In the '70s and '80s smash television series M*A*S*H, set in a surgical unit on the battle lines of the Korean War, the clerk, Radar O'Reilly, with his Harry Potter round glasses, and uncanny ESP, "radaring" coming events, consistently uses the pronoun "you" when he talks about himself. So, when he's relating the news from his home town, instead of using first person pronouns, he'll say something like this: "When your mom is having trouble making ends meet, and your uncle is having heart trouble, you really have a hard time not wanting to go home to take care of them." I found this tendency charming, innocent, self-effacing, shy--and sad.
Of course, this was perfect characterization--speaking style is as much of an identity marker as facial features or culinary preferences. Radar was the conduit, the glue for the entire M*A*S*H unit--for him, it was all about the you in his world. He was, literally (and as literature) always the demurring second person--the company gopher, communications manager, the counterpart of the mythical messenger (which is what an angel is) Hermes.
Sometimes, though, as a child of the '60s, I wanted to take him by the shoulders, look him in the eye, and say "own it--use I and me, and my, mine, and myself."
For me, one of the great gifts (and occasional irritation) of language study, teaching, and writing, is that, for me, a megaphone forms around words. When others revert to the "you" mode, when, clearly, they are talking about themselves, I want to take them by the shoulders.
What might be the phenomenology, the conscious experience of you-ing? Let's take an example, one that applies to me: When your first language is Hungarian, you prefer music in minor keys. (1) First, I, as speaker, am distancing myself from the experience; (2) if I, as a listener, don't have Hungarian as my first language, I am distanced.; (3) I, as listener, have to translate the you to I of this statement, which distracts me from the content of the statement; (4) I, as speaker, am relinquishing my personal ownership; (5) hiding behind the generalizing you, I'm making a claim that, in others' experiences, might not be true.
Here's a translation into the first person: My first language is Hungarian, so I prefer music in minor keys. OK. So, I am (1) owning the statement as my experience; (2) inviting listeners who aren't Hungarian to entertain a new perspective, and inviting Hungarians to consider their experience; (3) focusing my listener on my content; (4) owning my experience; (5) inviting both validation and counterpoint to my claim.
How have we come to rely so much on hiding behind the you? That's a historical boulder of a question. Some preliminary guesses: (1) It's safer to make a general you claim. (2) It's an academic mannerism to avoid using the I--as if that lends more truth and invites less argument to one's claims; (3) It's a version of the royal we, used by British monarchs. See (2) for why. (4) It seems more courteous and polite to not reference myself. (5) More locally, I, as teacher, notice that I often use the you during instruction--when you use the comma, for example, or you need to watch out for your use of the second person. Hearing the externalizing you you you in the classroom--and from family, politicians, religious leaders, and on--for all our lives, I'm sure, leads us to favor the you mode.
In class, I have taken to restating students' you-when-I-mean-I statements, as they talk: When you come from a large family becomes I come from a large family; when you don't know when you'll get a job becomes since I don't know when I'll get a job. At the very least, we are all listening more closely to each other.
I teach to learn. It's easier to assign the you of my students to write a poem about hands than to write one myself. (George Bernard Shaw's "those who can, do--those who can't, teach" applies here.) I am experimenting with changing you/your/yours to we/us/our/ours--"Let's write a poem about hands." This makes me appreciate more what my assignments mean.
My devotion is to empower, energize, inspire. There is something pleading and one-downing in you-ing our lives. You-ing says Please validate this, so that I can be OK. Please hear me. When Radar was talking about his family troubles, the subtext was I want to go home--something that a faithful member of the community would not be willing to say.
Using the I/me/mine/myself is to take ownership of my experience--to be who I am. Using I is a going home, in itself.
Let's I-dentify~
© 2014 Susanna Rich
What might be the phenomenology, the conscious experience of you-ing? Let's take an example, one that applies to me: When your first language is Hungarian, you prefer music in minor keys. (1) First, I, as speaker, am distancing myself from the experience; (2) if I, as a listener, don't have Hungarian as my first language, I am distanced.; (3) I, as listener, have to translate the you to I of this statement, which distracts me from the content of the statement; (4) I, as speaker, am relinquishing my personal ownership; (5) hiding behind the generalizing you, I'm making a claim that, in others' experiences, might not be true.
Here's a translation into the first person: My first language is Hungarian, so I prefer music in minor keys. OK. So, I am (1) owning the statement as my experience; (2) inviting listeners who aren't Hungarian to entertain a new perspective, and inviting Hungarians to consider their experience; (3) focusing my listener on my content; (4) owning my experience; (5) inviting both validation and counterpoint to my claim.
How have we come to rely so much on hiding behind the you? That's a historical boulder of a question. Some preliminary guesses: (1) It's safer to make a general you claim. (2) It's an academic mannerism to avoid using the I--as if that lends more truth and invites less argument to one's claims; (3) It's a version of the royal we, used by British monarchs. See (2) for why. (4) It seems more courteous and polite to not reference myself. (5) More locally, I, as teacher, notice that I often use the you during instruction--when you use the comma, for example, or you need to watch out for your use of the second person. Hearing the externalizing you you you in the classroom--and from family, politicians, religious leaders, and on--for all our lives, I'm sure, leads us to favor the you mode.
In class, I have taken to restating students' you-when-I-mean-I statements, as they talk: When you come from a large family becomes I come from a large family; when you don't know when you'll get a job becomes since I don't know when I'll get a job. At the very least, we are all listening more closely to each other.
I teach to learn. It's easier to assign the you of my students to write a poem about hands than to write one myself. (George Bernard Shaw's "those who can, do--those who can't, teach" applies here.) I am experimenting with changing you/your/yours to we/us/our/ours--"Let's write a poem about hands." This makes me appreciate more what my assignments mean.
My devotion is to empower, energize, inspire. There is something pleading and one-downing in you-ing our lives. You-ing says Please validate this, so that I can be OK. Please hear me. When Radar was talking about his family troubles, the subtext was I want to go home--something that a faithful member of the community would not be willing to say.
Using the I/me/mine/myself is to take ownership of my experience--to be who I am. Using I is a going home, in itself.
Let's I-dentify~
© 2014 Susanna Rich
