of as the default content of the cooking lessons. In (31), a student contributes some additional information that ends up leading to gossip about a baker named Lilah Drake. Initially, Pam is demonstrating a French bread recipe (lines 1–4), when Lydia contributes some general information about French bread. She had learned this information from a French baker with whom she used to work. (See lines 5–21.) Lydia mentions that the French baker was the husband of Lilah Drake, one of the authors of the recipe the teacher is demonstrating (line 6). When she was introducing the recipe, Pam had mentioned Lilah Drake and gossiped about her. (She refers to this gossip in lines 25–27.)2 Though Lydia’s comment might be construed as somewhat task-oriented in that it contributes some additional information about French bread, it leads to more gossip about Lilah (lines 28–52), which is non-task-oriented. (31) French Bread (P=Pam, the teacher; L=Lydia, a student) 1. P: … s- one of my halves is a bigger half than the other one. ((REFERS TO LOAVES)) … but that’s not XX. … XXXXXX. Æ 5. L: <X when I was X> - .. I worked with uh .. her husband before he left. ((REFERENCE TO LILAH DRAKE’S HUSBAND)) P: … oh, did you? 10. L: and he= - .. he worked in .. um, … <X old core French X> XXX, … <X and he= X>, … (1.2) u=h, 15. … (1.3) he said that each - .. in Franc=e, … (1.3) that you can tell where the bread is made by the bottom. P: … oh, really.
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20. L: .. because of the texture. it must be from the ti=les. P: … so from which bakery it comes? L: .. yeah. P: .. how in- - 25. oh dear, Æ I shouldn’t have said that about @ … Lilah Drake’s [per]sonality. L: [no=], .. ^he said the same thing. 30. P: oh, he said the- - … her husband said the same thing, so I don’t - L: .. her ex-husband now. 35. P: her ^ex-husband. … <X always X>, i- it - yeah. … it was … <X a bit X> difficult. 40. … and I heard that the - one of the reasons that we= originally got … uh another b- - a second bakery in town was because, L: … yeah. P: she treated um one man who shall be nameless with that X 45. restaurant, .. so= ^ba=dly, … he decided .. that he would, … m- have his own bakery for his restaurant. .. and so he opened his own bakery, 50. and he <X owned a business X> XXXX, … (1.0) or more. … it was really ^bad. .. anyway, oka=y, 55. … so here we ha=ve, uh=, … o=ne loa=f, .. and you just knead it briefly.
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In this example, the student’s comment (line 5) leads to a change in the content of the talk from discussing the size of the loaves of bread the teacher was demonstrating to gossiping about Lilah Drake. (And there are also a number of changes in participation structure, not all of which are necessarily accompanied by a change in content.) Notice also that the teacher is easily able to shift the content back to the ongoing recipe (line 53), and this is consistent with her social position as the teacher as well as her participant role of primary speaker. In (32), the teacher, Jean, is initially demonstrating how to make the crust for an asparagus tart (lines 1–4). The loud talking and laughter of several students causes her to suspend the demonstration momentarily (lines 5–8). At line 9, one of the students asks Jean to talk about the potluck that occurs at the end of the class every semester. In responding to this student-initiated request, Jean interrupts her demonstration of the recipe and begins talking about nontask-oriented content, the potluck (line 21). (32) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean, the teacher; A=Abe, a student; S= a student; C=Carol, a student who is assisting the teacher) 1. J: so we’re gonna use the egg whites for one, … as we, … (1.0) said before. … (1.9) there’s no point in buying um, 5. ((SEVERAL STUDENTS ARE TALKING; TEACHER RINGS BELL TO SIGNAL THAT THEY SHOULD BE QUIET)) … (4.4) you guys are bad. ((REFERENCE TO STUDENTS WHO ARE TALKING)) Æ A: … (1.5) <X you X> haven’t talked about the potluck. 10. J: .. what. A: .. <X we X> haven’t talked about the potluck. J: oh potluck. [we%- weS: [oh=, 15. J: we’ll talk about that]. S: I missed] the potluck. and I X. C: I made spicy blackbean stew with cilantro pesto. that’s what I made. 20. @ Æ J: … (1.4) we have a=, at the end of class we have a potluck.
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… a sort of a little party thing, X: oh good. 25. J: … and um, Æ … (3.3). ((TO CAROL)) … (2.1) and you all get to bring your favorite recipe.
In Chapter 3, I defined the dominant communication as the parts of the demonstrations in which the teacher is the default speaker, and the entire class is the recipient/addressee. Thus dominant communication refers to those portions of the cooking demonstrations where the default participation structure is operating. Notice that this is separate from task-oriented talk which refers to content. In other words, the default content is task-oriented talk. Though the dominant communication and task-oriented talk most often coincide, in example (32), it is interesting to note that they do not: In lines 21–27, the dominant communication is non-task-oriented, and the taskoriented talk is subordinate communication (line 26). This shows how the dominant communication changes and emerges during interaction. It also shows that though changes in participation structure often lead to content changes, there is not a one-to-one relationship between these changes. In the next excerpt, which occurred shortly after (32), a student, Vivian, asks about the recipe for the crust for asparagus tart, which was the topic at the beginning of (32). Specifically, she asks if it is possible to use frozen mashed potatoes instead of fresh potatoes that have been boiled and grated (lines 1–4) to make the crust. Though this question briefly returns the dominant communication to task-oriented content concerning the recipe, Abe’s comment about another type of frozen potato, Tater Tots, (line 15) brings about another digression. This in turn leads to a discussion of using frozen peas (and Tater Tots) as an ice pack to treat sprains (line 23). Finally, the teacher makes a joke in which she ironically points out that the participants are not discussing taskoriented content (lines 33 and 35). (33) Vegetarian Cooking (V=Vivian, a student; J=Jean, the teacher; A=Abe, a student; S=a student) 1. V: .. can you use um? C: [that’s vegetarian]. ((SEPARATE CONVERSATION)) V: [mashed pota]toes, instead of .. going to all the trou[ble] X> - 5. J: [you] could, A: <X gra[ters] X> are expensive.
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J: A: 10. J: X: V: X: Æ 15. A: V:
J: 20. Ss: Æ
V: J: 25. S: X: A: S: J: 30. V:
Æ
J: A: 35. J:
[oh], but [this is actually easier], [XXXX]. cause you’re grating them, … (1.1) with the- - but [grating is such a chore]. [XXXXX]. ((15 LINES OMITTED)) t- Tater Tots are the best thing. oh, Tater Tots are great. Tater Tots are [X]. [I] didn’t hear that. Tater Tots [are great]. [@@@@@@@] ((LOUD LAUGHTER)) ((30 LINES OMITTED)) <X I’ve used Tater Tots X> as a cure for sprains. … (1.5) a cure for sprains? @@@ frozen in a bag. pulled muscles [and sprains]. [frozen] - frozen peas are better. ((9 LINES OMITTED)) no, Tater Tots work great. [this is kind of uh, [XXXXXXXXX] therap- therapeutic vegetable cooking], you know.
Examples (25) and (30)–(33) show that as the participation structure changed and different participants took the role of speaker, the content of the talk also often shifted from task-oriented to non-task-oriented. On the other hand, as I have said, changes in participation structure did not always effect a shift in content; nor were changes in content always accompanied by changes in participation structure. Cases in which a shift in participation structure did not effect a change in content usually involved student questions that were directly related to the ongoing demonstration. It seems that the students used this type
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of question to check their understanding of the preceding information rather than to obtain additional information. For example, in (12), repeated below, there are two such instances, the question in line 14 and the tag question in lines 30–31. Though the speakers are different students, both questions refer directly back to something Gary had just said, and appear to be requests for confirmation that the students’ interpretations are correct. Indeed, the way Gary orients to these utterances supports this hypothesis: He gives affirmative, one-word responses in lines 15 and 32 and continues with the demonstration in the immediately following discourse (lines 16 and 33). (12) Crab Cakes (G=Gary, the teacher; M=Mary, a student; J=Jeanine, a student) 1. G: .. I add a little bit of ^mayonnaise. .. now, remember mayonnaise is made out of oil and, … ^eggs. 5. … so a little bit of ^mayonnaise, really … gives this some uh, … some character, about, … for this much, 10. .. about, … two tablespoons. ((BANGING SPOON AGAINST SIDE OF BOWL)) … (2.2) okay? Æ M: … (3.0) so that’s in addition to the ^eggs? 15. G: … yes. ((BEATING MAYONNAISE INTO MIXTURE)) … (10.3) a little ^mustard, … (13.2) ^pepper, … (8.9) ^salt, … (1.3) and ^cayenne. 20. … ((BEATING THE MIXTURE)) … (20.2) now, … I’m gonna add a little more bread crumb, because it’s not the right texture. … you want it s- so it’ll, 25. … (1.3) kind of … stay together, .. and just a little bit more of this’ll - … should work.
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((HITTING SPOON AGAINST SIDE OF BOWL)) … (2.5) you don’t want it to be ^too dry. Æ 30. J: … (2.3) it shouldn’t be falling apart, should it? G: … (1.4) right. .. and the way to test this .. for ^seasonings?
As example (29), above, demonstrates, sometimes changes in content occurred when there was no change in participation structure. In these cases, the teacher was the speaker and the class was the recipient/addressee throughout, but the teacher shifted from talking about task-oriented content to talking about nontask-oriented content. These teacher-initiated shifts in content were similar to those initiated by students: They involved asking questions and making jokes. In addition, as I mentioned, the teachers also told personal stories and gossiped about other teachers. In some cases, these shifts in content seemed to occur “out of the blue”. This was the case in example (29), which is repeated here. At the beginning of this excerpt in lines 1–3, Gary is explaining the procedure for browning the meat in the recipe Beef Carbonade. After a pause in line 4, he introduces a personal story that does not have any apparent connection to the recipe or to the prior discourse. (29) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary, the teacher; Ss=students) 1. G: it’s gonna give you ^addi=tional flavor. .. you know, .. things that … stick to the bottom? Æ … (14.3) I always tell that story about the first time that uh, 5. … I worked in a French restaurant and, … boy I thought that was nea=t, that guy was stirring like that. ((GESTURING TO INDICATE)) … (1.2) so I walked <@ up @>, … (1.1) and I don’t know what I had in the pa=n, 10. .. something. … and I uh .. ^did that, ((GESTURING TO INDICATE)) and everything went ^up, ((GESTURING TO INDICATE DIRECTION)) … and ^that way. 15. Ss: @@@@@@
(34) occurred almost immediately after (29) and is similar in that it does not seem to be related to anything in the ongoing context.
Regularities at the level of discourse
(34) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary, the teacher) 1. G: I once had a ^friend who had a uh, … a ^hou=se. … and he had no .. ^kitchen? … it was … all - 5. … wi- well, it was kind of all kitchen, but it was a - .. a bar where like all you guys would be sitting … at this ^ba=r, like a bar in a re- in a - 10. … in a ^ba=r, … and behind it he had a refrigerator, so then right ^here, he had all his ^sto=ves and, … with those <X ^genair things that through the X> - 15. <X through th- everything down X>, so he could … ^cook, and he could visit with everybody. … it was ^grea=t.
Since the stories in (29) and (34) do not really evolve out of the prior discourse and do not seem to be related to the ongoing demonstration, we might hypothesize that their purpose is to entertain the students. I will return to this idea in Section 4.4. Examples such as (29) and (34) are actually infrequent in my data. In most cases, teacher-initiated stories, jokes, and gossip evolved from the ongoing discourse, and in a few cases from something in the physical context. The next two examples illustrate this latter possibility. Before the excerpt in (35), Gary was explaining what cut of meat the students should buy for the dish Beef Carbonade. In (35), as he is taking some pans out to begin cooking, he finds a spider in one of the pans. He makes a joke about this in lines 4 and 6. (35) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary, the teacher; K=Karen, a student; S=a student) 1. G: … (7.1) hey, 2. we’ve got the … s- - 3. the spider and her family in here. ((BANGING)) Æ 4. … (1.6) a little extra protein, 5. K: @@ XX. Æ 6. G: … you never know when you’re gonna need it.
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7. S: … (2.3) oh, 8. a family.
In this example, the presence of the spider in the physical environment at least partially brings about this shift in content from task-oriented to non-taskoriented talk. In the excerpt below, a change in the physical environment and the prior discourse bring about the teacher-initiated change from task-oriented to nontask-oriented talk. In this case, the change in the physical environment is a particular person leaving the classroom. Before presenting the example, I will give some background information. In California, with the exception of a fee for materials, adult education is state-funded, and there is no tuition fee. (In the cooking classes, the materials fee is for the food.) Theoretically, it is also possible to register without paying this fee, if the student only sits in and does not use any of the materials (i.e., in this case, does not eat the food). However, this rarely happens in practice. The materials fee is collected at the beginning of the first class of the term when an employee from the registration office comes to the class to register students. Prior to the excerpt in (36), a woman from the registration office had been registering students. There were two students in the class who did not want to pay the fee, and the woman did not want to register them. In this particular class, there was a related problem: Because the classes are state-funded, they are not allowed to run unless there is a certain number of registered students. In this class, there would only be enough students if the two who did not want to pay the fee were allowed to register. Therefore, registering these two students was advantageous for the teacher as well as the other students who wanted to take the class. (36) occurred shortly after the woman from the registration office had left the classroom. In lines 1–3, Gary is demonstrating the procedure for sautéing the onions for Beef Carbonade. In lines 4–6, he interrupts his own presentation in order to ask the students if the woman from the registration office has left the classroom. His questions have the import of jokes, and they lead to further joking and making fun of the woman. (See lines 15–19 and 21–30.) (36) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary, the teacher; D=David, a student; K=Karen, a student 1. G: .. but, … this many onions, just to speed things along, Æ … (1.0) is she gone? ((REFERENCE TO WOMAN FROM
Regularities at the level of discourse
5. Æ D: G: K: 10. G: D: K: G: 15.
X: G: 20. G: K:
25. G:
D: G: 30.
REGISTRATION OFFICE)) … (1.8) did we get rid of her? .. yeah. … (1.3) and who are these people. @@ David Thomas and Amy Sands. .. yeah. … oh, you have to leave? .. no no. … she said,. ((STUDENTS LAUGH)) Je=sus. Bastille Day <X is the thing X>. ((SEVERAL STUDENTS ARE TALKING AT ONCE)) yeah. she said, .. she can’t have any - they can’t have any information ^either. .. no. I can’t - they can’t have [any hand-] - [I don’t] remember a thing. .. you stole that ^damn handout from me now. ((STUDENTS ARE LAUGHING AND COMMENTING)) now, ^onions are - -
The departure of the registration woman from the classroom and the previous discourse are both factors that lead to the interaction in this excerpt. Indeed, the previous discourse is reintroduced as reported speech in line 16. Gary uses this direct quotation to mock the woman from the registration office, thus reframing the utterance as a joke, rather than a serious instruction. The interaction continues in this vein, as Gary and several students report various other utterances that they attribute to the registration woman (lines 22–24 and line 27). The utterances in lines 28 and 29 continue the joke. They can also be interpreted as reported speech (i.e., as the ironic responses of David and Gary to some hypothetical, future questions concerning who had and had not received the class materials).
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In Chapters 2 and 3, I suggested that genres are intertextual and that this explains why they are continuous rather than discrete. In other words, genres are connected to previously occurring examples of the same genre through recurring typified patterns. At the same time, genres are connected to other genres, as actors elaborate and modify existing patterns (Yates and Orlikowski 1992). As was discussed in Chapter 2, and as example (36) again demonstrates, intertextuality is particularly clear in reported speech because quotes index two situations: the current one and a previous (or hypothetical/future) one. This kind of example of intertextuality may occur within and across genres. Thus while it might be possible to consider the jokes, gossip, and personal stories that occur within the cooking class demonstrations to be separate genres embedded within another genre, there does not seem to be much point in doing so. Rather, the occurrence of these other types of activities (i.e., jokes, gossip, and stories) within the cooking class demonstrations is evidence for the continuous (as well as emergent) nature of genres. This is perhaps best demonstrated by the examples below, in which personal stories, jokes, and gossip are interwoven in the task-oriented talk. For example, in (37), in lines 1–2, the teacher is explaining her method for cooking artichokes. In line 3, she introduces a story on a related topic, how her mother used to make artichokes, and in line 10, ends with a joke. The joke concerns decreasing fat. (37) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean, the teacher) 1. J: .. I never cut them because, 2. this will … cook down. Æ 3. … (1.4) now, 4. … in the old days, 5. … (1.6) um … (1.1) when I was taught, 6. my mother made artichokes this way. 7. .. she’d always pour olive oil over each one. 8. … (1.1) so, 9. … i- it’s really fun. Æ 10. you can simulate it. ((PRETENDS TO POUR OIL OVER 11. ARTICHOKES)) 12. ((STUDENTS LAUGH))
In this example, the cooking demonstration, story, and joke are not discrete units. Indeed, the story and joke would only be interpretable in the context of the cooking demonstration. More specifically, this is in part, again, related to intertextuality: The idea of decreasing fat had been mentioned several times
Regularities at the level of discourse
previously in this lesson. In fact, the joke in line 10 would make less sense if the students were unaware of this prior discourse. (38) is another example of this type. In this case, there is gossip embedded in the task-oriented talk. Initially, Pam is introducing the recipe she will demonstrate, which includes explaining who wrote it (lines 1–7). At first, she cannot remember the name of one of the bakers who wrote the recipe (lines 5–13), but a student provides the name (lines 17–20). In lines 21–29, Pam tells the class some gossip about this baker, Lilah Drake. (38) French Bread (P=Pam, the teacher, L=Lydia, a student) 1. P: this is Julia Child’s French Bread, .. that she first had in Parade Magazine, many years ago. … and she developed it with u=m, 5. … (1.7) (Hx) <WH what was her name WH>, … I’ve forgotten her name now, .., … u=m, ((8 LINES OMITTED)) 10. P: anyway, sorry, I can’t remember her name, she had a bakery here in town, .. and she was a .. ^brilliant baker. 15. she learned in France, she was [<X the chef X>]. L: [oh XX]. P: … yeah. .. Lilah [Drake] 20. L: [Lilah] Drake. Æ P: Lilah Drake. … she was the first woman .. ^ever to be=, .. um, … an official baker in France. 25. … and she was a .. ^br=illiant baker, she was a … very difficult person to deal with, and I think she went out of business because of her, … ^not because of her bread, but because of her personality.
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Again, the gossip does not function as a discrete unit, but is part of the demonstration. I have discussed several ways in which shifts from task-oriented content to non-task-oriented content occurred in the American classes. In many cases, such shifts were associated with changes in participation structure. In essence, when a different participant took the floor, even if only briefly, there was often a corresponding shift in the content of the talk. In other cases, changes in content were initiated by the teachers, and there was no shift in participation structure. In addition, the examples also demonstrate some of the ways in which this genre is intertextual and continuous. Intertextuality is of course demonstrated in the fact that there are regularly recurring patterns of interaction (i.e., participation structure) and discourse (i.e., regular patterns in the content of the talk). However, it is also demonstrated at the levels of the clause and the lexicon through reported speech and even through repeated reference to the same referent (e.g., fat in (37), and Lilah Drake in (31)). The continuous nature of genres is shown in the shifts in content in (37) and (38), as cooking demonstrations, jokes, stories, and gossip are not readily separable into discrete units, but blend into one. 4.2.2 The content of the Japanese cooking lessons In contrast to the American cooking demonstrations, the Japanese cooking demonstrations were entirely task-oriented. Of course, as I explained in Chapter 3, because the teachers did almost all of the talking, they had control over the content. Thus, unlike the students in the American classes, the students in the Japanese classes did not initiate changes in content. However, the teachers did not do so either. Instead, they focused only on cooking procedures. Examples (39) and (40) are typical of the Japanese cooking demonstrations. In (39), Suzuki explains how to make the rice for sushi. (39) Sushi (S=Suzuki, the teacher) S: … ouchi de nasaru toki niwa, satoo to oshio ga, kanari shita ni, shizunderu to omoimasu node, … okome o arau to dooji ni, … kono .. awasezu wa, … choogoo shite kudasai. … soshite,
Regularities at the level of discourse
tokidoki ne, … koo .. mazete itadaku to, shizen to, … osatoo to shio ga tokete kuremasu ga, kyuu ni itashimasu to, … nakanaka tokemasen, ‘When (you) do (it) at home, since the sugar and salt often sink to the bottom, (it) helps if you mix in the vinegar, sugar, and salt (awasezu) while you are washing the rice. If (you) mix (them) this way, sometimes the sugar and salt will dissolve naturally for you, but if (you) add them suddenly, (they) won’t dissolve easily.’
In (40), Kikuchi explains a method for preserving daikon (‘radish’) so that it will stay fresh for some time. (40) Daikon (K=Kikuchi, the teacher) K: … de ano= tada, … hozon suru baai desu ne, .. kure nanka ni chotto daikon kaikomu baai, … soo sut- baai wa, .. kono mama kuttsukete ano, .. happa goto tsukete okimasu to, … zenbu kochira no yoobun ga, .. ha- <@ happa no hoo ni @> itte shimatte, .. kochira no hoo wa, … e ano=, aoao to shite, .. shigete kite shimaimasu node, … kono hen de otoshite itadaite, .. ato shinbungami ni kurunde, … nijuu, … nijuu gurai ni kurunde, … danbooru nan .. ka ni iretokimasu to ne, … soto ni oitokimasu to isshuukan gurai, … mochimasu node, … hozon suru baai wa, sonna ni shite kudasai. ‘Well if (you) are going to preserve some daikon, in case (you’ve) stocked up on (it) at an end of the year sale or something, if (you) leave (it) as (it) is with the top attached, all the vitamins in this end (the radish end)
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will go into the leaves. So this end (the top) will get thick and dark green, but if (you) remove (the top) about here, and afterwards wrap (it) up in newspaper, wrap (it), doubling (the paper) and put (it) in cardboard or something and if (you) put (it) outside, (it) will keep for about a week. When (you) are preserving (it), please do (it) that way.’
There are no examples of personal stories, jokes, or gossip in the Japanese database. Unlike the American teachers (and students), the Japanese teachers did not discuss other unrelated activities (e.g., how to treat sprains), other teachers, or even their own personal experiences. This supports my contention that they were constructing a relationship with the students that was based on their identity as professional cooking teachers.
4.3 A comparison of the content of a Japanese cooking demonstration and an American cooking demonstration I have explained what the Japanese teachers did not do. What then did they do? The Japanese teachers took a very organized approach, introducing each of the dishes to be cooked at the beginning of the lesson. Then they explained the procedures for the recipes step by step, as they demonstrated them. Table 4.1 shows the content of one of the Japanese transcripts, and Table 4.2 shows the content of a transcript from one of the American lessons. Table 4.1.Content of the Japanese cooking demonstration Daikon Intonation Unit Content 1–100
Introduction (Dishes to be made that day)
1–7
Explains the main purpose of lesson — to learn different ways to use daikon (‘radish’). Introduces buri to daikon no nimono (‘boiled yellowtail and radish’) and talks about the cut of fish that will be used in this recipe. Introduces sasami no wasabiae (‘chicken breast with wasabi sauce’). Says that though some people complain that they don’t like the smell, the dish is actually very tasty. Introduces sekihan (‘azuki beans and rice’). Explains that this dish will be cooked in the microwave at half of the tables. Says that the tables where it is cooked will share their portion with the next table. Introduces butajiru (‘pork stew’) and explains that the end of the daikon is used for this dish.
8–17 18–43
44–66
67–77
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Intonation Unit Content 78–87 88–100
Introduces daikon no shooyuzuke (‘radish in soy sauce’) and explains which part of the daikon is used for this dish. Says that the students are probably familiar with other ways in which daikon can be used. Also, says that they will talk about ways to use celery leaves. (Celery is an ingredient in one of the dishes.)
101–202
General demonstration and information about daikon
101–172
Explains while demonstrating which parts of the daikon are used in the different types of dishes. Also mentions other dishes that will not be cooked during this lesson and demonstrates how to preserve daikon so it will stay fresh. (See example (40).) Demonstrates and explains some alternatives: daikon leaves can be used in recipes when celery leaves or fuki (‘butterbur’) leaves are called for.
173–202 202–575
Demonstration of recipe for buri to daikon no nimono (‘boiled yellowtail and radish’)
203–209
Teacher explains that she will start with the buri to daikon no nimono (‘boiled yellowtail and radish’). Different amounts of daikon have been placed at the students’ tables for the different recipes. The teacher explains which ones are for which recipes. Explains while demonstrating how to prepare the daikon for buri to daikon no nimono (‘boiled yellowtail and radish’). This includes peeling and cutting the daikon, as well as making criss-cross cuts in it so that it will absorb the flavor of the broth. Demonstrates and explains the boiling procedure for the daikon. Demonstrates and explains how to cut the yellowtail. Explains while demonstrating how to make sure that the yellowtail will not taste fishy. Then explains the procedure for cooking the yellowtail with the daikon. Also warns against not doing the procedure for removing the fishiness. Refers to a cookbook that has some of the recipes used in the class. Tells the students on which page they can find the recipe. Demonstrates and explains the next few steps of the recipe, adding the rest of the ingredients. Explains that the dish needs to continue boiling until the daikon is soft.
210–244
245–324
325–404 405–438 439–505
506–522 523–575
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Intonation Unit Content 576–697
Part of the demonstration of the recipe for sekihan (‘azuki beans and rice’)
576–607
Begins demonstrating the next dish, sekihan (‘azuki beans and rice’). Introduces the two main ingredients, mochigome (‘glutinous rice’) and azuki beans. Explains that the azuki beans have been measured and placed at the students’ tables. Demonstrates and explains measuring out the rice and water. Explains that the rice at the students’ tables has already been measured, so they can just add it to the dish. Explains that this dish is usually cooked on the stovetop, but in this lesson, it will be cooked in the microwave. The teacher then demonstrates cooking the rice in the microwave. Continues with the next step of the recipe, which involves the azuki beans. Transcript ends.
608–632
633–695
696 697
Table 4.2.Content of the American Cooking Demonstration Beef Carbonade Intonation Unit Content 1–20 21–32
33–43
44–104
105–127
128–167 168–187 188–189
The teacher says that he will demonstrate the recipe for beef carbonade. He also discusses the cut of beef that should be used. Finds a spider in one of the pans and makes a joke about the extra protein it will add to the dish. Several students also make comments. (See example (35).) The teacher makes a joke about the fact that the instructions on the handouts are not very detailed. He apologizes, saying that they will have to go through the recipes step by step. Demonstrates while explaining how to sauté the onions for the beef carbonade dish. Also discusses sautéing in general and how to brown meat without drying it out. The teacher asks the students if the woman from the registration office has left the room. He and the students joke about the woman and make fun of her. (See example (36).) The teacher continues demonstrating and explaining the procedure for the onions. Explains that beef carbonade is from Belgium. This discussion leads to a story about one of the teacher’s old bosses, who was Belgian. Says that the next step for the beef carbonade recipe is to brown the meat.
Regularities at the level of discourse 129
Intonation Unit Content 190–262
263–283 284–296 297–314 315–368
369–408
409–420 421–489 490–510
511–516 517–542
543–554
Gives an instruction to a student who is helping to cook another dish, gnocchi. Then he gives some general instructions for cooking pasta. Several students ask questions about the gnocchi and the teacher answers. The teacher returns to the beef carbonade and demonstrates browning the meat, while explaining why it is necessary to do so. Tells a story about his first experience working as a cook in a French restaurant (Example (29)). Tells a story about a friend who had a house in which the kitchen was not separated from the main living room area (Example (34)). Returns to the beef carbonade recipe, saying that he will add the garlic. Also, tells the class how to preserve garlic. Goes on with the next several steps, adding other ingredients to the dish, while explaining. A student questions the quantities of several of the ingredients listed on the handout. There is a discussion of this, and the teacher realizes that there are some mistakes on the handout. He corrects these and apologizes. The teacher says that the gnocchi will be done in a few minutes. Returns to the beef carbonade and gives the next two steps. Several students also ask questions about the beef carbonade. A student asks a question about adding a rue (a mixture of flour and oil) to the recipe. (This option was mentioned on the handout, but the teacher did not demonstrate it.) The teacher explains how to make the recipe using a rue. Begins the next recipe, dumplings. A student asks a question about how long the beef carbonade needs to cook. The teacher explains that when a rue is not used, the liquid should be reduced by simmering for at least forty minutes. The teacher returns to the dumpling recipe. A student mentions the milk that is sitting on the counter, and the teacher tells a story about a woman who was buying milk at the supermarket that day.
A comparison of Tables 4.1 and 4.2 shows that the content of the Japanese lesson is entirely task-oriented. In contrast, the content of the American lesson is more variable, and, though most of the talk is task-oriented, there is also nontask-oriented talk. This generalization holds across all five of the lessons I investigated in each culture. Several other interesting observations can be made by comparing Tables 4.1 and 4.2. An examination of Table 4.1 shows that the Japanese teacher first introduced each of the recipes to be cooked during the lesson. (See Intonation Units (IUs) 1–100.) This was also true for the other four lessons I examined. The
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students thus had an overview of what would be covered before they saw the demonstration of each recipe. Table 4.2 shows that the American teacher did not introduce each of the recipes before beginning to demonstrate them. Rather, he introduced the recipe as he began to demonstrate it. This was the most common strategy used by the teachers in all of the American lessons I analyzed. Table 4.1 also shows that the Japanese teacher gave the instructions for each recipe, proceeding from one to the next in a fairly unidirectional order. Again, this was also true for the other four Japanese lessons I examined. This does not mean that in the Japanese classes, a dish was necessarily completed before the teacher began demonstrating another recipe. For example, in Table 4.1 (at IU 575) the teacher says that the first dish (daikon to buri no nimono) needs to continue cooking; then she moves on to begin demonstrating the second recipe (sekihan). However, in general, there was less backtracking and movement back and forth between recipes during the Japanese demonstrations than during the American ones. For example, Table 4.2 shows that during the demonstration of the recipe for beef carbonade, another recipe (for gnocchi) is brought up twice, once at IU 190 and once at IU 409. In addition, immediately after the teacher begins to demonstrate the recipe for dumplings, a student asks a question about beef carbonade (IU 517), and this initiates a return to that recipe. Finally, it is clear from Table 4.2 that in addition to task-oriented content, there was also some time spent discussing non-task-oriented content in the American cooking demonstrations. (See IUs 21–32, 105–127, 168–187, 284–314, 543–554.) The features of the Japanese teachers’ talk discussed above (i.e., the fact that they gave a separate introduction of all of the recipes before beginning to demonstrate each one, as well as their orderly progression from one recipe to the next with little backtracking and no non-task-oriented talk) lent an atmosphere that was highly efficient, well-organized, and predictable. In addition, it gave the impression that the participants viewed the cooking class as a serious endeavor. Some of the clause-level properties that will be discussed in the next chapter seem to contribute to this impression. For example, the Japanese teachers gave more instructions and warnings, framing their talk in terms of a right way and a wrong way to implement a particular procedure. In contrast, the features of the participants’ talk in the American classes (i.e., the fact that the teachers moved back and forth between recipes rather freely, the frequent shifts in participation structure, as well as the shifts to nontask-oriented content) gave the impression that the American classes were not as well organized as the Japanese classes. Whether they might be considered disorganized or not depended on the instructor.3 Still, one of the striking
Regularities at the level of discourse
contrasts to the Japanese classes was their unpredictability, both within one class and across all of the classes. In addition, it seemed that the participants in the American classes viewed the classes less as a serious endeavor and more as a form of entertainment. In the next section, I will discuss some anecdotal evidence that supports the notion that the participants in the two cultures viewed the classes as different types of events, with different purposes.
4.4 Students’ motivations for participating in the classes As I have shown, the teachers (and students) in the American classes sometimes initiated changes from task-oriented to non-task-oriented content. However, the Japanese teachers never did this. They only discussed information relevant to the recipes they were demonstrating. Observations made while I was a participant in the classes provide some additional information that contributes to the explanation for this difference between the teachers’ behavior in the Japanese and American classes. As I mentioned in the last section, this evidence suggests that the Japanese participants viewed the cooking class as a different type of event than did the participants in the American classes. The students in the Japanese and American classes reported different reasons for participating in the classes. For example, in the Japanese classes, a number of the students reported that the reason they were taking a cooking class was to learn to make more interesting, nutritious meals for their families.4 In addition, the difficulty of getting their teenage children to eat regular, wellbalanced meals was a common topic of conversation among some of the students. Implicit in these discussions was the idea that the mothers might be able to entice their children to eat by producing food that would be particularly appealing. The teachers seemed to be aware of this goal, as they sometimes made reference to foods that young people liked or did not like. In addition, my research assistant, who was taking two of the classes, reported that her motivation was preparation for marriage. There were also a number of other young women in her classes who told her that they had the same purpose. A number of Japanese women later confirmed that it is a common practice for young women to take such classes prior to marriage.5 Given their reasons for taking the classes, it seems to follow that the participants in my sample might view the cooking class as a serious endeavor, a way to help them fulfill their role as food provider for the family.
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On the other hand, many of the students in the American classes reported goals centering around socializing and being entertained. Some of these included meeting new people, getting out of the house, meeting a member of the opposite sex who could cook, learning an activity with a partner, etc. Though several people also mentioned cooking, they emphasized the entertainment aspects of the activity, saying that it was an interest or a hobby. Thus the American participants seemed to regard the cooking class as a form of entertainment and as a safe and socially acceptable way to make new acquaintances. Indeed, the jokes, stories, and gossip found in the American cooking demonstrations are quite entertaining. Thus the teachers seemed to be aware on some level that part of their goal should be to entertain, and they realized this goal through their communicative practices. Indeed, in both cultures, it seems that the teachers were aware of what type of class the students wanted, and they did their best to provide it. In the Japanese classes, the teachers took a fairly serious approach, focusing only on task-oriented content. On the other hand, in the American classes, the teachers tried to entertain their students with their jokes and stories, creating a casual atmosphere in which the students could socialize. In the next section, I will discuss how my findings compare with studies of other genres that compare Japanese interaction with American interaction.
4.5 Comparisons of Japanese and American interaction in other genres In Chapter 3, I argued that it is important to examine as many of the situational variables as possible before making cross-genre generalizations, and in particular, generalizations about culture. In other words, language use is intrinsically linked not only to culture but also to the participants and the situation, which are intrinsic aspects of genre. Thus it is not the case that actors are constrained by their cultures to act in a particular way that is considered socially appropriate for all occasions; rather, actors are constantly working to adjust their behavior in response to situational variables. Again, comparing my findings with those of Yamada (1992) and Watanabe (1993), there are apparent discrepancies in the findings, which can be explained by examining the situational variables more closely. (Yamada compared Japanese and American business meetings, and Watanabe compared Japanese and American group discussions in a university setting.) For example, Yamada (1992:40) says that Americans often find Japanese business meetings “unfocused
Regularities at the level of discourse
and fragmented” as well as “unbusinesslike” because of their focus on non-taskoriented talk. Yet Watanabe (1993:177) makes the following statement: According to Japanese students studying in the United States, they tend to get lost in the middle of discussion because sometimes opinions, questions, and so forth, expressed by American students are not as relevant to the topic or what has preceded as they expect these utterances to be, and they lose track of what is going on in a discussion and/or view the group discussion as incoherent and disorganized.
As was discussed throughout this chapter, and particularly in Section 4.3, my findings would seem to be more aligned with Watanabe’s statement than with Yamada’s. Indeed, in contrast to the Japanese cooking demonstrations, the American demonstrations seemed “incoherent and disorganized”. An examination of Yamada’s findings partially explains the discrepancy. Comparing how topics were introduced and developed in Japanese and American bank meetings, she found that, in the American meetings, topics (i.e., bank “deals”) were introduced one at a time in a unidirectional order. She refers to this type of organization as “linear”. In contrast, in the Japanese meetings, topic development did not proceed unidirectionally; rather, participants moved back and forth among topics. She refers to this organization as “circular”.6 In addition, there was non-task-oriented talk in the Japanese meetings, but the American meetings were strictly task-oriented. Again, Yamada’s findings would seem to contrast with my findings concerning how the recipes were presented in the Japanese and American cooking classes. Indeed, the Japanese cooking demonstrations might be characterized as “linear” and the American ones as “circular. (See Section 4.3.) However, this apparent discrepancy is easily explained by examining the situations in more detail, and this includes considering the perceived purpose of each event in the two cultures.7 For example, Yamada suggests that there is a fundamental difference between what Japanese and Americans see as the purpose of a business meeting. She says that Americans see business meetings as fairly formal, task-oriented events, whereas Japanese see them as a chance to forge strong interpersonal relationships. The idea here is that forging strong interpersonal relationships will ultimately result in accomplishing business-related tasks, but the result is less immediate. In keeping with these differing goals, the American participants in the study had an agenda for their meetings. Thus the Americans pre-planned which deals would be presented, in which order, and even who would present them. In contrast, the Japanese participants had no agenda, and the meetings were conducted much as a casual conversation would be.
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In Chapter 3, I discussed the fact that there are many situational variables that affect how participants perceive and construct the situation in which they are interacting. This discussion reiterates that fact and it also suggests that the perceived purpose of the interaction is yet another important variable that affects the way the discourse is organized not only in terms of what topics are discussed but also in terms of how verbal participation is conducted. As was explained in Section 4.4, the participants viewed the cooking classes in the two cultures as having different purposes; in addition, the participants in each culture associated a different type of social relationship with the cooking class. As I have suggested, in the Japanese classes, teachers and students constructed a soto (‘out-group’) relationship in which the teacher was the expert. As such, she was responsible for controlling the floor, which meant doing the talking as well as controlling the content. In addition, the students (and the teachers) seemed to believe that the sole purpose of the classes was the teaching/learning of cooking. However, if the participants had seen themselves as having an uchi (‘in-group’) relationship or if they had believed that the interaction had a different purpose, it would probably have been structured quite differently, and it is likely that there would be consequences at the levels of interaction, discourse, and grammar. Likewise, in the American classes the relationship between teacher and student was fairly casual, almost like that of friends, and as I discussed in Chapter 3, it became more casual as the participants became better acquainted. In addition, as was discussed in Section 4.4, though most of the students were interested in cooking, they also had a secondary motivation for taking the classes — being entertained and socializing — and the teachers seemed to realize this. Thus the interaction as a whole was less focused on serious, taskoriented topics than was the case in the Japanese classes. However, if the American classes had been offered in a gourmet cooking school whose purpose was to train chefs for world-renowned restaurants, the interaction would probably have been more task-oriented. In addition, the teacher would probably be considered more of an expert and perhaps s/he would have done more of the talking. In all of these hypothetical cases, a change in the relationship between the participants or a change in the situation would yield different findings. Thus it is apparent that though actors are routinely reproducing the patterns that make up social structure in their respective cultures, they are also constantly adjusting for the situation and social relationships they are mutually constructing. As Giddens (1984) and Auer (1992) contend, routinely reproducing these patterns requires constant work.
Regularities at the level of discourse
4.6 Summary I have examined a second structural property (at the level of discourse) and found that there are different patterns in the Japanese and American cooking classes that reflect the different ways in which the participants construed and constructed the situation. The Japanese teachers focused only on task-oriented content, whereas the teachers (and students) in the American classes discussed both task-oriented content and non-task-oriented content such as jokes, personal stories, and gossip. I suggested that these patterns reflect the participants’ different views of what type of event a cooking class is and that it is important to take into account these kinds of situational variables before making cross-genre generalizations or generalizations about the relationship between language and culture. As the participants produced the cooking class situation in different ways, the exigence of teaching/learning cooking was also realized in slightly different ways. Thus, as Miller (1984) suggests, participants’ personal intentions are realized through this jointly constructed situation. In these findings, the intertextual nature of genres in the Japanese and American cooking class interaction is apparent. In the Japanese classes, the relationship to prior discourse is seen in the predictability of the genre: The Japanese teachers first introduced all of the dishes for that day’s lesson, and then demonstrated each one in a fairly unidirectional order. Overall, the Japanese cooking demonstrations as texts are invariably well-organized, task-oriented, and predictable.8 This predictability is also seen at the level of interaction in the fact that the teacher was invariably the speaker. On the other hand, in the American classes, the very unpredictability can also be seen as reflecting the prior discourses that occurred in each cooking class situation. In other words, the texts produced by the participants in the American classes are predictably unpredictable. Indeed, the content varied depending on who the instructor was. For example, though all of the teachers included some task-oriented talk, Gary told more stories than the other two teachers did, and Pam gossiped more. There was also much variation in how the teachers organized the classes, some preferring to do more demonstration, and others preferring less. Again, this unpredictability is also apparent at the level of interaction in the varied participation structures that were seen in the classes. In this kind of situation, it is not entirely possible to predict when a new speaker will take the floor, what s/he will say, or even who will speak next. We also saw evidence of intertexuality (and continuousness) on a more local level in the American classes, as referents and utterances were repeated and
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as activities and genres bled into one another (i.e., cooking demonstrations became stories, which in turn became jokes, and so on). Considering the structural properties of participation structure (see Chapter 3) and the content of the talk, it is worth discussing how they work together to produce the structures of the cooking classes as an institution. The fact that the Japanese teachers only discussed task-oriented content contributed to their construction of a professional role relationship between themselves and the students, which is a very important part of how the classes in the two cultures were structured. In other words, as teachers, they were the experts in the classes, and they were able to construct this social position not only by taking the participant role of primary speaker, but also by focusing only on task-oriented content. Likewise, in the American classes, the talk concerning non-task-oriented content contributed to the construction of a relationship that was more casual and friendly. As I have explained, the teachers and students in the American classes constructed a relationship that was less focused on professional roles and more on personal friendships. One way they did this was through the varied participation structures, which had the effect of producing a jointly constructed text, rather than teacher-controlled instructions. Another way was the variation in the content of the talk, which focused on topics other than cooking such as jokes, stories, and gossip. This had the effect of creating a friendly, entertaining atmosphere, rather than a professional one. As was suggested in Chapter 1, these findings may reflect the differences between how cooking is viewed as a cultural activity. I suggested that Japanese cooking is more based on tradition and time-tested procedures, thus explaining why the students might view it as a relatively serious activity. On the other hand, American cooking seems to be less based on traditional procedures and more on incorporating dishes from different regions and cultures as well as inventing new recipes. Indeed, convenience seemed to be more important than tradition. If the method that was commonly used could be done in an easier, less time-consuming way, the American teachers often chose the easier way, as they pointed out its advantages. In the next chapter, I will focus on structural properties at the level of grammar: Specifically, I compare two regularities in the clause structure of the teachers’ task-oriented talk. Some of the grammatical patterns to be discussed also seem to reflect the differences between how cooking is viewed as a cultural activity and can be understood as working together with the regularities at the levels of interaction and discourse to produce the institutional structures of the cooking classes in the two cultures.
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Chapter 5
Regularities at the level of grammar Clause structure and transitivity 5.1 Introduction In the last two chapters, I examined structural properties at the levels of interaction and discourse, and consistently found both similarities and differences between the way the participants in the Japanese and American cooking classes constructed the exigence of teaching/learning cooking. In Chapter 3, I analyzed structural properties at the level of interaction, regularities in the structure of participation. In Chapter 4, I discussed structural properties that occur at the level of discourse, regularities in the content of the talk. In this chapter, I analyze regularities at the level of the clausal grammar. My purpose is to discover how structural properties at this level work together with the regularities at the higher levels to create the institutional structure of the cooking classes in each culture. Chapters 3 and 4 have focused primarily on the differences between the interaction of the participants in the Japanese and American cooking classes. However, at the beginning of this study, I suggested that there were also similarities. Indeed, I suggested that the Japanese and American cooking classes are similar genres because they have a similar exigence. In other words, in both cultures, the social motive for the classes is teaching/learning cooking (regardless of the personal motivations of individual participants). In this chapter, starting with this basic similarity, I attempt to answer the following question: How is that exigence realized in both similar and different ways through the grammar of the cooking demonstrations in the two cultures? In order to address this question, I have limited the analysis to the task-oriented talk of the teachers. Limiting the data sets in this way gives a more comparable sample with which to make comparisons, since teachers’ task-oriented talk is all that is found in the Japanese classes. In Chapter 2, I discussed research that examines empirical data collected from specific genres. Only a few of the studies I discussed provide a detailed grammatical analysis that is linked to an analysis of social interaction (e.g.,
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Hanks 1987; Devitt 1989; Duranti 1994). Furthermore, only one of these studies (Duranti 1994) focuses on speaking practices. Duranti suggests that grammar is motivated by what is occurring at the level of social interaction, explaining that grammatical constructions function as “framing devices” that are used to encode how events are to be interpreted (Duranti 1994: 121). Like Duranti, I believe that it is essential to take into account the higher levels of interaction and discourse in order to adequately explain the social motivations that produce grammar. In order to determine how social interaction motivates regular patterns of grammar, I compare clause structure and transitivity in the Japanese and American teachers’ talk. Specifically, I determine the frequency and communicative functions of independent and dependent clauses, and I investigate the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses. English and Japanese have different clause combining mechanisms. Thus examining the frequency of independent and dependent clauses and their functions in the two data sets tells us how speakers use the grammatical resources in their languages to perform similar types of communicative functions. It has also been claimed that English and Japanese have different resources in terms of transitivity, English tending towards higher transitivity than Japanese (Ikegami 1978; 1981; 1985; 1991; Teramura 1978; 1980; Jacobsen 1981; 1989; 1992; Fujii 1993). The cooking class genres are a good data source for testing this claim because they presumably involve the description of objectmanipulating actions (i.e., the steps in recipes). Comparing the clause structure and level of transitivity in the Japanese and American cooking demonstrations will illuminate how grammatical resources, situation, and participants work together to produce the patterns that we see as the institutional structures of the cooking classes. In the first part of the grammatical analysis, I address the following questions: What is the frequency and function of independent and dependent clauses in the Japanese teachers’ task-oriented talk? What is the frequency and function of independent and adverbial clauses in the American teachers’ taskoriented talk? Though these questions are not exactly parallel, they are related, and they are motivated in the following way. Some of the Japanese dependent clauses I examine have adverbial meanings (e.g., temporal, reason, and conditional clauses), but one type of clause (i.e., -te clauses) has a relationship with the independent clause that has been referred to as “cosubordination” (Hasegawa 1996). Cosubordination is a type of clause linkage that is between coordination and embedding. In other words, clauses linked in this manner are similar to independent clauses, but they are grammatically dependent in that
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they are nonfinite (Kuno 1973; Hinds 1986). I observed that dependent clauses were relatively frequent in the Japanese data and that dependent clauses with adverbial functions seemed to be more frequent in the Japanese data than adverbial clauses were in the English data. Thus I investigate the functions of these Japanese clauses relative to independent clauses. I also compare the functions of these clauses with the functions of English independent and adverbial clauses. English does not have -te clauses, but because the -te linkage is rather like coordination, I compare the functions of -te clauses with the functions of English independent clauses. In the second part of the grammatical analysis, I determine the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses in the two sets of data. This question is of interest for the following reasons. First, a number of linguists who specialize in Japanese have suggested that English tends to be higher in transitivity than Japanese (Ikegami 1978; 1981; 1985; 1991; Teramura 1978; 1980; Jacobsen 1981; 1989; 1992; Fujii 1993). On the other hand, recent research on natural discourse suggests that, when real language is examined, transitivity is quite low (Hopper 1991; 1992; 1997; Kärkkäinen 1996; Tao 1996; Thompson and Hopper 2001). This research involves mostly English conversation but also includes some informal written English narratives and Mandarin Chinese conversation. While these findings show that conversation, in particular, is low in transitivity, still it seems that some genres may exhibit a higher frequency of transitive clauses than conversation. In particular, cooking demonstrations are a likely candidate because the exigence of the teachers’ task-oriented talk is teaching cooking, which as was mentioned above, presumably involves describing object-manipulating actions. Though object-manipulating actions can be expressed intransitively, they are perhaps more likely to be expressed transitively because they involve two participants (A and O). Thus I predicted that there would be a high frequency of transitive clauses in the teachers’ taskoriented talk in both data sets. I also predicted that there would be a higher frequency of transitive clauses in instruction than in explanation (to be defined below) because instruction is more likely to consist of descriptions of objectmanipulating actions. Finally, I predicted a higher frequency of transitive clauses in the Japanese teachers’ talk than in the American teachers’ talk because I found that instruction was more frequent in the Japanese teachers’ talk. As we will see, only the second prediction proved to be accurate. I suggest that this is explainable by relating the findings concerning transitivity to the findings at the levels of interaction and discourse.
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This chapter is organized as follows: In Section 5.2, I define instruction and explanation, while at the same time, defining communicative function. In Section 5.3, I explain how the data were coded for the first part of the analysis (i.e., comparing the frequencies and functions of the different types of clauses), and I present the findings for this part of the analysis in Section 5.4. I discuss those findings in Section 5.5. In Section 5.6, I explain how the data were coded for the second part of the analysis (i.e., the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses), and I present the findings of the transitivity analysis in Section 5.7. Section 5.8 is a discussion of the transitivity results, and Section 5.9 is a summary of the chapter.
5.2 Communicative function The teachers’ task-oriented talk in both the Japanese and American classes consists of two types of information, instructional and explanatory. I refer to these as simply instruction and explanation, respectively. However, it is not the case that there are large unseparated spans of instructional and explanatory information in the discourse. Rather, instruction and explanation are embedded within one another and are often not easily separated. For this reason, it was necessary to break down these categories further so that the data could be coded at the clause level. Thus I divided instruction into four subordinate communicative functions: instruction, precondition, suggestion, and warning; and I divided explanation into five subordinate functions: explanation, evaluation, justification, topicalizing, and other. Each of these communicative functions is listed below with a brief explanation and an example from each language.
Instruction 1.Instruction (inst): a direction concerning how to perform a cooking task. (41) Crab Cakes (G=Gary) G: we wanna put a little bit in a, … in a pan, (42) Guratan (K=Kikuchi) K: … ano=, hes …(1.6) osoosu no naka ni ireru gu o, sauce lk inside gl put.in ingredients acc
Regularities at the level of grammar
… itamete mairi-masu ne. heat come/go(hum)-pol it ‘(we)’ ll heat the ingredients that go in the sauce.’ 2.Precondition (precond): an action, event, or state that precedes the actions referred to in an instruction or warning. (43) Generic Bread (P=Pam) Æ P: when you’re working with new yeast that you’ve never used before, always prove your yeast. (44) Sushi (S=Suzuki) Æ S: … ano= futtoo suru made wa, hes boil do until top sono mama oite itadaki-masu. that way leave receive(hum)-pol ‘until (the rice) begins to boil, leave it as it is (i.e., on the stove).’ 3.Suggestion (sugg): a recommendation to perform (or not perform) a particular action. Suggestions are less coercive than instructions and often involve alternative procedures that are not specifically covered in class. (45) French Bread (P=Pam) P: .. it’s u=m, … you really can do it two or three times .. if you like. (46) Daikon (K=Kikuchi) K: … serori= ga chotto atarashii no tari-nakatta baai, celery nom a.little new lk be.enough-neg case … kochira no, this lk Æ .. daikon no happa demo deki-masu. radish lk leaves also be.able-pol ‘if (you) find that (you) don’t have enough new celery (leaves), (you) can also use the radish leaves.’ 4.Warning (warn): a caution against doing/not doing a particular action (or the occurrence/non-occurrence of a particular event). Negative instructions are considered warnings. (47) Crab Cakes (G=Gary) G: … now, we’ve gotta be careful not to puree it.
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(48) Guratan (K=Kikuchi) K: … koko de amari hi o tsuyoku nasara-naide here loc very flame acc strong do(hon)-neg kudasai ne. receive(hum) it ‘don’t turn the heat up very high here.’
Explanation 1.Explanation (expl): background information concerning a recipe, ingredient, or instruction. (49) Generic Bread (P=Pam) P: now, the yeast is in=, .. think of it in a slee=ping condition, in this state. (50) Sushi (S=Suzuki) S: … sore wa, that top … ano=, hes toke-nai, dissolve-neg … kara nan desu ne. because what pred:pol it ‘that’s because (the sugar and salt) don’t dissolve.’ 2.Evaluation (eval): the teacher’s subjective opinion concerning a recipe or ingredient. (51) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) J: but they were really spon=gey, (52) Daikon (K=Kikuchi) K: .. ano=, hes moo chotto koburi no hoo ga ii-n desu more a.little small.size lk side nom good-se pred:pol ne. it ‘a little smaller size (radish) would be better.’
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3.Justification (just): a specific explanation of why an instruction or warning should be heeded. (53) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) J: … locks in all the flavor, (54) Daikon (K=Kikuchi) K: … nikuzure o fusegu tame desu nee. come.apart acc stop purpose pred:pol it ‘(it) keeps (the radish) from falling apart.’ 4.Topicalizing (topic): a statement that introduces a new topic. (55) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary) G: … I noticed, … in some of the cooking shows and everything, they talk about, … um, … sautéing. (56) Makizushi (S=Suzuki) S: .. mazu chuurippu no hoo desu ne. first tulip lk side pred:pol it ‘first, (let’s) start with the tulip one [sushi that looks like a tulip].’ 5.Other: includes summary statements that close the discussion of the preceding recipe (or part of a recipe), e.g., (57) and (59), as well as questions or statements concerning the recipients understanding of what the teacher has been saying, e.g., (58) and (60). (57) Generic Bread (P=Pam) P: … u=m, … so, oka=y, so that’s the yea=st. (58) French Bread (P=Pam) P: .. I think you see, (59) Daikon (K=Kikuchi) K: …(1.1) hai, okay … mentori o itashi-mashi-ta nee. cutting.corners acc do(hum)-pol-pst it ‘okay, (we)’ ve finished trimming (the radish).’
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(60) Makizushi (S=Suzuki) S: ..(6.6) konna ne, this it … wakari-masu kashira ne. understand-pol wonder it ‘(I) wonder if (you) understand this.’
These communicative functions are found in both languages, though their frequencies vary. For example, suggestions are fairly common in the English data but not in the Japanese. I should also note that evaluation is often embedded in another communicative function, most often explanation or justification. Thus examples (51) and (52) can also be considered explanations. In the next section, I will explain how I defined clause type in each language.
5.3 Clause type In order to address the questions outlined in Section 5.1, I constructed a database for each language, consisting of a sample of the teachers’ task-oriented talk. The first part of the grammatical analysis compares the frequencies and communicative functions of independent and adverbial clauses in the American teachers’ talk with the frequencies and communicative functions of independent, -te clauses, and dependent clauses with adverbial functions in the Japanese teachers’ talk. Thus it was necessary to code the sample for communicative function (defined above) and clause type. In constructing the database for each language, I began by selecting approximately 60 utterances chosen from the task-oriented portion of each of the five lessons in each language. I ended up with a total of 298 utterances in the English database and 313 in the Japanese. Upon examining the data, I found that there was not a one-to-one correspondence between simple independent clauses and communicative function. In some cases, a communicative function was encoded by an unattached NP (Tao 1992; Ono and Thompson 1994; Helasvuo 2001); in other cases by a dependent clause; and in still other cases by a complex clause. I use the term complex clause to refer to main clauses that have embedded clauses (i.e., complements or relative clauses) that function as arguments or obliques with respect to the main clause.1 Because my primary interest is in the relationship between clause type and communicative function, I excluded the unattached NPs from the databases, leaving 284 English clauses
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and 304 Japanese clauses. The definitions of the different clause types in each language are given below. 5.3.1 English clauses For English, I considered the frequency and communicative functions of two types of independent clauses, simple and complex. I defined simple independent clauses as main clauses that may or may not contain an infinitival complement. Complex independent clauses are those clauses that contain a main clause and an embedded clause. The embedded clauses are of two types: noninfinitival complements (i.e., that complements or embedded questions) and relative clauses. I also examined the frequency and communicative functions of several types of English adverbial clauses: temporal, reason, and conditional. Figure 5.1 gives a breakdown of the clause types I considered, and some examples follow. Independent
simple (may have an infinitival complement) complex (matrix + an embedded clause)
Adverbials
temporal (when, while, after) reason (because) conditional (if )
Figure 5.1.English clause types
As I mentioned, simple independent clauses may or may not contain an infinitival complement. (61) is an example of a simple clause that does contain an infinitival complement, and (62) is an example that does not. (61) Generic Bread (P=Pam) P: uh you just want to soften it. (62) Generic Bread (P=Pam) P: and it wakes up,
The motivation for treating infinitival complements as part of the main clause is that they often do not function like main verbs; rather they give information about modality or aspect (Quirk et al. 1985). For example, in cases like (61), Quirk et al. suggest that it is perhaps more accurate to treat want to as a pragmatic particle rather than a main verb. In this example, want to is a pragmatic particle signaling deontic modality and soften is the main verb. I treat like to as a pragmatic particle as well.
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47 of the clauses in the English database were coded as complex independent clauses. The main reason for not breaking these clauses down into their component main and embedded clauses is that the entire clause formed a coherent unit in terms of communicative function. Breaking these clauses down often did not make sense in terms of communicative function. (63) is an example of a complex independent clause. (63) Generic Bread (P=Pam) P: but you know, that’s why you always want to prove something you’re not, .. f=amiliar with,
In this example, there is a complement clause why you always want to prove something, and a relative clause you’re not familiar with is embedded in the complement. However, each of these clauses does not have a separate communicative function. Rather, the complex clause functions as a whole to explain why the preceding instructions should be followed (i.e., a justification). Temporal clauses are those clauses that have one of the temporal conjunctions when, while, before, after, etc. When is the only temporal conjunction that occurs more than once, though there is one example each of while and after. I consider all of these together using the label temporal clauses. (64) is an example: (64) French Bread (P=Pam) Æ P: so when it’s cu=t, … it’s very tau=t,
Reason clauses are connected to an independent clause with the conjunctions because, since, or as. Since because clauses were the only ones found in the database, they are the only ones I consider. Similarly, though there are a number of possible conjunctions connecting conditional clauses, the one that occurred in my data was if. Thus for this analysis, conditionals are if clauses. (65) is an example of a reason clause, and (66) is an example of a conditional. (65) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary) G: you don’t want to cook it at a high temperature, Æ because it’s gonna burn, (66) Generic Bread (P=Pam) Æ P: … now if you don’t give it sugar, it will still grow, but much more slowly.
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There were also three purpose clauses in the data, but because they were so few in number, I did not consider their functions. After excluding them, the English database contained 281 clauses. 5.3.2 Japanese clauses In Japanese, the relationship between independent and dependent clauses is perhaps best understood in terms of finiteness. Thus I consider finite clauses (i.e., those that are inflected for tense/aspect) to be independent, and nonfinite clauses to be dependent. There are a large number of clause connectors that signal different types of relationships between dependent clauses and the linked independent clause, but the exact level of syntactic dependency is controversial. Some scholars have suggested that the opposition between coordination and embedding is continuous (Kuno 1973; Hinds 1986). Indeed, Suzuki (1999) suggests that even clauses that are traditionally thought of as embedded (e.g., complements and nominalized clauses) often function more like independent clauses. The purpose here is to determine the frequencies and functions of the various clause types in this genre rather than the exact nature of syntactic dependency between clauses. For this purpose, I have specifically defined the clause types I examined as follows: As was the case for English, there are two types of independent clauses, simple and complex. Simple independent clauses are finite main clauses that do not contain an embedded complement, relative or other nominalized clause. On the other hand, complex independent clauses are those finite main clauses that do contain an embedded clause (i.e., a complement, relative, or other nominalized clause). As for dependent clauses, they were divided into five types. Four of those types have meanings that have generally been considered to be adverbial: sequential temporal, other temporal, reason, and conditional clauses. The last dependent clause type I investigated is the -te clause. -Te clauses are perhaps the most problematic of the so-called dependent clauses because they are non-tensed and thus in a sense grammatically dependent on a subsequent independent clause; however, they behave somewhat like independent clauses (Hinds 1986; Hasegawa 1996). The -te linkage can be thought of as similar to English independent clauses that are linked with and. Figure 5.2 presents the clause types I considered in the analysis, and some examples follow.2 As I mentioned above, simple independent clauses are defined as any finite clause that is inflected for tense/aspect and does not have an embedded clause or a clause connector signaling a dependency relationship with another clause. (67) is an example.
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Independent
simple (finite clauses) complex (finite clause + embedded clause)
Dependent
sequential temporal (-te kara, -tara, -taraba) other temporal (made, mae, ni, nagara, toki) reason (node, kara ) conditional (-tara, -ba, to) -te clause
Figure 5.2.Japanese clause types
(67) Torirebaa (N=Nishima) N: moo ichido, more one.time .. mizu de yo=ku arai-masu. water inst good wash-pol ‘(we)’ ll wash it well with water one more time.’
A few of the clauses in the database had the connectors node (‘because’) or kedo (‘though’) and were not followed by an independent clause. This is a phenomenon that has been discussed by a number of linguists who suggest that in cases like these the connectors function more like pragmatic particles than clause connectors (Iwasaki 1993, Ohori 1995; 1997; Suzuki 1999; Mori 1999; Tanaka 1999). Following these scholars, I considered these to be independent clauses. As discussed above, complex clauses are finite clauses that contain an embedded clause, such as a complement, relative clause, or other nominalized clause. There were only seven of these in the Japanese database. As was the case for the English, they were coded as complex clauses, without being broken down further because they express one coherent communicative function. (68) is an example. (68) Guratan (K=Kikuchi) K: … dooshitemo howaito soosu tte, no.matter.what white sauce qt .. nantonaku dama ni natte shimau tte yuu ne, somehow lumpy gl become end.up qt say it .. goshinpai ga aru ka to omoi-masu. worry nom exist q qt think-pol ‘I think there’s the concern that no matter what (you do) white sauce somehow gets lumpy.’3
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In my data, the clause connectors -tara and -te kara (which both mean something like ‘when’ or ‘after’) were used in sequential temporal clauses. Though -tara is often listed as a conditional connector in Japanese grammars (cf. Martin 1975; Hinds 1986), it can also function as a sequential temporal. Indeed, in a previous study (Mayes 1996), I found that in the cooking class demonstrations, -tara most often functioned to connect sequential information. In this study, I only found a few cases where -tara seemed to function more like a conditional (although as might be expected, sometimes these meanings are rather fused). In cases where -tara functioned to connect sequentially ordered actions or events, I counted the clause as a sequential temporal clause. On the other hand, in cases where it gave a conditional meaning, I counted the clause as a conditional clause. An example of a -tara clause with a temporal connection is given in (69), and there is an example with a conditional connection in (70). (69) Sushi (S=Suzuki) Æ S: kazoete itadai-tara, count receive(hum)-temp … tsuyobi de, high.heat at ‘when you’ve counted (to five) at high heat’, Æ
sore shite itadaitara, that do receive(hum)-temp ato, after … hi o keshite itadaki-masu. flame acc turn.off receive(hum)-pol ‘once you’ve done that, then turn off the heat.’
(70) Torirebaa (N=Nishima) Æ N: … chi ga tsuite itari shi-tara, blood nom attach be do-cond .. tori-yasui desu shi, take-easy pred:pol and ‘if there’s blood attached, (it)’ s easy to remove (it) and,’
The clause connectors that I have labeled Other Temporals in Figure 5.2 all have somewhat different meanings. Made means ‘until’; mae ni means ‘before’; nagara means ‘while’; and toki means ‘when’. The reason that I counted all of these together is that there were too few of each type to count each one separately.
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An example with toki (‘when’), which has the most general meaning, is given in (71). (71) Sushi (S=Suzuki) Æ S: … ouchi de nasaru toki niwa, home loc do(hon) temp top satoo to oshio ga, sugar comit salt nom kanari shita ni, fairly bottom loc … ano=, hes shizunderu to omoi-masu node, be.sunk qt think-pol reas ‘when (you) do (it) at home, (I) think the sugar and salt will be at the bottom (of the pan) so,’
In my data, kara and node (which both mean ‘because’) were most often used to connect reason clauses with a subsequent independent clause. (72) is an example with kara. (72) Makizushi (S=Suzuki) Æ S: .. gohan ga kore dake nori-masu kara, rice nom this only put.in-pol reas … nisenchi gurai, two.centimeters about … mukoogawa o akete kudasai. other.side acc open give(hon) ‘because (we)’ ll only use this much rice, leave about two centimeters open (without any rice) on the far side.’
The most frequent conditional connector in my data was to. An example is given in (73). (73) Sushi (S=Suzuki) S: … tokidoki ne, sometimes it Æ … koo .. mazete itadaku to, this.way mix receive(hum) cond shizen to, naturally
Regularities at the level of grammar
… osatoo to shio ga tokete kure-masu ga, sugar comit salt nom dissolve give-pol but ‘sometimes if (you) mix (it) this way, the sugar and salt will dissolve naturally for (you) but’
As was mentioned above, the -te linkage often gives a more general connection between clauses, something like English and. (74) is an example. (74) Guratan (K=Kikuchi) Æ K: atama to issho ni toreta to omo-tte, head comit together come.off qt think-te ‘(you) can assume that (the shrimp veins) come off with the head,’ .. amari shinkeeshitsu ni nara-naku-te ne, very nervous gl become-neg-te it … toreta tokoro de kekkoo desu. come.off place fine pred:pol ‘and (you) don’t need to worry (about this), whatever comes off is fine.’
In the Japanese data, there were also two other types of dependent clauses, purpose clauses and concessive clauses. However, because there were only three tokens of each type, I did not consider them further. After eliminating these six clauses, the Japanese database contained 298 clauses. I used this database to determine the frequency and communicative functions of the clause types described above. In the next section, I will give the results of the analysis of clause types and communicative functions before proceeding with the second part of the grammatical analysis (i.e., the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses in the data).
5.4 Clause type and communicative function In order to see how Japanese and English speakers use the different clause combining systems in their languages to communicate the exigence of teaching cooking, I investigated the frequencies and functions of the different clause types, discussed above, in the two sets of data. This analysis will show how the grammatical resources in each language interact with the situation and participants to produce the regular grammatical patterns associated with the cooking class genres.
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The frequencies and communicative functions of simple and complex independent clauses and adverbial clauses in the American teachers’ taskoriented talk are presented in Table 5.1. Table 5.1.English clause types and communicative function Clause type Comm Func
Simple
Cmplx
Temp
Reas
Cond
Total
Inst inst precond sugg warn Total I
68 0 5 8 81 41%
6 0 7 2 15 32%
0 3 0 0 3 25%
0 0 0 0 0
0 8 2 3 13 100%
74 11 14 13 112 40%
Expl expl eval just topic other Total E
59 42 6 5 3 115 59%
20 11 1 0 0 32 68%
5 1 0 3 0 9 75%
5 4 4 0 0 13 100%
0 0 0 0 0 0
89 58 11 8 3 169 60%
Total Clauses
196
47
12
13
13
281
Table 5.1 shows that the teachers in the American classes focused more on explanation than on instruction. 60% of all clause types were used to give explanation, and only 40% were used for instruction. It also shows that independent clauses were used most for all of the communicative functions. Like simple clauses, complex clauses were used more often in explanation. Thus if we add together the two types of independent clauses (simple and complex), we see that they account for 86% of the data (243/281). Though the adverbial clauses show certain trends (to be discussed below) in terms of which functions they performed, overall, adverbial clauses were fairly rare in the American cooking demonstrations, accounting for only 14% of all clauses. Complex clauses were also relatively rare, accounting for 17% of the clauses. Thus the American teachers seemed to prefer simple clauses for most communicative functions. Figures 5.3 and 5.4 show this more clearly. They break down the data in terms of the clause types found in instruction and explanation.
Regularities at the level of grammar
80 70 Num of Clauses
60 inst
50
precond
40
sugg
30
warn
20 10 0 Simple
Cmplx
Temp
Reas
Cond
Clause Type
Figure 5.3.English clause types in instruction
Num of Clauses
70 expl
60
eval
50
just
40
topic
30
other
20 10 0 Simple
Cmplx
Temp
Reas
Cond
Clause Type
Figure 5.4.English clause types in explanation
In Figure 5.5, the adverbial clauses are added together, and we can see their relative infrequency in contrast to independent clauses. Figure 5.5 also shows the general principle that explanation is more frequent than instruction in the American teachers’ task-oriented talk, and it shows that this is true for all of the clause types examined.
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140 120 100
Num of Clauses
154
80
Instruction
60
Explanation
40 20 0 Simple
Cmplx
Adv
Clause Type
Figure 5.5. English clause types and communicative function
Though the low frequency of adverbial clauses in the English data makes it difficult to draw conclusions for comparison with the Japanese data, still some trends can be seen. First, reason clauses and conditionals appear to have complementary functions: Conditionals were used for instructional functions, and not surprisingly, reason clauses were used for explanatory functions (compare Figures 5.3 and 5.4). (75) and (76) contain examples of these two clause types. In (75), there is a conditional in lines 1–2 which is a precondition (i.e., an action/event/state that precedes the action described in a subsequent instruction or warning). The independent clause in line 3 is the linked instruction, which is followed by an evaluation/justification in line 4. (75) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary) 1. G: … so, Æ 2. … if a recipe calls for four tablespoons, 3. … cut it in half. 4. … you’ll find that it’ll be just enough. (76) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) J: … there’s certain foods you shouldn’t sit there and stir, Æ because then all the moisture comes out,
In (76), the first clause is an existential relative (a complex independent clause) that is a warning. The subsequent reason clause is a justification (i.e., it justifies the preceding warning).
Regularities at the level of grammar
The temporal clauses tend to pattern more like reason clauses than conditionals (75% of temporal clauses are found in explanation). Temporal/ conditional meanings overlap and are sometimes signaled by the same clause connectors. Indeed, in English, if and when can sometimes be used interchangeably. Thus it seems surprising to find the temporal clauses patterning with the reason clauses. An example of a temporal clause that functions as an explanation is given in (77) in lines 2–4. (77) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary) 1. G: … May and June, Æ 2. when the Vidalias, Æ 3. and the Maui, Æ 4. and the WalaWalas are available, 5. … you can .. eat those like an apple.
This example occurred when Gary was talking about sautéing onions. The temporal clause gives background information about the characteristics of various types of onions. Because there were some differences in the way temporal clauses were used by the Japanese and American teachers, this is a good point to turn to the Japanese data. The frequencies and functions of simple and complex independent clauses and the five types of dependent clauses (listed in Figure 5.2) are shown in Table 5.2. Table 5.2 shows that, in contrast to the American teachers, the Japanese teachers focused more on instruction than on explanation. 58% of all clauses are a type of instruction, and only 42% are a type of explanation. However, it also shows that, like the teachers in the American classes, the Japanese teachers used independent clauses more than other clause types for all communicative functions. Considering simple and complex independent clauses together, they account for 60% of the data (178/298). We can also see that clauses with adverbial functions are more frequent in the Japanese data than in the English. Considering all of these clause types together (i.e., sequential temporal, other temporal, reason, and conditional), they account for 27% of all clauses (as opposed to 14% in the English data). Notice also that -te clauses are relatively more frequent than each of the other types of dependent clauses. Figures 5.6 and 5.7 perhaps provide a clearer picture of the relationship between clause type and communicative function in the Japanese data. Figure 5.8 combines some of these clause types and shows the frequency of independent (simple and complex) clauses, the four clause types that give adverbial meanings (sequential temporal, other temporal, reason, and conditional), and -te clauses in instruction and explanation. It shows that instruction
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Table 5.2. Japanese clause types and communicative function Clause type Simple
Cmplx
Seq temp Other temp
Reas
Cond
-te Cl
Total
Inst inst precond sugg warn Total I
84 1 1 4 90 53%
1 0 0 2 3 43%
8 5 0 0 13 81%
3 4 0 0 7 70%
1 1 0 7 9 32%
11 1 0 8 20 80%
26 2 0 4 32 78%
134 14 1 25 174 58%
Expl expl eval just topic other Total E
46 17 3 9 6 81 47%
2 1 1 0 0 4 57%
1 0 0 2 0 3 19%
0 0 0 3 0 3 30%
9 4 6 0 0 19 68%
1 0 0 4 0 5 20%
7 2 0 0 0 9 22%
66 24 10 18 6 124 42%
Total Clauses
171
7
16
10
28
25
41
298
Num of Clauses
Comm func
90 80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0
inst precond sugg warn
Simple
Cmplx
Seq Temp
Other Temp
Reas
Cond
te Cl
Clause Type
Figure 5.6.Japanese clause types in instruction
accounts for a larger proportion of the Japanese teachers’ talk than explanation, and this is true for all of the clause types I investigated. Figure 5.9 compares instruction and explanation in the two languages. I will now turn to a discussion of how the teachers used these clauses in the cooking demonstrations. Figures 5.6 and 5.7 show that the reason clauses and conditionals in the Japanese data pattern as in the English data: Reason clauses
Num of Clauses
Regularities at the level of grammar
50 45 40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0
expl eval just topic other
Simple
Cmplx
Seq Temp
Other Temp
Reas
Cond
te Cl
Clause Type
Figure 5.7.Japanese clause types in explanation
are more frequent in explanation (68% vs. 32%), and conditionals are more frequent in instruction (80% vs. 20%). The segment in (78) contains two reason clauses (lines 3 and 4) (78) Guratan (K=Kikuchi) 1. K: …(.7) sore o, that acc 2. … ano=, hes Æ 3. … howaito soosu desukara, white sauce reas ‘because it’s white sauce,’ Æ 4.
.. shiroku shiage-tai node, white finish-des reas
‘because (we) want (it) to be white,’ 5.
… koko de amari hi o tsuyoku nasara-naide here loc very flame acc strong do(hon)-neg kudasai ne. give(hon) it
‘don’t turn the heat up too high at this point.’
In this example, the reason clauses are connected by desukara (‘because’) and node (‘because’).4 The clause in line 3 is an explanation because it is a general explanatory statement, and the one in line 4 is a justification because it gives the
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Language, Social Structure, and Culture
100 90 80 Num of Clauses
158
70 60
Instruction
50
Explanation
40 30 20 10 0 Indep
Adv
te Cl
Clause Type
Figure 5.8. Japanese Clause Types and Communicative Function* *Here adv refers to those clause types that express a relationship between the independent and dependent clause that has traditionally been labeled “adverbial” (i.e., sequential temporal, other temporal, reason, and conditional).
reason for the subsequent warning (line 5). Notice that the reason clause in line 4 functions in basically the same way as the reason clause in the English example (76). Though the conditionals in the Japanese and English data exhibited similar patterns in that they were more frequent in instruction than in explanation, their clause-level functions were actually quite different. This difference is related to the higher level differences (i.e., interaction and discourse) that were discussed in Chapters 3 and 4. (79) is an example of a Japanese conditional. (79) Torirebaa (N=Nishima) Æ 1. N: … de, then Æ 2. .. mazu kore o ne, first this acc it Æ 3. .. mittsu no bubun ni kiri-wakeru to, three lk part gl cut-divide cond ‘if (you) cut this into three parts first,’
Regularities at the level of grammar 159
Percent of Clauses
70% 60% 50% 40%
Instruction
30%
Explanation
20% 10% 0% English
Japanese
Figure 5.9.Instruction and Explanation in English and Japanese
4.
shori ga shi-yasui desu ne. disposal nom do-easy pred:pol it
‘(it) will be easier to clean it.’
The conditional in lines 1–3 is an instruction, and the linked independent clause (line 4) is an evaluation/justification. Considering the conditional and the subsequent independent clause as a kind of unit, this is how conditionals in the Japanese data most often function: The conditional clause gives an instruction or warning, and the subsequent (independent) clause gives the reason for the instruction/warning in terms of the teacher’s positive/negative evaluation of the outcome. In fact, 19 of the 25 conditionals in the Japanese data (76%) functioned in this way. This finding accords with my earlier findings for Japanese (Mayes 1996), as well as the findings of Akatsuka (1992) and Akatsuka and Clancy (1993).5 These authors contend that Japanese conditionals are used to express deontic modality, which involves issues of obligation and permission. Deontic modality is most often expressed through speech acts such as commands, suggestions, prohibitions, warnings, etc. According to Akatsuka, the key factor in expressing deontic modality is the speaker’s subjective evaluation of the events in question as desirable or undesirable. That is how the Japanese conditionals in my data function: In (79), for example, the teacher gives the instruction in line 3 (expressed as a conditional), and in line 4 she evaluates it as a desirable event by predicting that the consequence will be another desirable event. Warnings contrast nicely with instructions in this respect: In (80), in
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line 1, the teacher presents the warning (expressed as a conditional) and then evaluates it as undesirable by predicting that the consequence will be another undesirable event (line 2). (80) Torirebaa (N=Nishima) Æ 1. N: araisugi-masu to, wash.too.much-pol cond 2. … umami mo nakunari-masu node ne, flavor also disappear-pol reas it ‘if (you) wash (the chicken livers) too much, the flavor will disappear too,’
Prior to this excerpt, the teacher had been instructing the students to wash the chicken livers several times in order to remove the blood and tendons. Here, she cautions that if they do it too much, they will also remove the flavor. Though as I mentioned above, the generalization that conditionals are more frequent in instruction than in explanation is true for both languages, the teachers in the Japanese and American classes used the conditionals in somewhat different ways. As was shown in example (75), above, the most common function associated with English conditionals is precondition. In general, the teachers used them to express an action or event that precedes a set of subsequent instructions. (81) has two such conditionals. (81) Generic Bread (P=Pam) Æ P: … if you work in a food processor, you put all your dried ingredients, .. in the bo=wl, … and, … then, … add your li=quid ingredients, to the processor. Æ .. if you’re working by ha=nd, … you do it the other way around.
Instructions, suggestions, and warnings can all be considered speech acts that express deontic modality, and that is the function for which the Japanese teachers most frequently used conditionals. Indeed, as was mentioned, 76% of the Japanese conditionals were used to express instructions or warnings. On the other hand, the teachers in the American classes occasionally used a conditional to give a warning or suggestion, but there were only five such instances (38% of the English conditionals). This fact, combined with the generalization that
Regularities at the level of grammar
conditionals are relatively infrequent in the English data, suggests that this is not a commonly used strategy for expressing deontic modality in English. English has another grammatical resource for expressing deontic modality: modal auxiliaries (Quirk et al. 1985). Indeed, the American teachers most often used independent clauses with modals to give instructions, suggestions, and warnings. I should also note, however, that the Japanese teachers gave about twice as many warnings as the American teachers. As I explained in Chapter 1, I believe that this difference relates to the higher level findings. Because the Japanese teachers were more focused on presenting task-oriented information and proper procedures, they found it useful to present instructions and warnings in the contrasting way described above. In this way, the students could understand why there was a “right way” and a “wrong way” to do the recipes. Thus in comparing how conditionals are used by participants involved in similar activities in similar situations, we can see that what we understand as grammar is produced by the interaction between the grammatical resources (i.e., conditionals vs. modal auxiliaries) in the language and what is occurring at the higher levels of interaction and discourse. As will be discussed below, it is also possible to see the interaction between grammatical resources and higher level factors by comparing the patterning of temporal clauses, -te clauses, and independent clauses in the Japanese data with the temporal and independent clauses in the English data. In the Japanese data, both types of temporal clause (sequential and other) were more frequent in instruction than in explanation. This is because these clauses were primarily used to give sequential steps in the recipes. Example (82) illustrates this. (82) Sushi (S=Suzuki) Æ 1. S: … hi o tsuke-mashi-tara, heat acc turn.on-pol-temp ‘after (you)’ ve turned on the heat,’ 2. Æ 3. 4.
yahari, as.expected … ano= futtoo suru made wa, hes boil do temp top sono mama oite itadaki-masu. that way place receive(hum)-pol
‘leave (it) there until (it) boils.’
I coded the clause in line 1 as sequential temporal, and I coded the clause in line 3 as other temporal. Recall that sequential temporal clauses have the connectors
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-tara, -taraba, or -te kara, which function to connect sequentially ordered clauses. Other temporal is a mixture of clause types with other temporal connectors. (In fact, the meaning of made is actually counter-sequential.) I grouped these clauses together because there were not enough tokens to count each one as a separate type. These temporal connectors do not have a strictly sequential meaning, but the Japanese teachers sometimes still used them to connect sequentially ordered clauses, as made (‘until’) does here. The Japanese teachers used both of these types of clauses (sequential temporal and other temporal) to present sequentially ordered information. I have suggested that the -te linkage is rather general and perhaps in some contexts functions in a way that is similar to coordination in English. For example, as will be shown below, in English consecutively ordered independent clauses can be used to give sequential information. Similarly, consecutive clauses linked with -te are sometimes used to present sequential information. (83) is an example. (83) Sushi (S=Suzuki) Æ S: … tebayaku totte itadaite, quickly take receive(hum)-te ‘quickly take (the konbu ‘seaweed’) out,’ Æ
… soshite hi o otoshite itadaite, then flame acc turn.down receive(hum)-te ‘and then turn down the flame,’ … yowabi de juugo fun. low.heat at fifteen minutes ‘and at low heat for fifteen minutes.’ … soshite, then … ano=, hes … hi o keshi-masu ga, flame acc turn.off but ‘then turn off the flame but,’
The teachers in the American classes also presented sequential information, but they did so less frequently than the Japanese teachers. They used sequentially ordered simple independent clauses (sometimes linked with and or then). (84) is an example.
Regularities at the level of grammar 163
(84) Generic Bread (P=Pam) 1. P: always prove your yeast. 2. always take the- the um, 3. usually it’s a quarter cup, 4. or a third of a cup of water. 5. pour the yeast onto a pinch a- - 6. pinch of sugar, 7. and, 8. … watch it. 9. five minutes, 10. seven minutes, 11. it should be starting to bubble.
In this example, Pam gives her technique for “proving yeast”. In line 1, she introduces this concept. The clause in lines 2–4 presents the first step, followed by the clause in lines 5–6, which presents the next step. The third step is presented in the clause in lines 7–10, followed by the next event, described in line 11. As suggested above, this strategy may be considered similar to the Japanese strategy of combining clauses with -te. Notice the similarities between (83) and (84). Interestingly, the teachers in the American classes did not use temporal clauses to give sequentially ordered information. Indeed, when clauses were the only type of temporal clause that occurred more than once in the data, and when does not generally specify a sequential connection (Ford 1993).6 Ford (1993) examined the discourse and interactional functions of adverbial clauses in English conversation and found that initial temporal clauses functioned to create a shift away from the time frame that was being discussed in the previous discourse.7 Among the specific functions she discusses are the following: “to provide temporal background for accounts, to encode new time frames within accounts of ordered events, and to move from specific to generic time frames” (Ford 1993: 41). As in my data, when clauses were not used to encode sequential order but to create a rather general shift in the time frame of events. Thus it follows that these clauses were more frequent in explanation than instruction and that they were often used to give background information. The examples below show this. (Example (77) is repeated from above.) (77) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary) 1. G: … May and June, Æ 2. when the Vidalias,
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Æ 3. Æ 4. 5.
and the Maui, and the WalaWalas are available, … you can .. eat those like an apple.
(85) French Bread (P=Pam) 1. P: … actually, 2. Dinah Shla=y, 3. her bread was so good I felt, Æ 4. when … I went to a class of he=rs, 5. … that .. it didn’t matter what she sai=d,
The American teachers did not use other types of temporal clauses. Indeed, though it seems that they could have used before and after to express sequential order, they did not. There is only one token of after and no tokens of before in the English data. In the next section, I will suggest a tentative explanation for this observation.
5.5 Discussion of the findings concerning clause type and communicative function Generally speaking, there were both similarities and differences in what the teachers were doing in their task-oriented talk and in the grammar that they used to do it. The similarities include the fact that instruction and explanation could be found in the teachers’ task-oriented talk in both data sets. In addition, the teachers used reason clauses in similar ways — to give explanatory information. On the other hand, though conditionals also exhibited similar patterns in the two data sets, occurring more frequently in instruction than explanation, there were differences in the way the teachers used this construction: In the Japanese data, the most frequent function of conditionals was to give instructions or warnings, whereas in the English data, their primary function was to set up a precondition before giving a set of instructions. There are several other major differences: First, the Japanese teachers focused more on instruction and less on explanation, whereas the teachers in the American classes did the opposite. Second, though both the Japanese and American teachers used independent clauses more frequently for most communicative functions, the Japanese teachers also used dependent clauses with adverbial functions more frequently than the American teachers used adverbial clauses. On the other hand, the teachers in the American classes used more complex clauses than the Japanese teachers did.
Regularities at the level of grammar 165
The differences between the frequencies and functions of the clause types considered in the two data sets are in part due to differences between the grammatical resources available in the two languages, specifically, the clause combining mechanisms. Japanese is a verb-final language with many clause connectors that allow speakers to conjoin consecutive non-finite clauses together before producing a final independent clause with a finite verb form (Iwasaki 1993; Watanabe 1994; Ohori 1995; 1997; Tanaka 1999). (86) is an example in which four dependent clauses (in lines 1, 2, 3, 4–5) are linked with the clause connectors -te, to, node, and -tara to the independent (finite) clause in line 6. (86) Torirebaa (N=Nishima) 1. N: … kanzen ni toomee ni shiy-oo to omotte, completely clear gl do-prs qt think-te 2. araisugi-masu to, wash.too.much-pol cond ‘if (you)’ re thinking that (you)’ ll make (the water) clear, and (you) wash (the chicken livers) too much,’ 3.
… umami mo nakunarimasu node ne, flavor also disappear reas it
‘the flavor will disappear too so’ 4. 5.
.. sankai kara yonkai, three.times from four.times .. aratte kudasat-tara, wash give(hon)-temp
‘wash (them) three or four times.’ 6.
.. sorede tsukatte kudasai. then use give(hon)
‘then use (them).’
I have already given a number of examples showing that the Japanese teachers used this clause combining mechanism to describe the sequentially ordered steps in the recipes. This example supports that claim (see the sequential instructions in lines 4–6), but it also shows that the teachers used this same grammatical resource to give information that was not necessarily sequential (see the non-sequential clauses in lines 1–3). English, on the other hand, does not have this type of clause combining mechanism. English speakers essentially have three choices: embedding within a matrix clause to produce a complex clause; combining independent clauses
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(with or without and); and combining adverbial clauses with one or more independent clauses (i.e., a type of hypotaxis) (Halliday 1985). We saw that the teachers in the American classes used all three of these strategies, but they seemed to prefer simple independent clauses for all communicative functions. As will be suggested below, perhaps the English mechanisms of embedding and hypotaxis are more difficult to use in this type of interaction than is the Japanese mechanism of linking together consecutive clauses with non-finite verb forms. Recent studies have suggested that the Japanese clause combining mechanism may affect the way conversation is organized and actually lead to a turntaking system that differs substantially from the English turn-taking system (Lerner and Takagi 1999; Tanaka 1999; 2000). While it has been found that, in general, transition relevance places (TRPs) are projected rather early in an English turn construction unit (TCU), Tanaka (1999) found that in Japanese, TRPs are projected incrementally, and participants must sometimes wait until the end of a clause to find out what shape a turn will take. She suggests that this is largely due to syntactic differences between the two languages and in particular to word order differences — English being SOV and Japanese fairly strictly verb-final. Turn projectability in Japanese has various interactional consequences for conversational participants, including delaying the start of the next turn so that the next speaker can determine whether the current speaker intends to continue or not, and allowing a speaker to continue holding the floor as s/he produces multiple clauses in one TCU (Tanaka 1999; 2000). It would seem that a mechanism that allows a speaker to continue holding the floor while producing incremental additions to the current TCU, might also allow the speaker more freedom in planning his/her talk. Indeed, Tanaka (2000) also suggests that a speaker may modify his/her turn after it has been produced, in some cases, even changing the type of social action (or communicative function) that is performed. In the cooking classes, this kind of reasoning might explain why the Japanese teachers used a relatively greater frequency of dependent clauses than the teachers in the American classes when describing the recipe steps. In particular, there are many adverbial clauses in English that would seem to be useful for conveying the steps in a recipe. For example, clauses beginning with the conjunctions after, before, and until would seem to lend themselves to the expression of sequentially ordered information, but these were very rare in the English data. As was suggested above, perhaps this is because English hypotaxis is somewhat more difficult in terms of advance planning than the Japanese
Regularities at the level of grammar 167
clause combining mechanism. Indeed, English hypotaxis requires the speaker to place the subordinate conjunction at the beginning of the dependent clause, thus planning the connection in advance. In the cooking class situation, it may be too inconvenient to use this mechanism because the teacher is usually describing the procedure in a kind of “on-line” fashion as it is being demonstrated. Perhaps it is just easier to present consecutive simple clauses, which describe the information in the order that it is supposed to occur. Indeed, if we consider the Japanese clause combining mechanism, that is exactly what it allows speakers to do. Because the morphological marking that signals nonfiniteness is placed on the verb which occurs at the end of the Japanese clause, the speaker can wait until the end of the clause to decide how to mark it. If s/he chooses to mark it as nonfinite, then it is subsequently connected to a finite clause; if it is marked as finite, it is independent. This type of mechanism would seem to be extremely useful in presenting sequential information as it is being demonstrated. I have suggested that the clause combining mechanism is a readily available grammatical resource in Japanese, and as such we might speculate that it would be found across genres, but perhaps more or less frequently. In several studies of narrative, clauses linked with -te have been found to be roughly as frequent as independent clauses (cf. Clancy 1980; Iwasaki 1993). In the cooking teachers’ talk only 14% of the clauses are -te clauses. Initially, I speculated that this difference was because -te clauses are often used to link sequentially ordered events, and this function would be more useful in narrative. However, in a study in which I examined only the sequential portions of the cooking demonstrations, -te clauses still accounted for only 22% of the clauses, while simple independent clauses accounted for slightly more than twice that amount (49%). (See Mayes 2001.) On the other hand, the frequency of all dependent clauses (including -te clauses and other types) was about equal to the frequency of independent clauses. Perhaps the speakers in the narrative studies used mostly -te clauses when they used a dependent clause, whereas the cooking teachers may have used a wider variety of clause connectors such as -tara and -te kara. Clearly, more research is needed to further elucidate the situation-specific and interactional variables that affect speakers’ selection of these various clause-level resources.
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5.6 Transitivity In this part of the grammatical analysis, I compare the frequencies of transitive/intransitive clauses in the Japanese and American teachers’ task-oriented talk. As I explained in Section 5.1, a number of Japanese linguists have claimed that English is higher in transitivity than Japanese (cf. Ikegami 1978; 1981; 1985; 1991; Teramura 1978; 1980; Jacobsen 1981; 1989; 1992; Fujii 1993). However, there are several problems with this claim. One is that it is based primarily on constructed, sentence-level data and intuition. I suggest that variation in transitivity depends not only upon the language but also upon the situation and the participants. Indeed, recent studies of natural conversation have shown that transitivity is quite low, but at this point, few studies of other genres have been done (Tao 1996; Kärkkäinen 1996; Thompson and Hopper 2001). However, Hopper (1991; 1992; 1997) examined informal written and spoken narratives, and found that prototypical transitive clauses were rare in this genre as well. Because part of the teachers’ task in the cooking classes is to describe the object-manipulating actions that are the steps in recipes, the cooking class genres may exhibit a higher frequency of transitive clauses than some of these other genres. Thus they are a good situation in which to test the idea that variation in transitivity depends on the situation and the participants, not solely on the language. A second criticism of the claim mentioned above is that, in much of the literature concerning transitivity in English and Japanese, transitivity is not defined. However, defining this concept is crucial if we are to compare one study with another. Research over the past twenty-five years suggests that transitivity is a complex set of semantic and morphosyntactic features that are associated with an entire clause (cf. Lakoff 1977; 1987; Hopper and Thompson 1980; Sugamoto 1982; Tsunoda 1985; 1991; DeLancey 1987; Langacker 1991). One of the earliest works to provide a comprehensive definition of transitivity was Hopper and Thompson (1980). Their definition suggests that, like other conceptual categories, transitivity can be understood in terms of a prototype, with central members and more peripheral members. (Prototype theory was discussed briefly in Chapter 2.) In order to explicate this definition, Hopper and Thompson break the concept down into ten parameters that can be used to define the degree of transitivity of a particular clause (i.e., by comparison with the prototypical transitive clause). The parameters include several properties that are usually encoded in predicates such as the kinesis, telicity, and punctuality of the action as well as whether the action is real and affirmative. Thus actions
Regularities at the level of grammar 169
are higher in transitivity than non-actions; actions that are telic and punctual are higher in transitivity than those that are atelic and non-punctual; actions that are encoded as affirmative and real are higher in transitivity than those that are encoded as negative or irrealis. In addition, some of the parameters concern the arguments of the clause in question. The number of arguments is a central one: Clauses with two or more arguments are high in transitivity, and clauses with one argument are low in transitivity. The last four parameters concern clauses with two or more arguments. Specifically, these parameters are properties of the two arguments, A and O: A’s that are volitional and potent are found in high-transitive clauses, whereas A’s that are non-volitional and low in potency are found in low-transitive clauses. Finally, O’s that are individuated and affected (by the action) occur in clauses that are high in transitivity, and O’s that are non-individuated and not affected occur in clauses that are low in transitivity. Based on a simplified version of the Hopper and Thompson model, I define transitivity as varying along a scale of event types, the event scale (i.e., objectmanipulating action; non-object-manipulating action; event; state). This scale may be seen as capturing the essential component of transitivity, which according to Langacker (1991) is the transfer of energy (from an agent to a patient). It is this type of event (i.e., an object-manipulating action) that is expressed by a prototypical transitive clause. I apply the event scale to clauses with two or more arguments, assuming that minimally a clause must have an A and O in order to be considered transitive. As I have mentioned, in the cooking classes, part of the teachers’ task is to describe the object-manipulating actions that are part of recipes; thus I expected that both the Japanese and American teachers would use transitive clauses more frequently than intransitive clauses. Because instruction, by definition, includes directions concerning how to perform the tasks in the recipes (many of which are object-manipulating), I also predicted that transitive clauses would be more frequent in instruction than in explanation. Finally, as I showed in Section 5.4, instruction accounts for a larger proportion of the Japanese teachers’ talk; thus I expected that the Japanese teachers would use more transitive clauses than the teachers in the American classes. We will see that only the second of these predictions proved to be accurate. However, before discussing the results, I will describe how the data were coded.
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5.6.1 The databases Recall that in Section 5.3, I discussed the construction of the databases for each language. For the transitivity analysis, I use the same two databases, but I eliminated most of the complex clauses so that the number of arguments in each clause could be easily determined. In the Japanese database, I eliminated all seven of the complex clauses. In the English database, I eliminated 33 of the 47 complex clauses. The ones that were eliminated were complement clauses, and those that were not contained two types of relative clauses. In the case of the first type, I considered the relative clause to be a modifier of one of the NPs and not a separate argument. (87) is an example. (87) Crab Cakes (G=Gary) Æ G: … the oil or the butter that you’re using .. breaks down, … after a few minutes,
In this example, I considered the relative clause that you’re using to be a modifier of the NP the oil or the butter. Thus (87) is a 1-argument clause, the oil and the butter that you’re using being the only argument. The second type of complex clause that was not eliminated from the English database also contained a relative clause, but in this case, I did count the number of arguments in the relative clause. These clauses are “existential relatives” (Quirk et al. 1985), of which there were only four. (88) is an example. (88) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) J: … there’s certain foods you shouldn’t sit there and stir,
In examples like this, the matrix clause there’s is semantically empty and seems to function as an introducer of new information. Thus I did not consider it to be contributing to the number of arguments in the clause. Rather, I considered the arguments to be contributed only by the relative clause. (88) was coded as a 2-argument clause, the A being you and the O being foods. After eliminating the complex clauses, as explained above, there were 291 clauses in the Japanese database and 248 in the English database. As I mentioned before, all of these clauses were coded according to the number of arguments. It should be noted that O’Dowd (1998) has pointed out that in English there is a set of words that are sometimes analyzed as prepositions and sometimes as particles — what she calls “P words”. O’Dowd outlines a number of tests to determine whether a particular word is a preposition or a particle, but she argues that these tests are often inadequate for clauses that occur in conversational data. Thompson and Hopper (2001) echo this concern, suggesting that
Regularities at the level of grammar
in clauses like we all want to play with them, it is difficult to tell whether with is a preposition or a particle, and this crucially affects whether play is seen as a one-participant verb with a prepositional phrase or a two-participant verb with a direct object. In contrast to these studies of conversational data, in the cooking class data, this did not seem to be a problem. Though there were 36 clauses with P words, many of these were in clauses in which the number of arguments would not change regardless of whether the P word was analyzed as a preposition or a particle. For example, in the clause we put on a big pot of water, if on is analyzed as a particle, then the verb is put on, and a big pot of water is the O argument. On the other hand, if on is considered to be a preposition, a big pot of water is clearly still the O argument, and the oblique argument the stove is ellipted. In other cases in my data, the P word could be clearly defined as either a preposition or a particle, according to the tests outlined by O’Dowd. However, there were four clauses where it was difficult to determine whether the P word was a preposition or particle and which analysis was chosen would make a difference in terms of whether the clause was considered to have one or two arguments. The problematic constructions were call for, depend on, and two instances of talk about, which might all be considered lexicalized collocations. Under this analysis, these would seem to be two-word verbs, and the following noun phrases might be considered to be an O. However, since in these kinds of constructions for, on, and about have traditionally been analyzed as prepositions, I took the more conservative approach, considering these words to be prepositions and these clauses to be 1-argument clauses. All 1-argument clauses were considered to be intransitive, and all clauses with two or more arguments (hereafter, 2+ argument clause) were coded further so that they could be evaluated according to the event scale. The coding scheme for this scale is given below. 5.6.2 The event scale To construct the event scale, I coded each 2+ argument clause according to four possibilities: object-manipulating action, non-object-manipulating action, event, and state. The coding for actions vs. events or states was primarily based on the agency of the A argument and the semantics of the main verb. Thus only clauses with human A’s were considered to be actions. Notice that the event scale includes a number of the Hopper and Thompson parameters: kinesis (assuming that events and states are non-actions); punctuality (assuming that object-manipulating predicates are punctual); affectedness (assuming that
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object-manipulating predicates affect the O argument); agency and volitionality (assuming that only human A’s can be volitional and potent agents). Some examples of each coding category are given below. 5.6.2.1Object-manipulating actions Clauses in which the main verb referred to a specific object-manipulating action were considered to express object-manipulating actions and were coded as such. (89) and (90) are English examples, and (91) and (92) are Japanese examples. (89) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) J: … we’re gonna um, take these cucumbers, Æ … cut them up, (90) Generic Bread (P=Pam) P: … so here we ha=ve, uh=, … o=ne loa=f, Æ .. and you just knead it briefly. (91) Sushi (S=Suzuki) S: … tokidoki ne, sometimes it Æ … koo .. mazete itadaku to, this.way mix receive(hum) cond ‘sometimes if (you) mix (it) this way,’ (92) Sushi (S=Suzuki) Æ S: … hi o keshite itadaki-masu. flame acc turn.off receive(hum)-pol ‘turn off the burner.’
5.6.2.2Non-object-manipulating actions 2+ argument clauses in which the main verb was not used to refer to a specific object-manipulating action were coded as non-object-manipulating actions. A list of the verbs that were sometimes used in this way is given in Table 5.3. Obviously, the predicates in Table 5.3 do not form a coherent class, and if they are considered out of context, it might seem as though many would express object manipulation. However, as the examples show, in the cooking classes, they were not used to express object manipulation. Indeed, many of the examples seem to suggest that a series of actions will take place, but they do not specifically refer to a particular object-manipulating action. Though at times it
Regularities at the level of grammar
may be possible to infer that the O argument will be affected, none of the predicates specifies how that might occur or in what way it would be affected. Compare the English examples with examples (89) and (90) and the Japanese examples with (91) and (92) above. Table 5.3.Non-object-manipulating verbs English verb
Example
make take use finish prove treat create check keep on get do
and then make a small sample, now we wanna take … half the peppers, we’ll use commercial stock, finish it in the oven. always prove your yeast. and you have to treat it in that way, you’re creating a surface tension, let me just check our bread over here. you keep it on low heat, and you get em nice and brown and crispy on one side, (discussed below)
Japanese verb
Example
tsukuru (‘make’)
osoosu o tsukutte mairimasu. ‘(we’ll) make the sauce’ ano futtoo suru made wa, sono mama oite itadakimasu. ‘leave (the rice) as it is, until it starts to boil’ ookii katamari no ho o rebaa ni tsukaimasu. ‘(we’ll) use the big piece (of ginger) in the liver’ chotto usu aji de, shiagete mitai to omoimasu. ‘(we’ll) finish (the radish) with a mild flavor’ (discussed below)
oku (‘put’, ‘leave’) tsukau (‘use’) shiageru (‘finish’) suru, itasu, nasaru (‘do’)
In the English data, the verb do sometimes functioned as an object-manipulating verb and sometimes as a non-object-manipulating verb. This is due to the fact that it was usually used as a pro-form that was anaphoric for another verb. For example, in (93), it refers back to made and thus I considered both verbs to be non-object-manipulating. (93) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) J: and we made stock. that’s what you can do. Æ you can do that at home.
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On the other hand, in (94), do refers back to joining the pieces together, and both predicates were thus coded as object-manipulating. (94) French Bread (P=Pam) P: and joi=n those pieces together. … then, turn it u=p, Æ … and do that again.
In the Japanese data, suru (‘do’) is more frequent than English do (23% of the 2+ argument clauses vs. 10%).8 One reason is that it functions in word formation processes to produce verbs from nouns (Shibatani 1990). Many of the instances of suru in my data are of this type. I considered these verbs to be lexicalized compound verbs. Most of these were used to express object-manipulating actions. (95) is an example: (95) Sushi (S=Suzuki) S: … okome o arau to dooji ni, rice acc wash cond same.time at … kono .. awasezu wa, this vinegar.mixture top Æ … choogoo shite kudasai. mix do give(hon) ‘while (you)’ re washing the rice, mix in the awasezu at the same time.’
In this example, I consider choogo shite to be a compound verb meaning mix; thus it refers to an object-manipulating action.9 On the other hand, there were a few cases in which suru functioned in a way similar to the other verbs listed in Table 5.3. In other words, in these cases, suru did not refer to a specific objectmanipulating action. (96) contains an example. (96) Sushi (S=Suzuki) 1. S: ano, hes 2. futtoo shita jiten de, boil do point at 3. … kobu o dashi-masu. seaweed acc take.out-pol ‘when (the rice) boils, take out the seaweed.’
Regularities at the level of grammar
Æ 4.
… sono mama shite ori-masu to ne, that way do cont-pol cond it
‘if you leave it that way,’
In this example, in lines 1–3, the teacher tells the students to remove the seaweed when the rice begins boiling. In line 4, she begins to give a warning about what will happen if they do not do this and instead let the rice continue to boil with the seaweed. She uses the form shite orimasu (‘doing’), which is the -te form of suru plus the auxiliary verb oru (continuous aspect). In this instance, the verb suru does not refer to an object-manipulating action. There were only a few cases like this one where suru (‘do’) functioned as a nonobject-manipulating verb. 5.6.2.3Events I consider events to be occurrences that are represented by a clause in which the A argument is non-agentive. I assume that an agent must be human or at least animate. Therefore, I coded all clauses with inanimate A’s as events. (97) through (99) are examples. (97) Beef Carbonade (G=Gary) G: .. it’s just gonna cook all the juices out of it. (98) Crab Cakes (G=Gary) G: @ … the machine’s stopping me. ((THE FOOD PROCESSOR IS STUCK)) (99) Guratan (K=Kikuchi) K: … ano okona no ryuushi ne, hes flour lk particles it … abura no maku o, oil lk film acc … ano=, hes …(.7) koo karamete shimau tte ii-masu ka, this bind end.up qt say-pol q ‘the particles of flour end up binding the oil,’
Events expressed with 2+ argument clauses were fairly rare in both databases, but somewhat more common in the English than in the Japanese.
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5.6.2.4States Clauses that express states refer to conditions that occur over a period of time and are usually not marked for a beginning or an endpoint. English clauses that have the main verb have or the pragmatic particle like to were coded as states. (100) and (101) are English examples. (100) Crab Cakes (G=Gary) G: .. and I do have bay shrimp in here, (101) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) J: … so I like to wipe mushrooms.
In the Japanese database, there were a few clauses with verbs that express psychological states, including wakaru (‘understand’), mieru (‘see’), and wasureru (‘forget’). These were coded as states. (102) is an example. (102) Makizushi (S=Suzuki) S: …(6.6) konna ne, this it … wakari-masu kashira ne. understand-pol wonder it ‘(I) wonder if (you) understand this.’
I should note that the majority of clauses in both the Japanese and American cooking class genres expressed events that were framed as hypothetical or future. Realis is one of the transitivity parameters proposed by Hopper and Thompson (1980). The idea is that actions that have actually occurred (i.e., past and completed) are higher in transitivity than those that have not occurred (i.e., hypothetical, future, or negative). I suggest that in the cooking class genres, realis is not an important factor for analyzing transitivity variation because most of the clauses are framed as irrealis. This is, of course, due to the fact that the exigence of the teachers’ task-oriented talk in the cooking classes is teaching cooking. In this situation, though the teachers were demonstrating a series of actions while talking, most often they referred to the future actions that the students would presumably perform, rather than the events that were taking place at the moment. This makes sense because the teachers in both cultures were trying to take the students’ perspective into account in delivering their demonstrations. In the next section, I compare the transitive/intransitive structure of the teachers’ task-oriented talk in the Japanese and American cooking classes, using the number of arguments and the event scale, defined above.
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5.7 Transitive/intransitive clauses in the teachers’ talk Here, I analyze the teachers’ task-oriented talk in terms of the frequency and functions of transitive/intransitive clauses. First, I compare the frequencies of 1-argument clauses and 2+ argument clauses. Then, I analyze the clauses with two or more arguments according to the event scale. Finally, I compare the frequencies of transitive/intransitive clauses in instruction and explanation in the two databases. 5.7.1 Intransitive clauses and clauses with two or more arguments Recall that in Section 5.6, I defined a transitive clause as minimally containing at least two arguments (2+ argument clauses), and I defined intransitive clauses as having only one argument. Table 5.4 and Figure 5.10 present the frequencies of these clauses in the Japanese and American teachers’ task-oriented talk. Table 5.4.Transitive/intransitive clauses English
Japanese
Intransitives 2+ Arg Clauses
105 42% 143 58%
136 47% 155 53%
Total
248
291
Table 5.4 and Figure 5.10 show that if transitivity were defined solely in terms of the number of arguments (i.e., the traditional definition), the English speaking teachers used a slightly greater frequency of transitive clauses than the Japanese teachers did. However, I should also point out that 2+ argument clauses are more frequent in both data sets than are intransitive clauses, and the difference between the two data sets is not very large.10 5.7.2 Clauses with two or more arguments and transitivity as a scalar property As I have explained, transitivity concerns more than just the number of arguments in a given clause. It is a cluster of semantic and morphosyntactic properties. The type of event encoded is a defining semantic property of a prototypical transitive clause, as suggested in Section 5.6. Here, I use the event scale (described in Section 5.6.2) to analyze transitivity variation in the 2+
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70%
Percent of Clauses
60% 50% 40%
Intransitive
30%
2+ Arguments
20% 10% 0% English
Japanese
Figure 5.10. The frequency of intransitive and 2+ argument clauses in English and Japanese
argument clauses in the English and Japanese data. Table 5.5 presents the results. Recall that the event scale is motivated by the assumption that hightransitive clauses are used to express prototypical transitive events, which are object-manipulating actions (Lakoff 1977; Hopper and Thompson 1980; Langacker 1991). Non-object-manipulating actions, events, and states form a continuum, with states at the low end. Table 5.5.Transitivity and event type English (N=143)
Japanese (N=155)
Low
State Event Non-Obj-Manip Act
18 13% 17 12% 41 29%
4 3% 3 2% 35 23%
High
Obj-Manip Act
67 47%
113 73%
Table 5.5 shows that, the Japanese teachers used more high-transitive 2+ argument clauses than the American teachers did. 73% of the Japanese 2+ argument clauses were used to express object-manipulating actions, but only 47% of the English 2+ argument clauses were used in this way. In addition, the results show that the English clauses are more evenly distributed along the continuum than is the case for the Japanese. Figure 5.11 shows this more clearly. It shows that in the Japanese teachers’ talk, there were fewer clauses at the low
Regularities at the level of grammar 179
80%
Percent of Clauses
70% 60% 50% English
40%
Japanese
30% 20% 10% 0% State
Event
Non-ObjManip Act
Obj-Manip Act
Event Scale
Figure 5.11.The frequency of 2+ argument clauses in actions, events, and states
end of the scale. Thus 2+ argument clauses seem to be used in a more restricted way in Japanese, primarily to refer to object-manipulating actions. On the other hand, the English speaking teachers used 2+ argument clauses to express not only object-manipulating actions but also non-object-manipulating actions, events, and states. Perhaps this is what the researchers who suggest that English is higher in transitivity mean — that English speakers use clauses with two or more arguments to express a less restricted set of event types than Japanese speaker do.11 Indeed, the idea that in Japanese there is a restriction on agency such that A’s must be human is sometimes mentioned in this connection. This restriction did seem to hold in the cooking class data. I found only one example in which the A argument was inanimate. It is (99), repeated here. (99) Guratan (K=Kikuchi) K: … ano okona no ryuushi ne, hes flour lk particles it … abura no maku o, oil lk film acc … ano=, hes …(.7) koo karamete shimau tte ii-masu ka, this bind end.up qt say-pol q ‘the particles of flour end up binding the oil,’
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In this example, an inanimate object okona no ryuushi (‘particles of flour’) is the A argument. Of course, there is no such restriction in English, and there were 11 clauses with inanimate A’s in the database (8% of the 2+ argument clauses). Recall that in Section 5.6 I predicted that both languages would exhibit a higher frequency of transitive clauses than intransitive clauses. This prediction is not true: Neither language exhibits a particularly high frequency of hightransitive clauses in the cooking class context. To show this, I assume that hightransitives are 2+ argument clauses that express object-manipulating actions; low-transitives are 2+ argument clauses that express states, events, and nonobject-manipulating actions; intransitives are 1-argument clauses. Figure 5.12 gives these results. 50%
Percent of Clauses
45% 40% 35% 30%
Intransitives
25%
Low Transitives
20%
High Transitives
15% 10% 5% 0% English
Japanese
Figure 5.12.The frequency of intransitive, low-transitive, and high-transitive clauses in English and Japanese
Intransitive clauses are actually the most frequent in each data set. These results also suggest that the claim discussed in Section 5.6 that English is “higher in transitivity” than Japanese is not accurate. However, my prediction that the Japanese data would exhibit a higher frequency of transitive clauses than the English might be considered accurate if we consider only high-transitive clauses. Considering all the data together, however, I suggest that these results indicate that neither language can be considered “high in transitivity” because transitivity is not an inherent property of a language. Of course, speakers of all languages are able to express prototypical transitive events, but whether and
Regularities at the level of grammar
how they do so depends on the situation. Not only is transitivity a continuous, scalar property, as I have suggested, it is also a relative property that varies according to the participants, the exigence, and the situation. In other words, transitivity varies according to the genre, and must be analyzed in that context. In the next section, I consider the relationship between transitivity and the communicative functions of instruction and explanation. 5.7.3 Transitivity and communicative function Recall that in Section 5.6 I predicted that instruction would contain a greater frequency of high-transitive clauses than explanation in both languages. The reason for this prediction is that I was assuming that object-manipulating actions would be more frequent in instruction. Here, I show that this is indeed true. As above, intransitives are 1-argument clauses; low-transitives are 2+ argument clauses that express non-object-manipulating actions, events, or states; and high-transitive clauses are 2+ argument clauses that express objectmanipulating actions. The frequency of these clause types in instruction and explanation is presented in Table 5.6. Table 5.6.Transitivity in Instruction and Explanation English
Japanese
Instruction
Explanation
Total
Instruction
Explanation
Total
Intr LT HT
14 15% 29 30% 52 55%
91 59% 47 31% 15 10%
105 76 67
43 25% 29 17% 101 58%
93 79% 13 11% 12 10%
136 42 113
Total
95
153
248
173
118
291
Table 5.6 shows that, as predicted, instruction is higher in transitivity than explanation in both languages: For English, 55% of the instruction clauses but only 10% of the explanation clauses are high-transitive; similarly, for Japanese, 58% of the instruction clauses and only 10% of the explanation clauses are hightransitive. Figure 5.13 shows this more clearly. Perhaps most noticeable is the fact that explanation is quite low in transitivity in both languages: Considering intransitives and low-transitives together, we find that about 90% of the explanation clauses in both languages are low in transitivity.
181
Percent of Clauses
182 Language, Social Structure, and Culture
Intr
90%
LT
HT
80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% Instruction
Explanation
Instruction
Explanation
Figure 5.13.Transitivity and communicative function
5.8 Discussion of the transitivity findings At the beginning of the transitivity analysis, I said that it has been suggested in the literature that English is higher in transitivity than Japanese. I also predicted that both the Japanese and American cooking teachers would use a higher frequency of transitive than intransitive clauses in their task-oriented talk. My results suggest that neither of these predictions is really accurate. Indeed, if transitivity is considered to be a scalar concept that consists of a cluster of parameters, as many scholars would contend, neither language can be said to be particularly “high in transitivity”. When transitivity was analyzed in this way, the results showed that the Japanese teachers did use a higher frequency of high-transitive clauses than the American teachers. However, they also used a higher frequency of intransitive clauses than the Americans did. I suggested that these variations in transitivity occur because transitivity is not an inherent property of a language; rather it is relative, varying with the situation and participants. That transitivity is relative as well as continuous is well demonstrated by innovations such as the following: (103) Vegetarian Cooking (J=Jean) 1. J: a=nd, 2. just cook them for about an hour, 3. until, Æ 4. the leaves pull out.
Regularities at the level of grammar
In this example, Jean was explaining how to cook artichokes. The clause in lines 3 and 4 contains the verb pull out, which would normally be assumed to be a transitive, 2-argument verb. Here, however, she uses it as a 1-argument verb. It seems that examples like this are in some ways both transitive and intransitive. Jean could have used the predicate come out which is a canonical 1-argument verb, but it seems that pull out better expresses the important point: When cooking artichokes, the way to test if they are done is by trying to pull the leaves out. If they come out easily, the artichokes are done. If Jean had said cook them until the leaves come out, the students might have assumed that the leaves would fall out by themselves.12 In this case, the artichokes would be overdone. By using the predicate pull out, Jean seems to include the notion of an agent, while focusing on the patient and the result, which is the most important point in her instructions. As I mentioned previously, recent studies have suggested low levels of transitivity in other genres. For example, Hopper (1991; 1992; 1997) found that simple transitive clauses were rare in informal written and spoken narratives. In conversation, Thompson and Hopper (2001) found that clauses with two or more arguments are rare and that when they do occur they are usually quite low in transitivity, defined according to the ten parameters outlined in Hopper and Thompson (1980) (see also Kärkkäinen 1996). These studies concern English, but Tao (1996) suggests that Mandarin Chinese conversation is also low in transitivity. Considering the fact that one of the cooking teachers’ tasks is to describe the steps in recipes, which often happen to be object-manipulating actions, it may seem somewhat surprising that the cooking class genres exhibited a relatively low frequency of high-transitive clauses. However, a closer consideration of what the teachers were actually doing in their task-oriented talk explains this finding. If the teachers had only focused on giving cooking instructions in a step-by-step fashion, there would undoubtedly be a higher frequency of clauses that could be considered hightransitive. However, as I have shown, though the teachers did spend some time giving instructions, they also spent a great deal of time contextualizing those instructions by explaining them.
5.9 Summary In this chapter, I set out to investigate how the exigence of the cooking class is achieved at the level of grammar. In Chapters 3 and 4, we saw that at the higher
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levels of interaction and discourse there were many differences in the way this exigence was achieved in the two cultures. However, the grammatical analysis has shown both differences and similarities in the teachers’ task-oriented talk. More specifically, it has shown how the similarities in the situations in the two cultures interact with the linguistic structures of the two languages to produce grammatical patterns that are both similar and different. A striking similarity was that, at the clause level, the teachers’ task-oriented talk consisted of basically similar communicative functions which can be seen as organizing the discourse into two substructures: instruction and explanation. Still, there were differences in the specific clause types that were used to express these communicative functions. In the first part of the analysis, I examined the types of clauses associated with instruction and explanation in each language. I found that both the Japanese and American teachers used independent clauses for most communicative functions. However, I also found that the Japanese teachers used a greater frequency of dependent clauses with adverbial functions, and they used -te clauses to express communicative functions that were expressed through independent clauses by the teachers in the American classes. I pointed out some interesting differences between the ways specific types of dependent clauses were used by the teachers in each culture. For example, the Japanese teachers used temporal clauses (of both types) more frequently in instruction to give sequentially ordered information. In contrast, the American teachers used temporal clauses more frequently in explanation to give background information. One reason for this difference is that the only temporal clauses the American teachers used were when clauses, which do not express a specific sequential connection. The teachers in the American classes could have used before and after to convey sequentially ordered information, but they did not. I suggested that this difference may be partially due to the different clause combining mechanisms in the two languages. Perhaps it is simply easier to link consecutive clauses using the Japanese (verb-final) clause combining mechanism than the English mechanism of hypotaxis, which requires planning the link at the beginning of the dependent clause rather than at the end. This would seem to be particularly true in a situation such as the cooking class situation in which the teacher is presenting information while demonstrating it. I also suggested that using the Japanese clause combining mechanism seems quite similar to the strategy of linking consecutive, independent clauses, which was the primary strategy used by the teachers in the American classes. Thus from among the available linguistic resources, the teachers chose the forms that were most useful to the communicative situation.
Regularities at the level of grammar
I would also like to point out that the difference in frequencies of temporal clauses in the Japanese and American teachers’ talk reflects not only the different clause combining mechanisms, discussed above, but also differences between the higher levels of interaction and discourse. As was discussed in Chapter 4, the teachers in the American classes seemed less concerned with presenting task-oriented content and more concerned with making sure that the students were entertained. Even in their task-oriented talk, they presented a lot of background information. When clauses were primarily used to present this backgrounded type of information, not specific procedural information. Conditionals also functioned differently in the Japanese and American teachers’ talk. The Japanese teachers used conditionals to give instructions and warnings, but the teachers in the American classes most often used them to express an action/event that should occur before a subsequent instruction, making the instruction relevant (i.e., precondition). Unlike the Japanese teachers, the Americans did not often use conditionals to express instructions or warnings. This finding is related to a more general point: Instructions and warnings were more prevalent in the Japanese data than in the English. Again, I believe that this finding is related to the higher-level findings. At the level of interaction, the Japanese teachers adopted the professional role of the expert; at the discourse level, they focused only on task-oriented talk; at the clause level, that task-oriented talk concerned the proper ways of doing the cooking procedures. Thus they used conditionals to contrast the right and wrong ways of performing the cooking tasks. On the other hand, the Americans were less concerned with these factors at all levels: Instead of constructing a professional role relationship, they constructed a more casual, friendly one; though they paid some attention to task-oriented content, they also discussed other topics; finally, even when they did talk about task-oriented content, they focused less on the proper procedures for performing the recipes and more on a kind of general background information. This explains the higher frequency of explanation in their task-oriented talk. In the second part of the grammatical analysis, I investigated the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses in the two data sets. I had predicted that there would be a higher frequency of transitive clauses than intransitive clauses in the cooking class genres. This prediction was based on the assumption that, in their task-oriented talk, the teachers would be describing the steps in the recipes (many of which are object-manipulating actions). I also predicted that transitive clauses would be more frequent in instruction than in explanation, because instruction, by definition, includes directions about how to perform the steps in
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recipes (i.e., object-manipulating actions). Finally, I predicted that the Japanese teachers’ talk would contain a higher frequency of transitive clauses than the American teachers’ talk because it contained a higher frequency of instruction. In investigating transitivity, I defined it as a scalar property based on some of the parameters outlined by Hopper and Thompson (1980). In particular, I used the number of arguments and the type of event to define it, assuming that clauses that express object-manipulating actions are highest in transitivity. Using this definition, I found that only the second prediction, listed above, was really accurate. When clauses were defined as intransitive, low-transitive, or high-transitive, intransitives were actually the most frequent type in both the Japanese and American teachers’ talk. Though this may seem somewhat surprising, it concurs with the findings of other researchers concerning transitivity variation in other genres. The prediction that the Japanese teachers’ talk would contain a higher frequency of transitive clauses than the American teachers’ talk is actually contrary to predictions in the literature suggesting that English is higher in transitivity than Japanese. However, neither of these predictions appears to be quite accurate. I found that the Japanese teachers’ talk does contain a higher frequency of high-transitive clauses than the American teachers’ talk. However, I would not want to claim that Japanese is “higher in transitivity” than English because the American teachers’ talk also contained a higher frequency of lowtransitive clauses than the Japanese teachers’ talk. In addition, the Japanese teachers’ talk contained a higher frequency of intransitive clauses than the American teachers’ talk. Considering all of these variations in transitivity, I have suggested, instead, that level of transitivity is not an inherent property of a language; rather, as others contend, it is a cluster of semantic and morphosyntactic features that are realized differently in different situations. Though it seems to make sense that transitivity would be relatively low in conversation, we might wonder why my findings do not show a higher frequency of high-transitive clauses in the cooking class genres. Again, I suggest that looking at the higher levels of interaction and discourse provides the answer. The teachers in both cultures did much more than just describe object-manipulating actions. Their primary concern was making sure that the students understood what they were saying (and, in the American classes, perhaps making sure that the students were not getting bored). Thus they also gave background information and contextualized their instructions through explanation.
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Chapter 6
Conclusion A summary of the findings and some issues for further research At the beginning of this study, I argued that genre theory can be used to investigate the relationship between language, social structure, and culture. Other researchers have suggested that genre theory is applicable to crosscultural research, but few studies have explicitly attempted to apply the theory to empirical data from different cultures. In addition, most genre analyses involving empirical data have focused primarily on written language, but my study has shown that genre theory is useful for rhetorical situations that involve mostly spoken language. Indeed, it shows that, like written language, spoken language has both schematic and emergent aspects, and the degree to which these two aspects are realized varies depending on how conventionalized the situation is. It also shows that comparing similar genres from different cultures gives insight into how culturally-specific social practices becomes conventionalized through interaction. Of course, a fundamental principle of this type of research is that the only way to discover the role language plays in relation to cultural and social systems is to examine situation-specific language use. In comparing the Japanese and American cooking class genres, I have shown that there are a number of regular patterns of language use. In Chapter 2, I introduced the term structural properties, which are “institutionalized features of social systems, stretching across time and space” (Giddens 1984:185). Giddens suggests that locales and the specific roles that are associated with locales are prototypical structural properties. I suggested that the regular patterns of language use associated with specific rhetorical situations are also structural properties. One of the most important tenets of structuration theory is “the duality of structure” which refers to the idea that “… the structural properties of social systems are both medium and outcome of the practices they recursively organize” (Giddens 1984: 25). Thus social structure is not a preexisting pattern into which social action must neatly fit; rather, it is inferred and constantly recreated afresh from recurring structural properties. The structural properties in the cooking classes, then, reflect regular patterns of action that,
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taken together, constitute what we see as the institutional structures of the classes in each culture. And each new enactment of the cooking class genres is shaped by those structural properties. In Chapters 3, 4, and 5, I compared structural properties at the levels of interaction, discourse, and grammar in the Japanese and American cooking class genres. In doing so, I found regular patterns at all three levels that indicated that the participants in the cooking classes in the two cultures were creating the exigence of teaching/learning cooking in ways that were both similar and different. In Chapter 3, I compared the structure of verbal participation. At this level, the primary similarity was that in the dominant communication, there was a default participation structure in which the teacher was the primary speaker and the students were the recipient/addressees. However, there was also a major difference: In the American classes, there were frequent shifts in participation structure, as students took the role of speaker, but such shifts were very rare in the Japanese classes. I also argued in Chapter 3 that participant roles are closely tied to social positions. I suggested that through verbal participation, the social positions of teacher and student were constructed in different ways in the Japanese and American classes. In the Japanese classes, the teacher had a relatively high status position as the expert, but the students could also be considered to have the “high status” of paying customers. These social positions interacted with a number of other contextual variables and affected how the participants perceived and constructd their relationships, leading to a relatively formal situation in which the teacher had the responsibility for acting as a guide and doing virtually all of the talking. Though the teachers in the American classes may be thought of as experts relative to the students, their social position was based more on a friendly relationship that developed over time, rather than on a strictly professional role relationship. In the American classes, the students did more talking, and in some cases, even usurped the teacher’s social position by speaking for him/her. Further study of these instances may provide some insights into how actors are able to take on a different social position by taking a different participant role. It may elucidate which aspects of interaction are important in creating such a moment, thus also illuminating how social change might occur. Cross-genre studies of this phenomenon might also shed light on which aspects of highly institutionalized discourse make such a moment unlikely. For example, in some cases, there are sanctions for speaking out of turn (e.g., in a courtroom).
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We also saw that, in the American classes, the default participation structure became less frequent over time, and there were accompanying changes in body positioning of the students relative to the teacher. This is an indicator of the evolving social relationships among the participants in the American classes (i.e., they became friends over time). No such changes were seen in the dominant communication of the Japanese classes. From this finding, we can see that the idea that routinely repeated structural properties shape new enactments of a genre does not mean that genres are static and unchanging. Indeed, as I have explained, genres are intertextual, and thus they are both schematic and emergent. Therefore, while it is possible that actors routinely repeat very similar patterns with each enactment of a genre, it is equally possible that the patterns change in subtle ways in each instantiation, building an emerging set of discursive practices that are shared by the group and influence each new instantiation of the genre. The Japanese cooking classes are perhaps an example of the former possibility, and the American classes perhaps an example of the latter. This last point also entails an important issue for further research. It is often assumed that Japanese social structure is based on relationships between hierarchically structured roles that are highly institutionalized (Nakane 1970; Lebra 1976). Though my findings might seem to support this contention in a general way, I have suggested that such an analysis is an over-simplification of the complex interaction between the many contextual variables that affect how participants construct their social relationships. Indeed, institutionalization is constituted by a dynamic recreation of local patterns of action that are repeated with little variation. Further examination of how such institutionalized patterns are enacted at the local level (i.e., through interaction) may elucidate under what circumstances new paths of action become accessible. This would shed light on how and why different types of interaction in different societies become more or less institutionalized, and it might also illuminate the role of local actions in producing social change. In Chapter 4, I examined structural properties at the level of discourse by comparing regularities in the content of the talk. There was a basic similarity in that the participants in both cultures spent some time discussing task-oriented content. The most obvious difference, however, was that the Japanese teachers discussed only task-oriented content, whereas the participants in the American classes also discussed non-task-oriented content (i.e., jokes, personal stories, and gossip). I explained this difference by relating it to another finding: Through observation and conversations with the students, I found that the
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Japanese and American students had different reasons for participating in the cooking classes. The Japanese students were primarily concerned with learning to cook, and the participants in the American classes were more concerned with meeting people and having a good time. I suggested that the content differences found in the two data sets reflect these different views of what type of event the cooking class is in each culture. As the collective personal goals of the participants differed, so the exigence of the cooking classes in the two cultures was realized in different ways. These findings support Miller’s (1984) contention that actors’ personal intentions are realized through conventionalized social motives, or exigence. Further analysis may demonstrate the precise ways in which actors realize these intentions at the local level. For example, in speaking for the teacher, perhaps a student realizes a personal intention of demonstrating his/her alignment with the teacher. Similarly, in mocking the woman from the registration office, the teacher may be distancing himself from the registration staff and demonstrating his alignment with the students. Another point made in Chapter 4 was that the discourse-level structure of the Japanese cooking class demonstrations was very orderly and predictable. On the other hand, in the American cooking classes, there was quite a bit of variation from one lesson to the next and from one teacher to another; thus the discourse had a less predictable quality. Of course, this property is related to the level of interaction in that students were sometimes the ones who initiated the digressions in the American classes. The variability in the American classes allowed the teachers to display their personalities and make the classes entertaining. I should also note that such variability is not just a random process but may represent a somewhat institutionalized practice since there was some pressure on the teachers to be appealing, likable people and to create an entertaining class for which students would register. Another way that the levels of discourse and interaction worked together was in constructing the social positions of teacher and student. Thus the Japanese teachers’ focus on task-oriented content helped create a professional role relationship between teacher and student. Likewise, the Americans’ intermittent focus on conversational topics furthered the developing friendships among the participants. Indeed, one of the American teachers developed a following of students who were friends and continuously took her classes. In Chapter 5, I discussed structural properties at the level of clausal grammar. The purpose of this part of the analysis was to examine which grammatical constructions the teachers used to constitute the exigence of teaching cooking. In the first part of the grammatical analysis, I determined the frequencies and
Conclusion
communicative functions of independent and adverbial clauses in English and independent and dependent clauses in Japanese. In the second part of the analysis, I compared the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses in the Japanese and American teachers’ task-oriented talk. Upon analyzing the data, I found that the Japanese teachers focused more on instruction, and the American teachers more on explanation. The Japanese teachers also gave more sequentially ordered instructions than the Americans. I suggested that this difference reflects the differences at the levels of interaction and discourse in the following way: The participants in the Japanese classes constructed the social position of teacher according to the professional role relationship between teacher and student. This led them to focus more on taskoriented content and more on sequentially ordered instructions. Thus my findings show that the clause-level grammar is shaped by the situation, the participants (i.e., what the participants are doing), and the linguistic resources available in the language. I also found that the Japanese teachers used dependent clauses with adverbial functions and -te clauses fairly frequently while the teachers in the American classes used primarily simple independent clauses. I commented on the fact that the English speaking teachers did not use adverbial clauses with temporal connectors such as before and after to express sequentially ordered information. I suggested that a possible reason for this is that, in contrast to the Japanese clause combining system, English hypotaxis may require more cognitive processing. The Japanese clause combining mechanism would seem to allow a more “on-line” strategy for expressing oneself, which seems particularly well suited to expressing sequentially ordered information. I suggested that this mechanism may function in a way that is similar to conjoining sequentially ordered independent clauses. Thus the strategies used by the teachers in the two cultures may be considered comparable. Cross-genre research on how English adverbial clauses function in interaction may further explain the observation that the teachers in the American classes did not use adverbial clauses to give the sequential steps in the recipes. In Chapter 5, I also found that the Japanese teachers often used conditionals to give instructions and warnings. The American teachers did not use conditionals very frequently, but when they did, they mostly functioned as preconditions. This is related to the general finding that the Japanese teachers gave more instructions and warnings than the teachers in the American classes. Again, I suggested that this finding is related to the levels of interaction and discourse. In constructing a professional role relationship with the students and focusing
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on task-oriented content, the Japanese teachers endeavored to present the students with the “proper” cooking procedures. Thus they gave more instructions and warnings which functioned to present contrasting ways of doing the cooking procedure: the right way and the wrong way. On the other hand, the teachers in the American classes did not seem to be as concerned with demonstrating the proper way to perform the cooking tasks, so they gave fewer instructions and warnings. I suggested that these clause-level differences perhaps reflect differences between how cooking is viewed as an activity within each culture. For example, Japanese cooking is similar to a fine art, which has established, time-tested procedures and techniques. On the other hand, American cooking seems to be a blend of different types of foods and techniques that reflect regional and ethnic variations, popular trends, as well as the teachers’ own inventions. In the second part of the grammatical analysis, I compared the frequency of transitive/intransitive constructions in the Japanese and American cooking classes. Again, the overall purpose of this part of the analysis was to determine how the teachers used the clause-level grammar in their languages to teach cooking. There were several specific reasons for comparing the frequency of transitive/intransitive clauses. First, because transitive clauses express objectmanipulating actions, I expected that there might be a high frequency of transitive clauses in the teachers’ task-oriented talk. Second, I expected that there would be a higher frequency of transitive clauses in both languages in instruction than in explanation. Finally, I expected to find a higher frequency of transitive clauses in the Japanese teachers’ task-oriented talk because instruction was more frequent in their talk than explanation. Only the second prediction was borne out: Instruction had a higher frequency of transitive clauses. With regard to the first expectation, I found that, overall, high-transitive clauses were less frequent than intransitives and lowtransitives (considered together) in both languages. As with clause structure, I explain this finding by reiterating the point that which grammatical form the teachers used depended on what they were saying. Because all of the teachers made an effort to contextualize their instructions through explanation, which tended to be quite low in transitivity, the overall level of transitivity was relatively low. If the teachers had focused only on instruction, transitivity may have been higher. The third prediction — that the teachers’ talk in the Japanese classes would be higher in transitivity — is actually contrary to suggestions in the literature. As I discussed, a number of specialists in Japanese linguistics have suggested
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that English is higher in transitivity in comparison to Japanese. Of course, as I pointed out, whether or not this is judged to be accurate depends on what is meant by “high in transitivity”. Defining transitivity as a scalar property that varies according to a number of parameters, as I have, gives the result that neither language is particularly “high in transitivity”. I found that though the Japanese teachers used more high-transitive clauses than the American teachers did, they also used more intransitive clauses. Thus it is difficult to label either language as inherently high or low in transitivity. Rather, my findings support the findings of recent research on the frequency of transitive constructions in other genres and in other languages (e.g., Hopper 1991; 1992; 1997; Tao 1996; Thompson and Hopper 2001). These findings suggest that level of transitivity is not an inherent feature of a language but, like other aspects of structure, emerges during language use. My findings also show that grammar is a combination of linguistic resources that have grammaticized over time and actors’ social actions at the moment. Further research may determine more specifically the situations in which transitive/intransitive constructions tend to be used. For example, analyzing videotaped data from cooking classes and other situations that involve actors working with materials may lead to a greater understanding of how humans conceptualize events and encode them in language. Indeed, video recordings of cooking classes would enable the researcher to connect the teachers’ actions during the demonstration with the language used to explain those actions. For example, though object-manipulating actions would seem to lend themselves to transitive expression, they may also be expressed intransitively. Video data would allow us to see under what circumstances object-manipulating actions are expressed transitively and intransitively. In addition, there are a number of uses of deictic expressions such as pronouns, demonstratives, and honorific language that could be more thoroughly understood by examining how participants use materials to frame the interaction in situations like cooking classes. In concluding, I would like to reiterate a point made in Chapter 1: Though it might be assumed that genre analysis yields only situation-specific information, I have argued that it tells us about that and much more. As I have pointed out, genres are intertextual, continuous, and they occur as systems. As such, the regular patterns associated with a genre are not strictly limited to that genre; they may be found in other situations at other times. Thus genres provide natural laboratories for examining how actors instantiate social structure in culturally specific ways through interaction. They also elucidate the ways in which linguistic structures become grammaticized and thus how grammar
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develops. By comparing genres, we can learn not only about the language used in a specific rhetorical situation but also about language in general — about what aspects of linguistic structure become conventionalized across languages and cultures, across situations, and across time.
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Notes
Chapter 1. Preliminaries: The relationship between genre, social structure, and culture 1Typification is a theory developed by sociologists to describe how humans categorize experience. As will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 2, it is similar to other terms such as frame, schema, script, and prototype that have been used by anthropologists, linguists, and psychologists. The problem with some of these terms is that they are sometimes interpreted as referring to static knowledge structures. However, Schutz intended typification to represent the idea that schematic knowledge is constructed based on repeated actions and experiences, but it is also updated on an ongoing basis with local knowledge. Similarly, Bartlett (1932), who originally used the term schema to discuss human memory, suggested that humans store a general impression of an event or experience (i.e., some type of schematic structure). Then during recall, the details are reconstructed and filled in on a moment-by-moment basis. Thus these terms were originally intended to capture both the schematic and emergent aspects of human cognition. I follow this usage. 2Of course, many linguists and anthropologists have investigated the use of spoken language in similar situations across cultures. However, these scholars tend not to use a framework based on genre theory. Some examples include the papers in The Pear Stories volume, edited by Chafe (1980), as well as studies by Yamada (1992), Watanabe (1993), and Nakano (1995). See also Tannen (1981; 1984a; 1984b; 1985), Gumperz (1992; 1996), and Tanaka (1999; 2000). 3Like Günthner and Knoblauch (1995), Bergmann and Luckmann (1994) define genres as socially constructed models for handling recurrent communicative problems. 4I should note that others suggest that this depends on how institutionalized the genre is, a contention with which I agree (cf. Luckmann 1992; Auer 1992). 5Observations are from the lessons from which the transcribed data were selected as well as other lessons attended by me or my research assistant. 6The names of the teachers and students in the transcribed excerpts are pseudonyms. The conventions in each culture were followed, using first names for the participants in the American classes and last names for the participants in the Japanese classes. 7This was true even for data not included in this analysis, collected from a different cooking school in Tokyo. 8Of course, the timing of the demonstration and group preparation portions of each lesson varied slightly, depending upon the recipes and differing amounts of cooking times
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needed for different dishes. In general, however, both the demonstration and the group preparation portions of the classes were well choreographed so as to use the time efficiently. 9Instruction and explanation are made up of a number of communicative functions that are defined roughly at the level of the clause. A detailed explanation is given in Section 5.2 of Chapter 5. 10As will be explained in Chapter 5, instruction consists of four subordinate communicative functions: instruction — a direction concerning how to perform a cooking task; precondition — an action, event, or state that precedes the actions referred to in an instruction or warning; suggestion — a recommendation to perform (or not perform) a particular action; warning — a caution against doing/not doing a particular action (or the occurrence/non-occurrence of a particular event). Thus while some instruction clauses express object-manipulating actions, this is not how instruction is defined per se.
Chapter 2. A closer look at genre and related concepts 1Luckmann (1992: 220) discusses this concept specifically in relation to genre, but he refers to it as the “reciprocal adjustment of perspectives”. 2Though Giddens draws on the work of phenomenologists and ethnomethodologists, and indeed, he uses many of the points first elucidated by Schutz and Garfinkel, he also seeks to differentiate structuration theory, by arguing that social structure has fixed (i.e., schematic) aspects as well as emergent aspects. Thus it is not solely the creation of individual actors. This aspect of the theory makes it possible to explain macro-level social structure (i.e., institutions that seem to have fixed structures as well as social change that occurs over time). And it also differentiates it from ethnomethodology, which does not attempt to explain macro-level social structure, focusing only on the micro level. In order to explain the micro level, ethnomethodologists need only account for each event as a separate creation of individual actors. Thus this theory is sometimes said to be an example of “subjectivism”. 3I should note that structuration theory is essentially similar to the “practice theory” of Bourdieu (1977). As I have explained, a number of genre theorists have applied the work of Schutz or Giddens specifically to genres. In a similar vein, Hanks (1990; 1996) applies Bourdieu’s (1977) theory to communicative practices. Thus many of Hanks’ ideas are closely aligned with much of the genre research and with my views. 4In contrast to the common assumption that agency includes the notion of intention, Giddens (1984) suggests that intention is not a necessary component. He says that “agency refers to doing” (Giddens 1984: 10). He gives a number of examples of various patterns of action sequences that can have unintended consequences, but can still be considered to involve an agent. 5The reason is that Garfinkel was more concerned with explaining social structure on the micro level (see note 2, above). Thus moral accountability is defined as having a key role in explaining actors’ local actions. In contrast, Giddens’ primary concern is to develop a theory that both accounts for action on a local level and explains how actions over time effect social change. According to Giddens, the key factor in explaining how social changes occur is the
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distribution of power. Power refers to access to social positions and resources which enables actors to attain “transformative capacity” (Giddens 1984: 15). In structuration theory, the role of subjectivity and reflexive monitoring is downplayed, and the role of power is given more prominence. 6Recall that the term locale was introduced in Chapter 1. It refers to the “… zoning of time-space in relation to routinized social practices” (Giddens 1984: 119). 7According to Goffman (1974), Bateson first used the term frame in 1955 in an article published in Psychiatric Research Reports 2 by the American Psychiatric Association. It is republished in Bateson (1972). 8In situated cognition they cite, in particular, the work of Brown, Collins, and Duguid (1989). They also suggest that much of the current work in situated cognition in the U. S. is based upon Russian activity theory which is often attributed to Vygotsky. 9Later in the article, he says that the communicative problems are recurrent. 10Quoting Silverstein (1985), Günthner and Knoblauch (1995: 21) define linguistic ideology as the “sets of beliefs about language articulated by users as a rationalization or justification or perceived language structure and use”. 11Hanks has republished this important paper as well as several other works concerning genre in the book Intertexts (Hanks 2000). 12Some linguists have suggested that register and genre are two separate concepts and that they should be kept apart. For example, Martin (1985), working within the systemic functional linguistics framework developed by Halliday, argues that genre should be seen as the system that underlies register. He suggests that the genre determines how the register variables, field, tenor, and mode, may be combined in a particular community (Swales 1990). Because I assume that the notion of genre encompasses these variables, for the purpose of this study, it is not necessary to make a distinction between genre and register. 13Genre includes Halliday’s context of situation and text. 14I will not attempt to review the work of all of the scholars who apply the systemic functional linguistics framework (Halliday 1985) to genres, but I should note that Eggins and Martin (1997) provide a concise, yet in-depth, review of this work as well as an example of how the approach is used to analyze texts. 15This is a revised version of an article which was originally published in Reid (1987). 16Paré and Smart (1994) analyzed two types of writing practices associated with institutions. One was a predisposition report which is “… written by a social worker as an advisory report to a judge on the sentencing of an adolescent found guilty of a criminal offense” (Paré and Smart 1994: 147). The other was a project proposal generated by bank employees and addressed to the senior management of the bank.
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Chapter 3. Regularities at the level of interaction: The structure of participation 1I should note that there are many types of participation. Indeed, body positioning, gesture, and eye gaze have all been shown to be an important part of interaction. However, for the most part my analysis will be limited to an examination of verbal participation. 2Goffman does not mention production format in this discussion, but we can assume that production formats would also vary. 3P frame is an abbreviation for “participant frame”, which is basically what I am calling participation structure. 4In the cooking classes, the students might also be considered an audience. However, I consider the term audience to refer to listeners who are not required to perform any subsequent action. In the case of the cooking classes, some of what the teachers said was framed as instructions that would subsequently be acted upon by the students. This was particularly true in the case of the Japanese classes. 5The authors who discuss this issue all use the term speech event rather than genre. Therefore, I use their terminology. 6Levinson points out, as others have, that the set of participant roles enacted may change within a turn. Therefore, an utterance-event does not necessarily correspond to a turn. 7The distinction I am making here is similar to the distinction Goodwin (1984) makes between addressed recipient and nonaddressed recipient. 8Other researchers who use the concept of floor to analyze participation would consider many of the students’ turns in my data to be “backchannels”. For example, Iwasaki (1997:666) defines backchannels “… as any verbal attention whose main purpose is to respond in a supporting (i.e., non-disagreeing, non-challenging) manner to the other participant’s immediately preceding or current vocalization”. According to this definition, backchannels are not defined by length. Thus a backchannel can be a short non-lexical item, a phrasal utterance, or a series of sentences. (See also Hayashi (1996), who says that backchannels include questions and comments.) 9Because I do not have video data, I will only make a few comments about eye gaze, based on observation. In general, both the Japanese and the American students watched what the teacher was doing. Rather than looking at the teacher’s face, this meant looking at the teacher’s hands or at the mirror, which was placed above the teacher’s workspace in all of the classrooms. In addition, the teachers themselves often looked at the food they were preparing, rather than at the students. However, as they were giving the demonstration, the American teachers often looked up from their tasks and around the room from one student to another. On the other hand, the Japanese teachers did not do this. When they looked up, they seemed to gaze into the middle of the room, rather than moving their gaze from one individual to another. 10In Japanese, second person pronouns are rarely used to refer to addressees (Ide and Yoshida 1999). Instead, the referent is either not mentioned (i.e., so-called ellipsis or zero anaphora), or a person can be explicitly referred to using his/her proper name. In the
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cooking classes, most of the time, the teachers did not explicitly refer to the students. In other words, they used the zero anaphora strategy. However, on occasion, they explicitly referred to the class members using minasan or minasama which in this case means ‘all of you’. 11Of course, honorification has been described in detail by many Japanese specialists (cf. Martin 1964; Miller 1967; Ide 1982; Wetzel 1984; To Appear; Jorden 1987; 1988; 1990; Shibatani 1990). 12The predicate, da (plain) and desu (polite), is most often referred to as the copula. However, Iwasaki (1993: 96) explains that this is a misnomer because its function is to convert nominal forms into predicates, rather than to link the subject and complement as a “true” copula does. He prefers the term predicate formative word, abbreviated pred in glosses. I follow his usage. 13To refer to predicates, I use the dictionary form (shuushi-kee), which is also the nonpast, finite form. 14I follow Chafe (1994) in defining subjects as starting points. Thus basically they are the S argument in a clause with an intransitive verb and the A argument in a clause with a transitive verb. 15I should point out that the language used in these classes is hyperpolite, and thus not typically seen in less formal situations or situations where the participants are well acquainted. 16The -mase form is the imperative of -masu. 17The verb kudasaru is one of four verbs of giving and receiving (or what Miller (1967) calls “donatory verbs”). Though these verbs are not technically part of the system of honorification, they are often discussed in conjunction with honorification. This is probably because the donatory verbs are similar to referent honorifics in that there are both humble and honorific forms. These verbs are used to convey two types of information: When they function as main verbs, they convey literal information about giving and receiving, and when they are used as auxiliaries, they indicate direction of transfer of objects and other less tangible items such as favors, etc. Thus in example (4), a more literal translation might be something like, ‘Buy the inarizushi type of wrappers, as a favor (to me).’ Like the referent honorific system, these verbs provide information about the uchi/soto relationship between the speaker and the referent denoted by the clausal subject. Thus kudasaru is only used when the subject of the clause is not a member of the speaker’s group. 18That the entire class is still the intended recipient/addressee is apparent because the teacher says wakai kata mo irasshaimasu (‘there are also young people here’). 19By question I do not necessarily mean interrogative form. Utterances that the addressee orients to as a question, for example, by providing an answer in the next turn, are also questions (Heritage and Roth 1995). 20The joke is not audible on the recording. 21Though the laughter in lines 6 and 9 might be considered shifts in participation structure, I am limiting my analysis to substantive verbalizations. In addition, it is possible that Pam’s utterance in line 10 was addressed to Diane or to the group of students at Diane’s table, rather than the entire class.
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22These categories can be compared to Goffman’s (1981) animator (i.e., utterer) and author (i.e., original source). 23This segment is taken from the first meeting of the class in which Jean gave a longer demonstration of about 30 minutes. 24There are several other instances where Carol speaks for Jean. 25There are perhaps two interrelated frames involved here: One concerns social position (i.e., in a classroom situation, it is expected that questions and requests will be addressed by the teacher). The other concerns participant roles (i.e., we generally expect the addressee to respond to a question or request, not someone else). 26Though this question cannot be addressed with my data, it is interesting to speculate about whether or not smaller Japanese classes would exhibit a shift in the default participation structure over time. In a smaller class, as participants became better acquainted, we might hypothesize that there would be shifts in how they perceived the uchi/soto (‘ingroup/out-group’) relationship, which would be reflected in their use of honorific language and in the participation structures displayed. 27Following Edelsky (1981), Hayashi analyzes participation structure in terms of floor management, suggesting that within a single conversation, there are two types of floors, a single person floor and a collaborative floor.
Chapter 4. Regularities at the level of discourse: The content of the talk 1The idea of changes in footing (Goffman 1981) seems to collapse changes in participation structure and changes in content. Recall that according to Goffman, footing refers to the alignment conversational participants take with respect to one another. As explained in Chapter 3, changes in footing may be reflected in changes in the participants’ roles. Thus footing is often used to mean participation structure. Goffman (1981: 128) further states that “a change in footing is another way of talking about a change in our frame for events.” As I suggested in Chapter 2, a more thorough examination of Goffman’s work suggests that changes in footing may also occur when there is only a change in the activity in which the participants are involved. Changes in activity are usually apparent through changes in content. Thus, in example (29), Gary changes activities, from demonstrating the recipe in line 3 to telling a story in line 4, and there is a concurrent change in content. However, this type of change may or may not be accompanied by a change in the participants’ roles. 2Example (38), which preceded (31) in the transcript, contains the portion where Pam first mentioned Lilah Drake. 3As I have mentioned, Jean’s classes were especially disorganized. This was apparently due to a lack of pre-planning. The following example from her demonstration of how to cook artichokes gives the impression that she was making up the procedures at the moment: J:
and I think that what we’ll do - we’ll start doing then, is- is add in lots of different um spices.
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… and then we’ll cook them in a little bit of stock, I’ll use the commercial stock for the artichokes.. and then um, … we’re just gonna throw some garlic in here, and gonna throw um, … maybe some some, … dill, and some parsley. a=nd, just cook them for about an hour, 4Students were not interviewed about this issue. However, discussions of the reasons people were taking the classes came up in a number of conversations in which I was a participant in both the Japanese and American classes. 5The frequency of this practice may depend on socio-economic class. 6Early work in contrastive rhetoric that examined the rhetorical structures of essays written by ESL students with different language backgrounds makes similar claims: Kaplan (1966), who lumped together several Asian languages under the label “Oriental”, claimed that those languages had a “circular” organization that contrasted with the “linear” organization of English. This research has been much criticized for a number of reasons. In particular, it is overly simplistic because it does not consider that there are linguistic and cultural differences even in related languages that may affect writing (Connor 1996). More recent research involving written discourse might still be viewed as suggesting that English is more linearly organized when contrasted with Japanese. For example, Hinds (1990) suggests that native English speakers expect a deductive pattern with explicit transition cues, whereas Japanese speakers expect a “quasi-inductive” pattern. In the latter type of writing, the writer does not need to make what s/he is trying to say as explicit because the reader has more responsibility for understanding the rhetorical structure and drawing his/her own conclusions. However, Kubota (1997) has criticized Hinds’ research as being over-generalized, suggesting in particular that the quasi-inductive pattern is only seen in a few specific texts within one genre. Following Swales (1990), she points out that it is especially important to consider the communicative purpose for which a particular text is written when examining its rhetorical structure. 7See Kubota (1997) for more discussion of the problem of over-generalizing rhetorical structures without closely examining the situation and communicative purpose of the genres being compared. 8As I mentioned in Chapter 1, though the Japanese instructors received a short orientation/training session, they were not told what to say or how to organize their individual lesson plans. Thus the uniformity in the Japanese cooking lessons cannot be attributed to preexisting, scripted lesson plans.
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Chapter 5. Regularities at the level of grammar: Clause structure and transitivity 1For Japanese, complex clause is used more generally to refer to main clauses with an embedded nominalized clause (i.e., not necessarily a relative or complement clause). However, there are only seven of these in the Japanese data, so the term is more relevant for English. 2It should be noted that some scholars consider the various dependent clause connectors to be converbs. In particular, Haspelmath (1995) suggests that -te is a converb, and Alpatov and Podlesskaya (1995) argue that along with -te, -tara, -te kara, nagara, and -ba (see Fig. 5.2) are also converbs. 3Following Thompson and Mulac (1991a; 1991b), I consider the English verbs think and know and Japanese omou (‘think’) to be markers of epistemicity and evidentiality rather than complement taking verbs. Thus they are not coded as separate clauses. 4I considered desukara and kara to be two variants rather than separate clause connectors. In this example, kara cannot be used because it is preceded by a noun rather than a predicate. Desukara is a lexicalization of the predicate formative word desu (polite form) and the clause connector kara. Thus it can follow nominal forms. 5See also Akatsuka and Sohn (1994) and Clancy et al. (1997). 6I should note that the Japanese clause linker that most closely corresponds to when is toki, but it only appeared three times in the Japanese database, once linking sequential instructions and twice in explanation. 7Of the 12 temporal clauses in the English database, 10 were initial temporal clauses (i.e., they preceded the independent clause to which they were connected). 8This discussion holds for the humble and honorific variants itasu (‘do(hum)’ and nasaru (‘do(hon)’) as well. 9Shite is the -te form of suru. 10In order to determine whether eliminating the complex clauses from the databases affected the ratio of 1-argument clauses to 2+ argument clauses, I performed an additional calculation, including the complex clauses. In this case, the ratios were even closer: The Japanese database contained 47% 1-argument clauses and 53% 2+ argument clauses, and the English database contained 48% 1-argument clauses and 52% 2+ argument clauses. Note that in this case clauses with so-called mental-state verbs such as think, remember, and wakaru (‘understand’) were coded as 1-argument clauses, following Thompson and Hopper (2001), who suggest that these verbs function as epistemic and evidential introducers, rather than complement-taking verbs. 11I have subsequently analyzed these data using a method that more explicitly takes into account the original transitivity parameters defined by Hopper and Thompson (1980). I found the same general pattern, showing that English speakers’ use of 2+ argument clauses was more evenly distributed along the scale of transitivity. On the other hand, Japanese
Notes 203
speakers tended to use 2+ argument clauses to express events that were relatively higher in transitivity (or closer to the prototype). Figure 1 shows this. 40% 35%
% of Clauses
30% 25% English
20%
Japanese
15% 10% 5% 0% 0
2
4
6
8
10
Level of Transitivity
Figure 1.Transitivity in 2+ argument clauses 12Some of the students did not know anything about cooking and might have made such an assumption.
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Index A Abelson29 action18–22, 26, 37–39, 55, 141, 169, 171 communicative17, 18, 20, 25, 38, 39 human2, 19, 20, 22, 26, 56, 59 rhetorical2, 20, 34, 41 social20, 21, 28, 32, 41, 44, 46, 50, 54, 56, 107, 187, 193 student-initiated80, 84, 107, 111, 114 teacher-initiated84, 102, 108, 118–120 activity type33 (see also interactive frame) actor20, 23 adjacency pair87, 98, 99 adverbial functions139, 144, 155 agency23, 27, 172, 179, 196 agent15, 20, 23–26, 169, 175, 183 Akatsuka159 argument15, 169–175, 183, 186 Auer46, 53, 62 B Bakhtin5, 44 Bartlett28, 31, 36, 195 Bateson30, 31, 197 Bauman5, 36, 44, 45, 101 Bawarshi40, 41, 62 Bazerman5, 18, 26, 37, 38, 42, 49, 55 Benedict104 Bergmann5, 6, 38, 41, 42, 55, 195 Berkenkotter40 body positioning70, 99–101, 189 Bourdieu2, 45, 49, 63, 196 breaching experiments21 Briggs5, 36, 44, 45, 101 C Chafe29, 195, 199 Clancy159, 202
classroom interaction102, 103, 107 clause adverbial145, 152–154, 163, 164, 166, 191 complement145–148, 202 complex144–148, 152, 154, 155, 165, 170, 202 conditional13, 145–147, 149, 150, 154–161, 164, 185, 191 dependent13, 138, 139, 144, 147–151, 155, 164–167, 184, 191 embedded144–148 finite/non-finite147, 148, 165, 167 independent13, 138, 139, 144–148, 152, 153, 155, 161, 162, 164–167, 184, 191 reason146, 150, 154–158, 164 relative145, 146, 148, 170 existential relative154, 170 -te138, 139, 147, 155, 162, 167, 184 temporal146, 149, 155, 161–164, 184, 185 transitive/intransitive (see transitivity) 1-argument/2+argument (see transitivity) clause combining138, 165–167, 184, 191 clause connector147, 147–151, 165, 167, 202 communicative budget42, 43 communicative function defined140–144 explanation explanatory information13, 15, 16, 139, 140, 142–144, 152, 153, 155, 156–158, 160, 161, 163, 164, 169, 181, 184–186, 191, 192, 196, 202
220 Language, Social Structure, and Culture
clause-level categories explanation140, 142, 144, 155, 157, 181 evaluation140, 142, 144, 159 justification140, 143, 154 topicalizing140, 143 other140, 143 instruction instructional information13, 15, 16, 139–142, 152–158, 160, 161, 163, 164, 169, 181, 184–186, 191, 192, 196 clause-level categories instruction13–16, 77, 130, 140, 159–161, 164, 185, 191, 192, 196, 202 precondition140, 141, 154, 160, 185, 196 suggestion140, 141, 144, 160, 161, 196 warning13–15, 140, 141, 154, 158–161, 191, 192, 196 communicative goal33, 37 Conduit and Conduit102 consciousness discursive23 practical23, 24 unconscious23, 24 content non-task-oriented12, 67, 110, 111, 114, 118, 120, 124, 129–131, 133, 135, 136, 189 task-oriented12–15, 67, 110–112, 114, 115, 118, 120, 122–124, 129–133, 135–140, 164, 176, 184, 185, 189, 191, 192 context45–48, 62 contextual variables47, 52–54, 188, 189 (see also situational variables) contextualization cues70 cosubordination138 D deixis70, 74 deontic modality159–161
Devitt6, 40, 53, 54 do173–175 dominant communication defined68 duality of structure25, 26, 40, 55–57, 187 Duranti32, 44, 61, 64, 138 E Edelsky70, 200 ethnography of speaking31, 32, 44, 46 ethnomethodology19–23, 26, 27, 56, 196 exigence2, 6, 7, 21, 33, 37, 47, 49–53, 56, 190 F field63, 64 Fillmore29 floor70, 105–107, 134, 198, 200 footing31, 59, 60, 65, 98, 200 Ford163 frame27, 28, 55, 57, 195, 197 interactive frame28, 30–36, 57 frame space63, 64 Freadman6, 38, 49, 50, 55, 58 Freedman49–53, 62 G Garfinkel2, 21, 22, 196 genre analysis11, 39, 43, 193 defined18, 19, 55, 56 families of genres5, 38, 42, 102 knowledge40 systems5, 19, 38, 49, 55, 58, 102 theory2–4, 19, 20, 36–55, 57, 187 Giddens2, 7, 19, 20, 22–27, 35, 39, 49, 56, 57, 59, 61, 62, 109, 187, 196 Goffman31–33, 60, 61, 63, 65, 68, 98, 99, 198, 200 gossip111, 112, 122–124, 132 grammatical resource2, 13, 138, 161, 165, 167 (see also linguistic resource) Gumperz32–34, 195 Günthner3, 42, 43, 195, 197
Index 221
H Halliday40, 45–49, 51, 63, 197 Hanks34, 35, 43, 45, 46, 55, 57, 63, 64, 196, 197 Hayashi105, 106, 200 hierarchical order104, 105, 107 honorific language70, 72, 73–77, 93, 95, 103, 104, 107, 193, 199, 200 addressee honorifics73–76, 103 beautification language103 hyperpolite language103, 106, 199 kenjoogo (‘humble language’)72, 73, 77 referent honorifics73–76, 93, 199 sonkeigo (‘respect language’)72–77 teineigo (‘polite language’)72–74, 76, 77, 93 Hopper168–171, 176, 183, 186, 202 Huckin40 Hymes31, 32, 60 hypotaxis166, 167, 184 I Ide103 insertion sequence98, 99 institutional structure13, 17, 23, 26, 38, 66, 101, 108, 136, 137 institutionalization43, 62, 189 intersubjectivity21, 23, 38, 39 intertextuality4, 5, 19, 36, 38, 39, 43, 44, 47, 49, 51, 54, 55, 57, 58, 83, 85, 101–104, 122–124, 135 intonation unit9 Irvine60, 61, 65, 70, 85 J joke84, 85, 111, 118–123 K Kaplan201 Knoblauch3, 42, 43, 195, 197 Kress48, 49 Kubota201
L Levinson33, 60, 64–66, 70, 75, 85, 89, 93, 99, 198 linguistic ideology43, 197 linguistic resource16, 49, 63, 191, 193 (see also grammatical resource) local knowledge35, 195 locale7, 59, 197 Luckmann5, 6, 38, 41–43, 47, 53–55, 62, 196 M Martin197 Mayes149, 159, 167 Miller2, 6, 7, 20, 34, 36, 37, 50, 57, 135, 190 modal auxiliaries161 moral accountability22, 23, 196 N narrative167 natural attitude21, 24 Nihonjinron (‘Japanology’)104 O O’Dowd170, 171 objectivism vs. subjectivism19, 20, 22, 196 ontological security (see natural attitude) Orlikowski39, 57 P P word170, 171 Paré53, 61, 63, 197 Parsons20 participant role32, 53, 59–61, 63–65, 69, 70, 75, 83, 88, 99, 101, 108, 188, 198, 200 addressee66, 70, 76, 77, 82, 85–87, 89, 90, 93, 198 animator60, 200 author60, 200 hearer32, 60
222 Language, Social Structure, and Culture
principal60 recipient66, 81, 83, 85, 86, 88, 89, 198 recipient/addressee64, 66, 68–72, 75, 76, 81, 82, 85, 86, 89–91, 93, 102 speaker12, 32, 60, 61, 64–66, 68–70, 72, 77, 78, 80–83, 85–87, 89, 93, 100, 102, 103, 105, 110, 114, 116, 118, 136, 188 target89, 90 participation framework59, 60 participation structure default participation structure65, 69–77, 85, 86, 88, 92, 96–100, 102, 107, 108, 112, 115, 188, 189, 200 defined59–66 personal stories12, 111, 118, 119, 122, 126, 135 phenomenology19, 20–22, 26, 27, 56 Philips102, 103 politeness (see honorific language) power27, 48, 49, 56, 197 practices communicative35, 36, 43, 45, 57, 61, 132, 138, 196 discursive38, 40, 189 social7, 22–26, 36, 41, 45, 51, 61, 187, 190, 197 writing18, 40, 49, 53, 54, 197 practice theory35, 45, 196 pragmatic particle145, 148, 176 prior discourse (see intertextuality) production format60, 198 prototype27, 29, 30, 55, 168 (see also knowledge schema) R reciprocity of perspectives21, 22, 41, 42 reflexive monitoring23, 197 register45–48, 197 regular patterns1–4, 7, 13, 20, 25, 26, 59, 109, 137, 138, 187–189, 193 (see also structural property) reported speech5, 85, 121, 122, 124 Rohlen102, 103
Rosch29, 30 routinization24, 26, 35, 57 S Schank29 Schegloff98 schema27–30, 35, 195 knowledge schema28–30, 34–36, 57 schematic knowledge34, 35 Schiffrin61, 88 Schutz21, 24, 27, 41, 56, 57, 195 script27, 29 (see also knowledge schema) sequentially ordered information149, 162–167, 184, 191 situation recurrent2, 18, 20, 37, 39, 41, 55 rhetorical1, 5, 37, 39, 53, 54 situational variables104, 105, 107, 132, 134, 135 (see also contextual variables) Smart53, 61, 63, 197 social change26, 27, 49, 56, 188, 189, 196 constructionism27, 36, 56 norm22, 26, 28, 38–40, 88, 100 position7, 8, 12, 14, 47, 51–53, 56, 61–65, 69, 83, 88, 101, 106, 108, 136, 188, 190, 191, 200 role (see social position) theory19–27 speech activity31, 33, 34, 55 (see also interactive frame) speech event31–33, 44, 64, 65 (see also interactive frame) stock of knowledge21, 27, 35, 41, 42, 57 structural property25, 26, 56, 59, 66, 101, 109, 136, 137, 187–190 structuration theory2, 19, 20, 22–27, 39, 56, 57, 187, 196, 197 subordinate communication defined68 suru (‘do’)174, 175 Suzuki147 Swales3, 17, 201 Sydney School48
Index 223
T Tanaka104, 166 Tannen27–29, 34 Tao183 Thompson168–171, 176, 183, 186, 202 Threadgold48, 49 transitivity15, 16, 138, 139, 168, 169, 176–183, 185, 186, 192, 193, 202, 203 action non-object-manipulating169, 171, 172, 173, 175, 178–181 object-manipulating15, 16, 138, 139, 168, 169, 171–175, 178–181, 183, 185, 186, 192, 193 event169, 171, 175, 177–181 event scale169, 171–176 clause intransitive15, 16, 138, 139, 168, 169, 177, 180–183, 185, 186, 192, 193 transitive15, 16, 30, 138, 139, 168, 169, 177, 178, 180–183, 185, 186, 192, 193 1-argument170, 171, 177, 180, 181, 183, 202 2+ argument171, 177–181, 202, 203 state169, 171, 176, 178–180 typification2, 21, 24, 27, 37, 41, 55, 57, 195
U uchi/soto (‘in-group/out-group’)73, 74, 101, 105, 134, 199, 200 utterance-event65, 66, 85, 89, 99, 198 V vertical hierarchy (see hierarchical order) Vygotsky93 W Wallat28, 34 Watanabe105, 106, 132, 133 Y Yamada105, 106, 132, 133 Yates39, 57
In the PRAGMATICS AND BEYOND NEW SERIES the following titles have been published thus far or are scheduled for publication: 1. WALTER, Bettyruth: The Jury Summation as Speech Genre: An Ethnographic Study of What it Means to Those who Use it. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1988. 2. BARTON, Ellen: Nonsentential Constituents: A Theory of Grammatical Structure and Pragmatic Interpretation. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 3. OLEKSY, Wieslaw (ed.): Contrastive Pragmatics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989. 4. RAFFLER-ENGEL, Walburga von (ed.): Doctor-Patient Interaction. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989. 5. THELIN, Nils B. (ed.): Verbal Aspect in Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 6. VERSCHUEREN, Jef (ed.): Selected Papers from the 1987 International Pragmatics Conference. Vol. I: Pragmatics at Issue. Vol. II: Levels of Linguistic Adaptation. Vol. III: The Pragmatics of Intercultural and International Communication (ed. with Jan Blommaert). Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 7. LINDENFELD, Jacqueline: Speech and Sociability at French Urban Market Places. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 8. YOUNG, Lynne: Language as Behaviour, Language as Code: A Study of Academic English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 9. LUKE, Kang-Kwong: Utterance Particles in Cantonese Conversation. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 10. MURRAY, Denise E.: Conversation for Action. The computer terminal as medium of communication. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 11. LUONG, Hy V.: Discursive Practices and Linguistic Meanings. The Vietnamese system of person reference. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 12. ABRAHAM, Werner (ed.): Discourse Particles. Descriptive and theoretical investigations on the logical, syntactic and pragmatic properties of discourse particles in German. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 13. NUYTS, Jan, A. Machtelt BOLKESTEIN and Co VET (eds): Layers and Levels of Representation in Language Theory: A functional view. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 14. SCHWARTZ, Ursula: Young Children’s Dyadic Pretend Play. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 15. KOMTER, Martha: Conflict and Cooperation in Job Interviews. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 16. MANN, William C. and Sandra A. THOMPSON (eds): Discourse Description: Diverse Linguistic Analyses of a Fund-Raising Text. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 17. PIÉRAUT-LE BONNIEC, Gilberte and Marlene DOLITSKY (eds): Language Bases ... Discourse Bases. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 18. JOHNSTONE, Barbara: Repetition in Arabic Discourse. Paradigms, syntagms and the ecology of language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 19. BAKER, Carolyn D. and Allan LUKE (eds): Towards a Critical Sociology of Reading Pedagogy. Papers of the XII World Congress on Reading. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 20. NUYTS, Jan: Aspects of a Cognitive-Pragmatic Theory of Language. On cognition, functionalism, and grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 21. SEARLE, John R. et al.: (On) Searle on Conversation. Compiled and introduced by Herman Parret and Jef Verschueren. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992.
22. AUER, Peter and Aldo Di LUZIO (eds): The Contextualization of Language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 23. FORTESCUE, Michael, Peter HARDER and Lars KRISTOFFERSEN (eds): Layered Structure and Reference in a Functional Perspective. Papers from the Functional Grammar Conference, Copenhagen, 1990. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 24. MAYNARD, Senko K.: Discourse Modality: Subjectivity, Emotion and Voice in the Japanese Language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 25. COUPER-KUHLEN, Elizabeth: English Speech Rhythm. Form and function in everyday verbal interaction. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 26. STYGALL, Gail: Trial Language. A study in differential discourse processing. Amsterdam/ Philadelphia, 1994. 27. SUTER, Hans Jürg: The Wedding Report: A Prototypical Approach to the Study of Traditional Text Types. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 28. VAN DE WALLE, Lieve: Pragmatics and Classical Sanskrit. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 29. BARSKY, Robert F.: Constructing a Productive Other: Discourse theory and the convention refugee hearing. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 30. WORTHAM, Stanton E.F.: Acting Out Participant Examples in the Classroom. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 31. WILDGEN, Wolfgang: Process, Image and Meaning. A realistic model of the meanings of sentences and narrative texts. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 32. SHIBATANI, Masayoshi and Sandra A. THOMPSON (eds): Essays in Semantics and Pragmatics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 33. GOOSSENS, Louis, Paul PAUWELS, Brygida RUDZKA-OSTYN, Anne-Marie SIMONVANDENBERGEN and Johan VANPARYS: By Word of Mouth. Metaphor, metonymy and linguistic action in a cognitive perspective. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 34. BARBE, Katharina: Irony in Context. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 35. JUCKER, Andreas H. (ed.): Historical Pragmatics. Pragmatic developments in the history of English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 36. CHILTON, Paul, Mikhail V. ILYIN and Jacob MEY: Political Discourse in Transition in Eastern and Western Europe (1989-1991). Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 37. CARSTON, Robyn and Seiji UCHIDA (eds): Relevance Theory. Applications and implications. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 38. FRETHEIM, Thorstein and Jeanette K. GUNDEL (eds): Reference and Referent Accessibility. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 39. HERRING, Susan (ed.): Computer-Mediated Communication. Linguistic, social, and cross-cultural perspectives. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 40. DIAMOND, Julie: Status and Power in Verbal Interaction. A study of discourse in a closeknit social network. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 41. VENTOLA, Eija and Anna MAURANEN, (eds): Academic Writing. Intercultural and textual issues. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 42. WODAK, Ruth and Helga KOTTHOFF (eds): Communicating Gender in Context. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 43. JANSSEN, Theo A.J.M. and Wim van der WURFF (eds): Reported Speech. Forms and functions of the verb. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996.
44. BARGIELA-CHIAPPINI, Francesca and Sandra J. HARRIS: Managing Language. The discourse of corporate meetings. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 45. PALTRIDGE, Brian: Genre, Frames and Writing in Research Settings. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 46. GEORGAKOPOULOU, Alexandra: Narrative Performances. A study of Modern Greek storytelling. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 47. CHESTERMAN, Andrew: Contrastive Functional Analysis. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 48. KAMIO, Akio: Territory of Information. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 49. KURZON, Dennis: Discourse of Silence. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 50. GRENOBLE, Lenore: Deixis and Information Packaging in Russian Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 51. BOULIMA, Jamila: Negotiated Interaction in Target Language Classroom Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999. 52. GILLIS, Steven and Annick DE HOUWER (eds): The Acquisition of Dutch. Amsterdam/ Philadelphia, 1998. 53. MOSEGAARD HANSEN, Maj-Britt: The Function of Discourse Particles. A study with special reference to spoken standard French. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 54. HYLAND, Ken: Hedging in Scientific Research Articles. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 55. ALLWOOD, Jens and Peter Gärdenfors (eds): Cognitive Semantics. Meaning and cognition. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999. 56. TANAKA, Hiroko: Language, Culture and Social Interaction. Turn-taking in Japanese and Anglo-American English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999. 57 JUCKER, Andreas H. and Yael ZIV (eds): Discourse Markers. Descriptions and theory. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 58. ROUCHOTA, Villy and Andreas H. JUCKER (eds): Current Issues in Relevance Theory. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 59. KAMIO, Akio and Ken-ichi TAKAMI (eds): Function and Structure. In honor of Susumu Kuno. 1999. 60. JACOBS, Geert: Preformulating the News. An analysis of the metapragmatics of press releases. 1999. 61. MILLS, Margaret H. (ed.): Slavic Gender Linguistics. 1999. 62. TZANNE, Angeliki: Talking at Cross-Purposes. The dynamics of miscommunication. 2000. 63. BUBLITZ, Wolfram, Uta LENK and Eija VENTOLA (eds.): Coherence in Spoken and Written Discourse. How to create it and how to describe it.Selected papers from the International Workshop on Coherence, Augsburg, 24-27 April 1997. 1999. 64. SVENNEVIG, Jan: Getting Acquainted in Conversation. A study of initial interactions. 1999. 65. COOREN, François: The Organizing Dimension of Communication. 2000. 66. JUCKER, Andreas H., Gerd FRITZ and Franz LEBSANFT (eds.): Historical Dialogue Analysis. 1999. 67. TAAVITSAINEN, Irma, Gunnel MELCHERS and Päivi PAHTA (eds.): Dimensions of Writing in Nonstandard English. 1999. 68. ARNOVICK, Leslie: Diachronic Pragmatics. Seven case studies in English illocutionary development. 1999.
69. NOH, Eun-Ju: The Semantics and Pragmatics of Metarepresentation in English. A relevance-theoretic account. 2000. 70. SORJONEN, Marja-Leena: Responding in Conversation. A study of response particles in Finnish. 2001. 71. GÓMEZ-GONZÁLEZ, María Ángeles: The Theme-Topic Interface. Evidence from English. 2001. 72. MARMARIDOU, Sophia S.A.: Pragmatic Meaning and Cognition. 2000. 73. HESTER, Stephen and David FRANCIS (eds.): Local Educational Order. Ethnomethodological studies of knowledge in action. 2000. 74. TROSBORG, Anna (ed.): Analysing Professional Genres. 2000. 75. PILKINGTON, Adrian: Poetic Effects. A relevance theory perspective. 2000. 76. MATSUI, Tomoko: Bridging and Relevance. 2000. 77. VANDERVEKEN, Daniel and Susumu KUBO (eds.): Essays in Speech Act Theory. 2002. 78. SELL, Roger D. : Literature as Communication. The foundations of mediating criticism. 2000. 79. ANDERSEN, Gisle and Thorstein FRETHEIM (eds.): Pragmatic Markers and Propositional Attitude. 2000. 80. UNGERER, Friedrich (ed.): English Media Texts – Past and Present. Language and textual structure. 2000. 81. DI LUZIO, Aldo, Susanne GÜNTHNER and Franca ORLETTI (eds.): Culture in Communication. Analyses of intercultural situations. 2001. 82. KHALIL, Esam N.: Grounding in English and Arabic News Discourse. 2000. 83. MÁRQUEZ REITER, Rosina: Linguistic Politeness in Britain and Uruguay. A contrastive study of requests and apologies. 2000. 84. ANDERSEN, Gisle: Pragmatic Markers and Sociolinguistic Variation. A relevance-theoretic approach to the language of adolescents. 2001. 85. COLLINS, Daniel E.: Reanimated Voices. Speech reporting in a historical-pragmatic perspective. 2001. 86. IFANTIDOU, Elly: Evidentials and Relevance. 2001. 87. MUSHIN, Ilana: Evidentiality and Epistemological Stance. Narrative retelling. 2001. 88. BAYRAKTAROG LU, ArFn and Maria SIFIANOU (eds.): Linguistic Politeness Across Boundaries. The case of Greek and Turkish. 2001. 89. ITAKURA, Hiroko: Conversational Dominance and Gender. A study of Japanese speakers in first and second language contexts. 2001. 90. KENESEI, István and Robert M. HARNISH (eds.): Perspectives on Semantics, Pragmatics, and Discourse. A Festschrift for Ferenc Kiefer. 2001. 91. GROSS, Joan: Speaking in Other Voices. An ethnography of Walloon puppet theaters. 2001. 92. GARDNER, Rod: When Listeners Talk. Response tokens and listener stance. 2001. 93. BARON, Bettina and Helga KOTTHOFF (eds.): Gender in Interaction. Perspectives on femininity and masculinity in ethnography and discourse. 2002 94. McILVENNY, Paul (ed.): Talking Gender and Sexuality. 2002. 95. FITZMAURICE, Susan M.: The Familiar Letter in Early Modern English. A pragmatic approach. 2002. 96. HAVERKATE, Henk: The Syntax, Semantics and Pragmatics of Spanish Mood. 2002.
97. MAYNARD, Senko K.: Linguistic Emotivity. Centrality of place, the topic-comment dynamic, and an ideology of pathos in Japanese discourse. 2002. 98. DUSZAK, Anna (ed.): Us and Others. Social identities across languages, discourses and cultures. 2002. 99. JASZCZOLT, K.M. and Ken TURNER (eds.): Meaning Through Language Contrast. Volume 1. 2003. 100. JASZCZOLT, K.M. and Ken TURNER (eds.): Meaning Through Language Contrast. Volume 2. 2003. 101. LUKE, Kang Kwong and Theodossia-Soula PAVLIDOU (eds.): Telephone Calls. Unity and diversity in conversational structure across languages and cultures. 2002. 102. LEAFGREN, John: Degrees of Explicitness. Information structure and the packaging of Bulgarian subjects and objects. 2002. 103. FETZER, Anita and Christiane MEIERKORD (eds.): Rethinking Sequentiality. Linguistics meets conversational interaction. 2002. 104. BEECHING, Kate: Gender, Politeness and Pragmatic Particles in French. 2002. 105. BLACKWELL, Sarah E.: Implicatures in Discourse. The case of Spanish NP anaphora. 2003. 106. BUSSE, Ulrich: Linguistic Variation in the Shakespeare Corpus. Morpho-syntactic variability of second person pronouns. 2002. 107. TAAVITSAINEN, Irma and Andreas H. JUCKER (eds.): Diachronic Perspectives on Address Term Systems. n.y.p. 108. BARRON, Anne: Acquisition in Interlanguage Pragmatics. How to do things with words in a study abroad context. n.y.p. 109. MAYES, Patricia: Language, Social Structure, and Culture. A genre analysis of cooking classes in Japan and America. 2003. 110. ANDROUTSOPOULOS, Jannis K. and Alexandra GEORGAKOPOULOU (eds.): Discourse Constructions of Youth Identities. n.y.p. 111. ENSINK, Titus and Christoph SAUER (eds.): Framing and Perspectivising in Discourse. n.y.p. 112. LENZ, Friedrich (ed.): Deictic Conceptualisation of Space, Time and Person. 2003. 113. PANTHER, Klaus-Uwe and Linda L. THORNBURG (eds.): Metonymy and Pragmatic Inferencing. n.y.p. 114. KÜHNLEIN, Peter, Hannes RIESER and Henk ZEEVAT (eds.): Perspectives on Dialogue in the New Millennium. n.y.p.
