Urban Jamaican Creole: Variation in the Mesolect (Varieties of English Around the World General...

URBAN JAMAICAN CREOLE

Varieties of English Around the World

General Editor:

Edgar W. SchneiderDepartment of English & American Studies

University of RegensburgUniversitätsstraße 31

D-93053 REGENSBURGGermany

[email protected]

Editorial Assistants:Alexander Kautzsch, Melanie Schäfer (Regensburg)

Editorial Board:Michael Aceto (Puerto Rico); Laurie Bauer (Wellington)

J.K. Chambers (Toronto); Jenny Cheshire (London)Manfred Görlach (Cologne); Barbara Horvath (Sydney)

Jeffrey Kallen (Dublin); Thiru Kandiah (Singapore)Vivian de Klerk (Grahamstown, South Africa)

William A. Kretzschmar, Jr. (Athens, GA)Caroline Macafee (Aberdeen); Michael Montgomery (Columbia, SC)

Peter Mühlhäusler (Adelaide); Peter L. Patrick (Colchester)

GENERAL SERIESVolume 17

Peter L. Patrick

Urban Jamaican CreoleVariation in the Mesolect

JOHN BENJAMINS PUBLISHING COMPANYAMSTERDAM/PHILADELPHIA

URBANJAMAICAN

CREOLEVARIATION IN THE MESOLECT

PETER L. PATRICKUniversity of Essex

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements ofAmerican National Standard for Information Sciences — Permanence ofPaper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

8 TM

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Patrick, Peter.Urban Jamaican creole : variation in the mesolect / Peter Patrick.

p. cm. -- (Varieties of English around the world. General series, ISSN 0172-7362 ; v.17)

Includes bibliographical references and index.1. Creole dialects, English--Jamaica--Variation. 2. Urban dialects--Jamaica--Kingston. I. Title.

II. Series.PM7874.J3P38 1999427’.97292--dc21 99-13046ISBN 90 272 4875 3 (Eur.) / 1 55619 448 X (US) (alk. paper) CIP

© 1999 – John Benjamins B.V.No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any othermeans, without written permission from the publisher.

John Benjamins Publishing Co. • P.O.Box 75577 • 1070 AN Amsterdam • The NetherlandsJohn Benjamins North America • P.O.Box 27519 • Philadelphia, PA 19118-0519 • USA

In memory of my parents,Elinor Lumpkin Patrick (1926–93)

& Kenneth Gilbert Patrick (1907–97),

and of my sister,Suzanne Patrick Kavanagh (1936–94)

Table of Contents

List of Tables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

List of Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv

List of Maps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .xvii

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xix

C 1Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1Overview and plan of the work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1The historical context of urban creole studies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4The creole continuum model: Discreteness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6Inherent variation and the mesolect. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9The creole continuum model: Unidimensionality. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Decreolization, the mesolect, and the creole continuum. . . . . . . . . . . . . 15The use of quantitative analytical methods. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19Terminology and orthography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

C 2The Urban Speech Community of Kingston, Jamaica . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23Physical and historical sketch of Kingston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23Social geography of Kingston and the Veeton district. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Description of Veeton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37The urban/rural dimension. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43Social class, status and occupation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

viii TABLE OF CONTENTS

C 3Field Methods and Data Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65The investigator as near-native speaker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66Selecting the community. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69Entering the community: Elderly residents. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70Expanding networks: The Youth Club and the ‘ghetto’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72The sample and the sub-sample. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76Data collection techniques and instruments: The sociolinguistic interview . 77The language attitude questionnaire and tests. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79Quantitative analysis techniques. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

C 4Phonolexical Variation: Palatal Glides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83Description of the variable. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84Mergers, word-classes, and phonolexical variation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85History of (KYA) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89The African substrate. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93Previous studies of (KYA) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94A sociolinguistic description of two speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96Examples of (KYA) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99Acoustic analysis of low-vowel space. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101Two patterns of variation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105Variation of (KYA) across the community. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106Pathway of a change in progress. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113Evidence from loanwords. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114Change and evaluation in the Veeton speech community. . . . . . . . . . . . . 116Diachronic issues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

C 5Phonological Variation: Consonant Cluster Simplification . . . . . . . . . . 121(TD): A showcase variable. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122Defining the variable: Examples and exclusions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123Factors affecting (TD)-deletion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125Previous studies of (TD)-deletion: Phonological constraints. . . . . . . . . . . 129Previous studies of (TD)-deletion: Grammatical constraints. . . . . . . . . . . 132Types of consonant clusters in JC. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134Difficulties in “explaining away” (TD) variation in JC. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136

TABLE OF CONTENTS ix

Principal questions and procedures for the Veeton study. . . . . . . . . . . . . 139Preceding segment effects in the Veeton data. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140Following segment effects in the Veeton data. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145Insertion or deletion?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148Grammatical category effects in the Veeton data. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150Intersecting variable processes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152Estimating the rate of (TD)-deletion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156Conclusions: Constraint order and “creole-ness” in (TD)-deletion. . . . . . 159Comparison with another Creole: Deletion revisited. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163Unity versus lectal variety across the creole continuum. . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

C 6Creole Pre-Verbal Past-Markers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167Tense, aspect and past-marking in creoles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169TMA markers in Jamaican Creole. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171Stativity and punctuality. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172Anteriority: the classic syntactic account. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177Narrative clauses and anteriority: A discourse account. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181Temporal clauses. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184Irrealis clauses. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186Summary of coding and exclusions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189Infrequency of preverbal tense markers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192The use of ‘ben’ in Veeton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194Tense and negation marking with ‘neva’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199Description and distribution of pre-verbal ‘did’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203Quantitative analysis of a three-way (Past) variable. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206Social distribution of pre-verbal ‘did/neva’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209Linguistic variation of pre-verbal ‘did/neva’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212Stativity and ‘did/neva’ marking. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214Anteriority, clause-type and ‘did/neva’ marking. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215Conclusions: Variable marking as a creole feature. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220

C 7Past-Marking by Verb Inflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223Introduction: Verb inflection and non-marking. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223Morphological categories of the verb. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225

x TABLE OF CONTENTS

Other constraints: Stativity and anteriority revisited. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228Other constraints: Phonological environment revisited. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 230Overview of inflection by morphological category. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231Exceptional and irregular verbs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232Major morphological categories. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234Semi-weak verbs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236Nonsyllabic verbs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238Inflection across the mesolect. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241Variable inflection in other English Creoles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242Variable inflection in African American diaspora varieties. . . . . . . . . . . . 248Variable inflection in second-language acquisition studies. . . . . . . . . . . . 251Stativity, punctuality, inflection, and the verb ‘have’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256Clause-type, anteriority and verb inflection. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260Conclusion: Past-marking patterns in the Veeton mesolect. . . . . . . . . . . . 264

C 8Social Variation in the Veeton Speech Community. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267Nature of a creole speech community. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267Testing the polar stereotypes: Creole and English translation tasks. . . . . . 269Evaluative norms in a creole speech community: Concord and contrast . . 273Speaky-spoky: Consensus on conflicting norms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277Discreteness revisited: Findings for the four variables summarized. . . . . . 279Social dimensions of variation in a creole continuum. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284Correlating linguistic and social variation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287Conclusions: Rethinking the creole continuum and the mesolect. . . . . . . 292

References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297

Index of Language Varieties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321

Index of Subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323

List of Tables

Table 1.1: Implicational scale — variable JC features. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Table 2.1: Population, unemployment and educational achievement in 1982 41Table 2.2: Household size, crowding, and housing quality in 1982. . . . . . 43Table 2.3: Residential status ranking of Veeton speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . 44Table 2.4: Class categories and occupational groups. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53Table 2.5: Income and education for occupational categories. . . . . . . . . . 55Table 2.6: Occupational status ranking of Veeton speakers. . . . . . . . . . . 57Table 2.7: Educational status ranking of Veeton speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . 63Table 2.8: Overall status ranking of Veeton speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

Table 4.1: English vowels and word-classes and JC equivalents. . . . . . . . 92Table 4.2: (KYA) by historical word-class for Rose and Tamas. . . . . . . . 105Table 4.3: Social characteristics of speakers: Prestige & traditional

patterns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

Table 5.1: The preceding segment phonological factor-group. . . . . . . . . . 127Table 5.2: The following segment phonological factor-group. . . . . . . . . . 127Table 5.3: The grammatical category morphological factor-group. . . . . . . 127Table 5.4: Sonority hierarchy prediction vs. (TD)-deletion empirical

results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131Table 5.5: Cluster simplification by grammatical category. . . . . . . . . . . 135Table 5.6: Percentage of (TD)-absence by preceding segment. . . . . . . . . 140Table 5.7: (TD)-absence by preceding environment, all speakers. . . . . . . 142Table 5.8: (TD)-absence by preceding environment, speaker sub-groups . . 143Table 5.9: Percentage of (TD)-absence by following segment. . . . . . . . . 146Table 5.10: (TD)-absence by following environment, all speakers. . . . . . 147Table 5.11: (TD)-absence by following environment, speaker sub-groups . 148Table 5.12: Percentage of (TD)-absence by grammatical category. . . . . . 150

xii LIST OF TABLES

Table 5.13: (TD)-absence by grammatical category, all speakers. . . . . . . 152Table 5.14: (TD)-absence by grammatical category, speaker sub-groups . . 153Table 5.15: Past-marking rates for major morphological categories. . . . . . 155Table 5.16: Percentage (TD)-deletion by grammatical category (adjusted) 157Table 5.17: Comparative studies of (TD)-deletion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160Table 5.18: Past-inflection rates in Jamaican and Trinidadian Creoles. . . . 165

Table 6.1: Anterior tense-marking in Guyanese Creole basilect. . . . . . . . 180Table 6.2: Division of speakers into groups by overall verb-inflection rate 201Table 6.3: Inflection of verbs afterneva . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202Table 6.4: Use of past-markerdid by Veeton speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206Table 6.5: Age distribution ofdid/nevapast-marking in Veeton. . . . . . . . 209Table 6.6: Sex & class distribution ofdid/nevapast-marking for 4

speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210Table 6.7: Three-way (Past) marking rates for 4 users ofdid andneva . . . 211Table 6.8: Effect of stativity and punctuality ondid marking for 4

speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214Table 6.8a: Past-marking of non-punctual verbs for 4 speakers. . . . . . . . 215Table 6.9: Effect of anteriority & clause-type ondid-marking for 4

speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216Table 6.9a:did/neva-marking in non-ordered & externally-ordered clauses 217Table 6.10: Possible interaction of constraints ondid/nevamarking . . . . . 220

Table 7.1: Overall inflection rates by morphological category, all speakers 231Table 7.2: Exceptional & irregular verb inflection rates, individual

speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233Table 7.3: Inflection rates for major verb classes, individual speakers. . . . 235Table 7.4: Four analyses of interaction in constraints on nonsyllabic verbs 239Table 7.5: Inflection rates of major verb classes: 4 Caribbean creoles. . . . 244Table 7.6: Inflection rates of major verb classes: 5 AAVE diaspora

varieties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249Table 7.7: Inflection rates of major verb classes: 3 English SLA varieties . 252Table 7.8: Inflection of exceptional verbs by speaker group: Salience. . . . 254Table 7.9: Past-marking in Other clauses by stativity, all speakers. . . . . . 256Table 7.10: Inflection rates ofhave, statives, and non-statives, all speakers 257Table 7.11: Inflection rates ofhave, statives, and non-statives, by group . . 258Table 7.12: Past-marking rates of stative verbs with and withouthave . . . 259Table 7.13: Inflection rates by clause-type, all speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . . 262

LIST OF TABLES xiii

Table 7.14: Inflection rates by clause-type, Low speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . 263Table 7.15: Inflection rates by clause-type, Mid speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . 264Table 7.16: Inflection rates by clause-type, High speakers. . . . . . . . . . . . 264Table 7.17: Relative influence of constraints on past-marking, by speaker . 265

Table 8.1: Discontinuities in the distribution of four linguistic variables . . 280Table 8.2: Linguistic and social rankings compared (exceptions to overall

rankings noted). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288

List of Figures

Figure 2.1: Comparative growth of population in urban area, 1820–1970 . 32

Figure 4.1: Six linguistic variables for Tamas and Rose. . . . . . . . . . . . . 99Figure 4.2a: Rose, vowel formants of A-words versus O-words. . . . . . . . 102Figure 4.2b: Tamas, vowel formants of A-words vs. O-words. . . . . . . . . 102Figure 4.3a: Rose, vowel formants of short-A and short-O vowels. . . . . . 103Figure 4.3b: Tamas, vowel formants of short-A and short-O vowels. . . . . 103Figure 4.4a: Rose, vowel formants of A- and O-words before R. . . . . . . 104Figure 4.4b: Tamas, vowel formants of A- and O-words before R. . . . . . 104Figure 4.5: Informal (KYA) data by word-class and age (excludes Rose) . 108Figure 4.6a: (KYA) for older speakers (informal speech). . . . . . . . . . . . 108Figure 4.6b: (KYA) for middle-aged speakers (informal speech). . . . . . . 109Figure 4.6c: (KYA) for young speakers (informal speech). . . . . . . . . . . . 109Figure 4.7: (KYA) style contrast (informal versus test) by age-group. . . . 110Figure 4.8: (KYA) for all speakers, ranked by overall status. . . . . . . . . . 116

Figure 5.1: Probability of (TD)-absence by preceding segment. . . . . . . . 143Figure 5.2: Probability of (TD)-absence by following segment. . . . . . . . 148Figure 5.3: Phonological effects on (TD) in Jamaica and Trinidad. . . . . . 163Figure 5.4: Grammatical effects on (TD) in Jamaica and Trinidad. . . . . . 164

Figure 7.1: Past-marking patterns in Veeton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 224Figure 7.2: Inflection of major verb-classes by speaker group. . . . . . . . . 241Figure 7.3: Inflection of exceptional verbs by speaker group. . . . . . . . . . 242Figure 7.4: Probability of inflection in major verb classes. . . . . . . . . . . . 243Figure 7.5: Inflection by verb-class in four creoles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246

Figure 8.1: Test and conversational data for (TD). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 270Figure 8.2: Test and conversational data for (Past). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271Figure 8.3: Age and social mobility patterns in ranked data. . . . . . . . . . 290

List of Maps

Map 1: Relief map of the Kingston area. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24Map 2: Parishes of Jamaica. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Map 3: Age of housing in the Kingston Metro Area, 1970. . . . . . . . . . 31Map 4: Population change in the Kingston Metro Area, 1960–1970. . . . 33Map 5: Socioeconomic communities in Kingston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35Map 6: Local subdivisions of the Veeton neighborhood. . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

Acknowledgments

This book owes its existence to the many people who have helped me. For theirconstant encouragement, criticism, and mentoring I am grateful to GillianSankoff, Bill Labov and John Rickford, who made possible the first draft (mydissertation); to John Holm and Fred Cassidy, two whose interest has so oftenand so generously supported me, and who vouched for me to Manfred Görlach;to the latter, whose detailed suggestions refined it, as well as Edgar Schneider,who came in at the end and improved it — both editors showed Job’s patience,as did Kees Vaes.

The fieldwork from which it developed was funded by a Fulbright grantfrom the Institute of International Education and a dissertation award from theWenner-Gren Foundation (grant #5031; thanks to Niloo Haeri for her advice);the writing was first generously supported by the Spencer Foundation (mygratitude to Bambi Schieffelin), and was completed while I taught at George-town University.

The book is better for the ideas and examples of Mervyn Alleyne, LawrenceCarrington, Penny Eckert, Gregory Guy, Salikoko Mufwene, Velma Pollard, OttoSanta Ana, John Singler, Sali Tagliamonte, and Don Winford — among manyothers, their insights and criticisms, both subtle and vigorous, have helped set meon the right road when I was astray. My vision of Jamaica, and thus (I hope) thebook, have been broadened by engagement in a variety of field projects since1993; for those opportunities, and their excellent company, I am particularlygrateful to Arvilla Payne Jackson, Oscar Jackson, and Linda Camino. Others whohave helped in varied but important ways include Mervyn Alleyne (again), MariaAlao, Debby Anker, Ken Bilby, the late Derek Gordon, Alison Irvine, OliveLewin and Hazel Ramsay, and especially (with their constant tact, good humor,and friendship) David Robinson and Manela Diez; and my graduate students inseveral Pidgins and Creoles courses at Georgetown University, who askedexcellent and difficult questions, and pursued my answers vigorously. For their

xx ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

guidance and support at crucial moments during the writing of the book, it is mypleasure to thank my colleagues John Baugh, Jeff Connor-Linton, Lesley Milroy,Shaligram Shukla, John Staczek, and Lise Winer; and, most importantly, OttoSanta Ana and Esther Figueroa.

Linguists are nothing without speakers; so I give thanks and respect to themany, many Jamaicans whose voices and words have educated, moved, enter-tained, rebuked and inspired me, and I regret that it is not possible to thank mostof them by name. To stand for all the rest, I here record my gratitude to Veraand the late Manuel Leiba, natural founts of warmth, wit, wisdom and hospitality(and a creole continuum unto themselves); to the women of Sistren, an inspira-tion in so many ways; and to the consummate speaker of Jamaican Patwa, theHon. Louise Bennett-Coverley — “Miss Lou” to all Jamaicans — whose wordsfittingly end this book.

Finally, I wish to thank my family. My brothers Ken and Sam — with mefrom morning and still going on — and my nieces, Lisa, Leslie and Karen, helpme to remember everyone. My wife Michelle, who understands what matters,who brought her editing skills to every page, and helped me to finish and moveon; and who gave me my son Kevin, a tiny but unquenchable light at the end ofthe tunnel. This work is dedicated with love to my sister Suzanne and to myparents, who set me on the road but did not live to see this milestone.

June 1998, Washington DC

C 1

Introduction

Overview and plan of the work

This book is a synchronic study of the urban Jamaican Creole (JC) spoken in aneighborhood of Kingston, the capital city. Working in the sociolinguisticparadigm of variation analysis, I employ quantitative methods on a corpus oftape-recorded data in order to closely investigate two key concepts of Atlanticand Caribbean Creole studies: the mesolect, and the creole continuum.

One principal concern is to elucidate the nature of a mesolectal grammar.Creole studies have emphasized the structural integrity of basilectal varieties, yetleft the status of intermediate, or mesolectal, speech in doubt. How systematic isthe urban JC mesolectal grammar? Does it constitute a variety distinct frombasilectal creole and acrolectal English, and if so, is it sharply separated? Howdo creole constructions alternate with or give way to English elements? Doprototypical creole grammatical principles continue to have an important place inthat process? In this study, the interrelation of contextual constraints on choiceof forms supports a picture of the mesolect as a distinct single grammar, variableyet internally-ordered, which has evolved a fine capacity to serve social functions.

The other chief object is to understand how linguistic variation intertwineswith social structure. Is there a creole continuum, and how is variation across itinfluenced by primary social characteristics? The complex organization of arapidly-urbanizing Caribbean society, and the highly variable nature of meso-lectal speech norms and behavior, present challenges to sociolinguistic variationtheory that have not been satisfactorily answered. Can unidimensional models ofsocial space accommodate the complexity of a creole speech community? Indeed,can a creole continuum be a speech community: is there unity in the productionand evaluation of speech, or are there disparate norms?

Although these two problems — the grammatical structure of mesolectalspeech, and the sociolinguistic structure of the urban creole speech community

2 URBAN JAMAICAN CREOLE

— are seen as ultimately inseparable, it is customary and necessary to pursuethem from distinct angles and in ordered stages. In particular, many socio-linguists begin with linguistic patterns and proceed later to the social factors thatmay influence them — a procedure recalling the structuralist roots of thediscipline, which is formalized in variation analysis but is also used in otherapproaches to creoles (e.g., Bickerton 1971; DeCamp 1971; LePage 1980). Theorder does not necessarily reflect or affect explanatory priorities, however(Rickford 1987a: 31).

First, certain preliminaries are taken up, and some conceptual problems inpidgin and creole studies are raised and briefly explored, elaborating on thequestions already posed. Second, the social context is considered. In Chapter 2the city of Kingston and the mixed-class neighborhood of Veeton are describedin some detail, since an understanding of their history, structure, and socialforces is indispensable to investigating local speech forms and functions and totesting the continuum hypothesis. Through the exploration of Veeton’s socialgeography and demographics, the speakers are located in terms of their age, sex,social class, occupation, education, residence, and urban/rural orientation.Chapter 3 describes the methodology of data collection: the investigator’slanguage competence, the selection of and entry into the neighborhood, thefieldworker’s relationships with the speakers, the nature of the sample, and themethods of elicitation and analysis.

The linguistic analysis then occupies four chapters with detailed studies oflinguistic variables: phono-lexical (palatal glides), phonological (consonantcluster simplification), morphological (past-tense inflection), and syntactic (pre-verbal tense and aspect marking). Chapter 4 examines the phonolexical variable(KYA), palatal gliding after velars, giving both a historical account and asynchronic description. Simple quantitative analysis by percentages distinguishesa rule-governed ‘prestige’ pattern of variation from a lexically-based ‘traditional’ one;acoustic analysis associates these with distinct organizations of low vowel space.

Chapter 5 looks at the absence of morpheme-final consonant clusters,considering the phonetic and grammatical constraints known to affect the processof phonological (TD)-deletion in English dialects. Multivariate analysis (Varbrul)is introduced to compare the hierarchy of linguistic constraints in JC to relevantdialects, and analyze its interaction with variable past-marking.

The analysis of past-marking is separated into two components: classiccreole pre-verbal TMA markers (e.g. basilectalben,mesolectaldid), and English-like inflection of regular verbs with {-ed}. Chapter 6 establishes analytical

INTRODUCTION 3

categories for past-marking in general, and describes variation in the mesolect fordid and negativeneva, the most common syntactic pre-verbal markers. Chapter 7examines the alternation of verb inflection with zero-marking of bare verb forms,distinguishing ten morphological and lexical categories (regular, irregular andfrequent or exceptional verbs). In both chapters, creole-valued constraints suchas stativity and anteriority are considered as evidence for the claim that mesolectalsurface marking reflects underlying structures held in common with the basilect.

Each variable is defined, exemplified, and discussed in the context of thelinguistic literature for relevant varieties (other creoles and non-standard varieties,including U.S. African American Vernacular English and related diasporavarieties). Principal constraints are identified and predictions tested for the wholesample, individual speakers, and sub-groups who behave alike. In analyzing thesevariables, social considerations take a back-seat to linguistic ones: the orderwithin the grammatical system is the primary issue.

However, variation by individual speakers is strikingly characteristic of thedata and crucial to the delimitation of grammatical patterns. In divining patternsand grouping individuals whose speech is similar, social characteristics areinevitably referred to. Chapter 4, since it involves a linguistic change in progress,pays full attention to the social interpretation of variation, thus previewing theinterplay of social and structural constraints in the community. In the subsequentthree chapters, this task is deferred while the questions raised above — thenatureof mesolectal grammar and the (dis)continuous nature of variation — are explored.

The final chapter returns to the issues of defining and describing the urbancreole speech community, the validity of the continuum, and the significance ofsocial identity factors. Here I make use of formal test data, elicited in addition tothe spontaneous interview and conversational materials analyzed earlier. Thespeaker hierarchies and groupings that emerged on purely linguistic grounds arenow compared to the social hierarchies previously derived through demographicand ethnographic analysis, in order to evaluate the social-correlational aspects ofthe continuum hypothesis, identify the principal dimensions that stratify thespeech community, and explain the variation and change depicted herein.

The most difficult challenge facing sociolinguists is to adequately explainhow social forces — vast in their number, complexity and interrelations — drivelinguistic developments, compelling speakers to exploit, override, and alter theresources of their grammars as they manage their worlds with their words. Thepresent research addresses this challenge, but without hope of giving ultimateanswers. Certain areas touched on below — e.g. the impact of changes in


education, language as an instrument of upward mobility, and the role of genderidentity — seem especially pertinent to Jamaican and Caribbean society, yet toolittle is known to support strong claims about their effect on language use.

My intention is not to close the book on social variation in Jamaican speech,but only to take a turn in the conversation. On the limits and structure oflinguistic variation, the results of the investigation speak more strongly. I arguebelow that the urban mesolect, as spoken in Veeton, is a coherent systemshowing stratified yet regular linguistic behavior, embedded in a well-definedspeech community which may be usefully termed a creole continuum, and isquintessentially creole in character.

The historical context of urban creole studies

For sheer human interest and drama, the synchronic linguistic description ofAtlantic pidgin and creole languages is inescapably overmatched by their history.Their genesis is in slavery and the African diaspora to the Americas; the contextfor their development and maturation is the whole history of social relationsbetween the diverse racial, economic and ethnic groups that make up theCaribbean, from first settlement of these islands until their emergence fromEuropean domination into independent nations.

Naturally, then, Atlantic creole studies have focused on the roots and originsof these languages, their relation to the European and African languages fromwhich they were born, and the roles of historical transmission and linguisticuniversals in their making. These issues, hotly debated and deeply felt inacademic conferences, have a live connection to matters of cultural heritage andnationalist politics, the re-visioning of colonial history, and the emergence andconsolidation of national identity which have been even more hotly debated innewspaper columns and parliaments, on radio talk shows and street corners, andin kitchens, classrooms and barrooms across the Caribbean and in its capitals-in-exile.

The growth of creole studies in the 1960s coincided with the rise of ageneral post-colonial consciousness and the emergence of many creole-speakingcountries as newly independent nations. Synchronic research emphasized thatcreoles are autonomous languages, not merely dialects of European parentage.Historical work stressed the influence of African substrate languages, in tunewith a scholarly and popular surge of interest in survivals of African culture andAfro-Caribbean syncretisms. Music, material culture, religious practices, forms

INTRODUCTION 5

of economic association, kinship structure, and verbal folklore were all areas ofJamaican life in which many African elements were found and newly studied.

Creolists such as Bailey (1953, 1966a), Cassidy (1961) and LePage (1960;Cassidy and LePage 1967), and DeCamp (1960, 1967) — pioneers who madeJamaican Creole the earliest and best-studied of all Caribbean English Creoles —shared a concern to discover and rescue from possible extinction those parts ofJamaica’s African-derived linguistic heritage that were devalued, ignored, ornearly destroyed in centuries of domination by the English, with all the sociolin-guistic consequences that attend institutionalized racial, political, economic, andclass-based inequality.

Accordingly, creolists have often focused on ‘folk speakers’: people livingtraditional lives in rural areas, especially the elderly, who are usually the bestsource for archaic speech (Kurath 1949: 7ff). Their conservative varieties, calledbasilectal, are idealized and opposed conceptually to the most standard localspeech, characteristically used by people at the top of the social scale, which isknown as the acrolect. Varieties intermediate between the two are referred to asthe mesolect; and the scale along which all these are ranged, as the creolecontinuum. Many creolists have until recently been primarily concerned withdescribing and analyzing the basilect, which is typically idealized as “the creole”in opposition to everything else — for example, Jamaican Creole as opposed toJamaican English (the acrolect conceived as a dialect of international English).

Despite the great importance of this type of research, both to linguistics andto creole societies, the focus on the basilect has left certain crucial gaps in ourunderstanding. Little concerted effort has been made to describe urban aspectsof Jamaican Creole.1 Nor, surprisingly, has much empirical research aimed todefine and explore the nature of the mesolect, which — despite the fact that bothstandard and basilectal speech can be frequently heard in the city — is the urbanvariety par excellence. If the history of the urban mesolect remains unwritten, toolittle is also known about its synchronic structure, social distribution, andrelationship to Standard Jamaican English. A sociolinguistic survey of Kingston,which has the largest English-speaking population south of Miami in the Western

1. This is the usual case among Caribbean creoles. Guyanese Creole (GC) is a rare exception; studiesof the capital, Georgetown, include Allsopp (1958), Edwards (1975, 1983), and Satyanath (1991), avariationist study. Miller (1987) and Irvine (1988) investigated upper-middle-class areas of Kingston(see Chapter 4 below), but the concentration on elite neighborhoods and formal speech registersdisqualifies them as urban surveys. See also Winford (1972) and Winer (1993) for TrinidadianCreole.


hemisphere, is needed to allow comparison with the dozens of speech communitystudies of complex urban centers throughout the English-speaking world, fromNew York to Sydney to Belfast.

Urbanization is a central force in many Caribbean societies. The rural/urbanopposition within Jamaica even today echoes the colony/metropole dichotomythat has shaped much of the island’s history. In Kingston the diversity of class,color, ethnicity, attitude, and speech is particularly evident. The city’s role as thelocus of rapid assimilation for immigrant groups of Portuguese Jews, LebaneseChristians, Bombay Indians, and South Chinese — none of whom retained theirindigenous languages longer than a generation or two, unlike the Africans ofearlier eras — suggests that a set of sociolinguistic norms and habits, such as isclassically taken to characterize speech communities (Labov 1966), has acted asa powerful force for linguistic acculturation.

The present investigation, though it is primarily synchronic, thus in partsails against the prevailing winds of creole studies, and in part extends well-tested variationist methods to a creole-speaking environment. It seems a naturalmove to study topics previously unexplored in Jamaica, but successfully exam-ined elsewhere: the interplay of social class and other stratifying factors, in thespeech of adolescents and adults, set in a rich and complex urban milieu.

The creole continuum model: Discreteness

In its simplest form, the creole continuum model reprises a familiar idea: thatvariation across speakers is extremely fine-grained, and though it permitsordering, the identification of boundaries for discrete dialects is impossible. Thisis a version of the classic dialect continuum. The creole touch is that the polarvarieties are a standard, or acrolect, and a historically related creole, or basilect;the unique nature of the relationship between these two language types is thesource of most controversy over the continuum.

In a careful theoretical examination of the concept, Rickford (1987a: 288)traces the creole continuum back to Reinecke and Tokimasa (1934), and perhapsSchuchardt (1914/1979). DeCamp (1960, 1971) broached it in its modern form(see also Bickerton 1973), developing it to account for the language situation inJamaica. DeCamp was concerned to reject the diglossic model Ferguson (1959)proposed for Haiti: “There is no sharp cleavage between creole and standard…[but] a linguistic continuum, a continuous spectrum of speech varieties ranging

INTRODUCTION 7

from… ‘bush talk’ or ‘broken language’… to the educated standard [andshowing an] extreme degree of variability” (1971: 350).2

In DeCamp’s proposal the Jamaican spectrum is so finely articulated that itcannot be divided into a finite number of discrete dialects, while individuals maybe described as occupying a span of this spectrum rather than speaking aparticular dialect. The extent and degree of variation are understood to exceedthose found in non-creole situations, and the structural implications differ.

Rickford (1987a) has decomposed the continuum model into a number ofpostulates, only two of which he identifies as fundamental: (non-)discreteness,and unidimensionality. He also discusses a number of theoretical accretionswhich have typically been associated with its proponents — widely-adoptedmethods such as implicational scaling, or abandoned efforts such as DeCamp’sbinary features and redundancy conventions, as well as conceptual links todiachronic phenomena including decreolization and the life-cycle theory — butthese may be distinguished from the continuum proposal itself. The first propertyspecifies continuous variation between the polar varieties of the creole andstandard, as opposed to the diglossic view which argues for two discrete systems.

This is the model’s most enduringly controversial claim, though consider-

Table 1.1:Implicational scale — variable JC features (adapted from DeCamp 1971)

Creole ‘C’: /d/ /t/ pikni no ben nana nyam

Speaker 4Speaker 3Speaker 7Speaker 2Speaker 6Speaker 1Speaker 5

CCCCCCe

CCCCCee

CCCCeee

CCCeeee

CCeeeee

Ceeeeee

English ‘e’: /ð/ /θ/ child didn’t granny eat

able empirical evidence from many creoles has been offered in its support.DeCamp’s original argument is based on implicational relations he discovered

2. Strictly speaking, diglossia is inapplicable to creole continuum situations (see Ferguson 1959; also1991, a re-evaluation of diglossia that explicitly excludes this possibility) — a point misunderstoodby many creolists who believe they may co-exist (e.g. Mufwene 1994: 71).


between individual speakers using a mixed set of invariant features (one syntac-tic, two phonological, and three lexical), displayed in Table 1.1. Stops /d/ and /t/in JC correspond to Standard English /ð/ and /θ/; the past negatorno benprecedes verbs, parallel to Englishdidn’t, and the others are lexical correspon-dences. Speaker 4 controls all the JC options but produces none of the metropoli-tan English ones, while the reverse is true for Speaker 5, and Speaker 2 splitshalf and half, though in an evidently non-random manner. These data, widelyreproduced and analyzed in creole and sociolinguistics textbooks, were intendedto show the descriptive inadequacy of the discrete-dialects position and, byspecifying style-based co-occurrence restrictions, to simplify and constrain thevariation observed.

Critics of the argument observe that DeCamp under-represents the range ofvariants controlled by each speaker, ignores individual variability, and fails toexemplify intermediate elements such asneva (a past negator accommodatingboth standard and mesolectal grammars, discussed later). Nevertheless such adisplay argues the existence of hierarchy among linguistic elements and amongspeakers on a scale from creole to standard, while illustrating contrasts too smallto plausibly qualify the speakers as each belonging to a separate dialect. De-Camp’s contention that “both the varieties and the defining features of a linearlinguistic continuum can be ordered without recourse to the sociolinguistic data”(1971: 355) is, however, too strong. Implicational patterns like those in Table 1have not been shown to result from internal grammatical requirements specifyingco-occurrence possibilities; rather, they are governed by conventions of style andappropriate speech which are necessarily socially defined.

Controversy surrounding the continuum stems largely from disagreementover the model’s implications for the polar grammars — specifically, whether thefact that the extremes are related (through the intermediate varieties) implies theirsimilarity.3 Rickford, a pragmatic proponent, asks whether “creole and standardrepresent discrete and sharply separated categories, or… polar varieties betweenwhich there is continuous variation” (1987a: 15). Though he favors the latter, hisanalyses of a wide variety of recorded speech make clear that the differencebetween the extremes is great, and he insists that underlying subcategories ofgrammar are not shared throughout the entire range of varieties. Alleyne, too,

3. This issue is posed as a purely synchronic one. Scholars who unite in rejecting the implicitlinkage of the mesolect and continuum notions through decreolization (e.g., Rickford 1987a; Patrick1992; Winford 1993a; Mufwene 1994) nevertheless can and do differ on the point.

INTRODUCTION 9

locates the particularity of the creole continuum, as opposed to other dialectcontinua, in “the existence within the linguistic continuum of linguistic varietieswhich are typologically and genetically distinct from one another” (1980: 187).

Opponents of the continuum model tend to emphasize the contrast ingrammars, while rejecting the notion that the co-existing varieties constitute “aseamless linguistic whole” (Edwards 1984: 83). Mufwene, for example, stressesthat the continuum “normalize[s,] … develop[s] an autonomous norm, [and]…becom[es] identifiable as a separate language variety” (1994: 70–1). Winfordrefuses the dichotomy offered by Rickford, suggesting as a compromise positionthat “variation is possible between two systems that have different underlyinggrammars” (1993a: 8). While this reformulation does not visibly differ fromRickford’s approach, his references to “code-switching”, “co-existent systems”,and “radically different (and competing) grammars” (10–11) indicate a distinctconception of the variable speech that “is the norm in most creole-speakingcomunities” (Mufwene 1994: 73).

Inherent variation and the mesolect

The idea that creole speech communities consist of two or more separate, self-contained linguistic systems, and that all apparently mixed speech can beanalyzed into fragments assignable to and consistent with one or other system, isessentially a structuralist one, with corresponding weaknesses. The “variation”produced by such code-switching or dialect mixing cannot be identified asbelonging to any system — it is, necessarily, unsystematic and chaotic (since nogrammar apparently contains rules governing proper alternation with a separategrammar).4 In this view variable data can only be rationalized by assignment toinvariant grammars. Such an approach, which Chambers (1995) has dubbed“categorical”, does not recognize that variation is inherent in linguistic systems,functional, and necessary for change (Weinreich, Labov and Herzog 1968).

So long as the variation in question can be defined as peripheral, and morehomogeneous varieties taken as central, categorical linguistics can efficientlyaccount for a great many phenomena. To the extent that the basilect or acrolect

4. Alleyne, who identifies variability with “mixture… of creole or standard forms… in the speechbehavior of many Jamaicans”, neverthless finds it “undisputable… that there are distinct intermediateforms which are not mixtures of any ‘underlying reality’ ” (1980: 182).


prove to be homogeneous and invariant, structuralist or generative approaches areuseful. When the study of linguistic change in progress becomes a goal, however,and mixed speech and heterogeneous data become the focus of research — ashappened when mainstream dialectology began to address complex urban speechcommunities in the 1960s — a variationist linguistics proves capable of superiordescriptive and explanatory power.

Mesolectal Jamaican speech is manifestly of the latter type. As Kingston iscomparable to other large urban centers in its social and linguistic complexity, asthe change and evolution of JC grammar is not only a thing of the distant past,and as the mesolect comprises the majority of speech to be heard in the capitalcity, the study of variation and change in urban creoles is undoubtedly worthy ofattention as a central object of creole (socio-) linguistics.5 I will therefore followa central tenet of variation analysis, seeking to find order and coherence withinthe everyday language of the city’s residents, rather than to assign most of theirutterances to unpredictable and unsystematic vacillation between two pure andhomogeneous polar varieties.

My approach is compatible with the existence of (occasional, or evenfrequent) genuine code-switching, e.g. functionally differentiated alternationbetween polar or neighboring varieties. I do not deny that it takes place, butmerely argue that not every mesolectal utterance can be attributed to thisprocess.6 In characterizing the mesolect, then, creolists who adopt a code-switching analysis bear the burden of proof. They must demonstrate — accordingto an accountable methodology, and for sizable amounts of naturally occurringdiscourse — the covariation of phonological, morphological, lexical, semanticand syntactic features, and the intersubjective identification of switch points, thatsuch a claim implies. Corpora of mesolectal data must be shown susceptible ofanalysis by theories of code-switching.

It cannot be successfully maintained that mesolectal speakers such as those

5. Note that one may be both an opponent of the continuum model and a variationist, e.g. Winford.However, he grants that the comparative fluidity of social structure and spread of urban influence inJamaica result in a parallel “fluidity at all levels of linguistic structure” (1993: 11) in urban speech,including considerable overlap in morphology and morpho-syntax between basilect and mesolect. Theinvestigation of past-marking in Chapters 6 and 7 confirms this.

6. Such code-switching occurs in a wide variety of situations, including cases where the relationsbetween the codes are both closer and more distant than in the JC continuum. This is why functionaldifferentiation alone is insufficient for the classic definition of diglossia, to which the degree ofrelatedness between H and L is crucial (Fasold 1984).

INTRODUCTION 11

examined below spend most of their speaking time vacillating between codeswithout establishing autonomous norms for their own intermediate vernacular, orpossessing their own grammar. In the literature on Atlantic Creoles, the strikingabsence of efforts to convincingly demonstrate this point of view (though it isfrequently assumed or asserted) suggests what the present investigation arguespositively: that there is a better way to account for ‘mixed’ creole varieties.

The alternative is that the mesolect has its own norms of use and evaluation,and its own grammatical structure. It remains to determine those norms, thatgrammar, and relate them to those of the neighboring varieties. Whether they aresharply delimited or imperceptibly graded, in one direction or another, is not anarticle for linguistic faith but a matter for empirical investigation.

The creole continuum model: Unidimensionality

The second criterion Rickford proposed for the continuum is unidimensionality:the idea that the linguistic variation present “can be ordered in terms of a singledimension” (1987a: 22), usually identified as “standardness versus creoleness.”(DeCamp’s original proposal for JC highlighted this axis because he assumed thecreation of the continuum through second-dialect acquisition under pressure fromstandard-language institutions.) Alternatively, it may vary independently andheterogeneously along several dimensions, e.g., young–old, urban–rural, high–lowclass, or ‘sweet–bad’ (Abrahams 1983), in which case a linear model significant-ly distorts the facts.

Rickford’s discussion interchanges the terms ‘variables’, ‘variants’ and‘varieties’ as the linguistic elements for which ordering along a single dimensionis required. In general and variationist usage, however, these are all distinctentities. (In Chapter 5, for example, (TD) is a typical linguistic variable: a setcontaining at least two variant forms — presence and absence of a cluster-finalapical stop — which are equivalent in semantic reference.)7 A variety is simplyany linguistic system with a coherent distribution in social space. The envelopeof variation for unidimensionality is thus not clearly defined.

It is more helpful to consider the null hypothesis: that a multi-dimensional

7. Actually, the former generalizes over a range of phonetically distinct realizations, which may alsobe treated as variants or collapsed according to linguistically defensible decisions. See Wolfram(1993) for a general treatment of the linguistic variable.


model is needed. This would be the case if, for example, urban speech differedin significant ways from rural speech, but the two were evaluated within thespeech community (or by linguists) as equivalent in terms of another primarydimension, e.g. the creole–standard one. The latter dimension would thus fail toaccount for an important set of distinctions, and a unidimensional modelpredicated on either would be inadequate.

This brief example at once introduces great complexity. It is not at all clearwhat the proper form of a unidimensionality postulate is, nor what mightreasonably be considered to falsify it, since multiple possibilities exist. Neitheris it clear whether the postulate’s validity depends primarily on linguists’judgments of structure, or on sociolinguistic evaluations by members of a speechcommunity — which might well be at odds with each other.8

To continue with our example, rural and urban varieties might be equivalentin creole-ness, or they might reverse the expected values, with a rural varietybeing less creole. Is either case a falsifying result? Let us further suppose thatthe urban variety is related to socio-economic status, e.g. it is characteristic ofpoor, long-standing residents of Kingston ghettos, and serves to distinguishbetween true city-dwellers and recent rural immigrants, both groups beingmarked by their speech as low-status members of vernacular networks. Suppose,too, that the country variety we choose to oppose this to is spoken by residentsof a somewhat isolated, but moderately prosperous, provincial market town,populated by smallholders, artisans and small shopkeepers with a general disdainfor the values of city-dwellers, rich and poor alike.9 For both varieties, theurban/rural variation would not be easily interpretable along the creole-standarddimension. In the urban variety, status would be a guide, roughly conforming tostandardness; but for the rural case this might not be true, since people varyingwidely in status on some local scale might nevertheless participate in a relativelyfocused variety.

Rickford’s proposal and stance are both pragmatic and serve to generatehypotheses for empirical research. He argues a weak version of unidimensionalityin which some degree of orthogonality would not invalidate the model. Onecould recognize and investigate multiple dimensions and then seek to constrain them,testing the extent to which they may be decomposed into combinations of several

8. For recent views on this question as applied to membership in the speech community of U.S.AAVE, see Bucholtz (1996), Jacobs-Huey (1997), and Sweetland (1997).

9. See Chapter 2 for further discussion of social factors and attitudes involved in urbanization.

INTRODUCTION 13

overlapping unidimensional continua. In this way, both DeCamp’s (1971) linearassumption for JC and LePage’s (1980; LePage and Tabouret-Keller 1985) multi-dimensional challenge to it might be evaluated in the analysis of creole continua.10

In Rickford’s scheme, the ideal result would be to constrain variation withina single dimension if possible. One way to operationalize this in quantitativeterms is to use a multivariate analysis technique such as Varbrul — discussedlater — which treats explanatory variables as independent influences on thechoice of linguistic variants, evaluates them, and discards those that do not playa significant role in accounting for variation. Varbrul allows for more sophisticat-ed modelling of the various influences on linguistic choice processes than simplepercentage analyses, since it is multivariate. However, it is not a multidimension-al technique such as MDS (Multi-Dimensional Scaling), Principal ComponentsAnalysis (PCA) or cluster analysis. Such methods have only been applied tocreole languages to date by LePage’s research team — a not entirely successfuleffort, due in part to difficulties experienced in delimiting the linguistic vari-ables (LePage and Tabouret-Keller 1985: 148ff) — but they have been used withsuccess in second language acquisition and variationist research (Horvath andSankoff1987).

Because the validity of such methods has yet to be explored carefully, itseems to me that unidimensionality need not be stipulated in the continuummodel. Rather, it is one possible outcome of empirical research within it. Thiswould be fortunate for proponents of the continuum, since it appears quite likelythat many creole situations are at least as complex as the one sketched above,and variation will not be reducible to a single dimension without loss. Anapproach that assumes the likelihood of a multi-dimensional space while tryingto constrain it seems more pragmatic than one which requires a single dimension(though the application of such an approach will require repeated trial, sustainedenergy, and a combination of technical sophistication and ethnographic sensitivityto creole cultures).

Indeed, a number of native Caribbean creolists have recently suggested asmuch. Though he concurs with Rickford that “patterns of variation are unilinear,and organized along a continuous sociolinguistic dimension” (1988: 101),

10. Note that unlike Rickford, DeCamp allowed that the linguistic dimension of a creole continuummightbe multidimensional rather than linear — he simply held that the Jamaican one was not — andfurther suggested that “the sociological correlates of the linguistic variation are multidimensional; age,education, income bracket, occupation, etc.” (1971: 354).


Winford argues that variation in creole continua is not necessarily unidirectional,in the sense that all speakers are not similarly driven by a society-wide prestigetarget, nor do they automatically share the evaluation of upward social mobilityas both possible and desirable — characteristics inherent in Labov’s early (1966)model of the New York City speech community.11

Winford reaches this conclusion by proceeding from the Hymesian beliefthat “the culturally-based organization of linguistic means… is the only genuinebasis for defining the speech community” (1988: 103). A similar view underlieswork on creole societies by linguistic anthropologists. This position has provedextremely productive in the ethnography of speaking, and by virtue of thequestions it inclines the researcher to ask, it is not likely to lead to the conclusionthat a single, simple dimension explains the bulk of variable linguistic behavior.Work on language ideology (e.g. Kroskrity, Schieffelin and Woolard 1992) maysupport the idea that pressures from a dominant language can lead over time to there-alignment of dimensions influencing speech behavior — so that, for example, aunidimensional or at least unilinear situation could result from historical process-es of standardization. Given the contingency of such an outcome, one would notwant to make unidimensionality an initial assumption or desirable goal.

From another direction, Carrington also criticizes the spatial restrictivenessof the classic continuum model in a series of commentaries (1992a, 1992b, 1993)on the nature of Caribbean Sociolinguistic Complexes (CSCs) — a term heprefers over other alternatives as neutral with respect to critical assumptionsabout diglossia, continua, speech communities, etc. Carrington argues thatcontinuum theory is only one of a number of models that prove “inadequate forexamining the rich sample of the nature of human language competence whichis offered to us in creole space” (1993: 228). He calls for a multidimensionalimage too, while warning against the tendency of such images to dominateanalysis and perception.

Notably, Carrington also takes issue with “paradigm[s] in which eachlanguage is considered a self-contained, integrated structural entity… [where] theboundaries of a language are determined prior to the analysis of variablebehavior” (229). He further disagrees with code-switching analyses of the

11. This point is also made explicit in such native sociological analyses of Caribbean social structureas M. G. Smith’s plural society theory (Smith 1965, 1984), discussed below. The imposition of aNYC-type model in Caribbean situations is not a proposal advanced by variationists, but rather astraw-man occasionally hoisted by critics of Labovian methods.

INTRODUCTION 15

variable behavior typical in CSCs, insisting that the ‘varilingual’ competence ofindividuals brings together elements that might be assigned to different gram-mars in syntagmatic and discourse units. In his view, such competence “is asmuch a coherent construct as any other repertoire” (231). This position, whichhas also been embraced for creole grammars by LePage, fundamentally informsthe present investigation.12

In sum, the validity of the creole continuum model remains a live issue andone that generates progressive research ideas. The property of non-discrete orcontinuous structure is accepted as fundamental to it, and judgment on themodel’s applicability to the urban Jamaican sociolinguistic complex will rise orfall on this point. The property of unidimensionality, though not peripheral, isless central and may be amenable to innovations in methodology and analysis.Along with some other sociolinguists of CSCs, however, I remain skeptical aboutthe desirability of a continuum model which idealizes variability in a singledimension, as that seems unlikely to do justice to the complexity of Caribbeansocial life — especially in a vital urban center such as Kingston.

Decreolization, the mesolect, and the creole continuum

In this book the creole continuum model, and the notion of a creole mesolect, aredefined and considered synchronically without specifying any path of origin ordevelopment. With the exception of Chapter 4, where I propose and analyze achange in progress, I have made every effort to interpret the data as a collectionof linguistic choices made contemporaneously by speakers who happen to differin age, and to have different social and personal histories. That is, I have strivennot to historicize the notions of variation and the continuum.

This is not merely a move to simplify analysis, but a theoretically-motivatedone. The historicist fallacy that every instance of variation is evidence oflanguage change in progress was advanced by Bickerton (1971) and Bailey(1973) as a theory; but though it may still be accepted by some creolists, it haslong since been discredited in variation studies, where the distinction between

12. LePage and Tabouret-Keller (1985: 151–2) write: “The linguist who constructs ‘languages’ …tends to construct an idealized grammar and then to see his informants… as imperfect or varyingexponents of that grammar.” They incorrectly attribute such categorical assumptions to variationanalysis (witness their unnecessarily restrictive notion of the linguistic variable).


stable and changing situations is a fundamental one (Labov 1994). In creolestudies, the three central concepts of the creole continuum, the mesolect, and theprocess(es) of change called decreolization are so frequently defined in terms ofeach other that a great deal of confusion has arisen in the literature and remainsprevalent. In order to develop and present a clear and non-circular analysis, onecannot simply avoid the terms — it is necessary to define each notion indepen-dently of the others. Thus, although this work is centrally concerned with themesolect and the continuum, and little or not at all with decreolization, it seemsuseful to briefly discuss the typical relations of these ideas.

The continuum can be defined as “a spectrum of variation linking the morestandard end of the range (the acrolect) with the conservative creole extreme (thebasilect)” (Winford 1993a: 7). The mesolect is that rare concept subject to near-unanimity among creolists, who follow Stewart (1965) in defining it as what liesbetween those two poles. Bickerton (1971: 464) specifies “the area between thetwo [acrolect and basilect],” and Mühlhäusler applies the label to “varietiesintermediate between the two” (1986). Romaine (1988: 158) calls it “transitional,mediating between the polar opposites of basilect and acrolect,” while Muyskenand Smith (1995: 5) single out “intermediate forms” existing in the middle rangeof a creole continuum, and de Rooij (1995: 53) speaks of “transitional varieties.”

If we simply concentrate on the property of intermediacy, creolists all agree.As may be seen, however, some definitions are neutral with regard to the issueof discreteness while others explicitly affirm it. Though there is no logicalnecessity for the latter, there are creolists who avoid the term ‘mesolect’precisely so as not to invoke such associations. Edwards (1984: 83) refers to anintermediate Guyanese variety as “Urban Creole English”, rejecting the continu-um notion on the grounds of discreteness; Winford (1993a: 1) follows this line,but prefers Alleyne’s (1980) label “intermediate variety”. Alleyne, on the otherhand, finds Jamaica and Guyana to be “typical examples of linguistic continuumsituations” (1980: 186) but rejects the idea that their intermediate varietiesderived via decreolization from a discrete situation, having long argued for theearly coexistence of all these levels of language (1971).

If the mesolect is defined simply as an intermediate variety or range ofvarieties, as I shall do, it is easy to imagine a mesolect without a continuum —in fact, this is the situation that Winford and others claim for Jamaica andelsewhere. It is impossible, however, to have a creole continuum without amesolect (though their definitions, per se, remain independent). This brings us tothe third member of the contingency set: decreolization.

INTRODUCTION 17

The basic idea underlying the concept is simple and surely correct: thestandard and lexifier language in a creole-speaking society exerts a very powerfulinfluence on the development and structure of the creole at all stages.13 As thisis a linguistic commonplace in the language contact literature, the label ‘decreoli-zation’ suggests some additional content: for example, that the linguistic process-es at work among creoles are somehow unique in their intensity, effect, etc. Likeother assertions of the special nature of pidgins and creoles this one is controversial,and I can see little gain by it; the interests of creolists, sociolinguists, and students oflanguage change are better served by generally applicable descriptive models.

Decreolization as a concept has come under extensive criticism from severaldirections which cannot be explored here (but see Patrick 1992; Mufwene 1994).The analogy with despeciation that motivated Whinnom’s (1971: 111) use of theterm — possibly the original one — makes clear its teleological nature: theoutcome is the definitive element. Yet since complete attrition or language deathis not an appropriate characterization of most communities to which decreoliza-tion has been applied, for such a label to be meaningful one must be able tolocate the essence of creoleness and show that it is disappearing from a variety.This requires nothing less than finding the Holy Grail of creole studies, and itseems unwise to predicate use of any term on its success.

Other difficulties with the concept are its dependence, for many creolists,on the definition of the continuum: decreolization consists of whatever processesoperated to transform an earlier dichotomous, creole-versus-lexifier situation intoan attested mesolect. Following Alleyne (1971), a number of linguists haveargued cogently that little diachronic evidence has been adduced to support thispicture (e.g. Mufwene 1994; Winford 1997), and that a less monolithic and moreheterogeneous state must have existed. The extensive Jamaican data amassed andpartly analyzed by Lalla and D’Costa (1990) show some putatively ‘mesolectal’features existing quite early, while other ‘basilectal’ ones appear quite late.However, Rickford (1983a) points out that in general there are almost nolongitudinal data on decreolization, but only apparent-time data — contrastsamong speakers of different ages at the same time period.

A somewhat similar situation holds for AAVE in the American South. Someof the clearest arguments yet made for specific cases of decreolization have been

13. Standard and lexifier are generally one and the same, but sometimes differ as for the Surinamesevarieties, which are considered among the least decreolized. As I am not attempting to posit aworkable definition for decreolization, I shall ignore such cases.


for AAVE features (e.g., Fasold 1981; Rickford 1986b; Bailey and Maynor 1987).Yet clear-cut evidence for an earlier creole developed on U.S. soil is still lacking(Gullah aside), and incursions of relatively standard features can be found inearly records. Decisive data have not emerged despite extensive efforts, and maynot. The comparisons afforded by the historical record are often inappropriate,involving dissimilar speakers in contrasting situations or, more often, speakersfor whom we have little evidence of any sort beyond their speech itself — andthe authenticity of that may be uncertain.14 If recent arguments that AAVEnever fully creolized in the first place (e.g. Schneider 1993; Winford 1997, 1998)should gain acceptance, the best examples of ‘decreolization’ may paradoxicallyapply to a situation where there never was a creole, or at any rate a mesolect.

There are cases in which processes have probably applied which might beso called — e.g., the case of Barbados, where evidence argues that a deepercreole once existed than is now common (though some Bajan speakers still showvery high rates of creole-valued variables; see Rickford 1992; Rickford andBlake 1990; Rickford and Handler 1994; Blake 1997). But most accounts ofdecreolization fail to specify precisely what the target variety is and who speaksit; nor exactly how its structures are diffused outwards, in the absence of robustand influential social networks connecting standard speakers to those lower onthe continuum. Creolists who posit separate norms and a diglossic situation mayencounter difficulty with this point.

Serious attempts to specify a general mechanism for decreolization, ratherthan to simply argue for a particular set of changes, have distinguished differentsenses of the term. Most analyses describe a process of structural attrition inwhich creole-valued features are replaced with acrolectal ones, leading eventually tothe loss of features and the disappearance of the basilect — language shift and death.

Rickford refers to this process as ‘qualitative decreolization’ (1983, 1987a),and opposes it to another which focuses on the demographics and changes incompetence of the speech community in successive generations. In ‘quantitativedecreolization’, shift also occurs over generations, but within a speaker’s lifetimethe process is rather one of acquiring another variety, closer to the acrolect. Thepopulation undergoes shifts in the proportions with competence in the various

14. Recent surveys include Winford (1997, 1998); Rickford (1998); also Montgomery (1994) onGullah. Bailey et al. (1991) reproduce and survey the oldest mechanically-recorded materials (but seealso Patrick 1994a; Wald 1995 and Patrick et al. 1996). Sutcliffe (1997) presents new 19th-centurydata arguing for a creole outside Gullah-speaking areas.

INTRODUCTION 19

lects, and presumably changes in domains of use and motivation negativelyaffect the transmission of the basilect across generations. The main question hereis whether the variety acquired is a pre-existing one along the continuum, orwhether speakers create it anew as interlanguage, by universals of adult acquisi-tion applied to a similar target (the acrolect), and having similar input (basilectand mesolect), across the community. Mufwene (1994) gives arguments againstthe qualitative view and suggests renaming the quantitative process ‘de-basilectal-ization’, to divorce it from the problematic idea of structural creole-ness.

Decreolization remains an insecure notion: insufficiently distinguished fromordinary change processes, possibly conceptually incoherent, and certainly notadequately supported by diachronic investigations to date. It will not be utilizedin this investigation, nor will it be linked through definition to any of the keyconcepts; and this can be recommended as a general rule.

The use of quantitative analytical methods

Essential to this investigation is the use of quantitative analytical methods fordata description and analysis. Work in this tradition was influenced by the firstwave of Labovian variation analysis on AAVE in the late 1960s; variationistresearch on creoles has continued regularly ever since Bickerton (1971), Winford(1972), and Rickford (1974). The introduction of more rigorous statistical proce-dures such as chi-squared and multivariate analysis came later in creole studiesthan in general sociolinguistics, and their reception has been cooler and slower.This may be partly because of a tendency to suspect that new technologies carryhidden assumptions packaged within. Many Caribbean scholars resisted theimplication of Labov’s (1969) contraction and deletion analysis of the AAVEcopula for Atlantic creoles — the analysis which introduced the variable rule,and one for which the Varbrul computer packages were later developed.15

Some linguists believe that quantitative methods are only useful, if at all, ina late stage of research, when one has precise and refined hypotheses that can betested and verified or falsified, using classic statistical techniques. Variation

15. Rickford (1998) summarizes the history and results of copula research in AAVE and creoles.Fasold (1991), Guy (1993) and Wolfram (1993) discuss and distinguish the linguistic variable, thevariable rule, and the Varbrul programs. The three elements once were closely linked, but it is nowunderstood that the use of one does not imply or require that of another.


analysis does indeed sometimes employ this type of confirmatory approach; andI will do so where there are clear predictions or established patterns for compari-son (for example, in Chapter 5’s study of (TD)-deletion, the sonority hypothesisof Santa Ana (1996) and the exponential hypothesis of Guy (1991).)

More often, however, variationist practice involves exploratory data analysis(Tukey 1977): the use of quantitative and graphic methods to discover patternsand reveal relationships. Milroy (1987: 139) explains that such methods are“extremely well-fitted to sociolinguistic research” as it is “full of incompletetheories and unanswered questions” — a description that also accurately fitspidgin and creole studies. One’s hypotheses must come from somewhere; in avariationist approach, they often arise from the perception of difference,sameness, frequency or connectedness in the structure of the data itself, aperception aided and clarified by quantitative methods.

One advantage of applying such methods to a corpus is that they frequentlyinvolve data reduction and re-expression (Guy 1993), processes which mayreveal relationships previously invisible, structure existing at a level that isimperceptible to the ‘naked eye’ of qualitative analysis alone. Another is that“counting in context” (Hymes 1980:ix) necessitates precise definition and explicitdescription, and provides a firm basis for generalization. Nor is it at odds withqualitative research: the quantitative analyst begins and ends every problem withthe same steps and conceptual tools as other linguists (e.g. context, description,theory, interpretation). The only difference is in the middle, where rigorousmethodology and very specific results frequently disclose to the analyst that herinitial ideas are offthe mark, or even diametrically opposed to the facts.

Such revelations can come quite late in the research process, when one hasalready invested heavily in the hoped-for results; at these moments, the objectivi-ty of analytical procedures is a bracing and welcome discipline. I do not suggestthat there is no subjectivity involved in quantitative analysis, or objectivity inother linguistic methods — there is — but in a field such as pidgin and creolestudies, where conflicting theories and positions have often been firmly held wellin advance of (and sometimes, in spite of) the data that might serve to evaluatethem, any methodology that augments the objectivity of analysis, any rigorousprocedure appropriately applied, ought to be welcomed.

Frequent use is made in later chapters of tables representing percentages,always accompanied by the number of tokens (in my work, and wherever that isavailable or deducible for others’ data), and sometimes by probability valuesderived from the Varbrul program. The latter is explained at appropriate points.

INTRODUCTION 21

Less frequent use is made of charts and graphs, which are sometimes moretransparent especially for linguists unused to quantitative work. However, I havefound the detailed reporting of figures by other linguists invaluable, and I oftensummarize their data below. Full report is made here in tabular form, in order toafford others the same opportunity to manipulate, re-express, criticize or profitfrom examining my data. This is the nominal standard in quantitative work,though not always respected (even by leading practitioners).

Terminology and orthography

Throughout this work I will refer to the creole continuum, not to DeCamp’soriginal post-creole continuum. This reflects common usage in the field, but italso indicates my understanding that the continuum as a synchronic model canand should be effectively divorced from diachronic assumptions about its originthrough decreolization, as argued above. DeCamp’s use of the term is sometimesinterpreted literally to mean that he believed JC to be extinct or moribund; he didnot, and it is not. He did however believe that it was in the process of mergingwith Standard Jamaican English (1971: 349), and that this process was responsi-ble for the creation of the linguistic continuum, which represented a possible latestage of development in the pidgin-creole life-cycle (the source of the “post-”prefix). These ideas, once generally accepted, are now discarded or controversial,and Rickford’s (1987a) argument that they are peripheral to the continuum as amodel is here affirmed. Thus claims that DeCamp was wrong about the vitalityof JC, or about the origins of the mesolect — however correct they may be —are regarded as irrelevant to the validity of the creole continuum concept, and the“post-” prefix is avoided. The term “intermediate variety”, noted above as analternant for mesolect, is used occasionally below, but the kind of systematicdistinction implied by Alleyne or Winford’s use is not to be assumed here. Nohistorical implications are to be drawn from the use of the terms “mesolect” or“continuum”, either.

A word about “zero”. I will speak interchangeably of zero-marking, un-marking, bare and stem forms of verbs, especially as the term “(un-)marked” isoften ambiguous in linguistic writing. However, the use of “zero form” and“zero-marking” should not be taken to imply a belief that invisible elements existand can be counted or interpreted, as I am generally skeptical on this point andsometimes at pains to argue against it (see Chapter 6, also Sankoff 1990).


I follow a current practice in referring to the non-standard speech ofAmerican Slave Descendants (ASD, Baugh 1991) as ‘African American Vernac-ular English’ (AAVE). Strictly speaking, this term ought to apply throughout theAmericas, Nova Scotia to Rio de Janeiro; in consequence, I sometimes specify‘U.S. AAVE’, and other times hope the reader will infer it. References to earlierdata from this community of speakers have been translated from the fashionableinitials of the day. The usage of ‘African American’ in self-reference is nowquite general in the U.S. Another current practice seems to be to drop the‘Vernacular’ from this label; but for me, the ‘V’ explicitly refers to a particularlevel or range of ASD speech, within a more general category which mightappropriately be called ‘AAE’. The distinction is important to speakers, ratherthan demeaning to them, and is marked here.

Similar considerations could apply for ‘Jamaican Creole’ (JC) itself. I haveelsewhere (Patrick 1994, 1997) referred instead to ‘Jamaican Patwa’ (JP), usingthe everyday term (initial-stress /patÁwa/) preferred by most Jamaicans and notthe elite one known only to linguists and a few highly-educated others. (Notethat final-stressed ‘patois’ is inappropriate, as the French borrowing has longsince been fully integrated into Jamaican.) However, for reasons of conventionaluse, I do not do so here.

The orthography generally follows Cassidy (1961,DJE). However, when itis important to represent variation in realizing features such as presence vs.absence of /r/, final consonants, initial /h/, and phonetic variation in vowelquality (e.g., between mid and low back [%], [o] and [f], all realized /o/ inCassidy’s system), I depart from it, employing IPA symbols within slashes, e.g./f/ for /aa/ (see Chap. 4, footnote 12). Thus the representations are not alwaysstrictly phonemic: where fine distinctions are made they reflect significantphonetic differences, but where they are not made it should not be assumed thatno such differences exist.

C 2

The Urban Speech Community of Kingston, Jamaica

Physical and historical sketch of Kingston

Kingston, Jamaica’s capital city, chief port and only metropolis, celebrated its300th anniversary in 1992. Located on Jamaica’s southeastern coast, the cityfaces away from its French- and Spanish-speaking neighbors to the openCaribbean Sea. Each of the urban area’s four main physical components has inturn been the locus of its wealth and importance: a peninsula (The Palisadoes)encloses Kingston Harbour; the water laps at the edge of the Liguanea Plain,which slopes gently up to the foothills of the Blue Mountains. The metropolitanarea is hemmed in by hills except to the west, where the Rio Cobre bounds it.East Kingston, the focus of this study, lies in the shadow of Long Mountain,west of the Hope River valley from which the city’s drinking water is drawn (seeMap 1). Despite nearby mountains and rain-forest, it lies in the dry, hot rain-shadow of the south central coast; lack of greenery and excess marshland, andlater concrete, have long given it the island’s least comfortable climate.

The English navy captured the island from Spain in 1655. Port Royal, theinfamous pirate haven at the end of The Palisadoes which guarded the approach toKingston Harbour, was then known as the world’s wickedest town and one of itsrichest. After its devastation by earthquake in 1692, the English government foundedKingston across the harbor on a marshy site never settled by the indigenousArawaks (who were largely eliminated during the brutal 160-year Spanish rule).The city was laid out to English plans and built with African slave labor.

Designed as a port and trading center, Kingston grew quickly in importance.Unlike the rest of the island, most of its profits were not derived from sugarplantations, and therefore not immediately removed to England; hence localcapital accumulated rapidly. Kingston’s new merchants were constantly battlingthe sugar planters of Spanish Town, the island’s oldest city (founded 1534) andthe seat of government. The planters, the island’s ruling elite, actively withheld


public buildings and administration from Kingston in order to retain political

Map 1: Relief map of the Kingston area (Source: Clarke 1975, Fig. 2)

control. Following Emancipation from slavery in 1838, the subsequent collapseof the sugar economy, and the Morant Bay rebellion of 1865, direct governmentby the British Crown was re-instituted. This resulted in the decline of Spanish Town,increased development of public works and concentration of administration inKingston, and the city’s establishment as the capital in 1872. Severe damagefrom hurricane and fire in the 1880s and the great earthquake of 1907 took manylives, but eventually spurred much new and improved building in the city center.

Racial difference, inequality and conflict is fundamental to Jamaicansociety, history, demography, politics and economics, in town as in the country.From the beginning, the makeup of Kingston’s population distinguished it fromthe rest of the island. African and (later) local-born slaves included many skilledcraftsmen, domestic- and dock-workers. ‘Creoles’ or ‘coloureds’ — locally born

THE URBAN SPEECH COMMUNITY OF KINGSTON, JAMAICA 25

non-slave people of mixed African and European blood1 — whose circumstanc-es varied from absolutely poor to rich, and free blacks, were by law restricted tourban occupations. Free whites, both English and locally born, were divided intoan elite and a lower class, with whom the unfree, indentured whites eventuallymerged. ‘Whites’ were mostly English, Scots or Irish but later included a fewFrench Catholics fleeing Haiti, who typically engaged in market gardening.White society marked several groups as marginal: a Jewish commercial class ofconsiderable influence yet inferior legal standing (only fully integrated in thiscentury), whose original Portuguese members predated the English conquest; aswell as the Chinese and Lebanese immigrants who began arriving in 1845. Thesewere soon almost entirely concentrated in Kingston and a few other large towns,where they quickly became established as traders and shopkeepers. ‘East Indians’of this period were often rural agricultural workers; a later, richer contingentfrom Bombay were merchants.

Blacks were always the largest segment of the population, though theirnumbers declined for a time in the mid-18th century while the ‘coloured’population steadily increased, surpassing whites in the 1830s and rivalling blacksin the 1870s. Though ‘coloured’ is not now commonly used, the ‘black/brown’distinction remains a culturally relevant one today. Kingston’s white populationdeclined steadily through the first half of the 19th century, then levelled off; itdropped sharply after 1910, when movement to the suburbs of nearby St.Andrew parish began, and dwindled after WWII as the end of British dominationloomed, and Jamaican independence was achieved in 1962.

Since its earliest days Kingston has been the natural home and destinationof many marginal and minority groups, the center of contact and communicationamong different segments of the island’s population, and between them andforeign influences. In this crucible Jamaican identity has developed and defined,not in isolation from diverse and dominant others, but in contrast with them. Ithas also been the theater for social stratification: a place where new modes ofproduction (commerce, manufacturing and industry, government bureaucracy,higher education and training, service industries) arose and flourished on a scalelarge enough to permanently alter the fabric of Jamaica’s plantation-based social

1. ‘Creole’ originally referred to someone of European descent born in the West Indies; later it cameto denote local origin, and eventually mixed-race. I use the racial and ethnic terms of historicalsources and census categories, with all their problems of interpretation, trusting contemporary readersto be aware that terms and sensibilities change (Smitherman 1991).


structure. Here new classes were introduced, the relations between existing socialand racial groups were altered, and the aspirations of each new generation wereshaped. These modes of production have remade the city: Kingston has becomean urban magnet drawing, through its inexorable economic expansion andoccasional prosperity, the thousands of rural migrants hoping for work andsocioeconomic mobility — most of them poor and black.

Contact between racial or ethnic groups has occurred here on a scaleimpossible elsewhere in the island. However, no minority developed numbersgreat enough to affect the balance of population or power on the majorityAfrican/European axis, which has always accounted for over 95% of the island’speople (unlike, say, Guyana or Trinidad). As in other post-colonial nations —where the economies were designed to serve the interests of foreign capital first,and the native white and ‘socially-white’ capitalist elite second — change hasproceeded only gradually since independence. The shift of political powertowards the black peasantry and working class, though far from complete, hasoutpaced the redistribution of economic resources. The civil service and nationalpolitics, both centered in Kingston, were more important avenues of socialmobility for black Jamaicans than commerce or industry.

With the post-World War II diversification and growth of the urbaneconomy and the social stratification that followed it, the tight linking of raceand social class has weakened and diffused (Beckford and Witter 1982; Smith1984). While black Jamaicans still make up the vast majority of the rural andurban poor, upward mobility has affected both them and the traditionally brownbourgeoisie — though the latter, significantly, have seen downward mobility too.Thus, the most striking features of Kingston’s residential morphology are theintensity of social class divisions, “the use of space to support the extremepolarization between the highest and lowest socio-economic groups” (Knight andDavies, 1978: 403), and the importance of transitional zones which house thesocially mobile and accelerate the city’s expansion away from the centralbusiness district.2

2. This section is informed by Alleyne (1988), Black (1991), Clarke (1974) and (1975), Floyd(1979), The Gleaner(1973), LePage (1960) and (1985), Parry and Sherlock (1971), and Smith(1965).


Social geography of Kingston and the Veeton district

Kingston is not only a city but a parish, the smallest of 14 political units into

Map 2: Parishes of Jamaica (Source: Clarke 1974, Map 7)

which Jamaica is divided. Kingston parish consists of a strip extending eightmiles along the waterfront and about a mile inland, wholly surrounded by theparish of St. Andrew except for its coastline (Map 2). Kingston parish oncecontained the whole city, but the urban area long ago burst its bounds into St.Andrew, swallowing up settlements and market sites such as Cross Roads, Half-Way Tree and Matilda’s Corner. Recently, bedroom communities have developed(e.g. Portmore, across Kingston Harbour in St. Catherine) to serve the scarcehousing market. Today the main urban administrative unit for census andplanning purposes is the Kingston Metropolitan Area.3

The old city’s central grid remains the commercial and administrativecenter. Despite the flight of businesses from the old downtown to ‘New King-ston’ in St. Andrew, the main offices of principal banks, the headquarters of theoldest newspaper, the largest market, the hub of public transportation, andimportant government offices are still located here. But in the 1960s newindustrial plants developed on cheaper land in non-residential waterfront areas,often on newly drained or dredged ground, while the central port activitiesmoved west. The merchants and professionals who prospered downtown bought

3. Abbreviated KMA; hereafter, ‘Kingston’ refers to the KMA unless otherwise noted.


homes farther north and journeyed from their more expansive, higher, coolerresidences into the city’s hot, noisy, bustling center.

By contrast, since slavery days the poor have lived in densely populated‘yards’ (a social/spatial unit; see Brodber 1975) and tenements in and around thecommercial district, or on the marshy ground west of it. Outside the central grid,“concentric zones of poor, medium and good quality housing succeed oneanother in a northerly direction” (Clarke 1974: 54), radiating outward across theLiguanea Plain. This progression has remained constant while the city’s periph-ery has steadily expanded towards the surrounding foot-hills, where longtimerural occupants live beside wealthy suburbanites. Dense pockets of poverty oftenexist in better-offareas of the northern plain, perched on the banks of stormgullies where they suffer from swift, deadly floods and provide cheap domesticlabor for residents of middle-class suburbs.

In this century, downtown Kingston has lost not only its wealthy residents,but most of its middle-class as well (often descended from the ‘free coloureds’mentioned above). Prestigious neighborhoods declined as their buildings aged,their population density increased, and their economic base moved away. High-status inhabitants migrated to new suburbs, and were replaced by those able to‘move up’. The latter, in turn, were often pushed out of dense tenements by newimmigrants from rural areas (Brodber 1975: 24–6). Land value and socioeconom-ic status have tended to rise with distance from the city center (or the waterfront)and with elevation above sea-level, and to fall as population density increases.This pattern holds across the city as a whole, but often too on a small scale,within particular neighborhoods; Veeton, our focus, is typical in these respects.4

The popular foreign image of Kingston as a collection of violent andinfamous ghettos, slums rife with political banditry, is a stereotype based ontroubled areas such as Trench Town, Jones Town, Back’o’Wall, Majesty Pen andRema. These all lie north-west of the central district, along the highway toSpanish Town, in a zone which is the most notable exception to the patterns ofresidential location and urban expansion described above. This large strip offormer marshland filled up rapidly with government housing schemes and quasi-legal squatter settlements after it was drained, becoming the main artery for in-migration from central and western parts of the island. It has long shown thegreatest density, the worst land and housing stock, the lowest economic and

4. Veeton, and the place names within it, are pseudonyms for a neighborhood in the eastern part ofKingston; all residents who are part of this study are also referred to with pseudonyms.


health indices, and the largest African/black population (i.e., least European/whiteor coloured). West Kingston is home to many squatters: lifelong residentswithout the income to pay rent, rural migrants unable to find work and youthswith little or no employment opportunity. Gang-related violence and politicalpatronage are indeed defining features of life (Eyre 1984; Gunst 1995). Here tooare found traditional culture and religion (e.g. Kumina; Seaga 1969) and thecultural matrix in which the Rastafarian faith (Simpson 1955; Smith et al. 1960;Barrett 1977; Chevannes 1995) and reggae music (Davis and Simon 1977; Bilby1985; White 1991; Manuel et al. 1995) crystallized and spread.

East Kingston is more stratified, having been gradually formed by theprocess of expansion sketched above. Central Kingston still follows the originalgrid laid out on a half-square-mile plot by its founders. By 1848, this downtownarea had doubled to over a mile square; and by 1900 what is now East Kingston,though not yet fully urbanized, was sparsely dotted with settled suburbs (Clarke1975). Beyond this area, grazing land, uncleared bush, and a large militaryreservation marked the city’s edge. The space between this border and the centralbusiness district — the first ring of suburbs — was already filling up withtenements, though not yet subject to the population pressures and alarming healthconditions of poor areas downtown (later matched or exceeded in the west). By1920, East Kingston had become similarly densely occupied, while other suburbsnorth of the city’s core began to develop on an urban pattern, with increasingcommercialization.

A brief summary of the remarkable population growth in the city during thiscentury will help make the nature of the social changes and pressures clear. Thepopulation of Kingston parish had remained around 30,000 throughout most ofthe 19th century, but increased rapidly at the end, doubling to 62,700 in 1921. In1920, however, the real population explosion began, doubling Kingston parishagain to 109,000 and increasing the metro area to 237,000 by the 1943 census(Clarke 1975, Ch. III). During this time more than 2,000 rural-born Jamaicansarrived each year. By 1943 Kingston’s share of the island’s urban dwellers hadincreased from 55% to nearly 70%, while the urban share of the island’s totalpopulation reached 19% — a figure which more than doubled by 1970, totalling41% (Roberts 1974). In-migration soared even higher throughout the 1960s, asthe city received nearly 20,000 new inhabitants a year, though the overall growthrate slowed naturally as the city’s total size increased. By 1960 nearly a third of


the island’s people — and one half of its unemployed workers — lived in theKingston area.5

These changes in population naturally had significant effects on patterns ofland-use and housing in East Kingston and, of course, in Veeton. In response tothe pre-WWII growth, a second suburban zone developed rapidly, doubling thereach of the built-up area to the north and extending to the east until it ran upagainst Long Mountain. By 1943 areas in this second ring, lying mostly in St.Andrew parish, were established as prestigious suburbs. They expanded andfilled in quickly after the war, occupied by middle-class owners — teachers,lawyers, civil servants, nurses, and some skilled laborers, generally one family toa house. During the period 1920–1943, the first houses were built in the lowerhalf of Veeton, though it took some decades to become fully occupied; the upperhalf was mostly bush, largely owned by one white family.

While the second suburban ring grew, older housing on the periphery of thecentral business district and in the first ring of suburbs (still under severe populationpressure due to the cycle of in-migration, unemployment and overcrowding) becamedilapidated. Map 3, showing the mean age of housing in 1970 (Knight andDavies 1978, Map 1), distinguishes four concentric zones, with East Kingston inthe second zone’s lower region. Half of Veeton falls in the second and half inthe third zone; its newer and more prestigious areas lie to the north and east.6

After the war came the second burgeoning of Kingston’s population andterritory, coinciding with major industrial and commercial expansion. There waslittle room left in the old city. Although crowding and constant in-migrationcontinued, the population of Kingston parish (comprising the central grid, theoldest ring of suburbs, and the lower parts of the second zone) peaked around1950 and has gradually declined since 1960. Outward expansion towards newsuburbs meant that Kingston parish’s loss was urban St. Andrew’s gain: themetropolitan area continued to grow steadily, increasing its population 86% from1943 to 1960 (Fig. 2.1, from Clarke 1974). Only a handful of areas undergoingrapid commercialization showed any decline (Map 4).

The flood of newcomers throughout the 1960s consisted mostly of migrantsfrom rural areas and small towns who poured into West Kingston and the now-rundown East Kingston tenements. Many people were displaced from these

5. See also Francis (1963: 7–11) and Standing (1982: 46–52). Standing argues that urban migrationwas not related to unemployment, which remained high.

6. Austin (1984) describes life in ‘Selton Town’, a second-zone neighborhood bordering Veeton.


sectors. Working-class residents of East Kingston moved further outwards into

Map 3:Age of housing in the Kingston Metro Area, 1970 (Source: Knight and Davies 1978,Map 1)

the second suburban ring, gradually supplanting earlier middle-class residents; intheir wake, the population density of both their old and new neighborhoodsincreased, putting greater pressure on facilities. Thus despite the different agesof buildings in the old downtown and the first ring of suburbs, e.g. East King-ston, today there is little obvious difference between them in living conditions


or prestige. Both are characterized by forced sharing of basic facilities (toilets,

Figure 2.1:Comparative growth of population in urban area, 1820–1970: Kingston, St.Andrew, Suburban St. Andrew, Jamaica. (Source: Clarke 1974, Map 9)

running water) among households, high density, high unemployment, overcrowd-ing, high crime and limited educational achievement. Many buildings arecrumbling; those that burn are often not rebuilt.

Inevitably, this urban blight crept outwards from the center depressing livingconditions and social status in peripheral neighborhoods. Working-class peoplewith the means fled the old downtown, often to subdivide what was formerlysingle-family space in newer middle-class housing areas. These became predomi-nantly working-class areas in their turn, as long-term residents left, isolated


themselves from contact with newcomers, or took on a landlord role, leading to

Map 4: Population change in the Kingston Metro Area, 1960–1970 (Source: StatIn,Population Census 1970: Jamaica, Vol. 6, Part I, Map 5)

further class conflict. Commercialization spread outward from downtown,


resulting in invasion of residential space by garages and small factories. Cityservices deteriorated, while any previously unoccupied space was claimed bysquatters, especially the less desirable land along the intricate system of gulliesthat are still Kingston’s main drainage system.

Residents of Veeton, a newer and more solidly middle-class second-ringsuburb, have watched such change taking place a stone’s throw away in SeltonTown (Austin 1984) and felt it encroach upon them. The social distinctionbetween the two neighborhoods, though it has some material basis, is primarilya symbolic one emphasizing status and upward mobility. Knight and Davies(1978, Map 5) ranked Veeton only slightly higher than Selton Town on a scaleof physical attributes including age and size of housing and land values. Wheneducational attainment and occupational status were factored in, however, SeltonTown remained in the “downtown low income” range while Veeton was judgedpart of the “transition zone” (see Map 5 below; Veeton is in the sector labeled‘J’, Selton Town in ‘B’).

Prestigious suburbs like Veeton carried an aura of middle-class successduring the 1950s and 1960s, and later served as launching pads into newer high-status developments on the fringe of the expanding city, typically in the sur-rounding hills. By 1960 areas like Veeton showed so much residential turnoverthat Clarke characterizes them as “zones of outward mobility” (1975: 101).Knight and Davies, in a review of 1970 census data that confirm and extend thepattern, call these “transition zones” (1978: 430): middle-income residentscontinued to move out and up, leaving the new working-class inhabitants fromthe city to compete with commercial interests for land use. In one section ofVeeton, the annual turnover rate for adults in 1960 was as high as 31% (Clarke1975, Table 24). Some residents who participated in the present study hadthemselves come to the area as part of this turnover cycle. Vere, a carpenter of63, lived and worked for 30 years in several East Kingston neighborhoodsincluding Selton Town. Upon his retirement in 1983 he bought a house inVeeton — partly to escape the increasing danger of the area some half-dozenblocks south.

Veeton’s lingering cachet also derives from its symbolic value as a markerof the economic and social progress of racial and ethnic groups. Today’sresidents say that much of upper Veeton was owned by a white English familywho lived locally and refused to sell land to blacks. According to the 1943census (Clarke 1975, Figs. 27–32), Veeton showed the heaviest concentration ofhigh-status ethnic and racial groups in the outer zone of eastern Kingston: the


largest percentage of whites (7–12%) except for Rae Town; many coloured

Map 5: Socioeconomic communities in Kingston (Source: Knight and Davies 1978)

residents (over 50% in most blocks); and the greatest concentration of Lebanesein the city (up to 8%). Indeed, a Lebanese-only private club was located hereuntil the 1960s, when it declined primarily because its members had “penetratedthe highest echelons and the clubs of the elite” (Clarke 1975: 115) — and, notincidentally, moved into neighborhoods closer to their new peers.


Several participants (e.g. Macca) proudly told me they were among the veryfirst black residents of their street — a pride stemming from the high level ofachievement and respectability required, in earlier days, to cross that barrier.Already by 1960, however, the census records no ‘Europeans’ (the term thatreplaced ‘whites’), only a pair of streets with any ‘Syrian’ (Lebanese) population,and generally less than one-third ‘Afro-Europeans’ (formerly ‘coloured’), whilethe southernmost streets of Veeton — including those bordering Selton Town —show an ‘African’ (formerly ‘black’) population over 85%.

Today there is no race or color difference between Veeton and anyneighboring areas, but distinctions persist along socioeconomic and symboliclines. These factors are powerful enough to influence residents’ collectiveperception of Veeton’s geographic boundaries. In interviews, older people agreedon the boundary between Veeton and the districts south of it: the street that alsoseparates Kingston parish from St. Andrew. But residents under 35 were oftenunsure, and tended to place the neighborhood’s boundary two or three streetsfarther north than the parish line. This redefinition unconsciously reflects thecolonization of lower Veeton by working-class residents from East Kingston, andtestifies to the sector’s loss of prestige (including the blocks on which Vere andMacca bought their houses), even among young working-class residents. Ithighlights the symbolic value of the name ‘Veeton’, which is reserved for anarea of middle-class, not working-class, residents; for residential land-use, notcommercial; for single-family homes, not ‘yards’; owner-residents, not tenants;educated people, not the ‘ignorant’; and so on.

Despite changes, Veeton retains a certain continuity. Rapidly rising con-struction and land prices throughout the 1970s–80s, coupled with stagnantincomes and capital pools, have kept many older residents there from the periodwhen it was a uniformly prestigious middle-class neighborhood, though otherswith considerable savings bought new houses “higher up”. Many of the latter leftduring a period of panic selling in the 1970s, which afforded bargain purchasesfor working- and lower-middle-class individuals with savings. Thus even amonghome-owners on the same block, length of residence creates status differences.Many houses, especially in lower Veeton, have been subdivided for multi-familyoccupancy; owner/tenant is now the primary status distinction, and each grouphas complaints about the general behavior of the others.

No single neighborhood of Kingston covers the whole spectrum of classesand social-group experiences there — and none could, given the residentialsegregation of socio-economic groups that is the city’s outstanding organizational


feature. Veeton is a mixed-class neighborhood with a clear and powerful socialidentity, a microcosmic expression of the many forces and processes that haveshaped the capital city. It is as close to the oldest settled parts of Kingston asother “transition zones”, and less commercialized; less monolithic than otherformer suburbs of East Kingston, and as varied a community as one can find.

Veeton’s residents work hard, not only to pay their bills in a depressed anddependent economy, but also to “live good” with their diverse neighbors in asetting of class tension and conflict. Further, they work to claim, exploit andinterpret their residential identity in a way that is consistent with their ownvalues, experiences and aspirations. These concerns may affect any socialinteraction they engage in, and guide both their own symbolic behavior and theirunderstanding of others’ — not least, in their speech and their attitudes tospeaking. In its fine stratification and wide range of social positions, Veetonprovides a happy hunting ground for the creole continuum hypothesis; and in itsmeeting of dominant, hegemonic middle-class values with an increasinglyworking-class population, it provides a rich field for exploring the contradictionsof an urban creole speech community.7

Description of Veeton

I have divided Veeton into five areas in Map 6. While these areas do not formunits for census purposes, or any political or administrative divisions, they arebased on the knowledge of Veeton’s history and social divisions I gleaned frominterviews and observations. The oldest-settled, southernmost parts (‘East’ and‘West Veeton’) hover just above the parish line, divided by the main street — acenter of communication, traffic and commerce featuring bars, gas stations, amajor bus route, a grocery, small storefronts selling baked goods, a church,individual street-side stands where higglers retail fresh produce and an off-dutypoliceman sells roast fish, a dry-goods store, and shops out of which local(illegal) gambling games such as drop-pan are run.

Houses in East and West Veeton are generally relatively close together,featuring two bedrooms, wood floors and zinc or terracotta tile roofs; yards maybe divided from each other by zinc fencing. Homes that have been improved

7. In addition to cited sources, especially Clarke (1975), this section relied on Norton (1978) andunpublished materials provided by the Town Planning Department.


may have tile floors or poured-concrete additions. Many are home to more than

Map 6: Local subdivisions of the Veeton neighborhood

one household, and sharing of facilities is common, but they were generally builtfor single families. Some have satellite structures for tenants, often givingevidence of people who work from their homes — mechanics, carpenters, andseamstresses hang out shingles. Houses are often close to the street on small lots,and there is considerable noise from vehicles, radios and voices of passersby.There are hedges, sometimes gardens, and mango and ackee trees, often shadingbenches where adults sit and talk or play dominoes. People of all ages andappearance frequent the sidewalks, and seeing someone in this area is noguarantee that they are Veeton residents.

Northeast is ‘The Gardens’, once home to the well-off Lebanese communityand formerly the most prestigious section. Large, well-spaced wooden, brick andconcrete bungalows built in the postwar decade have tile floors, arched roofs and


wide verandahs, painted in white or pastel colors. They boast mature fruit treeson large lots with gardens and hedges to screen them from the street. TheGardens is still genteel in a slightly faded way, but many homes are re-dividedfor multi-family occupancy. A storm gully runs near the bottom of this area; inrecent years squatters have established themselves along it. Zinc fences are therule in squatter yards, but rarely seen in single-family houses. Many homeownersare elderly and less active than before; the streets are generally quiet, but elderlyresidents are afraid of venturing out at night, and loud music can be heard everyweekend night. People may take in work, but outward signs of commercialactivity are rare.

Northwest lies the most recently-built, uniformly designed, and almostsolidly middle-class section. ‘Elysian Fields’ replaced The Gardens at the top ofthe local prestige ladder in recent decades. The streets are quiet and removedfrom busy thoroughfares; the houses are generally of concrete with flat, slab-likeroofs, tile floors, wrought-iron ornamental security bars, car-ports, and modernwiring and plumbing; on some streets they have second storeys. Lots are not aslarge as in The Gardens and are more likely to be visible from the street, thoughfenced; trees are younger, and lawns are more common than gardens. Multi-family occupancy occurs here too, though more houses were built as duplexesand sharing of facilities is rare; zinc fencing, if it appears at all, is invisible fromthe house front. Noise is frowned upon, and the occasional squatter, tenant oreven homeowner who plays loud music on weekends may be ostracized.Inhabitants are mostly middle-aged; children are not so common as a few yearsago, and young adults tend to move away upon maturity.

Last and least typical is ‘Gullyside’, a narrow, densely populated stripacross the runoffgully, bounded by the main highway. Unpaved alleys leadingback from the road turn into footpaths between high, patched-together fences ofzinc and corrugated iron, some painted with slogans. Peepholes in them revealsingle-family houses, often divided into 3 and 4 units. Tiny, ramshackle huts andextensions occur, and a maze of graffitied corridors opens suddenly onto achurch, a wastewater gully, or an animal pen. (I observed chickens, rabbits, pigs,goats, and bee-hives, as well as rats, mice and other pests, in friends’ yards.)Houses nearly all have wood floors and inadequate facilities; dirt yards replacegardens; fences and walls may be topped with jagged glass. Bright colors are thenorm, and many yards have trees or croton bushes. People of all ages areconstantly about, and noise is incessant. Many homes are a stone’s throw fromthe gully, but sight lines are restricted, and unless one knows the area very well


it is easy to become disoriented. Commercial establishments are few; manypeople ‘scuffle’, doing diverse small jobs at home or in the area.

Its own inhabitants, along with Veeton’s middle-class (who generally avoidand speak disparagingly of it), call Gullyside a ‘ghetto’, while referring to allother parts of Veeton as ‘residential areas’. In view of the almost entirelyresidential character of Gullyside, this term is confusing at first. In common use,it respectfully notes a home-owner’s ability to control their space, rather thanreferring to general land-use patterns. Hence, while everyone concedes thatGullyside is politically and geographically part of Veeton, that claim does notconfer social status on Gullyside since it is not a ‘residential area’.

The variability of socioeconomic conditions in Veeton can be expressed inmaterial terms by contrasting these subdivisions.8 The data below, drawn mostlyfrom the 1982 Census, illustrate quality of life in the community in concreteterms, if not comprehensively. Where possible, comparison is made to Kingstonand the island as a whole. Both Gullyside and Elysian Fields are relativelyhomogeneous areas showing patterns distinct from the rest of Veeton, so theirdata are displayed separately. By contrast, East and West Veeton now somewhatresemble the communities south of them, as noted above, and share with TheGardens a mixed-class character and the historical claim of being the oldestsettled parts of Veeton.

In the following tables the latter three areas, each socio-economicallydiverse but with similar patterns, are subsumed in a single category, called‘Central Veeton’. However, in Table 2.1 I have also added the data for ElysianFields into the ‘Central Veeton’ figures (which thus refer to all areas exceptGullyside). This is because, as the surviving bastion of the middle-class house-holds and values that once characterized all of Veeton, Elysian Fields is seen asa core part of the neighborhood. Since this is not true of Gullyside, down at thebottom of the social scale, the figures in the Gullyside column were not pooledwith the rest. Thus the tables allow us to contrast both of the extremes with themiddle, and also to compare the validated ‘residential areas’ with the ‘ghetto’.

Table 2.1 contrasts these subdivisions on measures of population, unemploy-ment and education, with urban and national figures for comparison (rounded off

8. I tabulated data in Tables 2.1–2 by hand from Enumeration District reports and renumberingsheets at the Statistical Institute’s Cartography Division, using only fully reported figures andexcluding ‘Not Stated’ statistics; under-reporting was most significant in Gullyside.


for larger units).9 Elysian Fields has about the same population as Gullyside

Table 2.1:Population, unemployment and educational achievement in 1982

Jamaica Kingstonurban area

ElysianFields

CentralVeetona

Gullyside

PopulationTotal pop. 2,190,000 524,000b 2,847 11,063 2,508

Over 14 yrs.(Labor force)

1,407,500 346,200b 2,106 07,723 1,526

% under 14(dependents)

36% 34%b 26% 30% 39%

Unemployment

Males over 14 16% 20%c 14% 20% 31%

Females over 14 38% 34%c 18% 29% 30%

Highest Education

Primary (0–6 yrs.) only 44% n.d. 32% 45% 53%

Early secondary (7–9) 33% n.d. 25% 23% 21%

Secondary/plus (10+) 23% n.d. 44% 32% 25%aIncludes Elysian Fields b Kingston Metro Area cSt. Andrew Parish

(allowing for undercounting), distributed over twice the area. The proportions ofthe population that are over and under 14 years old — roughly, the labor forceand its dependents — have great significance for under-developed economieswith a recent history of rapid population increase. While the proportion ofdependents for Jamaica and the urban area (over one-third) is relatively highcompared to northern industrialized countries, it is not unusual for the Caribbean(Cross 1979). Veeton is slightly better off than Kingston as a whole, and ElysianFields is more so; while Gullyside has fewer adults in the workforce to supporta larger number of children.

There is considerable unemployment in the labor force island-wide, and thepicture is generally worse for women (but see Standing 1982). Figures for

9. References include the (1982) Population Census, Volume II-B, Tables 1–4; Statistical Yearbook(1986), Table 3.4; and Demographic Statistics (1988), Tables 7–8 (all cited as StatIn).


Veeton proper resemble those for St. Andrew; Gullyside residents are nearlytwice as likely to be unemployed as those in Elysian Fields.10 This is bothpartly caused and compounded by differences in educational achievement: whileover half of Gullysiders received only a primary education, residents of ElysianFields are far more likely to have completed secondary or higher levels. Veetonfalls in between, close to national trends.

Though the gap between the top and the bottom of the neighborhood isconsiderable, these are not the extremes within Kingston. The upward aspirationsof Elysian Fields residents were mentioned earlier, while people in Gullyside seethemselves as better offthan those further downtown or in the West Kingstonghettoes. What makes the contrast more frustrating for these neighboring areasof Veeton is their physical proximity within the same district. Table 2.2 com-pares household size, crowding and housing quality (‘household’ is a social unit,e.g. a family, while ‘housing’ refers to physical structures). Gullyside is identi-fied by Clarke (1974: 57) as one of the most overcrowded areas in easternKingston, and Table 2.2 shows significantly more persons per household there —a problem compounded by the scarcity of rooms for them to live in. The contrastbetween Gullyside and the rest of Veeton is greatly understated by these figures,which use five rooms per household as a dividing line; Clarke’s data suggest,and my observations support the idea, that the norm in Gullyside is closer to tworooms for a four-person household.

Considering the type of housing available in Veeton, the oldest areas are inCentral Veeton; both Elysian Fields and Gullyside have a significant proportionof recently-built housing stock. However, while only a small percent of housesin Central Veeton and Elysian Fields are made out of cheap, perishable materialssuch as wattle-and-daub, wood and nog, this is far more common in Gullyside.Solid construction in the better-off areas is generally accompanied by modernfacilities, as pit latrines are obsolete and sharing of toilets between households isnot common (and is generally the result of redivision for multi-family use). InGullyside, however, pit latrines are not unusual on the small, crowded lots, andmany families either share toilet access or simply have none. Comparing thesehouses to those built over a similar time-frame in Elysian Fields, it is clear thatthe difference is due not to the date of construction but to a lack of financialresources in Gullyside.

10. Figures for KMA were unavailable; Veeton is in St. Andrew, which is largely urban.


Given this picture of the social geography of Veeton, I have ranked the

Table 2.2:Household size, crowding, and housing quality in 1982

Elysian Fields Central Veetona Gullyside

Household Size

Persons per householdHouseholds with 5 or more roomsTotal no. of households

3.2914%716

3.6014%2,498

3.976%509

Housing Quality

Aged 20+ years (pre-1960)Aged 10–20 years (1960–1970)Built of perishable materialsUses pit toiletsShares toilet or has none

52%29%09%00%12%

76%12%11%03%28%

39%45%34%18%43%

a Includes Elysian Fields data

informants studied here according to the status of their residence situation. Theranking combines neighborhood (Elysian Fields at the top, followed by theGardens, then East and West Veeton, with Gullyside at the bottom), age andupkeep of housing (new over old, well-maintained over poorly), and tenure(owner over tenant) and residence type (among tenants, houses over apartmentsover rooms over yards). Table 2.3 gives this ranking for the speakers studiedhere. There are two anomalies in the table. Roasta recently married and movedout into a new bedroom community across Kingston Harbour, comparable togood-quality housing in The Gardens or Elysian Fields. Mina, who spent time inher sister’s older, well-maintained home in Elysian Fields, owns and lives in ahouse in rural Clarendon, for which I have downgraded her status.

The urban/rural dimension

Urbanization, the move to the city, is not news to Jamaicans, but it is still thestory of the century. Urban life is for most Jamaicans synonymous with King-ston, and Kingston is associated with powerful themes: opportunity, danger andemployment; wealth and squalor; new technology, fashion, and general up-to-dateness; a sophisticated variety of pleasures and vices; crime, noise, congestionand crowds; the formal seat and symbols of national pride; the purest expressionof native viciousness and thievery; the brash flowering of pop culture; the


gateway to foreign travels and marketplace for foreign imports; the home of

Table 2.3:Residential status ranking of Veeton speakers

Rank Speaker Neighborhood Housing age Tenure & type

1

234

56

78

GeorgeRoxyRoseRoastaMaccaWalkerTamasSistaMattyMinaNoelDinahOliveOpalBigga

Elysian FieldsElysian FieldsThe Gardens(Portmore)East VeetonEast VeetonEast VeetonElysian FieldsThe Gardens(rural)The GardensGullysideGullysideGullysideGullyside

newnewoldnewoldoldoldnewoldoldoldpoor conditionpoor conditiongood conditionpoor condition

owns houseowns houseowns houserents houseowns houseowns houseowns houserents apt.rents houseowns houserents roomrents in yardrents in yardrents in yardrents in yard

government bureaucracy; the source of first and last resort for essential high-qualityresources (medical care, education, training, essential supplies and parts), and more.

The separation of urban and rural experience is both newer, for many citydwellers, and less complete than in northern industrialized and suburbanizedcountries. Nearly everyone in the urban neighborhood studied here has ties ofsome sort with rural areas: birthplace, childhood residence or schooldays, kin,shared responsibility for family land. Urban and rural life are defined by mutualopposition, but they are rarely experienced in complete isolation from each other.Attitudes and evaluations are colored in strong feelings, as folklore, oral andwritten literature attest. Charles Hyatt’s recollection of a childhood trip vividlydescribes the impressions of a young Kingstonian encountering the country 60years ago (Hyatt 1989: 87):

Catadupa coulda be New York the way it did different. The people dem eventalk different. Everywhere an everything smell a bush, wood smoke an a sortasugar sweetness. The road was dirt an the night was the darkes’ an loudes’ meever encounta.

Kingston could inspire fantastic dreams, in simpler times or simpler folk, asthese lyrics from “Kingston Town”, Lord Creator’s 1960s ska hit song, testify(Patrick and Eccles, n.d.):


There is magic in Kingston town…When I am king, surely I will need a queenAnd a palace and everythingAnd now I am king, and my queen will come at dawnShe’ll be waiting in Kingston town.

Less elegiac, however, is a wealthy country landowner’s opinion of the capitalcity, in Anthony Winkler’s comic novel ‘The Lunatic’ (Winkler 1987: 165):

To Busha’s mind Kingston was a nasty, dirty, loveless, noisy Sodom andGomorrah plus a wicked Babylon all wrapped up into one, and he hated theplace with such a passion that he stayed away from it as much as he could.There was more scoundrel in Kingston, more thief, more whore, more murder-er, more gunman than anyplace else on earth. Only the hangman truly lovedKingston. Kingston had more graveyard than coop had chicken.

Street-wise city dwellers have little patience and much scorn for the rude‘Country Boy’ ignorant of urban distinctions, landmarks and technology, asLeroy Sibbles’s (1976) reggae lyrics suggest:

Country boy, you runnin’ up and downCountry boy, you go on like you know town[…But] you no know uptown, You no know downtown……You no know Parish Church, bwoy get out a me way……You no know Race Course… No even know lightpost…

Folk poet Louise Bennett, in ‘Mash Flat’, depicts the caution and suspicionexercised by rural Jamaicans coming to town, to counter the expected lies anddeception (1966: 215):

Mumma, Kingston is not a good place at allIf yuh noh cunny, yuh gawn clean11

For is not every wud wey Kingstonian talkGermicide wid wey dem mean.

This meeting of town- and country-man on unforgiving and unequal urbanground has been a regular and frequent encounter for generations, and its effectson urban Jamaican Creole are overdue for investigation. If urbanization isdefined demographically, as a significant pattern of population shift from ruralto urban residence, then Jamaica has been undergoing a constant wave of

11. ‘If you are not crafty yourself, you will be robbed.’Germicideis a malapropism.


urbanization for over a century. Rural migrants, in the great numbers notedabove, are pushed or pulled towards Kingston in search of work, education,metropolitan culture, relief from the hardship of agricultural labor or ruralpoverty or repressive family life, a chance to emigrate, and a multitude of othermore or less desirable ends. This process led one pre-WWII observer to describeKingston as “the sink of the landless, casual labouring folk of most of the island”(Olivier 1936, cited in Standing 1981: 48).

Yet the story is much more complex than simply a move to the city, andone cannot classify people simply based upon their birthplace or length ofresidence in town, for several reasons. Many Kingstonians remain in close touchwith rural family, travel to the country and receive relatives for extended visits,take part in the management and eat the agricultural produce of family land(Clarke 1957), and are positively oriented towards the traditional foodways andfolklore most strongly associated with rural life. In the present study, thisincludes such people as Walker, a retired headmaster from the hills of St. Annwho still teaches folk dances and disdains urban customs, and Tamas, a formershoemaker who did factory work abroad for a decade, but still often visits andshares management of family land in St. Thomas.

Others have been raised entirely within the urban milieu (“under the clock”at Cross Roads, in the local catchphrase), or assimilated themselves to it. Thesepeople value cosmopolitan contacts, consumer culture or foreign products; tradeon their education and expertise, or are invested in essentially urban businessesor professions; find country life restrictive or dull, or have left behind repressivefamily situations; desire or depend upon access to the services or resources of theurban area, and look up to those relatives who have succeeded in town orabroad. Such people in this study include George and Olive, young adults of verydifferent class backgrounds who have targeted continued membership (forGeorge) or entry (for Olive) into the urban middle class as major life goals; andRoasta, a skilled laborer from Manchester heavily oriented towards urban popularculture and money-making. Macca, a retired police detective from St. Elizabethfor whom home-ownership in East Veeton signifies progress despite his back-ground and color, has no interest in returning to rural life; nor does Rose, aretired head-nurse raised in rural St. Catherine who only came to town in hermiddle teens and has been firmly rooted in the middle-class Kingston socialscene for half a century.

Many young women working in the city return to the country to give birth(or shortly after) and leave children to be raised by older female relatives until


their pre-teen years or later, when the youngsters come to ‘look work’ inKingston. Opal, a recent secondary-school graduate in Gullyside, was born inKingston, raised in the country in Portland, returned to town at twelve and hasbecome fully urban-oriented. With the gradual spread of good roads, electricityand other conveniences to remote areas, the countryside is becoming an attractiveretirement place for older people who would never have returned to its difficultliving conditions in previous days.

The relationship of Kingston to foreign metropolises with large Jamaicanpopulations further complicates the rural/urban dimension. For just as Kingstonrepresents ‘bright lights, big city’ to rural Jamaicans, such places as London,New York, Toronto, and Miami are targets for those who wish to leave theisland entirely. Kingston serves both as a way station for many emigrants, and asa place to return to after years abroad have made them unaccustomed to therigors of country living. Many emigrants never return or (like Tamas) only uponretirement, when their foreign-currency pension has secured them a standard ofliving at home that they could not maintain in England or the U.S. Others, fromKingston as well as the most rural areas, spend a few months to several years intemporary job schemes, such as seasonal cane-cutting in Florida, or pursuinggoals such as advanced degrees, skills or capital to use upon their return.

It is not merely Kingston’s deficiency in size, wealth, jobs or universitieswhich draws people abroad. No rapid growth or prosperity can easily erase thepatterns of history which incline Jamaicans to look beyond their local institu-tions, models and resources, and to grant more prestige to those associated withthe urban centers of Great Britain and North America. Thus a local/metropolitanrelationship exists not only between rural Jamaica and Kingston, but between thewhole island and these metropolitan colonial centers which have, between them,dominated the economy, society, and culture for so long. The linguistic parallelis clear: rural ‘patwa’ (Jamaican Creole basilect) vs. local standard (StandardJamaican English, the acrolect), and Jamaican speech in general vs. metropolitanstandards (Received Pronunciation in Britain, or Standard American English); butits implications for the status of the urban mesolect remain to be explored.

A demographic measure such as birthplace or years of residence in Kingstonfails to do justice to this picture of urban/rural identity. It is a commonplace thaturbanization interacts with social class, occupation and education in complexways. Gordon (1987) notes that social mobility out of the Jamaican workingclass of agricultural and domestic laborers and smallholders has been tied closelyto the possibility of education and geographical mobility, i.e., migration to


Kingston or the foreign metropole. Standing (1981: 235) gives quantitativeevidence that urban/rural disparities in education directly influence social status,since “schooling [is] the predominant index of middle-class status and opportuni-ty income, and… the probability of marriage”. If speakers’ motivation andidentification are crucial elements in understanding their sociolinguistic patterns(LePage and Tabouret-Keller 1985; Rickford 1985), factors hypothesized toexplain linguistic choice should take them into account. I understand theurban/rural dimension of social life in this light, as a matter of subjectiveorientation: not mechanically derived from the accidents of birthplace andchildhood residence, but shaped also by the experiences, aspirations and choicesof adolescence and young adulthood.

I have assigned a primary urban or rural orientation to each speaker, in thefollowing manner. Interview questions probed their beliefs and attitudes concern-ing Kingston and urban life, and whenever a speaker raised the subject spontane-ously I pursued it enthusiastically. For those not “born under the clock”, Ielicited a detailed migration history including information on their initialperceptions of and adjustments to city life, attitudes to Kingston now and overtheir years there. I also asked every speaker to evaluate themselves as either acity- or country-person at heart, and most people had no trouble declaring a clearallegiance. During a series of formal language tests, people listened to six 30-second extracts from a range of carefully-chosen interviews. They were asked tosay whether the speakers they heard were born in the country or in town; and tochoose what sort of entertainments the speakers would likely prefer, from arange including a folktale-telling session (‘Anansi story’) as well as suchprimarily urban pastimes as dance-hall music and singing, popular vernacularplays, or European high-culture such as classical music concerts or art exhibits.In responding to tests, speakers often made comments indicating their attitudesto the entertainments and to city vs. country speech stereotypes (later languagequestions elicited more on such stereotypes).

Results from all these materials were evaluated holistically and a judgmentwas made as to whether the person is primarily rural- or urban-oriented. Thisdichotomy resembles other sociolinguistic categories in being rather a bluntinstrument; like the other standard variables (e.g. sex, class, age), it is intendedto aid in exploring the social distribution of linguistic patterns, and furtherrefinement may be needed for it to serve as an explanatory factor.

The role of urbanization in the formation of speech communities generallyrequires more theoretical attention (though see Gal 1979 for effects of peasantness


on language choice in Austria, Trudgill 1983 for a model of the outwarddiffusion of dialect features from urban areas, Bortoni-Ricardo 1985 on dialect-focusing among rural immigrants in a new Brazilian city, and Kerswill 1994 onkoineization by rural Norwegian migrants to Bergen). But the relation of therural/urban dimension to the creole continuum is of immediate interest to thissynchronic study. Rickford (1987a) discusses it as a hypothetical example of asocial dimension which might function independently of the single creole-standard dimension generally assumed to underlie the continuum model. DeCamp(1971) notes geographical variation as potentially troublesome for this unidimen-sional assumption, and mentions /#h/-dropping as a feature characteristic ofKingston. It will emerge below that past-marking with pre-verbaldid plusuninflected verb is a similar stereotype of Kingston speech among my informants.

The rural/urban dimension interacts with age or time, in the following sense.If isolated rural areas tend to be culturally and linguistically conservative, for thepurposes of studying language change and social norms one might propose thatthe clocks run a generation or more slow in such areas by comparison to the city.Rickford characterizes “urban variants [as] characteristically standard, and ruralvariants [as] characteristically creole” (1987a: 23) and suggests that as long asthis description holds, unidimensionality (here, the alignment of the rural/urbanscale with the creole/standard one) should be retained as the working assumption.

Yet there are limits to the value of this assumption, as to the clocksanalogy. Variants such as pastdid and /#h/-dropping may be urban, but there isnothing particularly standard about them (Alleyne 1980: 192). To the extent thatKingston can be shown to resemble foreign metropolises in possessing acharacteristic working-class vernacular, distinct from middle-class standardizednorms, then unidimensionality will be inapplicable. The linguistic clocks in ruralareas do not simply run more slowly — they operate in a distinct social contextand cannot be expected to slavishly follow urban developments a generation behind.

Urbanness alone may not suffice to guarantee standardness, particularlywhen urban developments diverge from influential norms for foreign standards.But the different pace of linguistic change in country and city suggests that adirect comparison of the two regions or geo-lects must decompose the continuumand reconsider these issues. That comparison, however, is not the task of thisinvestigation, which tests the continuum model synchronically for Kingston alone.


Social class, status and occupation

Social class and socio-economic status are controversial issues in the sociologicalliterature on developing and post-colonial countries, including Jamaica. SinceLabov’s (1966) New York City survey first correlated linguistic variation andsocial stratification in an urban speech community, sociolinguists have wrestledwith the problems of identifying social class and status hierarchies in a sampleof speakers. Class is often acknowledged to be among the most complex andinfluential among “the three major social correlates of linguistic variation —class, sex and age” (Chambers 1995: 10). These factors form the basis of thepresent investigation, along with education and residence; but class and statuspresent the most serious difficulty of operationalization and interpretation.

In the North American and European urban areas that have been beststudied, the problems of identifying and analyzing the socioeconomic structuresspeakers participate in, assigning individuals to particular strata, and interpretingtheir collective linguistic behavior in the light of social class are considerable.Sociolinguists often have been accused of, or have realized and admitted, theirrelative inexpertise in the requisite sociological skills and social-theoretic perspec-tives. The application of a similar approach to Kingston, a post-colonial capitalwith a radically different social history, must anticipate obstacles at every stage.

The first problem is conceptual, concerning the distinction between classand status. Sociolinguistic studies tend to treat these two explanatory factors asalternatives, or even as interchangeable. More often than not they use ‘class’ todistinguish groups along an evaluative dimension for which ‘status’ would be amore appropriate name (Milroy 1987) — particularly given the importance of thesymbolic dimensions of language, language attitudes and ideology. A secondproblem consists in whether to approach class from a functionalist perspectivethat emphasizes consensus and harmony across society, or from a Marxist oneemphasizing conflict between groups with contrasting relations to production anddiffering aims; Rickford (1986a) takes sociolinguists to task for imbalance here.However, under either approach, class and status may correlate but do not predicteach other. This third problem arises partly because of intervening variables suchas ethnicity — e.g. persons of the same class but distinct ethnicity may differ instatus — and partly because classes are far from evenly distributed geographical-ly, so that between urban and rural areas, or urban areas with different classstructures, the local status of members of a particular class may differ greatly.


Other sorts of difficulties arise where the economic order has undergoneconsiderable change within a generation or two, and where social mobility is asignificant fact of life. Both of these hold true for Jamaica. In the first case, theeconomic and status values of particular occupations, degrees of education, areasof residence, ethnic groups, and membership in social institutions may changeradically, and large differences commonly occur between parents and children ina single generation. In such circumstances the opportunities for social mobilitymay undergo sharp fluctuations as well, changing not only the distribution ofeconomic resources but their symbolic value and, where a large proportion of apopulation controls very few economic resources, even their relative importancevis-a-vis forms of symbolic capital (such as language varieties).

Many of the complexities raised above obviously apply to comparisons ofdifferent communities within the same society — a problem this study does notraise — and more to the point, different social groups within one community.While ethnicity is hardly an important distinction within Veeton today, as notedabove, comparing age-groups is central to the study of linguistic variation insofaras the change of linguistic patterns over time is of basic interest. Similarly,occupations and economic resources are unevenly distributed between men andwomen in most societies, while the pursuit, achievement and evaluation of socialmobility and status are also commonly distinct — patterns which have provenimportant to understanding their differential speech behavior (Cameron andCoates 1988; Eckert 1989a, b; Labov 1990; McElhinny 1993; Haeri 1991, 1996;Kroch 1996).

Perhaps most serious of all, small societies rarely generate native formalsocial theories for scholars to draw upon in studying them. The theories used todescribe these societies (and to administer changes) were generally developedand tested in quite dissimilar circumstances, and require at least reconsiderationand adjustment. Given the ambiguous roles ‘foreign experts’ and their paradigmshave played in (post-) colonial societies, I have tried to avoid naively importing“alien models and analytic procedures that are not likely to lead to deep under-standing of Caribbean societies” (Nettleford 1984:xii). Critiques issued byCaribbean social scientists, and their own efforts in applying or refining existingforeign models and developing new ones, constitute an invaluable aid in this process.

Scholars of modern Jamaica take a variety of approaches to its socialstratification, from M. G. Smith’s plural society hypothesis (1965) — anenduringly controversial exception to my statement above about the scarcity ofnative theories — through Carl Stone’s (1973) rejection of it and his ‘clientelist’


proposals (1980), Norman Girvan’s (1972, 1975) and Beckford and Witter’s(1982) neo-Marxist work on foreign domination and state control of capital, tothe straight Marxist analysis of Standing (1981). There is disagreement on manydetails of Jamaica’s class structure. Stone, for instance, simply divides the urbanworking class into two sectors, a skilled “blue-collar” group and an underem-ployed “lower class”; Lacey (1977) notes the importance of distinguishing askilled, export-oriented labor elite from a locally-oriented proletariat. Standing(1981: 311) counters by asserting “the absence of a well-defined and establishedlabor aristocracy,” and noting the remarkably high rate of participation of womenin the labor force. Austin (1984: 20) explains that “the prominence of serviceoccupations in Jamaica [allows] political allegiance rather than market exchange”to dominate working class economic life. These analyses differ widely in theattention they pay to linking class and status with race, color, and the culturalpractices allied to them, with the more politically radical analyses being on thewhole less revealing here.

In a post-colonial plantation economy where foreign capital has ruled formany years in its own interests, it is not surprising to discover strong class andracial antagonisms. All the above approaches recognize them as an importantcomponent of Jamaican society, echoing Smith’s assertion (1955, 1961) ofcultural distinctness and antagonism between hierarchical social groups, orBroom’s judgment that “social stratification in Jamaica cannot be understood asan uninterrupted continuum of status positions… Gross discontinuities are to befound” (1954, quoted in Smith 1984: 6). The problem of grouping status-rankedspeakers for variationist analysis, and choosing a model of social organization,has also been reviewed (see Davis 1985; Rickford 1987b). Rickford (1986a), insympathy with Smith, criticizes unquestioning reliance by some sociolinguists onfunctional, Parsonian models that assume a system of norms and values commonto the whole society. He illustrates the relevance of a neo-Marxist conflict modelto his data from a small Guyanese village, dubbed Cane Walk, in which one’slivelihood either relies wholly upon the local sugar-cane estate, or else isindependent of it.

But life in the metropolis of Kingston is necessarily more diverse, and amodel capable of rendering much finer distinctions than Rickford’s estate andnon-estate classes is required. In order to test the applicability of the creolecontinuum, one must be prepared for fine stratification both of social structureand linguistic behavior. In order to compare with sociolinguistic surveys else-where, an ideal model would take account of such indices as income, occupation


and education, which have been commonly used since Labov (1966) to stratifysamples (though the practice of melding them in a single numerical index hascome under criticism, e.g. Milroy 1987: 31). Finally, as the plantation economyhas been overtaken in this century by urbanization and industrialization —however incompletely — I prefer a model informed by distinctions among therelations of production.

I have relied on Jamaican sociologist Derek Gordon’s (1987) study of class,status and social mobility for a detailed picture of current stratification within thelabor force, in particular for a classification of occupations. Gordon’s study,based on the island-wide 1984 National Mobility Survey (a 1% sample of theadult population), develops a 16-category classification from the 48-category oneused earlier in a parent project. Gordon (ibid.:10) makes use of a three-waydistinction in production relations that takes into account ownership, authority,training and skill level: the “middle strata”, largely white-collar and managerial;

Table 2.4:Class categories and occupational groups (Gordon 1987)

Class occupational group(description)

Occupational title(example jobs)

MS-1MS-2MS-3MS-4MS-5MS-6

Higher managers/professionalsLower managers/office supervisorsLower professional, technical, salesSecretarial & accounting clerksOther clerks (not sales)Sales clerks

Civil engineer, attorneyLoan or personnel officerNurse, technician, salesmanTypist, bookkeeper, bank clerkKeypunch operator, file clerkShop clerk, betting clerk

PB-1PB-2PB-3PB-4

Owner-employersArtisansTradersSmall farmers

Gas-station owner, large farmMechanic, dressmaker, taxiStreet vendor, hairdresserRoot-crop farmer, fisherman

WC-1WC-2WC-3WC-4WC-5WC-6

Foremen & higher service workCraftsmen & operativesOther service work (not WC-4)Unskilled manual workDomestic workersAgricultural laborers

Line-supervisor, police, chefMachine operator, truckerGuard, waitress, messengerLongshoreman, constructionHousehold helperCane-cutter, fruit-picker

(MS= Middle Strata; PB= Petit Bourgeoisie; WC= Working Class)


the petit bourgeoisie, self-employed (artisans, traders and smallholders) or employingothers (small proprietors and medium farmers); and manual wage-laborers.12

Insofar as he treats these classes separately, rather than ranking or directlycomparing them, it is a class analysis; see Table 2.4. Insofar as he makes use ofincome and educational rankings, and ranks the occupations within each class, itis also a status analysis; see Table 2.5. Articulating the two proved convenientfor sociolinguistic investigation, since it allowed me to make use of observableobjective information as an initial guide to social position, later assigningspeakers to groupings that are primarily status-based once ethnographic workclarified the local configurations of practices and evaluative norms.

The first five columns in Table 2.5 summarize and reorder data fromGordon’s survey (1987: Tables 1 and 3). In “Veeton speakers” I locate theindividuals in this study by their primary occupation, classifying it withinGordon’s scheme. The final column gives each speaker’s educational achieve-ment in years of study completed. Those speakers from the Veeton sub-samplewho are still in school (Bigga and Roxy), or recently graduated and are not yetemployed (Opal), cannot yet be securely assigned to occupational categories.Roxy, sister of George, is very likely to attend university and work in the upperMS range too; Opal has completed secondary school and hopes to find employ-ment in the lower MS range. Bigga has a year left in secondary school and isprobably headed for the middle WC range.

Gordon’s averaged income figures were approximate; they cover a consider-able range, and were rapidly outdated. I have not attempted to provide incomeestimates for my speakers. The calculation of income presents great difficultiesfor Jamaican economists, and its relation to standards of living and consumptionis even more difficult. A principal cause is the unofficial economic sector,comprising everything from the retailing of goods and currency imported fromMiami or Curacao, to the sale of ganja (marijuana), to creative moonlightingpractices using an employer’s materials, tools, and/or paid time that are knownas ‘roasting’ (after which I named Roasta, who took pride and pleasure inteaching me about this folk art). Some of my informants made most of theirincome in such ways, but were reluctant to provide numbers. Income is oftensupplemented by goods or foreign currency from relatives overseas, supportinga consumer lifestyle among people whose salaries, at official exchange rates,

12. Gordon’s study is not concerned with the wealthy elite above the “middle”, and neither is mine.For linguistic studies of them, see Irvine (1988) and Miller (1987).


could not manage one. Finally, many people who would speak quite openly

Table 2.5:Income and education for occupational categories

Class Income(monthly)

Incomerank

Secondarygraduates

Educ.rank

Veetonspeakers

School(years)

MS-1MS-2

MS-3

MS-4MS-5MS-6

$1533$0914

$0789

$0660$0537$0281

0102

03

060712

77%27%

41%

48%38%16%

0105

03

020408

n.d.GeorgeRoseWalkerMattyOliveNoeln.d.

1611+

11+

12+

12+

11+

PB-1PB-2

PB-3PB-4

$0766$0323

$0263$0183

0410

1314

19%04%

03%01%

0712

1314

n.d.MinaTamasSistan.d.n.d.

633

WC-1WC-2WC-3WC-4WC-5WC-6

$0725$0446$0353$0310$0157$0168

050809111615

21%08%07%04%01%<1%

060910111516

MaccaRoastan.d.n.d.Dinahn.d.

612+

3

[Columns 1–5 from Gordon (1987), 6–7 from present study]

about race, sex, or politics were uncomfortable talking to me about their rate ofpay.

Gordon’s data show great discontinuities, e.g. between the first- and second-ranked levels of each class for both income and education, which recall Broom’sstatement above. Where the education ranking outstrips that of income by severalplaces, as in MS-4, MS-5, and MS-6, opportunity for status transition and socialmobility clusters. Young people like Olive, Opal and Noel from working-classbackgrounds freely admit their ambition is to breach the middle-class barrier.Another transitional category is WC-1 (Gordon’s “labour aristocracy”), hererepresented by Macca, the retired police detective. Roasta, a young machinistwho is part of a new and better-educated skilled proletariat, hopes to arrive thereor, better, start his own shop as a small employer (PB-1).


The current sample’s small size — ten to fifteen speakers, depending on thelinguistic variable — creates both constraints and advantages. Labov (1990: 220)recommends devising a social scale with “at least four divisions of the socio-economic hierarchy, giving us two extreme or peripheral groups and twointermediate or central groups” in order to observe consistent but non-linearpatterns. The classic example is the curvilinear pattern created by the hyper-correction of the New York City lower-middle class in their pronunciation ofpost-vocalic /r/ (Labov 1972a). This group, second-high in socioeconomic terms,unexpectedly used the prestige variant (consonantal /r/) more frequently than thehighest group, creating a curvilinear pattern. Reliably locating such patternsrequires a larger sample than ten or fifteen speakers. On the other hand, a smallsample allows close and repeated observation by a participant-observer who cancollect a richer variety of data types. This approach permitted me to integrateobjective, easily observable categories and self-reported data from selectedindividuals with observations of how those people interacted with each other andme in different circumstances over time.

In interviews, I asked speakers about their histories of education andemployment, their migration and residence patterns, their family and non-kinsocial networks, their ambitions and life-plans. In tests developed after severalmonths of fieldwork, I elicited their opinions of taped data from both well-knownmedia figures and anonymous local speakers, along with evaluations of speechon both solidarity and hierarchy dimensions (friend- and job-scales, see Rickford1983b, 1986c and below). I carefully noted their dress, the physical characteris-tics of their housing, and their residence tenure category (owner, tenant, etc.); Iinvestigated their attitudes to people of other categories, as well as their experi-ences and feelings about local categories of race and color. This informationemerged most reliably when subjects disputed each other or engaged in small-group conversations in which I sought to downplay my role as interviewer.

Using such information, I converted Gordon’s three-class taxonomy into asingle ranked scale of occupational status for the Veeton speakers (Table 2.6).

In addition, I also assigned the same speakers to one of two status groups,using residence and education rankings (below) as well as occupation. The over-riding local perception of status conflict is binary, centering on the dimensionsof manual laborer vs. office-worker, owner vs. tenant, life in a ‘residential area’vs. a ‘yard’ or a ‘ghetto’ area. Classification into the “Working Class” and


“Middle Class” status groups13 does justice to these local models. Later

Table 2.6:Occupational status ranking of Veeton speakers

Rank Speaker Class Occupation

1

234567

8

9

George(Roxy)RoseWalkerMattyMaccaOliveNoelRoasta(Opal)Tamas

MinaSista(Bigga)Dinah

MS-2(MS-2?)MS-2MS-2MS-3WC-1MS-4MS-5WC-2(MS-5?)PB-2,WC-2

PB-2PB-2(WC?)WC-5

Civil servant(still in school)Head nurse (ret.)Headmaster, small school (ret.)PhotographerPolice detective (ret.)Accounts clerkClerk-traineeToolmaker(looking for work)Shoemaker,factory worker

DressmakerSelf-employed actress, activist(still in school)Domestic helper

analyses of linguistic behavior by individual speaker can be checked against thestatus ranking, while membership in the broad status groups will be consideredin the statistical analysis. The speakers were assigned membership in thefollowing status groups:

Middle class: George, Roxy, Rose, Walker, Matty and NoelWorking class: Macca, Olive, Roasta, Opal, Tamas, Mina,

Sista, Bigga and Dinah

Borders between such divisions are clearly sites for social transition. In reconcil-ing the process of upward mobility with the static nature of class assignment,those who have not yet clearly accomplished the transition (mostly young peoplein their first years of work) are still considered working-class if they have not yetcut ties with their humble origins. Olive, 24, an accounting secretary, still livesat home with her mother Dinah in a “yard” in Gullyside. Her strong workingclass background was judged to outweigh her educational and occupational

13. These labels represent local usage; the groups are defined by social status. When I refer to socialclass in the strict sense I will use Gordon’s ranks and terms.


achievement and strong ambition to join the middle class. Noel, though youngerand with a similar job, lives on his own in a boarding-house on a very respect-able street of The Gardens, and is here considered middle-class. Matty, 49, is afree-lance photographer renting a house marginal to The Gardens and Gullyside;though his income and resources appeared low, his considerable education, theindependent nature of his occupation, and his interwoven social/professionalcontacts in higher society justify the middle-class designation.

The creole continuum model was designed to test the idea that variation inlinguistic behavior correlates with different positions on a social hierarchy. Asin other versions of this idea, it is assumed that one can construct a socialgradient to parallel the linguistic one, typically using social class or status. Thusone object of this investigation is to discover whether any systematic relationholds between the two dimensions for the speech community.14 This has beenso often shown in urban studies of the last 25 years that it is no longer a radicalidea but a commonplace. Though often anecdotally asserted for creole societiesas well, it nevertheless remains untested for large urban creole-speaking popula-tions. Creole linguistics has in general paid inadequate attention to socialstructure. While sociolinguistics has so far shown a limited ability toexplainlanguage variation using social class and status, it has been highly successful at usingbroad (occasionally even crude) categories to describe, refine and replicate class-related patterns of speech. The current study continues that enterprise forKingston.

If the existence of social stratification is necessary for the creole continuumhypothesis to hold, one may still question or reject functionalist assumptions ofa broad societal consensus on values.15 Further, the existence of stratificationon an urban scale or on the micro-level of Veeton does not contradict the reportsby most scholars that significant discontinuities affect Jamaica’s social structure.Whether understood as essentially economic, racial or cultural in nature, theinstitutionally distinct group identities that structure social action in modernJamaica and Kingston have diverse constituencies which respond to historicalforces such as urbanization. The inevitable effect of opening the society and

14. Though DeCamp’s (1971) discussion attempts to avoid this implication, Rickford’s (1987a)analysis of unidimensionality clearly attributes a social basis to the creole-standard dimension.

15. For the strategic use of Jamaican Creole in situations where class and cultural values conflict, seePatrick and McElhinny (1993), Patrick and Payne-Jackson (1996), Patrick (1997). Austin (1984) isa study of conflicting class cultures in two East Kingston neighborhoods.


economy from the rigid structures of plantation and slavery days has been tocreate finer differences and more complex possibilities for self-identity and self-interest, even though stratification is not everywhere even and continuous.

Education

Status levels and symbols are subjective. The individual tends to perceivediscontinuity where the analyst would assert that gradations exist: thus the aimof social mobility on a personal level may not be to creep up an incline but tocross a bridge or jump a chasm. This can rarely be achieved simply by goodluck or hard work; rather, it involves (re)definition of social identity in the lightof dominant gatekeeping norms. Language plays a major, indeed a principal, rolein embodying and communicating this identity. The school, the primary institu-tion for language socialization and control, is (not coincidentally) also the placewhere employment opportunities, income, and occupational mobility are largelydetermined for life. ‘Education’ in Jamaica is a term with wider application andricher content than it has in the North American cultural context, and it comesloaded with social values. Certainly it denotes an individual accomplishment,measurable in years, grades or exams. In the historical perspective of a post-colonial society emerging into independence, the need for education is alsowidely seen as a challenge to be met, upon which the very validity and survivalof Jamaica’s nationhood depends. As the balance of political power has shiftedfrom white to brown and black, and the country’s socioeconomic makeup haschanged, the relationships between a family’s social status, a child’s access toschooling, and their success in finding post-school employment have becomeimportant matters of private concern and public policy. Education is also thedifferential product of a set of institutions whose function is, in part, to repro-duce the country’s class structure. In all of these senses and more, education isa notion of central importance to the study of Jamaican society. However, thisstudy’s interest in the topic is necessarily relatively narrow: my interest is in theeffect education has on the stratification of Jamaican society and speech.

Education has been the most effective pathway to positions of authority andmiddle-class status in Jamaica over the past fifty years. Even before Emancipa-tion (1838), when many missionaries founded free villages with schools andchurches, Jamaicans have been strongly drawn to education, and not only for thecommonly-cited reasons of self-improvement and -respect. But traditions of local


schooling played into the British dual system of government primary and privatesecondary schools in Jamaica, within which both social class and color effective-ly limited a child’s access to secondary education. Secondary schools wereactually administered by a completely separate governmental body under theBritish (the Schools Commission) from the rest of the system. They were centersnot only of education, narrowly conceived, but of socialization and networkingfor the upper and upper middle classes, a pattern which several administrationstried to break through educational reforms in 1957, 1962 and later.

Woolcock (1983, 1984) and Austin (1984) have noted the persistence ofclass barriers in Jamaica, stressing the role of education in preserving themdespite efforts at reform. While their figures indicate real growth since 1962 inthe possibilities of higher education for working-class children, the majority(urban as well as rural) are still unable to attend a good secondary school.Gordon’s observations on social mobility (1987: 4) apply equally well to thissituation: “[A]longside the expansion of opportunities for personal advancementthrough education and the creation of new positions… gross inequalities ofcondition and opportunity have persisted and may even have become moreextreme.” Standing (1981: 253) similarly observes, “Not only have those fromhigher social background had much better access to schooling, but their accessto early jobs has thereby been greatly increased. And that advantage seems tohave grown in [recent] decades.”

At the same time, the quality of education in the typical secondary schoolhas declined as its clientele expanded, in part because of the troubled economy.In the 1950s and 1960s there rose to power and success a national-service classof private and public-sector managers for whom education was the primarycredential. While this raised public expectations for the reforms mentionedabove, it did nothing to guarantee their success (quite the opposite, Austin andWoolcock might argue; see also Miller 1994). As the rewards of a qualityeducation become more visible, and the demand far exceeds actual availability,“education in itself becomes a prized commodity. In the hands of Jamaica’s[national-] service class and even among its more humble members, it becomesa means of distinguishing themselves from Jamaican working people andjustifying a more prosperous position” (Austin 1984: 20).

In the North American context, the expansion of educational opportunity inthis century has often accompanied and served economic growth. In Jamaica, themuch-heralded but limited extension of higher education has occurred for themost part in an atmosphere of economic scarcity, malaise and even crisis.


Among the meanings that ‘education’ has acquired in Jamaica are a fitness forprosperity and for citizenship in an independent, achievement-oriented society;but the ‘ignorant’ masses have also, Austin argues, been branded culturallyinferior, degenerate, lacking in moral propriety. These views of the elite, whichare close cousin to the ‘Protestant work ethic’, have been spread through thelatter’s influence over powerful institutions — schools, churches, and politicalorganizations — and adopted in large part by subordinate groups, even though itgoes against their own interests to subscribe to them.

This is the nature of hegemony (Gramsci 1971), an ideological situation inwhich inequality is perpetuated with the consent of the oppressed themselves.Working-class and poor Jamaicans (Rastafarians excepted) legitimize an ideologyof education with colonial roots — an ideology which venerates an educationalsystem that serves them badly, a system that denies even the existence of theirnative creole language (and thus any literature or learning expressed in it).Springing directly from this hegemonic ideology of education are the widespreadbeliefs that JC is not a language, that it is a corrupting influence on children’sschooling, and that only standard English is an economically viable means ofcommunication. The education system helps explain Jamaica’s class structure,playing a critical role especially at the juncture of school-leaving by constrainingthe possibilities of entry into the job market. But the influence of education onspeech patterns makes a lasting contribution to the construction of social identityand position, surfacing over and over in the variety of interactional situations thatmake up public life.

Kingston has long been the center of secondary schooling for the island, andmany of the most promising students from rural areas first came to the city at theage of twelve or fourteen to begin school. This is true of Rose, who came in theearly 1920s for nursing training under the British, after passing the third-yearexam and gaining entrance to Kingston Technical High School. Similarly,Walker, 70, left a rural village in the hills of St. Ann for Kingston College,going on to become a dental mechanic, teacher and eventually principal of hisown school. In their day, entering an urban secondary school was the essentialticket to a profession and social advancement (though the ticket price includedhard work and dedication). Many respectable jobs did not require more than aprimary education, as witness Macca, who rose to the rank of police detectivewith six years of formal education, and was not anomalous.

While it is still more difficult for rural children today than their urbancounterparts, every young resident of Veeton who spoke to me was either


attending or planning to attend a local secondary school, and the odds are thatthey will. (See Table 2.1 above.) One effect of this rapid change in the amountof education that is available and expected is to confuse the relationship betweenyears of education, and occupational and social status. Where secondary schoolseemed an important dividing line between the classes until a generation ago,some form of post-secondary education or training has replaced it. Comparisonsacross generational lines are difficult, however: the prospective police detectiveof today is not only expected to have a secondary education but some additionaltraining too. This is not merely a problem for scholars wishing to describe astratified population, as some of the affected groups are in competition with eachother. Youths in their 20s compete with difficulty for skilled or technical jobswith those in the 35–45 age group, who have half their years of schooling butvastly superior work experience.

The connection between speech and time spent in school is also notstraightforward, particularly where upward limits on a speaker’s most standardlect are concerned. One reason for formal education to influence Jamaicans’linguistic patterns is that it potentially represents the earliest and most sustainedface-to-face exposure to a metropolitan standard variety of English outside thehome.16 But besides the increase in amount of time spent in schools (wherestandard written English is nominally the language of instruction), there havebeen changes in the character of schooling itself, which cannot be treated here.

Perhaps more importantly, nearly all secondary teaching and much advancedtraining is now conducted by native speakers of some Jamaican speech variety,and native British English has receded as an immediate target variety, except foran occasional presence in the news media. It is no longer normal for someonewith only a primary education to spend years working directly under thesupervision of native speakers of a foreign metropolitan standard, as was true forRose and Macca. Opportunity for schooling or training abroad is still limited andsuch training remains prestigious, e.g. as with Matty, the photographer, whostudied at an English arts college on a British government grant in the late1950s. The relationship of education to the change in linguistic targets — fromBritish to American English — and the emergence of a new local standardEnglish in Jamaica (“mainly as a result of the spread of education”, says Shields1989: 51), call for deeper investigation.

16. In Chapter 4, I suggest that overt classroom correction may be partly responsible for style-shifting of (KYA) with a particularly salient lexical item.


Rather than construct an elaborate education index, I have relied on the total

Table 2.7:Educational status ranking of Veeton speakers

Rank Speaker Years Type of school and training

1

2345

6

7

8

George(Roxy)MattyOliveRoastaRoseWalkerNoelOpalBiggaMaccaMinaTamasSistaDinah

16(9, cont.)12 +12 +12 +11 +11 +1111(10, cont.)66333

university graduate(on university track)secondary grad. + arts/professionalsecondary grad. + businesssecondary grad. + tech./industrialsecondary grad. + on-the-job (nursing)secondary grad. + on-the-job (teaching)secondary grad.secondary grad.(secondary, one year left)primaryprimaryless than primaryless than primaryless than primary

number of years of schooling, given the still-high correlation of educationalattainment with eventual occupational position (Kuper 1976; Gordon 1987).Certain discontinuities are evident in Table 2.7; among speakers with similarlevels, the type of additional training received has been distinguished accordingto its status in Jamaica. Young speakers (Opal, Bigga) have not yet been able totake advantage of such post-secondary vocational training as they are justentering the labor market. Secondary education, once nearly a guarantee ofsuccess, is now a standard credential for young working-class urbanites, andthose with a hope of entering the middle class through their own efforts knowthey require more.

The social categories considered in this chapter are among those generallyused by quantitative sociolinguists in their approaches to social class and status.Labov (1990: 209) mentions “[O]ccupation, education… income, residence, andmembership in social institutions”, noting that “one may abstract from thesedifferences to the more general notion of a socio-economic hierarchy.” Just sucha move is required, and implied, in this or any investigation of the creolecontinuum model. I have attempted to sketch the complexity of relationships


between the social variables integral to Kingston’s life and language. In reducingthis complexity to a series of scales and indices, information is indeed lost.However, the process of abstraction and reduction applies the strictest test to thecreole continuum model, and allows investigators to compare creole data with thebody of urban dialectological studies.

Accordingly, I have combined the three variables already discussed —

Table 2.8:Overall status ranking of Veeton speakers

Overallrank

Speaker Occupationranking

Educationranking

Residenceranking

Rankscore

1

34

6789

11

1415

GeorgeRoxyRoseWalkerMattyRoastaMaccaOliveNoelTamasOpalMinaSistaBiggaDinah

1(1)23475678

(7)88

(8)9

1(1)5524736867868

112463487486588

3(3)912121416172020

(21)2121

(22)25

occupation, education, and residence — into a single index of social status, givenin Table 2.8.17 Though the three are equally weighted here, it is clear that theoverall ranking best reflects occupation. For each linguistic variable studied inthe chapters to come, results will be shown for individual speakers, and theirlinguistic variation may be compared to both their separate and combined statusrankings. As I argue later, the correlation of social position and linguisticproduction in this simple and direct way does not by any means exclude orreplace a more detailed and elaborate understanding of the social order or theindividual speaker.

17. Rankings based on incomplete information are given in parentheses in the table. Where two rankscores are tied, the higher occupation score is listed first.

C 3

Field Methods and Data Analysis

Creole speakers, no less than others, have a range of diverse types of speech attheir command. The notion of a creole continuum assumes that the collectiverange of Jamaicans may be ordered on a continuous, unidimensional scale ofrelative distance from a standard variety of English. I assume that JC speakershave a vernacular, a variety acquired in youth and reinforced by the speech andnorms of their childhood and adolescent peers. A vernacular can be thought ofas a point on the continuum: it is the type of speech one produces most fluentlyand with the least self-monitoring, with which one has a strong sense of personalidentification. Vernaculars are the main objects of variationist sociolinguisticresearch; and it is to them, rather than a speaker’s entire range, that terms suchas “(upper) mesolectal speaker” refer here.

This speech community survey aims for both breadth and depth. I wishedto obtain a large volume of well-recorded speech from a diverse group of urbanspeakers, sample each speaker’s range of variation, and be sure that mostsamples included vernacular speech. I also wanted to carefully observe the lifeof the community in order to place the 150-plus hours of tape-recorded speechin its larger social context. Though later chapters analyze only a part of thesedata for a subset of the speakers, the experience of the whole guides thisselection and informs my interpretation. This study’s main concern is to examinevariation in the urban mesolect and test it against the creole continuum hypothe-sis. The validity of empirical linguistic analysis, whatever the methods chosen,rests on the nature of the speech considered, and it is just as crucial to considerthe social context of language when collecting speech data as when analyzing orinterpreting it.

A fieldworker’s social identity, ability to speak the language, and relation tomembers of the local community are important influences on their elicitation ofvernacular speech. These factors help one select the community and gainentrance to it, and guide the subsequent course of the fieldwork itself. Every


investigator is a positioned subject (Rosaldo 1990) by virtue of personal charac-teristics, history, and knowledge; one may exploit the strengths, and partiallycompensate for the weaknesses, of one’s position through careful selection ofdata-collection techniques and instruments. Following Labov (1972a, 1984a), Idesigned the latter to minimize the Observer’s Paradox. I relied on sociolinguisticinterviews and group recordings to obtain careful and spontaneous speech, andelicited complementary reading and formal speech styles through tests and otherdevices. The full battery of devices and the language attitudes questionnaire aregiven in Patrick (1992); only those used in the present work are described below,as are those variationist methods of quantitative analysis which play a specialrole in implementing the creole continuum model.

The investigator as near-native speaker

The close, if problematic, relationship between mesolectal JC and metropolitanEnglish makes the investigator’s use of language an important methodologicalissue. Much research on Caribbean creoles is based on data gathered by non-native speakers, or even non-speakers, of the creole studied; often there areobvious racial, ethnic or class differences between scholar and communitymembers. Ethnographers have long recognized both the advantages of theoutsider status automatically granted to such researchers, and the biases thatstatus introduces. In post-colonial language studies, a recurring problem lies inthe powerful positive social evaluations attached to metropolitan speech varieties.These norms and the economic pressures they reflect inevitably create a desire increole speakers to shift in the direction of their non-creole-speaking interlocutors,and thus make the Observer’s Paradox an even more critical concern than usual.

On the other hand, there are many studies in which native creole-speakingresearchers gather and evaluate their own data. Jamaican Creole scholarship hasparticularly profited from empirical work by Bailey (1966a), Cassidy (1961;Cassidy and LePage 1967), Christie (1986), Lalla and D’Costa (1990), Pollard(1994) and others. Though many theoretical linguists venerate the native speaker,these JC speaker-linguists have not fallen prey to the common failing of relyingsolely on one’s native intuitions, which would be especially perilous given theunusually large amount of variation thought to characterize the creole continuum.

Simple membership in the local speech community, however, does noteliminate all problems of data-collection. Being a positioned subject means that

FIELD METHODS AND DATA ANALYSIS 67

one acts always within a set of social relations; the insider is no more neutral orobjective than the outsider, but rather has different knowledge and experiences,ambitions and biases. Jamaican society is uncommonly class-conscious, andrespect for formal education is a striking and characteristic attitude; university-trained scholars occupy a clear and high position in the status hierarchy. Whereone’s habitual speech variety is closely aligned with high local social status, itmay not be easy to accommodate to the speech of lower-status interlocutorswithout giving offense; when subjects are limited to speakers of similarly highstatus, as in recent studies of middle-class Kingstonians by Miller (1987) andIrvine (1988), such problems may be alleviated.

This study differs from all of the above: my status as investigator is ananomalous one. I can conservatively be described as a white, foreign, near-nativespeaker of Jamaican Creole. Born to middle-class American parents in NewYork, I first visited Jamaica at age 3 and moved there permanently at age 5, inthe first grade. From 1965 to 1974, all of my education through 9th grade (3rdform) was in Jamaican schools. I soon became a fluent speaker of JC, using itnot only with my Jamaican peers and with adults in general, but also with mybrothers, on a daily basis. American English was reserved for my parents andsome other American and foreign adults. The first six years of my socializationinto JC were in rural and small-town environments in St. Mary and St. Ann,followed by three years away from my parents in Kingston — boarding at schooland in Jamaican homes from ages 11–13. In 1974, when I was 14, my familyreturned to the USA.

The experience of boarding in Kingston bears some resemblance, sociolin-guistically, to a common pattern wherein Jamaican children are raised in thecountry and sent to town in the pre-teen or adolescent years, becoming exposedto urban slang and values at a crucial stage of the identity-formation process. Inother respects I differed noticeably. Since I spoke a high-prestige varietynatively at home with my parents, I failed to acquire the acrolect, standardJamaican, or any ‘high’ variety of Jamaican as a child. I am less comfortablewith it even today, preferring to switch between my two vernaculars: a whitenortheastern variety of Standard American English, and mid-mesolectal JC.

Certain JC speech events do not come easily to me. Some are generallylearned early in life from Jamaican family members: folkloric speech events suchas “riggle me dis”, i.e. riddling; ring games (Jekyll 1907); telling “Anansi story”,West African-derived animal tales (Tanna 1984); or quoting proverb andscripture. Others are usually mastered in later adolescence or adulthood, e.g.


“brawlin talk”, “toastin”, telling personal narratives, and the more sustained forms of“kas-kas”, i.e. fluent quarrelling including cursing. Many Jamaicans too are notproficient at all these verbal activities, particularly urban residents of the middleand upper strata, where loss of such social skills is rationalized as the learningof good manners or the discarding of superstitious nonsense. I have cautiouslycharacterized myself as a near-native speaker, and used my linguistic knowledgeand intuitions of JC merely as a guide, not as the premises of any argument.

That said, my childhood exposed me to a considerable amount of Jamaica’srich folk and popular history and culture. This proved essential to my fieldwork.Familiarity with foodways, popular songs, games and sports, local geography,political events, and many other facets of daily life I had absorbed in the late1960s and 1970s helped over and over again to validate me as a participant inKingston life, reinforcing and being reinforced in turn by my language ability.During the Veeton study, I was often taken for a Jamaican on the telephone, andpeople were sometimes visibly surprised when we first spoke in person. Incontrast, at first sight no-one took me for a Jamaican, or expected me to speakJC. People often observed that I did not speak the Patwa like a “white Jamaican”— a small but prominent minority of Jamaicans (less than 1% of the population)with predominantly European ancestry, generally acrolectal speech, and thehighest social status — thus ruling out one way they might have reconciled myanomalous speech and identity.

In a typical first encounter with someone in Veeton, I would introducemyself by name and briefly describe the project, using colloquial, mesolectal JCfrom the first words. Veeton residents often appeared to be mildly puzzled orcurious, and I learned to leave room for their questions about my own identity,which focused on birthplace, parentage and nationality. I clearly identified myselfas the U.S.-born child of American parents, brought up in the island. As there isa powerful link between Jamaican ethnicity and membership in the JC speechcommunity, this explanation of personal history did not always seem sufficientwarrant for my speech. Many people nevertheless recognized or approved theconnection with such positive comments as, “But you sound Jamaican, for true!”,while some took pleasure in politely exhibiting me to family or neighbors as anobject of wonder.

The sheer anomaly of a white foreigner speaking the Patwa comfortably,along with my curious occupation as a student of Kingston life and language,helped in initiating encounters. My appearance and objective status marked meas an outsider, and allowed me to ask “obvious” questions, while I drew on my


personal experience, cultural knowledge and colloquial parlance to press theclaims of an insider when that seemed advantageous. Ratification of these roles,of course, lay with my interlocutors as well; they alternately tolerated myignorance and presumption, and set me straight when needed.

It was my practice to speak vernacular JC with everyone in the speechcommunity at all times, and to avoid Standard American or other metropolitanEnglish varieties. A few exceptions must be noted. On several occasions, aformal Jamaican variety was clearly called for, e.g. when addressing a VeetonYouth Club meeting as an invited speaker, or introducing myself to respectedolder community members and visitors (a retired nurse, teacher, or policeinspector). Acrolectal JC was required also for the administration of the formallanguage interview and tests, in which I wished to elicit the most formal speechstyle the speaker was capable of. These formal elicitations took place in the finalsix weeks of fieldwork, after all interviews had been recorded. In these situa-tions, I approximated a cultivated JC phonology (allowing, e.g., for several lowvowels), and returned to the less prestigious level of speech which comes morenaturally to me as soon as I could without offending propriety.

As a consequence of my insistence on using mesolectal JC in interviews, Isometimes found myself speaking a less standard variety than my interlocutors.Indeed, in the English-to-Creole translation task (see below), it was evident thatsome speakers could not or would not produce basilectal forms on request,though they recognized and agreed to those forms I eventually prompted themwith. If such incidents caused any feelings of discomfort, they appeared to passquickly. To most interviewees, I believe that I remained an anomaly — a socialoutsider who could talk like an insider.

Selecting the community

This project was initially planned as a sociolinguistic neighborhood survey of thekind carried out by William Labov and associates in Philadelphia, according tothe methods developed there over the past 20 years (Labov 1984a; Baugh 1993).Since the aim was to sample a large cross-section of urban speech within asingle neighborhood, a mixed-class neighborhood with a wide social range wasdesired. This proved to be impossible within Kingston parish, where there is nolonger a residential area including significant numbers of the middle-class. Suchmixed areas exist in the western half of the Kingston Metro Area, in close


proximity to major shopping and transportation hubs (Cross Roads and Half WayTree) or light industry centers (Hagley Park Road), which are causing residentialdepopulation and commercial invasion; furthermore, they are of fairly newconstruction and/or relatively distant from the old center. It is in East Kingstonthat one finds nearby older suburbs, once solidly middle-class, which are stilldefinitely residential in nature but transitional in terms of their social classmakeup. Veeton is such a neighborhood, according to the statistical datareviewed in the last chapter.

Subjective factors and personal experience also played an important role inselection. After I narrowed down a half-dozen candidate neighborhoods throughlibrary work, I toured them by bicycle. This was my primary mode of fieldtransportation, combining an excellent close view, considerable carrying capacity,and the speed and independence necessary to personal safety. Compared to thecompeting sites, Veeton is said by its residents and police to be relatively crime-free, and I found this to be true. As in the USA, however, violence is prevalentin Jamaican society, and Kingston sees its most intense expression. Whiteforeigners are easily noticed and generally perceived to be wealthy — quitecorrectly, in comparison to many Jamaicans. Veeton was the most comfortableof the districts considered, in my subjective evaluation of risk and danger (Merry1981 contrasts the two). This view was later echoed by a number of speakerswho claimed to feel safer on its streets during daylight hours than in some of theneighboring areas they had once lived in or frequented.

Serendipity also played a part. Many people I came in contact with duringthe first two months of the research, before site selection was finalized, hadcontacts or family in Veeton. They were important in connecting me with earlyinterviewees, who recommended me to others; some continued to assist andmake me welcome throughout the year. These first contacts came from middle-class Kingstonians — teachers, librarians, artists, nurses, white-collar workers,and members of the university community had ties that provided access toVeeton, usually from the upper end of its social strata. Having satisfied myconcerns about the neighborhood’s residential stability, age, centrality, social classmakeup and variety, safety and accessibility, I selected Veeton for intensive study.

Entering the community: Elderly residents

The first residents I was referred to were all elderly. In keeping with the former


character of Veeton as a respectable, even genteel suburb, these men and womenwere largely longtime homeowners residing in quiet side streets in East and WestVeeton and The Gardens — above those less prestigious neighborhoods closer todowntown, yet below the recent and uniformly middle-class developments to thenorth in Elysian Fields (see Map 6 above).

My first contacts were made via telephone by a respected elderly friend,who personally guaranteed me; she even accompanied me to the first interviewwith a retired school principal (Walker). As was typical with older residents, ourinterview took place on his verandah, lasted an hour and a half, consisted ofreminiscences and reflections on the current and former state of the neighbor-hood plus an informal life-history, and concluded with the promise of follow-upvisits and the nomination of other likely candidates for interviews. At the end,the interviewee signed a release form, retaining a copy.

Several factors attest that these interviews fell under the local category ofsemi-formal visiting, such as might take place on a Sunday after church.Interviewees were well and carefully-dressed, and settled on their verandah awaitingmy arrival. Refreshments were served with due ceremony. Mutual acquaintanceswere briefly discussed, as were the speakers’ extended family (reciprocalquestions were asked of the fieldworker where possible). Young children andhousehold assistants who appeared were treated as interruptions by the interview-ees, while adult relatives and immediate neighbors were decorously introduced.

On these first visits to elderly speakers, I stayed at the house- or garden-gate until verbally acknowledged, and was rarely invited inside the house. In onenotable exception a violent rainstorm caught me on my way, and drenched meutterly; the elderly widow I interviewed kindly insisted on providing me withtowels, serving hot tea inside, and vigorously sprinkling white rum onto my scalpto prevent a cold. Otherwise, private space was not breached. On later visitssome retained this degree of formality, while others made me welcome to comethrough the gate and yard and call for them around back. Some showed me theirhouses, photographs, or other mementoes; carried on telephone calls or informalconversations with neighbors, children and other family members, workers orvisitors in my presence (occasionally requesting that the tape recorder be turnedoff); discussed their extended families at length, updating me on the latestdevelopments or reading from recent letters; and sent me off with mangoes fromtheir trees, or items to carry to relatives in the USA on my return trips.

It proved easy to obtain recommendations (and sometimes direct introduc-tions) from these elderly residents to others, nor was it difficult to expand the


social class range. However, it was harder to contact younger people through theolder speakers’ social networks, and a different approach was required. Thenatural route, through their children and younger relatives, was often notavailable as many of these had moved out of the neighborhood.

Expanding networks: The Youth Club and the ‘ghetto’

The speech of adolescents and young adults is important to study for severalreasons. Sociolinguists generally hold that the speech found in young people’sself-selected peer-groups is rich in vernacular features and in both vigorous andincipient linguistic changes (Labov 1972a, 1994; Cheshire 1982; Milroy 1987;Chambers 1995). In creole studies, urban speech and the mesolect have beenassociated with adolescents and young adults, while the basilect and rural speechare commonly sought among children or elderly and rural speakers. Data fromthis project were also intended to be comparable with studies of U.S. AfricanAmerican Vernacular English (e.g. Labov et al. 1968; Fasold 1972; Baugh 1983),as well as with research on the speech of British children of West Indian parents(Sutcliffe 1982, 1994; Hewitt 1985; Edwards 1986; Rampton 1995), both ofwhich rely heavily on a young, urban population.

I wanted to record teens and young adults as a participant-observer, in a rolethat allowed me to associate with them frequently over a period of months.Serendipitously, a retired police detective (Macca), who in several interviewsduring the first month of fieldwork recounted tales of past exploits in vividdetail, urged that I introduce myself to the sergeant at the local station so that thepolice would be aware of my activities. (White foreigners were rumored to visitnearby ghetto backstreets in connection with the illegal drug trade.) During myvisit I asked what the police considered the most dangerous parts of the neigh-borhood, and duly noted the response. One officer invited me to attend andaddress the weekly meeting of the Veeton Police Youth Club (VPYC), a groupof about 50 boys and girls and young adults which was organizationally dominat-ed by male members in their 20s (due to its merger with a local cricket club).

I soon met dozens of VPYC members and their families, and became afixture around the police station. The latter conveniently contained not just theonly working payphone for several blocks but also a small snack and rum shop,where officers and local residents drank together. I often talked over a beer withthe off-duty policemen, recording a few interviews and group sessions this way,


and met a number of older men from the neighborhood. Some local men in theirthirties and older drank rum here. Other study participants were disinclined tosocialize on the premises, in some cases due to past encounters with the policeor because their occupations included illegal activities.

I attended the Thursday night VPYC meeting nearly every week and otherclub activities as well, eventually becoming a looked-for, dues-paying regular atcricket matches and bus trips, parties, video and talent nights. I also sat in on andrecorded their small-group executive and committee meetings, as well as a dozengeneral meetings where attendance numbered from 15 to 40. I participated in thelatter and spoke up, initially as an outsider but later as a regular member whosecontribution might be approved, shouted down, joked about or ignored. Thesemeetings were conducted in an open-air forum with a corrugated-zinc roof, justan arm’s length from the open door of the rumshop. They followed parliamenta-ry procedure, and certain aspects provoked a studiously formal style of speechand demeanor: the prayer and invocation, reports of old and new business,motions proposed and seconded. Other interactions, however, ran the gamut fromspirited debate and argument to personal insults and an occasional heatedshouting match, covering quite a range of speech styles in all. Merriment ordispute from the adjoining rumshop, and noise from the police station or catcallsfrom the jail cells (the cell-block adjoined the bar) sometimes disrupted theintended formal mood.

The Police Youth Club proved the single richest source of subjects in thisstudy. I eventually recorded interviews, group sessions, informal discussions, andformal language tests with over two dozen young working-class membersbetween the ages of 13 and 34, their relatives, and half a dozen policemen. TheClub was also my key to a new area of Veeton. After a few weeks it dawned onme where the members, whom I met at the sergeant’s suggestion, lived —almost exclusively in the same areas that he had strongly warned me off of,suggesting they were dangerous and crime-ridden — namely Gullyside, themarginal ghetto strip.

This apparent contradiction — steering me towards a group of people butaway from their neighborhood — may be understood in the light of the Club’smission to provide alternative activities and foster mutual respect between thepolice and those local young people who were at greatest risk of undergoing andcommitting violence. In fact, despite Gullyside’s difficult living conditions,serious unemployment and under-employment, and low rate of residents with asecondary education, practically all members of VPYC whom I was able to


interview and observe closely were progressing towards a high-school educationor held down regular jobs. Of those studied below, Roasta was married, hadrecently moved out of the area and had a good job as a skilled toolmaker, whileOpal had recently finished secondary school and was looking for secretarialwork, and Bigga had a year of school left.

Evidence suggests that the Youth Club is seen as an avenue of upwardsocial mobility by the young working- and lower-class ghetto residents whoconstitute the tremendous majority of its members. Though nearly all memberscome from Veeton’s lowest social strata and from Gullyside — technicallywithin the neighborhood, but treated by more comfortable residents as marginal— the Club bears the name of Veeton, identifying with this recently genteelmiddle-class suburb. Moreover, the police force itself is traditionally an avenueof social mobility in Jamaica (as it was for Macca), and the station is located ina former private house in the most prestigious of the old sections, The Gardens.

Middle-class young people from other areas of Veeton decline to participatein VPYC. Mina, an elderly rural woman whose daughter married a policeinspector and lives in West Veeton, has three grandchildren who prefer anotherclub based at a nearby military depot. Noel, who lives across the street from thepolice station in The Gardens, shows no interest in Club activities; Roxy andGeorge Lincoln, children of a dentist and a schoolteacher up in Elysian Fields,claim not to know of its existence. Even some successful Gullyside residentsscorned it: Olive’s boyfriend, Rajah, was a prominent member, but she openlydeclared that she preferred to cultivate different friends, though she had known andassociated with several Club officers and leading members since elementary school.

These VPYC members are well-grounded in the vernacular of Gullyside andare certainly not “lames” in Labov’s sense (1972b; in the Harlem study, isolatedblack youth alienated from the vernacular culture of their peers). They also fairlyrepresent the aspirations of its young people to upward mobility in this generation,and the demographic changes sweeping through Veeton and lower Kingston overrecent decades. Their very membership in the Youth Club — where self-consciouslyparliamentary procedures and service orientation project an image at war with themembers’ unabashed enjoyment of the pleasures of popular “slack” (i.e. franklysexual) dance-hall music and dance parties — vividly expresses the class-culturalconflict so evident in urban Jamaica today, and so closely reflected in speech.

For these reasons, I concentrated much time and interest upon the membersof the Veeton Police Youth Club, whom I found to be a friendly, talented, honestand generous group of young people. My relations with them contrasted greatly


with the formal politeness initially extended to me by most older residents whomI approached directly. This was not just a function of social class. I experiencedrelatively easy interaction with young people higher in the social scale than mostVPYC members, such as Mina’s grand-daughters and the Lincoln family (Georgeand Roxy). At my first Youth Club meeting, several members aggressivelyquestioned my intentions, motives, and background; however, no objections wereraised to my attendance. Within a month I was conducting interviews with Clubmembers and other Gullyside contacts which were quite informal in mood. Theygenerally took place inside people’s homes, and though I was made comfortable— a chair offered, a drink brought — I was not restricted to the tidiest front areas.

These homes were smaller, sometimes a single shared room (e.g. Olive andDinah; recall Table 2.2). Family and friends wandered in and out casually afterintroductions, and normal activities continued around me. Meals were cooked,television watched, homework done; children played, and relatives argued. Onmy first several visits to Gullyside I carefully arranged to be met by friends andaccompanied from the police station, claiming truthfully not to know the alleys(many of which have only unofficial names, or are named after street numbersas in “Hundreds Lane”). After a few weeks, however, I found myself welcometo drop by homes unannounced, invited for meals or to watch videos, andexpected to attend sports events.

I made a practice of calling for purely social reasons and hanging out, afterinterviews and when they were not planned. Though I did not try to makerecordings on every visit, I always carried recording equipment and extra tape,and recorded a number of unplanned sessions. An argument was taped from therear seat of a moving car, and another in the “bleachers” (the skeleton of aburned-out bus, parked alongside a field) during a cricket match. Children of onelarge family (Opal and her younger siblings) and their young neighbors per-formed impromptu skits, folk-tales, folk-songs and original songs for me. A bullsession of West Indian cricket lore, featuring senior members of the Club cricketteam, took place in a parking lot one evening.

People were aware that I was always liable to record these sessions, as theircomments and jokes often indicated, though not all remembered it at everymoment of a group interaction. In this way, I was allowed to witness manyunselfconscious and even emotional incidents, including sustained stretches ofhigh irritation, merriment, competitive boastfulness, excitement, and anger ontape. Although such casual speech is not available and comparable for allmembers of the sample, there is enough to compare with the various other


speech styles systematically elicited from everyone. Much of it is more differentfrom metropolitan varieties of English than previous texts of Jamaican speechpublished in the literature.

The sample and the sub-sample

In all, recordings were made of some 60 Veeton residents, singly and in smallgroups. A full sociolinguistic interview was obtained, and an hour’s worth ofspeech recorded, for most. In addition, 39 residents completed a languagemodule: a language attitude questionnaire plus an array of word lists, readingpassages, and language tests. Interviews always took place first, and generally atleast two or three were recorded — in some cases as many as seven. In all butone case, the language module was given in a separate and final recordingsession, since it required one to two hours. These language modules, whichdeliberately focused participants on aspects of their speech behavior and linguisticnorms, always took place after the final recordings of spontaneous and casual speech.

As suggested above, the two groups best represented in the sample areadults over 65 years of age, on the one hand, and working-class teens and youngadults from the Veeton Police Youth Club (nearly all residents of Gullyside).However, I sought a judgment sample balanced in age, sex, and social class, agoal that was largely met, with the following provisos:

• 16 years is the lower limit for balanced distribution, while elderly speakersare evenly matched into their 80s;

• Relatively few men and women between the ages of 45 and 65 are included(four of each sex); and

• The most deeply vernacular group sessions and unplanned recordings madeheavily favor young males.

Of the 39 speakers for whom complete data, including tests, exists, this volumetreats 15. Chapter 4, analyzing the sociolinguistic variable (KYA), examines datafor 18 hours of speech from 14 speakers, while the other chapters analyze 15hours of data for 10 speakers. That places the study closer in scale to suchsociolinguistic projects as Rickford’s study of Guyanese Creole in Cane Walk(1979 and 1987a, with 24 speakers) and Macaulay’s “microsociolinguistic” studyof the Scots dialect of Ayr (1991, 12 speakers) than to Edwards’s survey of


British Black English in Dudley (1986, 45 speakers), or Milroy’s Belfast Englishstudy (1980, 46 speakers).1

The present sample falls closer to typical variationist aims (intense scrutinyof a small number of speakers producing many tokens each) than to the goal ofsociolinguistic surveys (data collection from many speakers who may be classedtogether under a handful of social categories). The number of speakers studied,practically speaking, was balanced against the amount of data needed for eachspeaker; a relatively frequent variable such as (TD) or past-marked verbs mayoccur hundreds of times in an hour’s speech, while a rarer one such as (KYA)happens only about 50 times or less.

The speakers here do not constitute a random sample of Veeton’s populationor of Kingston’s. They were chosen in a judgment sample to balance theparameters of age, sex, and social class. The sample also needed to cover a rangeof representative social positions which ethnographic work showed may beimportant in the local dynamics of class conflict and social mobility. It is not myclaim that these findings may be extrapolated to hold for large populations.Rather, this study is designed first to elucidate the inherent linguistic variationpresent in the urban Jamaican mesolect (a methodologically prior requirement);and second, to test the creole continuum model. The latter will be accomplishedby examining the reflections of large-scale social phenomena in a varied butcoherent local community, and then correlating these social variables with thelinguistic behavior of individual speakers.

Data collection techniques and instruments: The sociolinguistic interview

Taped data were collected primarily by means of sociolinguistic interviewmethods over an eight-month period, and secondarily through language tests(based on preliminary analysis of materials already gathered) administered in thelast two months of fieldwork. I will describe the parts of the sociolinguisticinterview, and the various tests and tasks of the language module which arereported below (for other materials, see Patrick 1992).

1. In comparable studies of specific sociolinguistic variables, Labov et al. (1968) present (TD) datafrom 11 AAVE speakers, and Tagliamonte and Poplack (1988) discuss data from 10 elderly speakersof Samaná English.


The sociolinguistic interview has dual, and perhaps conflicting, aims. On theone hand the interviewer wishes to obtain a large volume of speech from aspeaker, produced in as unself-conscious a manner as possible, with the ideal ofapproximating closely a style of conversation like that which the intervieweemight engage in with her friends. To encourage this, steps are taken to reducethe authoritative stance of the fieldworker, while the speaker is encouraged toselect and initiate her own topics. The borders of the interviewquaspeech eventare allowed to become fluid; the fieldworker exploits chance interruptions and,whenever appropriate, acts in other, more solidary roles.

On the other hand, the interviewer also sincerely wishes to obtain specificinformation from the speaker, and further to obtain both comparable informationof certain types and comparable speech from every speaker in a systematic way.One develops standard questions, phrased as colloquially and naturally aspossible, and organizes them thematically into interview modules (Labov 1984a).However, the order of questioning is not fixed: modules are fitted into the flowof conversation in a way that ideally reflects local (or, on re-interviews, evenpersonal) patterns of topic-shifting. The interviewer refines both the phrasing andpresuppositions of the questions as interviewing proceeds. In fact, “questions” isoften a misnomer: sentences that need not be finished by the interviewer,statements that must be reacted to, or phrases and back-channel comments thatdo not interrupt the flow of the speaker are preferred. Within a module, theinterviewer may progress from making simple requests to issuing more complex,yet brief, utterances that presuppose knowledge local speakers take for granted.

Later users of the sociolinguistic interview methods pioneered by Labov forNew York City (1966, 1972a) and Philadelphia (1984a) have usefully evaluatedthem. Baugh (1993) historically contextualizes them in a survey of dialectologytechniques; Milroy (1987) and Briggs (1986) explore their limitations in reveal-ing ways. Others have broadly attacked them as a universal prescription (Wolf-son 1976), holding up individual failed interviews as counter-examples to theapproach. No field method comes with a guarantee against bad luck, insensitiveapplication, or unwise assumptions. In adapting methods used by others one mustproceed ethnographically, incorporating discoveries about local communityvalues, background knowledge, and ways of speaking into a procedure thatevolves constantly.

Among the adjustments made in this study, the most important was simplycomposing module elements in Jamaican Creole. Modules based on patternsuseful in the U.S. were rethought and refashioned to incorporate local particulars


(e.g. the subjects of marriage and family, race and color, school and fighting).Others, newly developed in JC, focused on topics of current relevance: land-lord/tenant relations, rural connections and urban immigration, and the occur-rence and aftermath of Hurricane Gilbert. This historic storm struck the island in1988, six months before fieldwork began, visiting tremendous damage uponhousing and infrastructure; though remarkably few people died, most people hadGilbert stories to tell.

I asked the famous “danger of death” question (Labov 1966), for example,either in the Gilbert module or during accounts of the 1980 national elections.That campaign, uniquely in Jamaican history, saw great intimidation and violenceby gangs connected to, funded and armed by the major political parties, resultingin an estimated 750 killings (Manley 1982:viii). East Kingston suffered heavilyduring this time and — in the words of one speaker, who himself participated inarmed intimidation groups — residents of Gullyside were “at war” with peoplefrom other nearby ghetto areas (Eyre 1984; Gunst 1995). The resulting violencewas still vivid in the memories of many, particularly those who witnessedincidents, worked as party hands, were threatened themselves, or lost friends orfamily members. In this context the “danger of death” question was entirelynatural, and little if any prompting was needed.

The language attitude questionnaire and tests

After the sociolinguistic interviews and all other informal data collection, Iadministered the much more formal and standardized language attitude question-naire. Unlike all previous interviews, I read the questionnaire off of a sheet ofpaper, taping the speaker’s answers and noting them down on a form. I carefullyused acrolectal Jamaican English, and either conducted the interview one-on-one,or at least discouraged participation by others. The combined effect of thesetechniques was to elicit the speakers’ most formal, acrolectal speech styles.

This was followed by a battery of tests consisting of nine items, which tookabout 45 minutes to complete. The several purposes included: to elicit the mostStandard English-like speech of which the interviewee was capable, and likewisetheir most basilectal JC, using a set of predetermined variables; to gather word-list and reading-passage data in order to construct a continuum of speech-styles;and to elicit interviewee evaluative reactions to taped data, both “live” extracts(from actual interviews conducted in the community) and carefully constructed


passages (read by trained actresses). The tests were designed to elicit carefulproduction of the variable in question, in a situation in which the social value ofspeech was both implicitly and explicitly emphasized, and also to provokeevaluation of the variable in terms which would be intersubjective and related tosocioeconomic status.

Speakers read three brief written passages out loud: one control, containingnone of the variables under active investigation, one focused on the (H) vari-ables, and one highlighting the (KYA) variable.2 Following this they read aseries of word-lists featuring vowel variables, plus a subjective-reaction test anda matched-guise test using recorded stimuli. In the midst of these they performedtwo translation tasks, results of which are featured later in discussions of (TD)and past-marking.

These devices follow the example of Rickford (1979), whose use ofCreole/English translation tasks first demonstrated that the limits of a creolespeaker’s range are often much broader than they display in their informalspeech. Veeton speakers first listened to six ordered sentences, which togetherconstituted a short narrative. The sentences contained instances of past, progres-sive, and plural constructions. They were performed in JC by a Jamaican actresswho was born and raised a rural vernacular speaker. While one tape-recorderrecorded the proceedings, another played each sentence twice, and the interview-ee orally translated it into their version of “Proper English” as requested. Afterthis “Creole-to-English” test came an “English-to-Creole” test reversing theparadigm, with five sentences of Standard English for them to translate into JC.These were spoken by a different actress, also rural-born and natively a basi-lectal speaker, who performed the narrative in the most prestigious variety in herconsiderable range. I gave the context of a rural community, and requestedinterviewees to “take this and say it in the real Patwa for me.”

Quantitative analysis techniques

Accurate and detailed description of linguistic variation on the speech communitylevel requires quantitative analytical methods. These techniques are particularlyuseful in complex urban communities such as New York City (Labov 1966),

2. Initial /h-/ insertion and deletion are briefly mentioned in Chapter 4; see also Patrick (1997).


Panama City (Cedergren 1972), Rio de Janeiro (Guy 1981), Sydney (Horvath1985), Tokyo (Hibiya 1988), Cairo (Haeri 1991), Los Angeles (Santa Ana 1991),or Kingston. The very definition of the creole mesolect, in which variation andvariability play a basic role, requires careful attention to the problem of repre-senting relations of linguistic co-occurrence which are characteristically noteither/or but less/more.

Of the linguistic phenomena examined here, phono-lexical variables like(KYA) are difficult to quantify (Milroy 1987); below I give a simple percentageanalysis of distribution by historical word-class. (TD)-absence has been exten-sively studied before with the multivariate analysis tool known as Varbrul,beginning with Labov (1975a). Indeed, the variable was partly selected becauseof the wealth of previous investigations in varieties of American English, as wellas the qualitative study of cluster simplification in JC by Akers (1981a). Past-marking of preterite verbs has been much discussed in the creole literature insimple quantitative analyses using percentages (Bickerton 1975; Rickford 1986d;Tagliamonte and Poplack 1988). The current treatment begins that way andproceeds to a multivariate analysis. The Varbrul program (so named because itwas originally used to model linguistic phenomena described with variable rules)plays a crucial role in distinguishing the effects of intersecting rules, and is alsoused to examine the distribution of free pre-verbal past-marking elements.

Natural speech is unsuited to several common statistical analysis techniquesbecause of its typically uneven distribution. The Varbrul program is a type ofmultivariate analysis well-adapted to the study of certain empirical linguistic-choice data (Rousseau and Sankoff 1978; Sankoff1987). Varbrul uses themethod of maximum likelihood to estimate probabilities of rule application fora variable linguistic rule, given the rule frequencies that occur in a corpus ofperformance data (Cedergren and Sankoff 1974; Guy 1993). The version adoptedbelow incorporates successive refinements on the part of variationist linguists inhandling the problem of estimating the effects of various social and linguisticfactors on speaker performance.3 Details of the procedure and its application toparticular variables are discussed in many works (e.g. Sankoff 1978; Guy 1980;Sankoffand Rousseau 1989; Kroch 1989).

It has been understood since the earliest use of variable-rule analyses that,

3. I used Susan Pintzuk’s implementation of David Sankoff’s Varbrul-2S package for the Unixenvironment (adapted by Pintzuk to handle larger-than-usual data-sets), which includes the TVARBthree-variant tool used in the past-marking analysis.


though the statistical model may treat all constraining factors identically,linguistic and extra-linguistic (including social) influences differ in kind andeffect (Labov 1969; Wolfram 1991). The variationist paradigm retains itsstructuralist roots to the extent that it seeks first to account for variation throughsystem-internal, linguistic explanations as far as possible, before turning tosystem-external elements such as the social characteristics of speakers.

This study follows in that tradition — not in order to downplay the role ofthe social, which is both considerable and undeniable in creole societies, but asa conservative theoretical move to avoid exaggerating the explanatory power ofthose elements of which sociolinguistic theory has the least satisfactory accounts.Each chapter attends first to linguistic, and only secondarily to social, consider-ations in accounting for the variation it describes. To use Varbrul appropriately,one must cleanly distinguish each environment and element from the others, andsatisfy the analytical assumption that they are mutually independent. But it isfrequently the case (as earlier discussions of education, occupation and socialstatus made clear) that social factors are not independent of each other. Thus Ishall refine the quantitative linguistic analysis first before introducing socialfactors. Further details of Varbrul are explained as the need arises.

C 4

Phonolexical Variation

Palatal Glides

The creole continuum hypothesis rejects, for Jamaica’s linguistic situation, suchdiscrete-varieties models as diglossia (Ferguson 1959), standard-plus-dialects(Fasold 1984), and a version of the latter that we might call standard-plus-creole— each of which postulates sharp structural contrasts between high- and low-valued varieties. At the level of individual features of language, however, choicesmust often be discrete — one selects this option or that, employs an element orleaves it off. Such choices are assigned social interpretations, and if Rickford’s(1987a) continuum proposal is correct, a single creole-to-standard sociolinguisticdimension is capable of ordering and constraining speakers’ choices.

This chapter considers (KYA), a pronunciation feature commonly foundthroughout the Jamaican language spectrum, from top to bottom. For centuriesobservers have noted (KYA) as a distinguishing mark of both Jamaican and othercolonial varieties. Though ubiquitous in JC, it is optional; though not stigmatized,neither is it recognized as a standard feature in the external varieties of Englishthat most influence Jamaican speech.

In a variationist approach, one first establishes that variation occurs and theninvestigates the linguistic and social factors that constrain the choices speakersmake. Accordingly, I will investigate whether distinct norms of use exist withinthe mesolect, explore the linguistic context that influences variation of (KYA),and search for sociolinguistic dimensions which order the feature’s distribution.In the process, I outline its historical development and consider whether it iscurrently undergoing linguistic change.

For Veeton speakers, the distribution of (KYA) is governed by two patterns:different members of the speech community use either a lexical or a phonologi-cal one. The resulting tension within the grammar creates a theater where socialfactors come into play and speakers exploit the possibilities of variation. Thusthe


issues of linguistic constraints within the mesolect and social pressures involvedin the creole continuum, including transition between lects, arise with (KYA).

Description of the variable

Palatal glides variably appear after initial fronted /k-/ and /g-/ and before lowvowels /a/ and /aa/ in Jamaican Creole.1 However, three different processes arecommonly called palatalization: tongue-raising, tongue-fronting, and spirantiza-tion (Bhat 1978: 50). Most creole cases noted involve spirantization and/orraising of apicals (see Turner 1949: 24–7, 242 on Gullah; Holm 1988: 130–5,1993 on JC, Sao Tomense, Papiamentu, and French creoles; Alleyne 1980: 56–9on Saramaccan, Sranan, and Ndjuka; and Rickford 1993); by contrast (KYA)involves fronting of velars, plus the glides where lowering occurs before /a/.Bhat’s three processes may each have distinct histories, calling into questiongeneralizations about creole structures and origins that assume common featuresdue to the label ‘palatalization.’

The initial stop in (KYA) words tends to have a palatal point of articulation:[c] rather than [k], and [K] rather than [g]. Such stops also occur in the absenceof the palatal glide [j].2 Harris (1987: 275) argues that /a/ is first retracted incertain environments, and the tongue excursion from front consonant to non-frontvowel produces glides. Though historically the fronted stop triggers the glide, forthe JC sociolinguistic variable (KYA) it is the glide that is most salient. Whenboth elements of the stop/glide complex occur before a low vowel (e.g. when theword car is pronounced [cjaa], rather than [caa] or [kaa]), it qualifies as aninstance of the variable (KYA) — regardless of voicing. That is, /kya(a)/ incarand /gya(a)/ ingardenare here treated as a unified phenomenon.

For the glide to occur the syllable must receive primary lexical stress. Stressis not well understood in JC and other Caribbean creoles. Several authors suggestfundamental differences between JC and English dialects (Wells 1973: 21–22,DJE: xliv, Sutcliffe 1982: 110ff, Veatch 1991), including syllable-timing and

1. Vowel length is distinctive in JC. Palatal glides occur before high and mid front vowels as inmany varieties of English. This common type of palatalization does not operate under the sameconstraints as palatalization before low vowels, and will not be considered here.

2. As the unvoiced variants [k], [c] are subphonemic, /k/ may refer to either; similarly for the voicedvariants and /g/. However, /y/ below denotes positive presence of the glide [j].

PHONOLEXICAL VARIATION 85

remnants of an African tonal system in JC (Berry 1972; Carter 1993; Devonish1989; Lalla and D’Costa 1990; Sutcliffe 1994). Adjacent syllables in a wordsometimes appear to be evenly stressed or undergo stress-shift (Wells 1982: 573),e.g., in the place-nameNewCastle, which occurs in my data in the speech of oneinformant (Matty) showing palatalization.3 A clear counterexample to the stressrule, however, would find palatalization occurring in a syllable that is clearlysecondary to another syllable, which definitely has main stress. There are nosuch cases in my data.

Other limiting conditions are as follows. Palatalization was not found inwords of more than three syllables (e.g.,*reinCarnate, which otherwise might bepalatalized).Garageoccurs once and contains a palatal glide, but it is initiallystressed (rhyming withcarriage). An opposite case, proving the rule, ismeChan-ic. One speaker (Noel) gives it the usual English treatment with primary stresson the second syllable, and palatalizes it. Another speaker (Tamas) stresses thefirst syllable, /maÁkanIk/, and accordingly does not palatalize the velar-initialsyllable.Campaignappears to be a genuine exception: usually palatalized (5 of6 tokens), it is never stressed on the first syllable. In the data below it makes uponly 6 of the total 1,507 tokens, and 1 of the 116 types, drawn from 18 hours ofsociolinguistic interviews and group recording sessions with 14 speakers.

Mergers, word-classes, and phonolexical variation

Acrolectal and upper-mesolectal Jamaican speakers often retain a front-back,round-unround quality distinction among several low vowels, either producing itregularly or choosing to produce it at will (Wells 1973, 1982;DJE). They areusually treated as exceptions who speak a distinct standard variety of Englishrather than JC, since their vowel systems more closely resemble prestigiousdialects such as British RP. Most contemporary speakers of JC, however, haveonly a long and a short low vowel, each ranging widely across phonetic space.This low-vowel merger is crucially linked to (KYA) — yet not a prerequisite forit, as speakers at all levels of society feature the palatal stop/glide complex

3. When the applicability of (KYA) to a lexical item is in question, potential environments will behighlighted by capitalization of the syllable-initial velar consonant. Jones & Gimson (1981: 340)record both stress patterns (ÁNewÀcastleandNewÁcastle) for this name (actually two distinct names forseparate British cities); likewise forGaragebelow.


prominently in their speech, regardless of their vowel systems.Recent loanwords aside, (KYA) occurs today in JC only before those

vowels which were both low and front in 17th century vernacular English. Howcan speakers who make no vowel quality distinctions (and whose linguisticancestors lost them centuries ago) place the glide only in the “correct” locations?I argue that the distribution of (KYA) must be learned lexically, one item at atime, during the process of first-language acquisition.

Cassidy suggests that the short-A and short-O vowels (from MEA and o;see Table 4.1 for word-classes) were quite close in late 17th-century vernacularEnglish, not identical in quality but “tending to converge” (DJE:xlix). Whilescholars of the historical phonology of English differ on this point, it is certainthat these classes coalesced for most speakers of JC: /a/ is the normal reflex ofboth RP /æ/ and /#/ and never underwent fronting to [æ]. Cassidy argues that inJC’s immediate English ancestor the velar/palatal alternation, though sub-phonemic, filled a functional gap, shoring up a distinction that was in danger ofbeing lost. Though the distinction was not lost in English, it was in JC, whereup-on the palatal stops became phonemic.

Several mechanisms for vowel mergers have been proposed, all involvingredistribution of lexical items across phonemic categories. Cassidy’s hypothesisis consistent with the process of merger by approximation or drift, where twophonetic targets gradually fall together over several generations, producing aresulting single phoneme with either an intermediate phonetic value or the same valueas one member of the merger (Labov 1994: 321, Harris 1985: 308ff). An alternativeprocess, also gradual (and even slower), is merger by transfer (Trudgill andFoxcroft 1978), where lexical items move over time from one phonemic categoryto another. The target phoneme retains its phonetic value but expands itsmembership. A relevant example is the merger of low central /a/ and back /"/ inBelfast, which affects palatalization (Milroy 1980; Harris 1985; see below).

But Cassidy’s claims for seventeenth century English do not dictate theoutcome for JC. Creolization, though not restricted to a single generation, is arelatively abrupt process; and the values of the low vowels /a/ and /aa/ in JC, aswill be shown below, cover a wide phonetic space, not an intermediate one orone equal to a previously existing English phoneme. These two facts fit theprofile of a third process, merger by expansion.

In a study of back vowels in Pennsylvania, Herold (1990) showed that achange occurred in a single generation, such that a father’s /o/ and /f/ phonemesshowed very little overlap, while the son’s overlapped completely. Labov


(1994: 322) describes the process: “The phonetic range of the new phoneme isroughly equivalent to the union of the range of the two phonemes that merged…[L]exical constraints on the distribution of the two former phonemes are re-moved.” The acoustic measurements needed to establish the process are ofcourse unavailable for historical data, but measurements of two contemporary JCspeakers closely parallel Herold’s data (compare Figs. 4.2a and 4.2b below toLabov 1994, Fig. 11.5).

Whatever the mechanism, a merger took place in the formation of JC, andpalatal stops and glides emerged as salient and distinctive units in the new creolelanguage. In the discussion to follow, the principle of the irreversibility ofmerger is assumed. As Labov notes, “A word class is a historical accident…composed of a very large number of brute facts that have no explanation orconnection with any other linguistic facts… [R]estoring a merger would involverelearning each of these facts” (1994: 311–2). In several examples such asEnglishmeet/meat/mate(Labov 1975b, 1994; Milroy and Harris 1980; Nunberg1980; Harris 1985), word-classes once reported as merged are later shown to beseparate. This separation is invariably due to mistaken reporting of what wereactually near-mergers — that is, speakers’ vowel nuclei approximated each other,but failed to completely and consistentlyoverlap — since once completeoverlap occurs and the separate lexical distributions are truly merged, they cannotbe recovered in precise detail.

Two variable patterns of (KYA) distribution can be distinguished in JC, onelabeled “prestige” and one “traditional.”4 In social terms, prestige speakers areurban-oriented, relatively highly educated, and generally middle-class or upwardlymobile; traditional speakers tend to be rural-oriented, lower-class, and have littleeducation. Linguistically, traditional speakers often have a single low vowel, sothat words such ascat /kyat/ andcot /kat/ are indistinguishable from each otherphonetically in terms of first and second formant vowel measurements.5 These

4. The labels refer to social characteristics of their speakers, rather than to any historical primacyof the traditional pattern. The labels are not intended as a general characterization of their speechvariety, only their use of the (KYA) variable; and they are not assigneda priori, but result empirical-ly from analysis of the variable, as described below.

5. The technique is described below. In my observation of these speakers I noted no lip-roundingeither. This is a salient contrast with prestige speakers, as not only relative backness but alsoroundedness of the vowel incot marks cultured speech. Hypercorrect insertion of [f] is one of twoprincipal features of the local stereotype dubbedspeaky-spokystyle (see Chapter 8). Labov (p.c.)notes the opposition between the features of roundedness on back vowels and palatalization as tongue


speakers nevertheless only realize (KYA) with a glide in the historically “cor-rect” word-classes, where it plays a key role in distinguishing such minimalpairs.

The principle of the irreversibility of merger dictates the lexical nature ofthe “traditional” pattern of (KYA) distribution: such speakers cannot predictwhere the glide may occur through phonological distinctions, but must learn itword by word, just as they learn many other facts about their native language.There is one environment for (KYA), though, which shows considerablevariability across the speech community: the AR word-class, where historical /r/has resulted in a long /aa/ vowel in JC and the occasional realization of /r/. Inthis class, linguistic change appears to be underway.

It is convenient to describe the situation using the concept of phonolexicalvariation. This is intermediate between lexical variation (“which affects specificlexical items rather than phonological or grammatical classes,” Milroy 1987: 131)and phonological variation, where the items which vary may be specified andpredicted on phonological grounds. The composition of phonolexical sets is notso predictable, yet neither is it linguistically arbitrary or idiosyncratic as inlexical variation. Like the latter, members of the set which varies must bespecified item by item; yet they typically participate in word classes which oncehad coherent phonological trajectories.

Milroy gives as an example the variable (u) in Belfast English: 18 lexicalitems may be realized as either [%] or [~], while the larger word-classes /%/ and/~/ are both quite regular and do not show this variation. In the Jamaican casesome speakers treat AR words as environments for palatal glides, while others donot. Though the AR class is historically coherent, nothing in vowel quality orlength distinguishes it today from other word-classes such as OR, long open-O,or broad-A for traditional speakers — i.e.,cart, cord, caught, andcan’t all havethe vowel /aa/ in JC. However, (KYA) is prohibited in the O-classes and quiteregular in broad-A; only in AR does it show the particular pattern analyzedbelow. Milroy suggests such patterns are “particularly common in divergentdialect areas where two identifiable and radically different phonologies have inthe past influenced each other, later to become an integrated part of the linguisticresources available to the speech community” (1987: 132–3). This nicelydescribes the Jamaican mesolect today.

spreading on front ones: the mechanism of differentiation at work then operates simultaneously ontwo dimensions, front/back and rounded/spread.


Much previous work separates Jamaican speakers into distinct lects ordialect groups along precisely such lines as merged/unmerged, traditional/prestige, etc. The present research suggests such a dialectal distinction issimplistic. Contrasting groups of JC speakers, e.g. merged and unmerged, maydiffer discretely in their vowel systems, and yet only quantitatively where otherfeatures of JC phonology or syntax are concerned (see Figure 4.1 below). Theorganization of vowel systems, then, does not signal a categorically distinctgrammar, though it must have system-level consequences.

This raises several questions: How do speakers of the traditional andprestige patterns distinguish word-classes? Is the palatal stop/glide complexphonologically distinctive for both? If not — if that function is redundant orobsolete for some — is it available as a vehicle for socially motivated linguisticchange? Do the two groups occupy different ranges of the creole continuum?

History of (KYA)

The palatal stop/glide complex (KYA) in JC today is a reflex of a sub-phonemicfeature of dialectal British English, where it still occurs. A similar phenomenonhas been noted in the English spoken in the south Atlantic coastal states of theU.S.A. and in Northern Ireland, though different conditions apply.

The first recorded observation in English was in 1617 when the earlyphonetician Robert Robinson listed [gj] forguarded(Dobson 1968: 952), in theAR word class (see below). In 1653 Wallis noted that the glide occurred beforefront vowels incan,get,begin, but only in Midland speech, not among Northernor Scots speakers (234). Dobson supports Lehnert (1936) in arguing that the lowvowel reflex of ME shorta must then have already been fronted to [æ] in thesouth, while remaining [a] (Dobson 1968: 234, 238) in Northern English, thusaccounting for the absence of the glide. He continues, “In the eighteenth centurythe [glide] pronunciation was more general, and was regarded as essential togood speech by Elphinston and Walker, though obviously unpalatalized [k] and[g] survived” (952). The glide survived the nineteenth century but waned ingeneral use; it was considered “old-fashioned” by Sweet (1908, quoted in Dobson).

Other accounts also link the presence of the palatal stops and glides to thefrontness of the low vowels. Harris, describing Ulster English, says, “Highincidences of dentality and palatalization also correlate to a high degree of frontand raised realizations of /a/.” Cassidy (DJE:xlix) argues that (KYA) came into JC


to maintain a phonemic distinction where two vowels ha[d] become very closerather than identical in quality; …it only came into [general] English speech atthe end of the seventeenth and during the eighteenth century when the valuesof the low back and low front vowels were tending to converge, and… itdisappeared from polite English speech as [a] was raised to [æ].

The Midlands usage noted by Wallis is the most likely source for both NorthernIreland and Jamaica. (KYA) is still found in England north of the Thames, acrossthe Midlands from Leicester to Worcester and down to Bristol (Wright,EDD),especially in AR words such ascart (Orton and Barry 1969: 124, 143, etc.).Southwestern England and the lower Midlands were a significant catchment areafor early immigration to Jamaica, both for soldiers raised by Venables inBarbados and the Leeward Islands and for indentured servants sent out fromBristol afterwards (LePage 1960), and continued to be an important contributorto Atlantic contact Englishes (Niles 1980; Hancock 1986; Harris 1987; Lalla andD’Costa 1990). Other important immigrant groups included Irish and, especiallyin the eighteenth century, Scots.

(KYA) must have entered Northern Ireland English as an initial feature inthe late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The Plantation of Ulster wasdominated by Scots but also included large numbers of English colonists fromthe northwest Midlands and southwest of England (Harris 1985: 13). Harris findsthe glide to be a rural stereotype in Belfast today, used predominantly by olderCatholic males in the conservative Clonard district and in rural Middle UlsterEnglish. Unlike JC, palatals and glides occur here not only before [a] and [æ],the latter being the most common, but frequently before lowered mid vowels,e.g. [gjæ^t]get, and even word-finally (Adams 1980/1986: 105). With a recentbacking shift of /a/, however, many velar-initial words such ascap, cast, can,gaff show both back realizations and palatal glides (Harris 1985: 184).

Ironically, Harris (215) argues for the English ancestry of the Ulster Englishglide — citing the same sources — against a host of scholars, many of themIrish, who attribute it to the Irish substrate. He notes that (KYA) and otherconsonant features “can all be shown to have their origins in both standard andnonstandard dialects of E[arly] Mod[ern] E[nglish]” (225). In the next section Iargue the same point in response to creole scholars who attribute palatalizationto African substrata.

Palatal stops and glides before low vowels have also been found amongboth folk and cultivated speakers in the South Atlantic states of the U.S.A. southof the Potomac River, especially in eastern and central Virginia, and north of the


Savannah, particularly in the Low Country of South Carolina. Again unlike JC,Kurath and McDavid (1961, Map 167) report the stop/glide complex only beforelong low vowels of the AR word-class, whether they are front, back, or central.The Jamaican and Northern Ireland cases likely represent direct diffusion fromMidlands dialects, probably coinciding with significant metropolitan input viaLondon speech — the vernacular of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,and later polite speech in the eighteenth — and Jamaican (KYA) was likelyreinforced by secondary diffusion via Ireland.

Historical demographics suggest that the earlier period was critical for thecrystallization of JC. After Cromwell’s expeditionary force under Penn andVenables seized Jamaica from Spain in 1655, the period 1660–1700 saw thepopulation increase from about 4,000 to nearly 50,000, including the first majorimportations of African slaves and immigration of English planters via Barbadosand Surinam (Parry and Sherlock 1971; Holm 1988; Alleyne 1988). However,between 1662 and 1695 the island’s European population actually declined byone-third (from 3,653 to 2,440; Patterson 1967: 18, 21) due to a series of naturaland human disasters.6 Meanwhile the slave population increased nearly ahundred-fold, from 514 Africans in 1661 to some 45,000 in 1703 (LePage1960: 70). Contact between Africans and English-speaking Europeans during thisperiod laid the foundations of Jamaican Creole. Patterns of language variationpresent in the English vernacular of the day entered the nascent creole at this point.

The account identifies the lexical sets relevant to (KYA) according to theirhistorical word-class patterning (following Wells 1982; Gimson 1965 andDJE).Table 4.1 gives the list and examples.7

In the vernacular English spoken at the time JC was creolized, then, thefollowing picture obtained: short-A and short-O perhaps approximated eachother’s phonetic space; velar initials before low front vowels were fronted(palatalized); and palatal glides developed between stop and following vowel.The occurrence of the palatal stop/glide complex likely helped listeners todistinguish these word-classes, but no vowel merger took place in mainstreamvernacular English, and the palatal stop/glide complex never became phonemic.

If native English speakers had difficulty discriminating between short-A and

6. Even Lalla and D’Costa’s rosier figures (1990: 17) show whites outnumbered from 1673.

7. Of the long low-back vowel word-classes in English, which Wells dubs BATH and PALM(1982: 123; also jointly called “Broad-A”), only the exceptionalcan’t — and one case ofcalm —ever occur in my data.


short-O, it is likely that the African co-originators of JC did also. In any event

Table 4.1:English vowels and word-classes and Jamaican Creole equivalents

Word-class RP value JC phoneme Example Item

Short AShort OBroad AA before R (AR)Long open OO before R (OR)

[æ][#]["˜]["˜][f˜][f˜]

/a//a//aa//aa//aa//aa/

/kyat//kat//kyaan//kyaad//kaat//kaad/

catcotcan’tcardcaughtcord

the classes merged, and speakers subsequently relied upon more robust phoneticconditioning features such as (KYA) to distinguish them. Vowel length alsobecame a distinctive feature in JC.8 Palatalization allowed word-class distinc-tions to be maintained between historically front and back vowels such as short-A and short-O; while length distinguished historically short vowels from longvowels, including those derived from vocalization of historical (and perhapsunderlying) /r/. Thus, in velar-initial words (only), JC has a 4–way contrastbetween /kat/cot, /kyat/ cat, /kaat/caught, and /kyaat/cart — although thevowel quality in all four words may be identical.

In sum, a shift of functional load from vowel quality in English to initialconsonant/glide complex (plus vowel length) in emerging JC preserved word-class distinctions at a point when they might have collapsed. The front/backdistinction was lost, but formerly front-vowel words after velar initials retainedthe palatal stop/glide. Meanwhile formerly back-vowel words, in which thepalatal elements never previously occurred, did not now acquire them. In thisway (KYA) became phonemic in JC.

8. Lalla and D’Costa (1990: 60–3) and Alleyne (1980: 41–2, 176) believe early JC received nodistinctive vowel length from British English, but developed it later. My data and Veatch’s (1991)acoustic analysis of another speaker from the Veeton corpus suggest that the distribution of vowellength generally reflects that of English today. How this occurred is not clear, though it makes anearlier loss of length seem unlikely. Carter (1993) argues that JC shows not vowel length but doublevowels, possibly resulting from a reanalysis of English length distinctions by speakers of Africanlanguages with double vowels.


The African substrate

While the above account traces the emergence of the JC /ky/, /gy/ phonemes tofeatures of vernacular British English, African substrate languages are often citedas possible sources for both segmental and prosodic phonological features ofAtlantic creoles (Cassidy 1961; Alleyne 1980; Holm 1988). The Akan peopleswere culturally and politically dominant during the creolization period inJamaica, if not a demographic majority (LePage 1960; Alleyne 1986; Alleyne1988: 37–42 summarizes available records). However, despite Cassidy andLePage’s opinion that “the existence of palatal /ky/ and /gy/ in Twi was undoubt-edly of importance in retention” (DJE:lviii) of palatal phones in JC, the evidenceindicates that the lexical patterning derives in large part from English; Twi canhave been, at best, a corroborating influence. The facts do not support an Africanorigin for (KYA), though multiple origins or converging paths remain possible(Mufwene 1993).

Inspection of available grammars shows no evidence for a phonemicdistinction between palatal and velar stops in modern Fante, Akem, Ashanti, orAkuapim Twi (members of the Akan group of West African languages) or theneighboring Gã. Kropp (1962) and an instrumental phonetic study by Ladefoged(1964) confirm the absence of any phonemic distinction for Akuapim Twi. (Thismay also be inferred from the extensive data in Christaller 1881, 1875.) Kroppsimilarly agrees with Redden and Owusu (1963) for Ashanti, while Ladefogedcorroborates Welmers (1945) and Christaller for Fante, and finds no palatalizedvelars in Gã. Welmers (1945), the most detailed study, finds the relevantopposition in Fante only sub-phonemically, and calls the glide a “comparativelyrecent” development. Ladefoged describes the consonants in question as “histori-cally fronted palatals rather than affricated post-alveolars” (1964: 20–1) or, as inJC, palatalized velars. Christaller’s (1881) massive dictionary lists only sevenitems beginning “kya-” (none for “gya-”): four of them have variant pronuncia-tions before mid-vowels, leaving only three unambiguous environments withfollowing low vowels.

Given the lack of consonantal evidence supporting an African origin, it isworth noting that Akuapim Twi and Fante (the most significant African substrateinput languages for JC) each possess but a single low vowel, with only sub-phonemic variants (Christaller 1881, Welmers 1945; but seeDJE:xlviii). Thismakes the contact scenario sketched in the last section quite plausible, as Africanspeakers might easily fail to distinguish phonetically close English vowels.


The use of the general label “palatals” for the spirantized coronals of Akanlanguages — a ubiquitous phenomenon, but quite different from the fronted-velars-plus-glides of JC — may have led creolists astray in attributing origins.While the African substrate languages do indeed have palatal consonants, theyare not the right sort of palatals to be the source of Jamaican /ky/, /gy/. Even ifthey were, they are probably not old enough, since they appear to have devel-oped in the last 150 years — long after the relevant transmission period forJamaica, which cannot be later than the earliest years of the 1700s. The creoliza-tion of JC, the dominance of Akan-speaking slaves, and the common presence ofsubphonemic palatalization in English “polite speech” all happened betweenabout 1660 and 1750. The evidence of the historical record for that time period,though incomplete, shows every sign of origin in dialectal and metropolitanEnglish, and none of an African source for (KYA).

Previous studies of (KYA)

In two previous studies Jamaican linguists have looked at palatalized velars andglides in the upper strata of Kingston society. Irvine (1988) and Miller (1987),both native speakers of acrolectal Jamaican English, draw their target populationsfrom the elite, the top 10% of Jamaican society in socioeconomic status.9 Asexternal sources of variation they consider sex and social class (both studies), age(Miller only), and ethnicity, residence, education, rural versus urban birthplace,father’s occupation, and religion (Irvine only). Both studies describe the formalspeech of educated Jamaicans as a regional dialect of standard English, excludingwhat they see as incursions from the Creole. They use tape-recorded interviewsbut deliberately avoid situational factors that might favor use of the vernacular,maximizing the formality of the interview situation in the belief that this enablesstudy of “the regular patterns… [of the] variety of English spoken by theeducated elite,” in Miller’s words.

Miller and Irvine agree on their principal results. Finding that their upper-stratum speakers have a high rate of palatalization before short-A — Irvine putsit at 89% — both label (KYA) a prestige variable, asserting that use of thepalatal glide correlates positively with their speakers’ high socio-economic status.

9. I thank Alison Irvine for helpful discussion of her own and Miller’s work on (KYA).


Neither reports stratification by age, suggesting that the variable is a stable onenot now undergoing linguistic change. However, for both of the social classesshe studied, Miller finds men palatalizing more often than women, while Irvinecalls heavy use of the palatal glide a characteristic of women’s speech. Irvinealso notes that speakers palatalize less often before a long /aa/ vowel.

The methods of the present study contrast with these predecessors in severalimportant ways that bear on the results. It is axiomatic in variationist sociolin-guistics that the systematic structure of language is more closely reflected invernacular speech than in self-consciously formal environments (Labov 1966,1984; Milroy 1987). Where a sociolinguistic variable shows class stratificationand serves as a symbol of status, speakers of all social levels consistently use theprestigious variant more often in formal settings than in casual speech (Labov1972a; Bell 1984). Consequently, the present study compares data from differentstyles of speech and samples a much wider range of social classes.

Both the selection and the quantity of data analyzed are crucial in variationstudies. The systematic exclusion of inappropriate cases and inclusion of properlydefined cases (see description of the variable above) are problematic in Millerand Irvine. (KYA) is a relatively rare variable with significant lexical exceptions;such exceptions are at the heart of phonolexical variation, and can significantlyaffect even more regular phonological processes (Guy 1980; Neu 1980).

A corpus must not only be well-defined but also large enough, or else asingle exceptional lexical item may easily unbalance the sample. In the presentstudy, one word (can’t) accounts for 174 of the 871 spontaneous tokens, or 20%.A sample consisting of a few words per person, which fails to identify such afrequent exceptional case, runs a significant risk of skewing proportions. It mayalso happen that a crucial environment is rare. In this study the AR word-class,which turns out to be the basis of distinctive patterns of use and evaluation, isthe least frequent; while the most frequent class, short-A, shows essentially novariation. A small sample might easily over-represent such a frequent word classand fail to notice a rare one.

Miller’s 24 interviews averaged approximately 20 minutes, and produced atotal of 167 tokens over 8 hours, or roughly 7 per speaker; Irvine’s 32 interviewsaveraged 15 to 30 minutes, and produced 163 tokens over 12 hours, or 5 perspeaker. In contrast, the present analysis surveys 18 hours of taped interactionswith 14 individuals (about 15% of the Veeton recordings), ranging from 45minutes to 3 hours each. This yielded 871 tokens in spontaneous speech, with an


additional 294 tokens in formal tests, or about 83 tokens per person.10BothMiller and Irvine have more inclusive definitions of (KYA) than the presentstudy, yet they find far fewer tokens: roughly 13 to 20 per hour, compared withthis study’s 50 per hour in spontaneous speech. While it is possible that Miller’sand Irvine’s speakers had dramatically different patterns of word choice, theirmethods of defining the environment, coding tokens of (KYA), and countingthem are not commensurate with standard variationist practices.

The present analysis challenges several of the major findings of these earlierstudies. Sex does not significantly differentiate speakers, at least in Veeton; and(KYA) is a change in progress, showing strong and distinct patterning among theurban young of all social groups. Style-shift data indicate that there is consistent-ly more palatalization in casual settings. Speech from the lower-middle, working,and non-working classes shows an even higher rate of (KYA) occurrence thanIrvine found in the upper-middle class. In short, although Miller’s and Irvine’ssamples hardly overlap Veeton socially, for the speakers represented by thepresent study (and perhaps Kingstonians in general) the occurrence of the glidein (KYA) is not a prestige marker in JC.11

However, this study confirms Irvine’s observation that vowel length is animportant conditioning factor, though I adopt a finer set of distinctions. The wordclasses used here divide both the short /a/ and long /aa/ vowels of contemporaryJC into several categories based on historical length and quality. Speakers at thehighest social level, such as Irvine’s and Miller’s, are strongly predicted to havea quality distinction between front and back vowels, as higher-status Veetonspeakers also do. “Prestige” speakers do indeed produce fewer palatals in /aa/ words,namely in the AR class andcan’t. This is precisely what one would expect ifIrvine’s speakers were an extension of the high end of Veeton’s social scale.

A sociolinguistic description of two speakers

Two speakers were selected to represent contrasting ‘traditional’ and ‘prestige’patterns of variable (KYA) realization. Analysis uses instrumental phoneticmeasurements of the low vowel space in which (KYA) occurs.

10. Tests counted A-words only. An additional 342 tokens of O-words were sampled in interviewspeech; since they showed no glides at all, O-words were left offthe tests.

11. Only the very highest-status speakers, George and Roxy, are comparable to their samples.


Rose and Tamas are both elderly, conservative, rural-born Jamaicans livingin their own houses in different sections of Veeton. They are not polar oppositesin the Jamaican spectrum, socially or linguistically, nor do they represent thehighest or lowest end of the scale in their own community. Nevertheless, theyare assigned to different social groups on a variety of measures, crucially:education, social class, and rural/urban orientation. They are in many waystypical middle- and working-class residents of Veeton. Rose, 82, is the oldestdaughter of a wheelwright father. Both her parents achieved a secondaryeducation; her great-grandmother was an ex-slave, her grandfather a Scottishtailor. She spent her childhood in the country as part of a large family, and wasoften admonished not to “mix” (i.e., to keep apart from local children). At 14 shemoved to Kingston, completed her secondary education and trained as a nurseunder the English. She had a very successful career, becoming first the headnurse at Kingston Public Hospital, and then matron of a nearby regional hospital(people in Veeton still address her as “Matron”). Rose retired 25 years ago to herown home — one of the very first built in The Gardens, then the most exclusivearea of Veeton. Like all Jamaicans, Rose has rural family ties, but she visits thecountry rarely and long ago became urban-identified.

Tamas, 70, is the son of a shoemaker (like himself) and farmer. He leftschool at 13 without completing the fourth grade. Except for a season abroad asa cane-cutter at age 26 (the lowest-prestige, least rewarding form of agriculturallabour; Wilkinson 1989), he lived in his native rural district until he was over 40.Subsequently Tamas worked in Kingston, migrated to England, and worked in afactory for a decade. Returning to Jamaica, he retired with his wife to a modesthome in East Veeton, an area steadily being encroached upon by commercialenterprises and short-term tenants. Despite his urban experiences at home andabroad, Tamas calls himself a “country man” and often visits family and friendsin rural St. Thomas, where he still shares the “family land.”

Tamas ranks distinctly lower than Rose on the socio-economic scale, interms of such material indicators as housing type and repair, dress, location ofresidence, and occupation, as well as education and attitudes towards tenantneighbors (he is tolerant, she is negative). He uses markedly creole forms moreoften than Rose, though she demonstrates command of the same ones; he showslittle ambivalence about them, while she sometimes catches and corrects herself


for using them in front of a foreign fieldworker. The difference between themcan be illustrated by considering their usage of the following variables:12

(1) /-t, -d/ Absence in past verbs (TD-Past):/evribadi biliiv it ova/‘Everybody believED it (was) over’(Tamas, #15a:425, 8/17/89)

(2) Zero-marking on past-reference verbs (Zero Past):/sista beti an miself wi kfl haspital/‘Sister Betty and myself, we callED the hospital’(Rose, #5a:245, 7/25/89)

(3) /-t, -d/ Absence in Mono-morphemic words (TD-Mono):/yu uol a strang wan/‘You holD a strong one’(Tamas, #15a:470, 8/17/89)

(4) Absence of word-initial /h-/ (H-absence):/wi wfk striet an kom oom/‘We walked straight and came Home’(Rose, #5a:260, 7/25/89)

(5) Zero-marking on semantically Plural nouns (Zero Plural):/so fram dat mi no bada tek no muor bos/‘So since then I haven’t bothered to ride any more busES’(Rose, #5a:205, 7/25/89)

(6) Post-nominal /-dem/ marking on Plural nouns (Plural -dem):/an so on som a di bwaayz dem/‘and so on, some of the boys (THEM).’(Tamas, #9b:310, 8/17/89)

Figure 4.1 compares Rose and Tamas for these variables over one hour apiece ofinformal interview speech. Higher numbers indicate speech which is more creoleand less standard.

12. (TD)-absence and past-marking data are from subsequent chapters, plural-marking from Patrick(1994b). If taken from the Veeton speakers under study here, quotations are followed by thespeaker’s pseudonym, tape number and location, and date of recording. (2) is an example of a not-strictly-phonemic representation (see Chap. 1): the vowel incalled is significantly different from theusual JC /kaal/, and this quality is accordingly represented.


The contrast in their patterns is generally quantitative (gradient) rather than

Figure 4.1:Six linguistic variables for Tamas and Rose

qualitative (discrete). Plural-marking /-dem/ is a positive marker of JamaicanCreole, and is given in terms of occurrence rates; all other variables show non-occurrence (absence or zero-marking) rates.

In Figure 4.1 both Rose and Tamas appear to alternate features of traditionalJC and standard English in the same setting. One cannot describe Tamas as acategorically Creole speaker, yet his high absence rates for these inflections,initial segments, and final segments suggest an allegiance to a grammar that isnot English. However, he also uses English plural {-z} about one-quarter of thetime, as well as standard verb inflections. Conversely, although Rose leaves off

initial /h-/ one-third of the time where expected, and /-t, -d/ half the time, sheshows a solid grasp of English plural and past morphology and never uses hyper-correct forms. The contrasts between them, though salient and significant,evidently do not result from distinct, invariant grammars.

Examples of (KYA)

Both Rose and Tamas use (KYA) variably, though in different patterns. Exam-ples of their usage are given below, drawn from interviews conducted with Roseon her verandah, and with Tamas under a mango tree in his yard.


(7) Examples of (KYA) from Rose (all from #5a, #5b, 7/25/89):“I had a little /gyas/ stove… I see that I had nails, /kyandlz/”“Give him a spanking, sure– and I /kyan/ only get word to him”“…Mama say– we– /kyaan kyach/ us because we run”“I had some /kaam/-Aid, that suppose them get so flurried…”“They would drive out in the morning, they have they /kaarz/”“They didn’t have a teacher’s /katij/“The other side now, you– where they /kf˜l/, um, A. /gaadinz/”“I know Mrs. W., lives up the /kf˜rna/ here…”

(8) Examples of (KYA) from Tamas (all from #9a, #9b, 8/3/89):“United State and probably /kyanada/ and all dem quality t’ing”“You /kyanat/ blow you /kyaar/ horn before 7 in the morning.”“…Is they /kyari/ up– is a /kaman/ mango really.”“…Knowing if it wasn’t politics you couldn’t /kaal/ him ‘Manley’.”“…Pension that I getting, it /kyan/ keep me here.” [IV: No?13]“It /kyan/ keep me here.” [IV: Oh, it /kyan/!]“It /kyan/ keep me here, keep me here good…”

Separating these examples into historical word classes reveals the pattern in (9)(occurrence of the palatal stop/glide is indicated by capital “KY” or “GY”).

(9) Example words by word-classes:

short-A broad-A AR OR short-O long-O

KYan, KYatchKYandleGYas, KYannotKYanada, KYarry

KYan’tcalm

KYargarden

corner cottagecommon

call

Neither Rose nor Tamas realizes the glide in items descended historically fromEnglish O-words (short-O, long open-O, or OR) while every instance of theshort-A class, which is by far the most frequent, shows the glide. In the othertwo classes of A words (broad-A and AR), variable patterns emerge. In theserespects, the examples in (7–9) fairly represent the larger body of data.

13. Interviewer (IV), hearing phonetic length on the firstcan, mistakes it for negativecan’t.


Acoustic analysis of low-vowel space

To map the distribution of (KYA) in low- and low-back vowel space, all tokensfrom the interviews with Rose and Tamas were instrumentally analyzed. Imeasured 351 vowels in velar-initial words; all tokens were also coded for thepresence of palatal glides.14 Figures 4.2 to 4.4 chart the low vowels of (KYA)tokens for these two representative speakers, locating them in a two-dimensionalspace composed of first- and second-formant (F1 and F2) values measured inhertz. Labov (1994: 59) says of such a conventional display, “This quantitativerepresentation preserves the qualitative vowel relations of an IPA transcription.”The figures below show the bottom of the vowel triangle.

Rose and Tamas respectively exemplify the “prestige” and “traditional”patterns. Rose’s more elaborate vowel system allows for a simple organizationof (KYA) variation using a distinctive phonological feature (vowel quality alongthe front/back dimension) which is not available to Tamas, whose variation mustbe lexically specified. Together with the local and global forces of socialevaluation, this greater simplicity of (KYA) distribution in Rose’s prestigepattern motivates the change I argue for below.

In Figure 4.2a Rose shows no overlap between her O-word classes (short-O,long open-O and OR) and her A-word classes (short-A, broad-A and AR),barring one outlier of each. This phonetic distinctness in her production underliesa system-level phonemic distinction.

On the other hand, Tamas’s O-word vowels heavily overlap his A-wordvowels in Figure 4.2b: the latter cover the entire low-vowel space from 1056 Hzto 1737 Hz (F2).

14. Coding was cross-checked by a second analyst in a blind test with 96% agreement (Tom Veatch,who also helped with Waves+ software, vowel measurement and Unix routines).


Figure 4.2a:Rose, vowel formants of A-words versus O-words

Figure 4.2b:Tamas, vowel formants of A-words vs. O-words

A more detailed examination shows that Rose’s short-A and short-O wordclasses are proximate but distinct (Figure 4.3a) while Tamas’s overlap (Figure 4.3b).

In Figure 4.4a, Rose’s AR class is entirely separate from her OR. For Tamasthese classes are not clearly distinct, though Figure 4.4b does show a tendency for hisOR to be backer (mean F2 is 1135 Hz, n=7) than his AR (1263 Hz, n=23)

One might suspect the palatal glide of (KYA), where it occurs, of having afronting effect upon the following vowel, which could exaggerate the separationbetween vowel tokens. However, since Rose never has (KYA) in any environment


other than short-A andcan/can’t(see below), this effect is not responsible for all

Figure 4.3a:Rose, vowel formants of short-A and short-O vowels

Figure 4.3b:Tamas, vowel formants of short-A and short-O vowels

contrasts among her vowel phones.In short, Rose’s low-vowel system shows both separate phonemes and

phonetic distinction of positional variants. Tamas’s, by contrast, does not clearlyshow either, and is best described as having a single low vowel space.


Figure 4.4a:Rose, vowel formants of A- and O-words before R

Figure 4.4b:Tamas, vowel formants of A- and O-words before R


Two patterns of variation

To understand the connection between the phonetic distribution of low vowelsand the palatalization of velars before them, let us examine the occurrence of(KYA) in detail for the same two speakers. Table 4.2 presents data for Rose andTamas by word class, in both interview and test (word-list) styles. The figuresshow the percentage of cases where a palatal glide occurs. The O-words wereoriginally included because, given the merged low vowel system above, theoccurrence of (KYA) in these words had to be ascertained. In Table 4.2 they areall combined in a single column. (KYA) is categorically absent here for both Roseand Tamas, as for all other speakers, and these words will henceforth be omitted.

In the first three columns the two elderly speakers are remarkably similar.

Table 4.2:(KYA) by historical word class for Rose and Tamas

Short-A‘cat’

‘can’ and‘cannot’

Broad-A‘can’t’

AR‘cart’

O-words‘cot, cord’

No. ofTokens

Rose

InterviewTestTotal

22/2211/1297%34

20/23n.d.87%23

11/150/361%18

0/240/100%34

0/43n.d.0%43

12725

N= 152

Tamas

InterviewTestTotal

20/2111/1294%33

25/26n.d.96%26

4/81/156%9

15/179/992%26

0/22n.d.0%22

9422

N= 116

It is the striking difference in the AR environment that distinguishes the prestigeand traditional patterns for (KYA). Tamas pronounces these vowels similarly toshort-A words (compare Figures 4.3b to 4.4b), realizing the glide in bothenvironments most of the time, while Rose tends to produce a more centralvowel in AR words (compare Figures 4.3a to 4.4a), distinguishing them fromshort-A by categorical absence of the glide.

Viewed another way, Tamas’s traditional pattern makes no systematicdistinction between the vowels of AR-words and those of O-words, dependinginstead on (KYA) to keep them apart. For Rose the phonetic space of AR does


not overlap that of any O-words, and she does not use (KYA) to discriminatethem. (Phonemic length distinguishes long AR words from short-A and short-Ofor both Tamas and Rose.) Thus the distribution of the palatal glides and theelaboration of the vowel system differ in the traditional and prestige patterns, butwork in tandem to keep apart word classes which might have otherwise coalesced300 years ago, during the low-vowel merger in the formation of Jamaican Creole.

Evidently not all Jamaicans inherited this merger: Rose has a standard-likevowel system, yet is in other respects a speaker of mesolectal Jamaican Creole.The distinctions she makes so closely match standard Englishes in their lexicaldistribution that it is not credible they could have arisen spontaneously. Norcould Rose’s vowel system have been non-natively acquired through contact withher Scottish grandfather, or several years’ training under the British in her lateteens, given Garde’s Principle: “Mergers are irreversible by linguistic means”(Labov 1994: 311). It is extremely difficult for speakers who have a merger tounlearn it and acquire a lexical split (ibid. 336ff, Payne 1980).

I conclude that Rose’s phonology represents an established option, a socialdialect within Jamaican Creole, dating back perhaps to the period of creolizationand stabilization. Alleyne (1971) argues convincingly that Jamaican linguisticvarieties covered a wide span during the earliest days, from African languagesand second-language versions of English through basilectal and mesolectal creoleup to regional and standard dialects of English (see also Lalla and D’Costa 1990).

Though not all JC speakers have merged low vowels, all have inherited theuse of (KYA) in some environments. This once-standard feature of vernacularand polite English survives most faithfully in the traditional pattern of Tamas.Since both velar stops and palatal stops-plus-glides occur before his low vowel(short or long), they contrast; since they distinguish words, (KYA) is stillphonemic in JC, albeit variable. Thus Jamaican speakers on different sociallevels distinguish word classes in different ways, with minimal phonologicalreorganization.

Variation of (KYA) across the community

In exploring the variation of (KYA) for a larger sample of the speech communi-ty, the primary question is whether the prestige and traditional patterns recur. Ifso, (how) do they express diverse aims, social identities, and linguistic com-petences? Is (KYA) undergoing socially motivated linguistic change? I will


characterize variation along the social parameters that identified the two patternsabove — class, rural/urban orientation, and education, along with age — andthen discuss evidence of linguistic change.

The fourteen speakers15 fell into three age groups: old (70–82 years),middle-aged (30–49), and young (14–24). The battery of tests, administered afterall casual speech samples had been collected, contained reading passagesbeginning with this one, with twelve sites for (KYA), underlined here:

(10) Before the plane cantake offfor Canada, we start to play cardsinthe cabin.Next thing we hear the captaincome on and say we can’tgo yet.Then we see a big police carpull up fast.Airport guardsjump out and come search all the carry-on for ganja,and find one big garbagebag full-up with weed — we can’tbelieve it!

The passage has four short-A words (Canada, cabin, captain, carry), four ARwords (cards, car, guards, garbage), and four lexically exceptional items (can,can’t twice, andganja). An hour later, at the very end of the language tests,speakers read a word-list containing most of the same items plus 9 new ones:

(11) 1. car 5. cat 09. guard 13. garbage2. cast 6. can’t 10. gal 14. gang3. card 7. campus 11. galley 15. ganja4. carry 8. calf 12. gargle 16. gas

The word list and reading passage utterances have been combined into a singlecategory of Test data. Since the short-A word class and the function wordscan/cannot(which belong to it) behave similarly for all speakers — overall ratesfor occurrence of the glide are respectively 99% and 94% — results for thesewere combined.Can’t, a broad-A function word which is also very frequent,salient, and laden with affect, remains separate.

Figure 4.5 displays the (KYA) index — the proportion of possible (KYA)environments in which the palatal glide actually occurs — for each word class,and for each age-group of speakers, in informal speech.16 All speakers produce

15. Bigga was not included. Test data are also absent for Macca, who declined to participate; Dinah,due to literacy problems; and Sista, who assisted in producing the test instrument.

16. Because her divergence dramatically distorts the AR pattern for older speakers, Rose’s data arenot included in Figure 5; they can be found in Figure 6a.


the glide nearly categorically in short-A words andcan; the broad-A wordcan’t

0%

20%

40%

60%

80%

100%

Older Middle Young

Speaker age group

(KYA

) Short-A+can

(n=537)

can't

(n=174)

AR

(n=136)

Figure 4.5:Informal (KYA) data by word-class and age (excludes Rose)

Figure 4.6a:(KYA) for older speakers (informal speech)

has it only slightly less often. The AR words follow the same pattern a bitbehindfor older and middle-aged speakers, but diverge sharply for young speakers.

Figures 4.6a–c display the patterns of individual speakers, grouped by age.These diverge only in small detail, mostly in the order of AR andcan’t among


older speakers. The striking exception is Rose (Figure 4.6a): alone among the

Figure 4.6b: (KYA) for middle-aged speakers (informal speech)

Figure 4.6c:(KYA) for young speakers (informal speech)

older generations, she shows the “prestige” pattern of zero (KYA) in AR, whichis also manifested by all young speakers (Figure 4.6c).

Figure 4.7 makes clear the contrast in styles for each age-group and wordclass. In all cases, the incidence of the palatal glide is higher in informal speechthan in test situations, supporting the claim that (KYA) is not a marker ofprestigious speech but a vernacular variable. The extent of style-shifting varies


widely across word classes, however. The contrast for short-A words is slight,though regular; in this environment, the glide is not only permitted but expected,and indeed its absence in casual speech would be quite noticeable.

For can’t, on the other hand, the style-shift is marked. All groups realize the

Figure 4.7:(KYA) style contrast (informal versus test) by age-group

glide very often in casual speech (89% overall), but quite infrequently in formalreading situations (9% overall, produced by only two speakers). Recall that thisextremely common word, comprising one-fifth of all (KYA) tokens in informalspeech (174 of 871), contrasts semantically and phonologically with positivecan,which belongs to the short-A class and is not sensitive to style-shifts.Can’t is aclassic example of a shibboleth, a salient lexical stereotype. It is associated withauthority, permission and power, and its exceptional pattern may stem fromexplicit correction in the home and school.

So far there has been unanimity across the community, regardless of age,class or education. In the third environment this agreement disappears. Variationbetween age groups is highly concentrated in the AR word-class. While most oldand middle-aged speakers produce the glide slightly less often in AR words thanin short-A andcan’t, they show more individual variation in AR than in theother word classes. The young speakers do not vary at all, but categoricallyavoid glides before AR in both styles, as does Rose. The oldest group showsmoderate style-shifting, while the middle-aged group frequently pronounces theglide in casual speech but uniformly shuns it in formal reading tasks.


This age contrast suggests a change in progress, and the style-shift patternsupports this analysis. Middle-aged speakers behave like older ones in relaxedconversation, but in a formal situation behave like the younger generation,suggesting the youth pattern holds prestige. However, youth alone is not anadequate explanation since the oldest speaker, Rose, shares the pattern — and at83 she probably has not acquired it from today’s teenagers. Rose is solidlymiddle class as are two of the young speakers, George (a junior civil servant)and his university-bound sister Roxy. But Noel is a more marginal member ofthe middle class, while Olive and Opal — a single mother and an unemployedhigh school graduate, both denizens of Gullyside — are striving to break out ofpoverty. Besides, several members of the middle class are traditional-patternspeakers (Matty and Walker).

If class and age do not unify the speakers who share this prestige pattern,what does? The young group, unlike previous generations, shares with Rose auniformly high level of education, regardless of social position, and a decidedlypro-urban orientation. Urban secondary schools may play a crucial role indiffusing prestige patterns, mirroring the increasing social mobility via educationthat has promoted expansion of the Jamaican middle class, as well as fosteringthe hegemony of its values and symbols (Austin 1984). Perhaps social class asachieved status holds less explanatory value for linguistic variation in Veetonthan social ambitions which, nurtured by higher education and the urban milieu,and closely bound to prestige speech, burn brighter for the young.

It is no single social factor, then, but a complex of them which characterizesspeakers of the prestige pattern of (KYA). In Table 4.3 speakers are grouped intopatterns according to their linguistic behavior; a filled circle indicates that acharacteristic applies to a particular speaker. The table points to a combinationof secondary education, urban orientation, middle-class status, and youth. Nosingle social factor is sufficient to predict absence of the glide in AR words,though education and urban identification appear to be necessary.

These factors may be linked to broader requirements for acquisition ofsocial dialects: both motivation and exposure to a pattern are necessary in orderto acquire it (Rickford 1985). In the next section I outline a simple linguisticmechanism through which any speaker of JC may acquire the prestige pattern.

Yet some speakers who show knowledge of it evidently prefer not to usethe prestige pattern in everyday speech. The issues of vernacular maintenance areextensively addressed in the literature (see e.g., Labov et al. 1968; Trudgill 1972on covert prestige, Milroy 1980; Chambers 1995), but all agree that local


loyalties and alternative evaluations of the prescribed standard are involved.

Table 4.3:Social characteristics of speakers: Prestige and traditional patterns

Prestige pattern Traditional pattern

Rose

GeorgeRoxyNoel

OliveOpal Matty Walker Roasta Macca Mina

TamasDinahSista

Middle classstatus

Youth (< 25)

Secondaryeducation

Urban identity

Absence ofglide in AR

Consider the middle-aged speakers for whom full test data exist: Roasta, thetoolmaker, and Matty, the photographer. Both are educated, committed to urbanlife, and have frequent contact with young people. Their test data show sensitivi-ty to the stigmatization of (KYA) in AR words, and the ability to avoid it inmonitored speech (0%, n=19), yet they produce the glide very frequently ininformal speech (90%, n=40).

Both men come from and strongly identify with working-class backgrounds,but have had extensive contact with members of the middle social strata atschool and in daily work. Eloquent and lively raconteurs, they pride themselveson the ability to speak to foreigners and Jamaicans of all social positions on anappropriate level, and testify vigorously to the economic worth of this skill. Theyclearly relish the role of skilled navigator of the creole continuum, using thevernacular heavily in everyday speech but showing the prestige pattern flawlesslywhen called on. Their behavior makes it clear that for at least some Kingstoniansother norms compete with overt prestige (this point is pursued in Chapter 8).


Pathway of a change in progress

(KYA) appears to show a remarkably homogeneous pattern across the speechcommunity for two of its three environments, while variation in the thirdsuggests that change is occurring towards a prestige distribution favored byyoung, educated, urban-oriented speakers who hold or aspire to middle-classstatus. What are the linguistic constraints on this change?

Earlier two distributions for low vowels were displayed: Tamas has no low-vowel distinctions and shows the traditional pattern for (KYA), while Rose hasdistinct phonemes and the prestige pattern. More precisely, Tamas has no vowel-quality distinction but only a length distinction between /a/ and /aa/, while Rosehas vowel quality distinctions in F1–F2 space corresponding to the front/back,rounded/unrounded dimensions of metropolitan English varieties.

How does the shape of a speaker’s low vowel subsystem affect theirrealization of the glide in (KYA)? Do traditional-pattern speakers necessarilylack vowel-quality distinctions, and must all prestige-pattern speakers have anelaborated, non-overlapping system like Rose’s? For example, does Olive, ayoung, socially mobile prestige speaker, have the same underlying forms as hertraditional-pattern mother Dinah? These issues might be resolved by an acousticanalysis of each speaker’s vowel system.17 Here I argue that users of thetraditional can switch to the prestige pattern in a simple way, by exchanging aphonolexical distribution for one that fits a generalized phonological rule.

Traditional-pattern speakers with no vowel-quality distinction necessarilyhave a phonolexical distribution for (KYA). This is so because they regularlyhave a glide before short-A words but not short-O words, even though they donot distinguish the vowels by either quality or length: bothcat and cot arephonologically /a/. As traditional-pattern speakers, moreover, they regularly havethe glide in long AR words but not long OR ones: bothcart and cord arephonologically /aa/.18

This distinction, which recapitulates the historical coherence of Englishword classes still found in most varieties of English (including Rose’s speech),must be learned lexically, item by item. As a child, Tamas and other traditional-pattern children had to learn they could say either /kaad/ or /kyaad/ forcard, but

17. Veatch (1991), Chap. 5, gives such an analysis for one mesolectal speaker from Veeton.

18. The distinction betweencan and can’t, here represented as length, has also been attributed totone; cf. Cassidy (1961), Lalla (1986), Sutcliffe (1994).


only /kaad/ forcord; either /kat/ or /kyat/ forcat, but only /kat/ forcot. Since theglide is variably (albeit very frequently) present in A-words, it presumably occursin the traditional speakers’ underlying phonological representations and then getsvariably deleted, while it is entirely absent in their O-words. For such speakers,(KYA) occurs in the very same environments where it was possible in the 17thcentury vernacular English that gave rise to Jamaican Creole — in particular, theAR word-class — showing a remarkable continuity with the superstrate variety.

On the other hand, Rose and other prestige speakers learned as children touse different long vowels forcard /kaad/ andcord /kf˜d/, and different shortvowels forcot /k"t/ andcat /kyat/ — a memorization task similar to that of mostlearners of metropolitan dialects of English. Onlycat, however, was a possibleenvironment for (KYA), so that they needed only to match the appearance of theglide with independently required word classes.

The task of acquiring the prestige pattern as an adult is simple nonetheless,even if a speaker lacks a full set of standard English-like vowel distinctions. Allthat is required is a slight alteration of the rule of glide-deletion (a rule whoseexistence is already attested by the style-shifting data above). If phonologicallength characterizes their vowel system, a speaker need only invoke length todistinguish short-A from long AR words, and delete obligatorily in the latterenvironment, carrying to completion the variable deletion shown by most olderspeakers. This entails loss of a distinction between, e.g.,cawed, cord,andcard,all of which will now be invariably /kaad/.

By this means traditional-pattern speakers, whatever their low-vowelsystems, might alter their lexical distribution to fit a generalized phonologicalrule. In fact the lexical input would not change; it would merely be operated onby a low-level output rule of glide-deletion. Children acquiring the languagefrom such speakers, however, might just as well be acquiring it from an originalprestige-pattern speaker: they will not hear (KYA) in AR words, and it shouldnot be present in their underlying forms. Once lexical representations of the glidehave been eliminated, they are not systematically recoverableen massein later life.

Evidence from loanwords

While it is difficult to distinguish between the outcome of lexical and post-lexical rules, evidence from loanwords is suggestive. The Jamaican word for theherb cannabis sativa, /ganja/, was introduced from Hindi into JC in the mid-


nineteenth century by East Indian indentured servants. The Veeton data show astrong association between social class and pronunciation of this short, front-vowel word. The middle-class pronounce it as /gyanja/, with the glide present67% of the time (6 of 9), while everyone else pronounces it /ganja/, without theglide (4%, 1 of 24; see alsoDJE:194, invariant with no glide).

This is odd, because in general prestige speakers realize the glidelessoftenthan other speakers; only in this word is it farmore frequent. Working classpeople have inherited their pronunciation of this word from ancestors who livedand worked beside Indians, and “the great majority of ganja users in contempo-rary Jamaica [are…] black laboring people, both rural and urban” (Rubin andComitas 1975). Middle class creole culture, however, probably acquired knowl-edge and pronunciation of it second-hand, perhaps from the British as Bilby(1985) argues.19 If /ganja/ fits a rule-based phonological definition for middleclass speakers, they would accordingly extend the glide to this word. Otherspeakers only allow the glide where it is lexically specified; for /ganja/, borrowedinto polite English after (KYA) had ceased to be a part of the mainstreamvernacular (ca. 1800,DJE:194), the glide never was part of the lexical entry.

The AR environment is the locus of variation and change for soundlinguistic reasons. Both vowel length and vowel quality are available as possibledistinctive features: length for traditional speakers, and quality for speakers withan elaborated, non-overlapping low-vowel subsystem. For the latter group, theoccurrence of the palatal glide in AR was serving no distinctive function, as theword class is already distinguished from other front vowels (short-A) by length,and from other long vowels (OR, long-O) by its separate acoustic space: it wasthe only class of its type (long and historically front). Such a redundant linguisticfeature is subject to few linguistic constraints and thus available to serve a socialfunction, signalling social status and mobility. Prestige-pattern speakers like Roseappear to have reanalyzed their systems, from allowing (KYA) in front vowelsregardless of length to allowing it only in short front vowels; and AR wordshave been re-classified with all the other phonologically long-vowel words.

The redefinition of (KYA) moves in a logical direction: away from a lexicaldistribution, through loss of one environment, to a simpler phonological rule. A

19. Bilby (1985: 90) argues it may have been diffused from above via British legal usage, but alsonotes “the close connection between the African and Asian indentured laborers who worked alongsideone another on the same plantations.” This paradox is resolved if both paths are true — for differentsocial levels.


pattern once favored in polite English speech — but which today marks aJamaican as rural, old-fashioned, less-educated and/or working class — givesway to one that accords better with metropolitan English norms and, not byaccident, is associated with educated, young, middle-class, urban speakers.

Change and evaluation in the Veeton speech community

Examination of (KYA) shows that there is socially significant variation at thephonological level in urban JC. Sociolinguistic patterns differ crucially accordingto linguistic environment, as argued above and shown in Figure 4.8, despiteprevious analyses that treated the variable as a unified whole, searching for asimple evaluation in terms of social status, gender, etc.

Where the feature occurs most commonly, in short-A words, Figure 4.8

Figure 4.8:(KYA) for all speakers, ranked by overall status

shows uniformly high levels of use and no social stratification in informal speech(filled circles). In reading tasks style-shifting is evident, but the degree ofshifting does not seem to correlate with social status (open circles). Similarpatterns hold forcan’t, which shows high use in informal speech here too, witha few exceptions that appear to be random. Figure 4.7 showed earlier that style-shifting is dramatic and regular for all speakers. It is only in the AR word classthat social stratification occurs along the dimensions of class, education andurbanness, and here the differentiation is associated with generational change.


Prestige and traditional patterns occur among distinct segments of the olderpopulation, and probably have for centuries, but the urban young are unified intheir adoption of the prestige model.

For this sociolinguistic variable undergoing change in apparent-time, thepatterns of gradient stratification familiar from many studies of such stablevariables as (ING) or (TH) in New York City (Labov 1966), Norwich (Trudgill1974), and Sydney (Horvath 1985), simply do not occur. Rather we see a morecomplex distribution: the variants are widely known and used throughout thespeech community, but different social interpretations are attached to them bydifferent users. This resembles patterns that often accompany changes inprogress, which enter a community (often from outside) and gradually diffusethroughout it. Certain groups, generally made up of young people, propagate thechange through social network contacts, and the new form of speech is notuniformly evaluated by all groups (Milroy 1987; Eckert 1989a; Chambers 1995;Labov 1994).

Important differences exist in the present case. The variants (presence andabsence of the palatal glide) have evidently coexisted in Jamaica for manygenerations; there are no outsiders involved, as both traditional and prestige usersare full members of the JC speech community. No new form is being introduced,but an environment for an existing form is being lost. Given the variable’s lackof prestige, and the fact that no varieties in contact with JC feature it today, it isquite possible that (KYA) will eventually be lost even in the short-A environ-ment, though other factors may intervene to prevent this.

Analysis of (KYA) illustrates that competing linguistic structures and normsof use exist within the mesolect. Relations of strict co-occurrence do notnecessarily hold between modules of the grammar: a speaker may have a mergedlow-vowel system characteristic of traditional creole speakers, yet manipulate therelated variable (KYA) in a pattern typical of higher-status speakers with moreelaborated vowel systems. Choice among competing options licensed by themesolectal grammar responds to both social and functional pressures, broadlyconceived (e.g. Guy 1996).

The usual picture of the continuum has not emerged from this study of(KYA). We see neither the gradient use of variants that motivated DeCamp(1971) to reject discrete-variety models and embrace implicational scaling, northe single sociolinguistic dimension that he hypothesized to underlie and explainsuch variable behavior. On the other hand, it might be argued that the web ofsocial factors which do constrain variation here — youth, social class, urban


identity, education — are typical of the complexity required to underlie a“creoleness–standardness” dimension such as Rickford posits (1987a: 16), if it isto bear the weight of explaining the variety of speech found in a society likeJamaica. As to whether Kingston is a single speech community, the absence ofgradient social stratification is counterbalanced by the regularity of style-shiftingfor (KYA). The unity of social evaluation and regularity of linguistic behaviorthat Labov set as criteria for a speech community are evaluated over a larger setof variables in the final chapter.

Diachronic issues

The history and distribution of (KYA) raise issues of change and continuity increole languages. Creoles are often said to be the non-genetic product of drasticlinguistic changes: lapses of generational continuity, abnormal situations oflanguage transmission, deep restructuring and remodelling of widely differentsource languages. Universalist and African substratist theories of creole genesisalike have found it convenient to emphasize how greatly contemporary creolesdepart from their European superstrate languages. Catastrophic models ofcreolization may not be applicable everywhere, and the once-comfortableassumption that a Jamaican Pidgin preceded Jamaican Creole (e.g., Cassidy1971) has been countered by cautiously negative views (e.g., Lalla and D’Costa1990; but see also Thomason and Kaufman 1988). It now seems possible tomany scholars that superstrate and substrate historical influences and universalsof language contact and acquisition may all be relevant to the processes of creoledevelopment (Mufwene 1986a, also 1993 and various contributions therein).

This allows the possibility that direct transmission of features of bothstandard and dialectal English into JC may have been underestimated. I haveargued here (elaborating Cassidy’s suggestions inDJE) that present-day JamaicanCreole demonstrates historical continuity with 17th-century vernacular English inseveral respects, but there are also innovations. The vowel merger that occurredin the formation of JC was not socially uniform. While prestige speakerspreserved an elaborated low-vowel space from the ancestral dialects, the mergerled to the appearance of new consonantal distinctions (the phonemicization of/ky/ and /gy/), and perhaps also to the emergence of systematic vowel-length,among traditional speakers. The latter’s lexical distribution of (KYA) testifies tothe conservation of English word-level phonetic conditioning. Despite this clear


English heritage, however, if the feature should become completely lost in theAR environment, JC will then differ from all other varieties of English thatshow palatalization of velars before /a/, since AR was a key environment in17th-century English and has remained so in the modern Midlands dialects,Northern Ireland, and Charleston.

The developments now in progress for (KYA) operate according to princi-ples and patterns familiar from the study of linguistic change in an urban context.Though each society is unique in its configuration of historical and social forces,there appears to be nothing creole-specific about the process. Jamaica’s combina-tion of rapid urbanization and social mobility with dependence on externalsocieties, both for economic resources and as sources of social prestige (e.g.foreign standard languages), contrasts greatly with highly industrialized societiesthat possess multiple urban centers and internationally prestigious, “home-grown”standard varieties. The USA and England may make poor models for predictingsociolinguistic patterns of change in creoles.

C 5

Phonological Variation

Consonant Cluster Simplification

This chapter examines the phenomenon of consonant cluster simplification, aprocess common in both creoles and English (and well-studied in the latter), inorder to illuminate the structure of the Jamaican mesolect and the organizationof the speech community. Multivariate statistical analysis (Varbrul) is introducedto discover whether the observed surface structures are the product of a phono-logical deletion process that occurs in many historical varieties of English —final (TD)-deletion; to explore the nature of the constraints on variation; and todetermine whether one or multiple norms are needed to model the mesolect.

The previous chapter studied a creole-valued variable: the presence of(KYA) marks one as a speaker of JC. Subsequent chapters focus on modes ofmarking past-reference which are either creole-valued (invariant pre-verbalmarkers) or recognizably part of the machinery of standard and other Englishes(inflectional suffix {-ed}). The absence of cluster-final /-t/ or /-d/ does not byitself indicate any particular orientation towards the creole or English poles ofthe continuum. It allows one, however, to gauge the extent of similarity betweenJC and metropolitan English varieties, as well as to inquire into explanations forany resemblances. By considering the behavior of various speakers for thislinguistic variable, one can elucidate the organization of the creole continuum interms of the norms that govern speakers’ output: Are there a large number oflectal groupings, as earlier creolists and variationists (DeCamp 1971; Guy 1980)hypothesized? Can they be ordered according to extralinguistic (i.e. social)dimensions?

A further step addresses the nature of mesolectal grammar by linkingspeakers’ linguistic production to their sociolinguistic evaluation — their beliefsabout the codes they use. What sort of speech patterns result when residents ofVeeton are asked to produce and contrast the varieties labeled “English” and


“Patwa”? How is such idealized behavior related to the talk they produce in less-monitored circumstances? These data contribute to the modelling of Veeton as aunified speech community showing both social and stylistic stratification. Thischapter lays out the linguistic constraints; the final chapter investigates the degreeto which norms are shared for both idealized varieties, English and JC, seekingto integrate them in a single variationist model.1 This treatment must be capableof rendering both the diffuseness (a wide range of individual behavior on acontinuum with contrasting polar varieties) and the focused behavior (regularitiesin production and evaluation produced by shared knowledge of societal norms)that are commonly attributed to and easily observed in the Jamaican mesolect.

The sociolinguistic variable (TD) is first described and defined. Next theconstraints characteristically found in metropolitan varieties of English arereviewed, and each in turn is analyzed for the Veeton sample. One problemencountered is the intersection of variable rules operating across differentdomains of the grammar. Information from the subsequent investigation of past-marking will be required for the proper estimation of the linguistic constraints,as well as for a satisfactory resolution of the English-or-Creole puzzle. Themethod for multivariate analysis of natural linguistic data known as Varbrul(from the “variable rule” concept) is explained, and later used again in theanalysis of past-reference.

(TD): A showcase variable

Studies of consonant-cluster simplification in vernacular English dialects,especially North American ones, have made (TD)-deletion a showcase variablefor variationist sociolinguists. Such analyses have set standards for detailedquantitative description (Labov, Cohen, Robins and Lewis 1968; Guy 1980);investigated the relations of regional, ethnic, and social dialects (Wolfram 1969);initiated quantitative cross-dialectal studies (Labov 1975a); expanded the use ofstatistical methods within the discipline (Neu 1980); demonstrated whichelements may unify and which divide a speech community (Guy 1980); testedgeneral models of the propagation of linguistic changes over time (Romaine1984); illuminated the acquisition of variable constraints by young children

1. In Chapter 8, this is done for both (TD) and past-marking in a parallel treatment.

PHONOLOGICAL VARIATION 123

(Labov 1989) and second-language learners (Bayley 1991, 1994), and theircontinuing development in adult speakers (Guy and Boyd 1990); and groundedexplanations for variable processes in formal linguistic theory (Guy 1991; Guyand Boberg 1994; Santa Ana 1996).

(TD)-deletion has been studied in the U.S.A. for both educated and vernacu-lar urban African American and European-American varieties, for rural andisolated dialects such as Appalachian and Ocracoke English, and for Spanish-influenced varieties such as Puerto Rican, Tejano and Chicano Englishes. Theyvary considerably in the sheer overall level of (TD)-deletion, and slightly inconstraint ordering, yet the major phonetic and grammatical constraints show aremarkable uniformity of patterning among all the U.S. dialects studied. Similartypes of cluster reduction have also been noted in Swedish and Dutch (Romaine1984), Singapore English (Ho and Platt 1993), Scots English and the Kölndialect of German (Görlach p.c.).

Absence of clusters is widely observed in pidgins and creoles too (Holm1988: 110, Alleyne 1980: 48), though it is often erroneously asserted that“Creoles… have no initial or final consonant clusters” (Romaine 1988: 63). Thequestion is approached below in an empirical manner, but the conclusion is thatmesolectal JC speakers often do have underlying clusters upon which a processof variable deletion operates. (Thus when referring to JC surface forms that showclusters where the corresponding canonical English forms contain them, I willsometimes speak of “(TD)-absence,” without prejudice as to the reason for thiscontrast, and other times of “(TD)-deletion,” specifying the process responsiblefor removing the apical stops.) Variationist analysis of competing constraints onthe deletion process, however, has been largely restricted to U.S. mainlandEnglishes, and has not previously been carried out for any Caribbean creole.2

Defining the variable: Examples and exclusions

(TD)-deletion in English is a variable process resulting in the surface absence ofapical stops /t/ and /d/ in underlying morpheme-final consonant clusters /Ct/ and

2. Winford (1992) on Trinidadian Creole, discussed below, differs in some respects from thesefindings, which were first reported in Patrick (1991, 1992).


/Cd/, or /CCt/ and /CCd/.3 Since the apical stops sometimes occur and some-times are absent, a principal analytical question is, What factors favor thedeletion of final /-t/ or /-d/? Deletion occurs in otherwise Standard JamaicanEnglish utterances, such as the following sentences taken from interviews withtwo of the speakers ranked highest in Veeton’s social hierarchy:4

(1) Mother was the faires’ of the girls.My mother was the fairest an’ she had the wors’ hair./m%ða waz ði feeris av ði g6rlz//mai m%ða waz ði feerist an shi had di w6rs heyr/(Rose; #10b:245, 8/9/89)

(2) I have worked with English people, um-but where the sharing is concern’, you see?/ai av w6rkt wid inglish piipl am-//b%t weyr di sheyrin iz kans6rn yu sii/(Rose; #10a:345, 8/9/89)

(3) She jus’ didn’ like the front, I sat in the fron’ but,she jus’ didn’ like the front./shi jos didn laik ð6fr%nt ai sat in ð6fr%n bot//shi jos didn laik ð6fr%nt/(Roxy; #50a:455, 11/19/89)

In this respect Jamaicans are like Americans: variation is sensitive to the age,sex, social status, and education of speakers and also to the formality of theirstyle of speech, but some level of (TD)-deletion characterizes practically allstretches of connected speech for most speakers. Linguistic constraints affectingthe occurrence of the deletion process in metropolitan Englishes operate onphonetic, phonological and morphological levels. Some factors are highly localand reflect speech community norms, while others characterize many dialects ina similar fashion, and others have been claimed to have a basis in phonetic,functional, or phonological universals.

To measure and compare speakers within or across samples, it is necessaryto include all those instances where the process may potentially apply, and

3. Reasons for concentrating on final clusters, and on the removal of /t/ and /d/ only, are given inSanta Ana (1991), the most complete survey of variationist (TD) studies to date.

4. Tokens of (TD)-absence are marked in the standardized spelling with an apostrophe.


exclude all those instances where it may not. Besides the latter, other environ-ments must be excluded too: all those that are in practice invariant, that behavesignificantly unlike other members of their category (and so might skew thecount — e.g. frequent lexical exceptions), or in which the presence or absenceof the crucial /t/ or /d/ cannot reliably be detected. Some of these exclusions arestandard practice. In this study, tokens where a preceding /r/ is the only othermember of a potential cluster (e.g.card, port, word, bored) are not counted dueto the widespread vocalization of /r/ in JC; this matches the usual practice for(TD) in non-Hispanic dialects. Tokens of the frequent itemsandand just are notcounted (Neu 1980); tabulation of all tokens of these words for the first twospeakers coded shows categorical absence of final apicals.

All tokens of final /-t, -d/ before word-initial /t-, d-,θ-, ð-, v-, 3-/ areremoved as usual due to neutralization. Initial alveolar and post-dental fricativesappear rarely in JC. They are generally realized as stops instead (and must beunderlyingly so for some speakers); being subject to neutralization, they areexcluded. When a pause intervenes in such cases, however, the tokens areincluded and the following environment coded as “pause.”

Clusters of alveolar nasal plus (final) stop are included in this data set.Studies of U.S. varieties often exclude them when they occur before vowelsbecause they intersect with the rule of nasal flap formation (Labov 1989: 90),making it impossible to tell whether the apical stop is present or not. This ruleis not native to Jamaican Creole, however. A very common feature of JC isnasalization of a vowel preceding a nasal stop, followed by deletion of the nasalconsonant; and this does happen frequently in (nasal + alveolar stop) clusters.Often the alveolar stop is also deleted, but at other times it remains, especiallyin favoring environments such as before a following vowel; and it is sometimesthe only segment to be deleted. There are thus at least four possible surfacerealizations of a word such aswant: /waant/, /waan/, /waa(n)t/, and /waa(n)/. Itis reasonable to assume then that both the nasal and the alveolar stops areunderlyingly present in such a case, and that their deletion processes — howeverfrequently they may apply — are independent of each other.

Factors affecting (TD)-deletion

A number of elements may influence the process of (TD)-deletion, either bypromoting or disfavoring it. The surrounding linguistic context is divided into the


environment preceding the cluster and that which follows it. In either environ-ment all segments are classified by manner of articulation. The grammaticalnature of the element in which the cluster appears is also taken into account:every token is counted as an instance of a particular morphemic type. Each ofthese three exhaustive classifications will be referred to as a linguistic ‘factor group’.

Each factor-group is hypothesized to constrain application of a ‘variablerule’ — here, the rule of (TD)-deletion. The rule is variable in that for any givenspeaker and corpus, it applies in a non-categorical way: neither 100% of thetime, nor 0%. The basic working assumption of variation analysis is that variableproduction is subject to linguistic constraints and correlates with extralinguisticcharacteristics of the speaker, text-type, or situation. Put another way, a linguisticfactor-group constrains alternation among the ‘variants’ involved: final {/-t/, /-d/}versus {zero}.

Every linguistic factor-group divides a particular environment, or form-class,or set of functions, into precisely defined units or ‘factors’. Thus all the segmen-tal phones, or phonemes, of English constitute the stuff of a factor-group whichis positionally defined for a phonological variable, such as its preceding environ-ment. However, they must be explicitly assigned; some may be excluded, orclassed with others; and the classification scheme must account for all tokens insome linguistically reasonable fashion.

The elements of the preceding segment phonological factor group, followingLabov (1989), include nasals and laterals, alongside stops, sibilants, and non-sibilant fricatives. (Post-vocalic /l/ is [–back] and consonantal in JC, unlike post-vocalic /r/.) As the list in Table 5.1 suggests, clusters ending in apical stopsinclude the fullest range of preceding consonants in English.5

5. In Tables 5.1 and 5.2, underlined letters in the standard spelling highlight the segments involvedin the cluster. In Table 5.3, where the issue is the morphemic constituency of the apical, only theapical is underlined and morpheme boundaries are indicated with “#”.


In Table 5.2, the following segment factor group divides all tokens accord-

Table 5.1:The preceding segment phonological factor-group

SibilantsStopsFricativesNasalsLaterals

/s, w, v, z, Š, 3//k, p, g, b//f, v, θ, ð//n, m, ]//l/

Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:

past, washed, parched, agedbaked, rapt, bagged, nabbedraft, depraved, bathedwant, wand, tamed, bangedold, halt, felt, called

ing to whether the cluster is followed by a pause, or whether the initial segmentof the next word is a vowel, a glide, an /r/, or a consonant (the latter factorcombining all five categories distinguished for preceding segment).

The elements of the grammatical category factor group are listed in

Table 5.2:The following segment phonological factor-group

ConsonantGlideRhoticVowelPause

(all groups in 5.1)/y, w, h//r/(all vowels)(i.e., silence)

Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:

want some, baked goodsstand here, called youtold Rita, planned reunioncalled acab, told usthe end…, Are you cold?

Table 5.3. They include contracted negatives taking the {-n’t} suffix; mono-

morphemic items in which the final stop does not represent a suffix at all; semi-

Table 5.3:The grammatical category morphological factor-group

{-n’t} negative contractionsMono-morphemesSemi-weak past verbsRegular past nonsyllabic verbsIrregular devoicing verbs

Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:Ex.:List:

ca#n’t, do#n’t, is#n’told, burst, denttol#d, kep#t, mean#tpass#ed, bill#ed, tone#dsend, spend, lend, bend, build

weak verbs, which show both a vowel-change and an inflectional suffix in thepast tense; non-syllabic regular past verbs in which the final stop is the inflec-tional suffix (participles and derived passives of similar form are included heretoo); and the small class of irregular devoicing verbs, whose base forms end in


a cluster of sonorant plus voiced alveolar stop, and which form the past bydevoicing the latter.

The data-set used here to examine (TD) overlaps by about 20% with thedata-set analyzed later for past-marking. All regular past non-syllabic verbs occurin both sets (except for those eliminated by neutralization and other exclusions).So does that subset of semi-weak verbs which actually show vowel change; butuninflected forms are not possible tokens of (TD)-deletion, since they are neverregularized. (E.g., pastleft is a token in both data-sets; while pastleave is atoken for purposes of past-marking but not for purposes of (TD)-deletion, sinceleave#dnever occurs. This reduces the numbers of semi-weak tokens consider-ably since bare forms predominate.) Among the syllabic regular verbs, onlyuninflected forms that end in a consonant cluster — e.g.,want but not wait,wanted, or waited— are counted for (TD)-deletion. Forms of the copula areexcluded from both data sets, except for those tokens of negative contraction thatbelong to the {-n’t} class because of their form.6

The global effect of any factor-group (e.g., grammatical category) on therule or alternation may be stronger or weaker than that of another (e.g., preced-ing segment); and the statistical significance of its effect may be measured usingVarbrul. Similarly, individual factors may be compared with others within theirgroup (e.g., {-n’t} vs. semi-weak verbs): each factor will either promote theapplication of the rule, hinder it, or be neutral. All such comparisons are relativeto each other, and to the overall rate of the rule’s application. A factor’sprobability value cannot be compared directly with one from a different factor-group. The overall rate is measured as a percentage of one variant’s occurrence— e.g., the zero variant, (TD) absence, occurs in 76% of all tokens — and isotherwise expressed as an ‘input probability’ associated with the rule.

In other words, in the analysis of a particular variable rule one can establisha hierarchy of effects within any set of related linguistic factors, as well as ahierarchy of effects between unrelated linguistic factor-groups.7 Furthermore,one can estimate the overall tendency of a group of speakers to apply the rule,or compare the rates at which subgroups or individuals apply it, with fineprecision. For each of these measures, the likelihood that they might be producedby chance can be established. The usefulness of multivariate analysis is that one

6. Isn’t, wasn’t, weren’tandaren’t are rare to non-existent in JC;ain’t does not occur.

7. Everything said here also holds true for extralinguistic or social factors and factor-groups.


need not assume for any such estimate that “all other factors are equal” (as onemust, for example, when looking at raw percentage figures). Rather the analysisprovides estimates that take into account, at one time, all factors the analyst hasdetermined to explore in the corpus at hand; thus the values of the other factorsare not “assumed equal” but precisely estimated.

The utility of this method for the questions explored in this chapter is clear.It produces a fine-grained portrait of the hierarchy of linguistic constraints on(TD)-absence in JC. This may be compared with findings on English varietieselsewhere, both to evaluate similarity to JC and to test the appropriateness of amodel which postulates a unified variable process of phonological deletion in theJamaican mesolect. The investigation of social factors gives a second view ofsociolinguistic stratification in Veeton, allowing comparison with other urbanspeech communities for which (TD) is well-mapped; while the comparison ofsub-group and individual behaviors indicates whether or not diverse norms governspeakers’ behavior, and what social forces are most prominently at work here.

Previous studies of (TD)-deletion: Phonological constraints

The most powerful and often-studied constraints on (TD)-deletion appear to beof two types. The pan-English effects show remarkable agreement in internalordering and replicability across practically all varieties investigated. Dialectalconstraints apply strongly within one or several speech communities; by any ofthese we can identify two groups of English dialects.

In nearly all earlier studies of (TD) variation in (mostly North American)English, the principal effects have proved to be the influence of the followingphonological environment, and the grammatical status of the final alveolar stop.The preceding segment has sometimes (e.g. Guy 1980) been included as one ofthe three principal constraints — Santa Ana (1991, Table 4.6) even found it tobe the most significant of all — and elsewhere characterized as a secondaryeffect, showing less clear-cut or fine-grained patterns (Labov 1989; Neu 1980;Bayley 1991). In this study it is crucial because (TD)-deletion intersects withpast-marking. The final segment of English regular verb stems — i.e. thepreceding environment for the /-t, -d/ suffix — plays a role in their past-formation; examination of its constraining effects may prove useful in modellingthe operation of these intersecting variable rules.


The strongest effects are observed when the following segment factor-groupis reduced to a consonant/vowel opposition, where a following consonantuniformly promotes (TD)-deletion and a vowel disfavors it. In a comprehensivesurvey of earlier findings including African American, Puerto Rican, Chicano,cross-dialectal, and white urban and rural groups (Santa Ana 1991, Table 3.3),not one of the fifteen studies reviewed contradicted this pattern. Some studiescast a finer net, distinguishing categories such as glides and liquids which proveto have intermediate effects on deletion, though the ordering between them isnot consistent. This may be due to varying realizations of rhotics and lateralsacross dialects, but the generalization may be drawn that deletion is more likelywhen the sonority of the following segment is lower.

Santa Ana summarizes a number of language-specific and universalproposals for a sonority hierarchy among consonantal elements, finding “broadagreement as to the relative ordering of large natural classes” (1996: 70ff) in ascale he renders thus (low numbers indicate less sonority and high numbersindicate greater sonority):

(4) Obstruents8 Sibilants Nasals Laterals Rhotics Vowels1–5 6–7 8 9 10 11+

The following pause environment, which patterns sometimes with vowels andsometimes with consonants, is an exception because silence has no sonorityvalue. Variation here is a property of speech community norms: e.g., NewYorkers as a group strongly favor deletion before pauses, even more than beforeconsonants; Philadelphians on the whole disfavor it in this environment, evenmore than before vowels. Guy (1980: 27) concludes, “This is a clear example ofa genuine dialect difference” made possible by the arbitrary interpretation of silence.

There is much less consensus on the appropriate analysis of the precedingsegment. This environment has been operationalized in numerous ways (ninedifferent arrangements in twelve studies cited by Santa Ana 1991, Table 3.4),though some regularities exist. Wherever sibilants are singled out they are amongthe most favoring of factors, while non-sibilant fricatives consistently have a

8. The internal structure of obstruent sonority shows some complexity. Since sonority rankingsusually separate obstruents by voicing, but (TD) studies often do not, Santa Ana unites them in asingle category. Fricatives are generally considered more sonorous than stops, voiced elements moresonorous than unvoiced; these contrasts account for the numerical range among obstruents.


negative effect on the deletion rule. In addition, preceding nasals and other stopsgenerally promote deletion, while preceding laterals nearly always disfavor it.9

This pattern is more difficult to reconcile with a sonority-hierarchyexplanation than following segment. In the first place, preceding segmentexcludes not only vowels but glides and /r/; the remaining consonants exhibit anattenuated contrast in sonority level, and are naturally harder to distinguish.Labov (1989: 90) considers it “a relatively weak constraint” cross-dialectally.Second, most theoretical sonority hierarchies concur in ranking the voicedresonants (nasals and laterals) closely together, both being high in sonority, whilesibilants are ranked similarly to non-sibilant fricatives, showing lower sonority.Yet in each of these pairs, one member’s effect on deletion is strongly opposedto the other.

Table 5.4 summarizes the findings of empirical studies (see Labov 1989) forthe two phonological constraints. In each column of empirical results, a linedivides the group into two: the factors above the line have been found topromote (TD)-deletion, while those below the line disfavor it.

The agreement between theoretical predictions and empirical findings is

Table 5.4:Sonority hierarchy prediction vs. (TD)-deletion empirical results

Sonorityhierarchy

Empirical results:following segment

Sonorityhierarchy

Empirical results:preceding segment

consonantsliquidsglidesvowels

consonantsliquidsglidesvowels

stopsfricativessibilantsnasalslaterals

sibilantsstopsnasals*fricativeslaterals

* The relative position of nasals is clear; whether they generally promote or disfavordeletion is not.

quite good for the following phonological environment, but quite poor for thepreceding environment: the only point the two agree completely on is thatlaterals occur at one extreme. While the constraint on the following segmentenvironment is pan-English in its application, the domain of the precedingsegment is unclear.

9. Six group studies cited in Santa Ana (1991: 51, Table 3.4) make all these distinctions, and thepattern described holds for five of them; but see note 19 below.


A sonority-based constraint remains attractive for several reasons: it may becapable of integrating an apparently low-level rule of deletion into a generalexplanation with consequences for central phonological concerns, such as thenature of the syllable; and it may be able to unite both environmental constraintson (TD) in the service of principles with wider application.10 The JC data willbe tested against it below. At present, however, it does not account for theexisting socio-geographical variation and cross-dialectal data evenly, resting asit does on one strong and one weak pillar.

Previous studies of (TD)-deletion: Grammatical constraints

Grammatical category seems at first glance a pan-English constraint. All studiesof North American dialects have found that native speakers consistently deletefinal (TD) less often when it unambiguously constitutes a separate morphemethan when it does not. Explanations for this impressively consistent finding werefirst offered in functionalist terms (Kiparsky 1972; Guy 1980). More recentlyGuy (1991), assuming three levels of English inflection for an analysis adaptingLexical Phonology, generated precise, theoretically derived quantitative predic-tions of the deletion rates, which are exponentially related to each other. Bothsolutions attempt to account for the same body of empirical data; and theprincipal problem in testing either with quantitative methods is the relativeinfrequency of the intermediate forms, semi-weak verbs, which often makescomparisons with larger classes of tokens unreliable — a problem compoundedin JC by the tendency for such forms to be often unmarked.11

Most research has contrasted mono-morphemic words such asmast withinstances of the regular past, as inpassed. Early studies did not isolate the classof semi-weak verbs, but later research has argued that the final (TD) in wordslike keptplays a critical role. The functionalist argument attaches the most utilityto forms that are the sole markers of a grammatical inflection, less to those that

10. Santa Ana (1996) argues that sonority accounts for both phonological environment effects insymmetrical fashion for Chicano English (ChE), where liquids differ in sonority value from non-Hispanic dialects. By integrating sonority into a general theory of syllabification, however, he predictsit should account for cross-dialectal English data as well — the baseline from which he makes hisadjustments for ChE — but so far it fails to do this. In an alternative account, Guy and Boberg(1996) attribute preceding segment patterning to an Obligatory Contour Principle effect.

11. Semi-weak verbs are unmarked for past over 50% of the time in Veeton; see Chapter 6.


are redundant markers, and least to those which do not mark such inflection atall. Thus deletion is more likely to occur in mono-morphemic words than insemi-weak verbs, where the suffix functions to mark past. However as a non-unique marker, redundant alongside ablaut, the suffix has a lower functional load(as well as different morphological status) in semi-weak than in regular pastverbs. Consequently semi-weak verbs ought to show an intermediate level ofdeletion — as, in fact, they often do.

The exponential hypothesis holds instead that (TD)-deletion applies cyclical-ly at each level of derivation, with a cumulative effect. The pool of mono-morphemes is subject to deletion three times, since their clusters exist in theoriginal lexical entry. Semi-weak verbs acquire their final apical at the secondlevel, and are eligible twice. Regular past verbs are only inflected at the thirdlevel, and consequently only undergo the variable deletion rule once; thus theyshow the lowest deletion rate. Each form-class’s rate of retention of (TD) isrelated to that of the other two by an exponential function.

The exponential hypothesis has been powerfully validated by quantitativerelations found in several independent data-sets. Both explanations fit the broadpicture emerging from the various dialect studies outlined above, and indeed theyare not mutually exclusive. The ordering of derivational levels assumed by Guy(1991) is not in principle incompatible with a functionalist belief that conserva-tion of information-bearing segments is more likely than retention of redundantsegments. A finer distinction of grammatical forms (such as past participles,preterits and passives) provides the environments needed to probe the differencebetween them.12 As the existence of productive morphology distinguishingthese in mesolectal JC seems quite unlikely, however, I have not pursued thatline. In order to explain cases where values for semi-weak verbs are not interme-diate but equal to those of mono-morphemes (Guy and Boyd 1990; Patrick et al.1996) or past verbs, both the exponential and functionalist hypotheses requirefurther stipulation.

The relative ranking of the phonological and grammatical constraints hasalso been noted to distinguish dialects. Native varieties considered non-standard(including racial or ethnic minority dialects such as AAVE, Puerto RicanEnglish, Chicano English, Tejano English, and white Appalachian English) bycomparison to the dialects of white, middle-class, educated speakers all share a

12. Such forms are deleted with the same probability in Philadelphia (Guy 1993) and San AntonioTejano (Bayley 1994) English as simple pasts, contrary to a naive functionalist prediction.


single characteristic: phonological environments, especially the followingsegment, are of greater importance in conditioning deletion than grammaticalcategory. White, educated, middle-class speakers of standard English, indepen-dent of their place of origin, weight the grammatical constraint more highly(Labov 1975a; Neu 1980).

Types of consonant clusters in JC

A virtue of variation analysis is that it allows one to test against a corpussuppositions that others have simply presumed; another is that its methodsexplicitly require one to discover whether a linguistic claim or relation holds inan absolute or a probabilistic manner. An earlier study by Akers (1977, 1981a,1981b) gave a detailed account of the types of consonant clusters present acrossthe Jamaican continuum. Akers’s study is important for two reasons: it makesprecise predictions which serve as a point of comparison for the Veeton data andthe English dialect findings; and it depends upon a number of problematicassumptions, concepts, and devices which are commonly found in the literatureon Caribbean English creoles, and are highly relevant to the present enterprise.I first describe his model and results, recasting the latter as predictions testablein a variationist framework, and then discuss problems with his approach.

Akers finds considerable variation in the realization of two-segment (CC)consonant clusters across his sample (though he never investigates inherentlyvariable processes such as (TD)-deletion is conceived to be). He assumes abilingual model of language production, such that every Jamaican nativelycontrols either a basilectal Jamaican Creole or an acrolectal Jamaican Englishgrammar, and has some unspecified competence in the other. In both grammars,a full range of Standard English-like consonant clusters occur as underlyingforms in the lexicon.

Speakers inhabit distinct lects, however, governed by a set of admissibilityconditions specifying which clusters may be given surface realizations. Theseconditions trigger categorical deletion for the inadmissible clusters. Furthermore,even admissible clusters may be deleted by another rule, which appears to besimilar to (TD)-deletion. Akers thus combines invariable and variable deletionrules with full underlying forms to model the output of his speakers, and tostratify the continuum; he also admits that individuals may differ in the fullnessof their underlying representations, though he does not pursue the point.


Akers refutes the common and incorrect assertion that JC is cluster-less,observing that even basilectal speakers produce certain clusters (stop/sibilant andsonorant/obstruent ones among them). I will only consider /-Ct/ and /-Cd/ cases.He orders their occurrence as follows:

(5) lt > ld > nt > nd, st, kt, pt, ft > all other clusters

The left-most clusters are most likely to appear — or, to recast in variationistterms, least likely to undergo deletion. This ranking allows direct comparison tothe sonority hierarchy and cross-dialectal findings for preceding segment, inTable 5.4. In Akers’s order laterals areleast likely to delete, followed by nasals;however, he does not make a distinction between unvoiced sibilant, stop, andfricative clusters. This fits poorly at best with Santa Ana’s (1996) prediction thatpreceding high-sonority segments such as laterals and nasals are themost likelyto delete. It fits better with the empirical findings reported in Labov (1989),which show the lowest deletion for laterals, followed by fricatives and nasals;Akers’s order most clearly fails to match these data for preceding fricatives.

Interestingly, this purely phonological ordering also lends itself to aprediction for grammatical category. The “other clusters” include /-wt/ and allsequences of voiced obstruents (/-bd, -gd, -Šd/) which, as Akers notes, occur onlyas a result of regular past (and other) nonsyllabic {-ed} suffixation; while the/-lt/ and /-nt/ clusters never result from this process, since homo-voicing appliesin affixation.13 Thus one can largely, if not completely, separate the past andmono-morpheme categories. Akers’s prediction is that regular past verbs aremore likely to show (TD)-absence than mono-morphemic words — a claimdirectly contradicting the usual effect found in North American English dialects,including studies of AAVE, as Akers notes (1977: 130, 140 and Table 8). Hisfigures for (TD)-absence support his claim:

13. The clusters listed in (5) include all those that occur in semi-weak verbs, except the /-mt/ ofdreamt; but each cluster in (5) also occurs in mono-morphemic items.


Akers explains this remarkable finding as a consequence of differences in

Table 5.5:Cluster simplification by grammatical category (Akers 1977)

Regular past other forms

‘Standard English’ word-list‘Patwa’ word-list

53%99%

18%54%

the JC and English grammars, arguing that there is no inflection at all in JC:clusters not in the underlying form will not be produced by affixation forbasilectal speakers. Where his data show unexpectedly high cluster occurrencerates (up to 40%), he claims intrusions from beyond the basilectal grammar —essentially a code-switching explanation (though his data are word-lists). TheVeeton mesolectal data replicate his finding, but a different explanation of thefacts is given below.

Difficulties in “explaining away” (TD) variation in JC

Despite Akers’s two clear findings, there are a number of difficulties with thestudy. It was derived from an extremely unbalanced sample. Seven of the tenspeakers were men, and all of these are described as Rastafarians — a small butsalient religious minority with speechways that are demonstrably quite distinctfrom those of other Jamaicans (Pollard 1994). Judging from their occupations, allthe men are working- or lower-class; only one had more than six years ofschooling. Two of the three women (none of whom are Rastafarians) graduatedfrom secondary school, and one was a college student. None of the informantswas younger than 14 or older than 33 years, a range too narrow to allowconclusions about language change based on apparent-time data. Akers’s sampleis thus biased with regard to sex, age, education, religion, and social class. Itseems quite unlikely that it covers, as he claims, the entire range of the continu-um, or even adequately represents either the acrolect or basilect.

Akers’s methods included the use of interviews, but his analysis of thedistribution of final clusters across the Jamaican continuum is based on datataken entirely from word-lists, read first in “Standard English” and then in“Patwa” (1977: 87). These are comparable to formal tests I conducted in Veeton,but not to the interview and conversational data examined below (which probably


explains the higher rate of (TD)-absence for mono-morphemes in my data).Though he gives percentage figures, Akers gives no token counts; details ofelicitation and quantification are unclear. His analysis is thus not accountable invariationist terms (Labov 1972c).

Other problems with Akers’s work are conceptual rather than method-ological. As they derive from the desire to “explain away” variation, and anunwillingness to accept variable processes as a core part of linguistic structureand competence, they concern issues fundamental to this study, and are worthattending to in some depth.

It is probable that most of Akers’s data are mesolectal. However, in hisbilingual conception, all intermediate speech behavior is due to a failure ofacquisition on the speakers’ part: they “incompletely control their non-dominantcode” (1981a: 4). The methods of elicitation were designed to minimize meso-lectal data, which he sees as problematic. In this view, inherent variation is a sortof performance error, and differential production across speakers is strictly dueto individual language-learning ability.

Akers’s position resembles that of other prominent creolists such asDeCamp (1971) and Bickerton (1975), seeking to model the creole continuumpurely on grounds of linguistic structure and entirely leaving out social andsociolinguistic elements. These scholars and many others have explicitly linkedvariation across the continuum to change over time, as Akers does in claimingto “provid[e] a characterization of the notion ‘linguistic change in progress’ ”(1981a: 17). Given all that has been learned in recent decades about the embed-ding of linguistic change in the social structure of speech communities (Wein-reich, Labov and Herzog 1968; Labov 1994), it is clear that no account thatignores social factors entirely can succeed.

Akers invokes the early “wave” model of C.-J. Bailey (1973) and hisanalysis suffers from some of its shortcomings. He equates variation withchange, and change with decreolization. Synchronic variation across the continu-um is thus described as “acquisition”: it consists of approximating more andmore closely to Standard English norms. No independent evidence of change inprogress, or of language-learning, is provided. But the pitfalls of inferringdiachrony from synchrony are well-known to variation studies (Labov 1975b,1994), and (TD)-deletion in North American dialects is widely acknowledged tobe a stable variable — i.e., one not undergoing change — while its relevance tolanguage-learning among adults primarily concerns the late emergence of semi-weak verbs as an independent inflectional class (Guy and Boyd 1990).


Akers uses implicational scaling to schematize community variation at theexpense of individual variability, with the goal of confining individuals torestricted lects in which the effect of categorical deletion rules is maximized.Any variation still unaccounted for is then attributed either to dialect mixing orto optional deletion rules.14 This project reflects the influence of Bailey (1973)and Bickerton (1971, 1973) again: they charged that variability on the communitylevel is largely an illusion created by mixing individuals with distinct invariant lects.

The charge was generally refuted by Guy (1980), who used (TD)-deletionas an example, though he allowed that it might remain true for creole continua.Akers assumes itis true. In the analysis to follow, data from individuals areexamined and then grouped, and the whole sample analyzed, in order to test thisconception. (Testing Akers’s predictions involves reinterpreting his statements, whichare variable ones at the level of the aggregated data, as holding for and betweenindividuals — as I do in chapters 6 and 7 for categorical statements by Bickerton.)

A final difficulty is raised by Akers’s admission that individuals differ intheir underlying forms, i.e., that some contain clusters which others lack for thecorresponding lexical item. This adds a third source of variation to his categori-cal and variable deletion rules. What undermines the explanatory power of hisaccount is the failure to measure the various sources, or even to determine whichare significant and which negligible. Underlying forms are a serious problem forany account, however, since it seems likely that at least some words underlyinglylack final clusters for at least some speakers.

The present analysis tests the hypothesis in the following way. If manyentries contain final clusters, and phonological deletion occurs, the familiarphonological constraints will prove statistically significant. If on the other handmany tokens lack underlying clusters, the deletion process being modelled willprove an inappropriate account and should fail to adequately fit the data. Whenthe standard measure of goodness-of-fit is applied to the Varbrul analyses below,an empirical answer will emerge to the question of underlying form.

14. Akers did not investigate what factors might constrain the latter.


Principal questions and procedures for the Veeton study

The general hypothesis to be tested for the Veeton sample is whether most (TD)-absence in mesolectal Jamaican Creole results from variable application of aphonological deletion rule which is sensitive to the major pan-English con-straints. Subsequent questions include, for phonological factor-groups: Does thephonetic patterning of (TD)-deletion reflect the influence of sonority? For thegrammatical factor-group: Does the familiar functional ordering hold or isAkers’s contrary finding replicated, and why? For each factor-group shown toconstrain variation in the sample: Is the range of individual variation compatiblewith a single group norm, or must lects be distinguished within the sample?After examining the data for all three constraints, the relative importance of eachis addressed.

First I present summary data for the group of ten speakers, and then Iseparate it into individual figures — in both cases, as raw percentages. TheVarbrul analysis requires quantities of data in each environment which are notmet for all individuals. Guy (1980), claiming that variable rule analysis of groupdata is inappropriate for the continuum situation, suggests that one should firstexamine individuals and then group them into lects, by some linguistically plausiblemethod. Accordingly, I arrange speakers who behave similarly into subgroups andproceed to variable-rule analysis at this level, making appropriate data-exclusions.

Internal (linguistic) and external (social) explanatory factors differ in theircharacteristics: social factor-groups are typically not independent, while linguisticones must be, by definition. Variation studies traditionally attempt to assign asmuch of the variability to linguistic causes as possible (Wolfram 1993; Fasold1991), so I will consider them first. Initially I include only a single comprehen-sive social factor-group, to control for external effects: it names each individualspeaker as a separate factor (Rousseau and Sankoff 1978), and thus accounts forthe greatest amount of non-linguistic variation. Such a factor-group ultimatelytells us little more than whether individuals behave distinctly, however — not why.

After refining the linguistic analysis in this chapter, and conducting a similaranalysis of linguistic constraints on past-marking in subsequent ones, I return tothe question of social factors in detail in Chapter 8. There I discard the individu-al speaker factor-group and discuss the other external constraints (sex, age andclass), examining data elicited in formal tests — for both (TD)-deletion and past-marking — in order to assess the sociolinguistic patterning of these variablesacross the speech community of Veeton.


Preceding segment effects in the Veeton data

The most striking thing about the variable (TD) in the urban mesolectal speechof Veeton is its absence. Overall, this appears to run about 75%; that is, finalconsonant clusters which in Standard English end in /-t, -d/ retain the segment onthe surface only a quarter of the time. This is comparable to the highest figuresfound in urban AAVE communities, including lower working-class adults inDetroit (Wolfram 1969), adolescents in Harlem (Labov et al. 1968), and youngchildren in Washington D.C. (Patrick et al. 1996).15

Table 5.6 shows how the complete data set is distributed across the range

Table 5.6:Percentage of (TD)-absence by preceding segment

Preceding segment absence rate no. of tokens

SibilantStopOther fricativeNasalLateral

TOTAL

85%80%75%74%58%

75%

0,4630,1620,0731,4520,173

2,323

of preceding consonants. As in other studies, clusters with a preceding sibilant(e.g.,rest) are most often absent, closely followed by clusters with a precedingstop (e.g.,act). Preceding fricative tokens are few, as always, and many of theseare semi-weak verbs (e.g.,left); they are absent at a surface rate nearly identicalto nasal clusters (e.g.,mint). These are by far the most common class (even iftheir frequency were not boosted by some 525 cases of negative contractions —don’t and the like). As is typical, lateral clusters (e.g.,hold) most disfavorabsence. The only deviation from the empirical deletion pattern of Table 5.4 isfor non-sibilant fricatives, usually a strong disfavoring factor.16

Table 5.6 replicates the usual empirical findings (compare Table 5.4),suggesting that the pan-English phonetic constraint may hold for JC too.

15. See Table 5.17 below for details.

16. Whether or not a factor actually disfavors a variable rule cannot be told from the percentages,but only from a multivariate analysis such as Varbrul.


However, most of the percentage values are quite close — all factor values butlaterals are within ten points of the mean — suggesting either that preceding segmentis a minor effect, though real, or that some other factor is attenuating it, perhapsas a result of interaction. Both options are evaluated with multivariate analysis.

Yet another possibility is that the apparent levelling is due to inappropriatepooling of the data: perhaps individuals do not consistently show this orderingand it is an artifact of aggregation into a group. To test this, Table 5.7 breaksdown the data-set for individual speakers. A perfect implicational ordering wouldresult in percentages that decline uniformly from left to right across the environments(which are arranged according to the expected ordering), and increase from topto bottom for the speakers (arranged according to their overall rate of absence).

In contrast, Table 5.7 shows considerable fluctuation in the ordering ofphonetic classes. At this level, there are often too few tokens for reliability: 16of the fifty cells contain ten tokens or less.

To resolve this, Table 5.8 arranges the speakers into subgroups, using theiroverall level of (TD)-absence as the criterion.

Both tables contain the results of a Varbrul ‘run’ (as each analysis based ona unique combination of factor-groups, factors and token exclusions is called).Table 5.7 lists the probability of (TD)-deletion for each speaker, from a runwhich takes into account all linguistic factors and makes no exclusions. Theseprobabilities (which are more reliable than percentages) are used to create thesub-groupings of Table 5.8; each sub-grouping is a separate run.

Those who delete least often (Roxy, Rose, and Olive) make up one sub-group, those who delete most (Bigga, Mina, and Dinah) are another, and the rest(Noel, Matty, Opal, and Tamas) are an intermediate subgroup. Table 5.8 showsthe results of four separate analyses — one for each sub-group, and one for thewhole group — making the exclusions described below. (The figure for chi-squared per cell is a measure of how well the arrangement of factors in thecurrent run accounts for the variation actually observed. Specifically, for eachcombination of factors that occurs in the database — i.e. each ‘cell’ — itcompares the actual rate of deletion with that predicted by the candidate explanatoryfactors, and measures the difference. A figure of 1.0 is usually considered good.)17

Other changes are introduced in Table 5.8, too. I have excluded the smallset of irregular devoicing verbs (e.g.,send; n=26), which are also dropped from

17. The chi-squared of 1.09 given after Table 5.8 is for the whole-group analysis; the sub-grouprates were 0.86, 1.07 and 0.97. All results are significant atp< .01 or better.


later calculations; they are so few that their exclusion makes no practical

Table 5.7:(TD)-absence by preceding environment, all speakers

Speaker Sibilant Stop Nasal Fricative Lateral Total Prob.*

Roxyn=

0%58%045

%017%006

%069%077

%050%004

%033%006

%061%138

pr.= 0.21

Rosen=

0%73%041

%052%023

%055%183

%075%008

%041%049

%056%304

pr.= 0.25

Oliven=

0%77%022

%100%009

%066%097

%055%011

%042%012

%067%151

pr.= 0.34

Mattyn=

0%83%083

%078%032

%075%319

%065%020

%053%030

%075%484

pr.= 0.52

Tamasn=

0%92%063

%089%019

%073%193

%100%005

%072%018

%078%298

pr.= 0.51

Opaln=

0%84%045

%100%020

%073%108

%100%005

%069%013

%079%191

pr.= 0.52

Noeln=

0%95%055

%067%021

%077%146

%050%004

%067%009

%080%235

pr.= 0.55

Minan=

0%85%027

%100%010

%085%117

%100%004

%075%024

%085%182

pr.= 0.67

Biggan=

%100%037

%100%006

%075%083

%100%004

%100%005

%084%135

pr.= 0.74

Dinahn=

%100%045

%100%016

%091%129

%100%008

%100%007

%095%205

pr.= 0.83

Mean=N=

%085%463

%080%162

%074%1,452,0

%075%073

%058%173

%075%2,323,0

Pi= 0.81

(χ2/cell= 1.26)

* Probabilities of (TD)-absence for individual speakers, like other Varbrul probabili-ties, are centred around 0.5, thus do not directly reflect the percents in the columnsto their left. Probabilities in columns or rows labeled ‘Total’ or ‘Mean’ represent theinput parameter for the run — the overall tendency of a variable role to be appliedacross the sample — hereafter Pi.

difference. A subset of the largest category, nasals, has been removed, namelythe {-n’t} words (n=525, mostlywasn’t and can’t), which generally show thehighest rates of (TD)-absence of any morphological class. Since these words aredefined by the presence of a nasal immediately before the final (TD) in their


phonetic form, their specification is not independent of the phonological factor

Table 5.8:(TD)-absence by preceding environment, speaker sub-groups

Speakers Sibilant Stop Fricative Nasal Lateral Total

Roxy, Rose andOliven=

%068%00.000.65

108

%058%00.000.56

038

%061%00.000.57

023

%042%00.000.43

183

%041%00.000.40

064

%051%Pi=0.52

416

Matty, OpalTamas, Noeln=

%088%00.000.70

245

%083%00.000.60

092

%074%00.000.50

034

%069%00.000.41

528

%065%00.000.35

068

%075%Pi=0.78

967

Mina, Biggaand Dinahn=

%096%00.000.77

109

%100%00.000.77

032

%100%00.000.77

016

%084%00.000.30

196

%083%00.000.34

036

%089%Pi=0.94

389

Mean

N=

%085%00.000.67

462

%080%00.000.60

162

%075%00.000.56

073

%067%00.000.42

907

%058%00.000.35

168

%072%Pi=0.761,772

(χ2/cell= 1.09)

of preceding nasal. In order to isolate the influence of preceding nasals from thepowerful effects of the {-n’t} morpheme class, members of the latter have beenexcluded. Finally, phonetic environments are re-ordered (exchanging nasals andfricatives) to show, not the expected rankings, but those that actually emerged.

Figure 5.1 displays a regular and significant effect of preceding segment on(TD)-absence rates for all speaker subgroups.

The Veeton pattern resembles North American English dialects in its

Figure 5.1:Probability of (TD)-absence by preceding segment

phonetic conditioning (see Table 5.4), with sibilants and stops high and laterals


low — obstruents favor deletion, while resonants have the opposite effect, ineach subgroup.18 The exchanging of position between nasals and fricatives, farfrom being problematic, unites these two natural classes of segments, which areneighbors in the sonority hierarchy. Speakers with lower rates of (TD)-absenceshow a more finely articulated gradation of phonetic categories, while those withthe highest rates — Bigga, Mina, and Dinah — do not distinguish between thevarious obstruents, or differentiate among the resonants, but strongly oppose thesetwo categories to each other. The same phonological constraint evidently operatesfor all speakers; those closer to the basilect simply paint with a broader brush.

The correlation with theoretical sonority hierarchy predictions is even closerhere than in the mainland studies — but in a direction opposite to what SantaAna (1996: 76) predicts: more sonorous preceding environments lead tolessdeletion, not more. The single exception to this generalization is the sibilantcategory, which is more favorable to deletion than its sonority value predicts; buthere JC is united with nearly all empirical investigations of American dialects,and the same explanation may apply to them all. Labov et al. (1968) noted earlythat all clusters involving preceding /s/ + stop (/sp, st, sk/) show unusually highabsence rates.

In a different vein, LaCharité (1996) argued for JC that [st] is not a clusterat all but rather a single segment. As an illicit one in JC, it is subject to repair byfeature adaptation (delinking the [−cont] feature to produce a final /s/) accordingto principles set forth in the theory of Constraints and Repair Strategies (LaChar-ité and Paradis 1993). The result is that “Although the featural repair of [st]word-finally mimics the effect of final consonant deletion, it is a distinctprocess” (1996). LaCharité also speculated that “the high conditioning effect ofsibilants in [TD] deletion [may be] attributable to the fact that there are two ruleswith an additive effect” (1996), namely [st]-adaptation in monomorphemes and(TD)-deletion in bi-morphemic and mono-morphemic segments.

Whatever the explanation for the behavior of sibilants, it is evident thaturban JC closely resembles mainland U.S. white dialects for this constraint, and

18. In a binary Varbrul analysis, a probability value over 0.50 favors the rule (in this case, (TD)-deletion) while a lower number disfavors it; a figure of 0.50 is neutral. The dashed line in Figures5.1–2 represents this neutral value.


that together they represent an obstacle to the unified sonority explanationadvanced by Santa Ana (1996).19

Following segment effects in the Veeton data

The following phonetic environment is typically the strongest determinant of(TD)-deletion, with a straightforward interpretation in terms of sonority: lesssonorous initial segments of following words favor deletion.

Guy (1991), as required by his exponential hypothesis, argues that this is aconstraint not on deletion, per se, but rather on syllabification: word-final stopsmay be resyllabified as the initial segment of the following syllable, providedthey meet possible-onset constraints. He argues for subdivision of the liquidscategory, since laterals and rhotics have different status as possible onsets: /tr-/and /dr-/ are common, but /tl-/ and /dl-/ are prohibited, in all English varieties.In the analysis to come, rhotics are treated as a distinct factor. Since lateralsclosely resemble the other consonants (all of which, following initial /t-/ or /d-/,make unacceptable onsets; see Table 5.1), they have been merged in a single factor.

Table 5.9 gives the distribution of the complete data set, without exclusions.Once again, the phonetic factors mirror the empirical results of North Americandialect studies; they also appear to influence (TD)-absence in a manner conso-nant with sonority predictions. (Recall that following pause stands outside ofsonority, and varies dialectally across speech comunities.)

Table 5.10 displays the data for individual speakers. Except for the categoryof rhotics, where tokens are sparse, the ordering of the four environmentsgoverned by sonority is quite strong and regular, suggesting that the nullhypothesis (i.e., no correlation between phonological factors and (TD)-absence)may prove false.

19. On the empirical pattern described above for white American dialects, see Labov (1989) andnote 9. However, recent examinations of African American varieties (Patrick et al. 1996) findpreceding laterals to be among the most highly favoring environments for the Ex-Slave Elderrecordings (Bailey et al. 1991), African American males in Guy’s (1980) Philadelphia sample, andpossibly young children in Washington DC. Wolfram and Christian’s (1976) data on Appalachianwhites also show this pattern. Hispanic dialects are not uniform, as Bayley’s (1994) Tejano Englishspeakers resemble European-American dialects more closely than they do Santa Ana’s ChicanoEnglish findings (1992, 1996). Further research is needed to reconcile these dialectal contrasts.


Guy (1980) and Neu (1980) investigated the quantity of data needed to

Table 5.9:Percentage of (TD)-absence by following segment

Following segment absence rate no. of tokens

ConsonantRhoticGlideVowelPause

TOTAL

87%78%74%63%70%

75%

970055238806254

2,323,0

establish valid rankings, suggesting 30 tokens per cell as minimum. In Ta-ble 5.10, all reversals of the predicted order (save one) occur in cells with lessthan 25 tokens. Moreover, except for rhotics, there are larger amounts of data foreach factor, overall, than in Neu’s cross-dialectal study of college-educated,middle-class speakers from across the U.S.

Table 5.11 and Figure 5.2 group the speakers into the same subgroups usedabove. The irregular devoicing verbs (sendetc.) are once again excluded, asabove, but there is no need to exclude the {-n’t} words here. Aside from therhotics (which show wide variation, but unreliable amounts of data for eachsubgroup), there is good agreement among the three subgroups, confirming theunified nature of the Veeton speech community for phonological constraints.20

An analysis which combines rhotics and consonants, ranging them againstglides, vowels, and pauses to give a consonantal/vocalic opposition, is notsignificantly different (at thep< .05 level) from the one above. Mesolectal JC isthus similar to all varieties of English yet examined in its correlation with thesonority hierarchy: (TD)-deletion declines (from left to right) as sonority rises.

Figure 5.2 also compares the individual subgroups and the whole samplewith Neu’s cross-dialectal study.

The strong similarity of the JC data with North American varieties ofEnglish is evident. The JC data show much higher absence rates, but the samepattern, as Neu’s data (1980: 48), variation among rhotics excepted.21 The

20. Chi-squared per cell figures for the sub-groups were 0.88, 1.23 and 1.22, in descending order.All results are significant atp< .01 or better.

21. Neu’s ‘Liquids’ included both laterals and rhotics; she did not consider following pause.


treatment of following pause resembles the low-deletion pattern found in

Table 5.10:(TD)-absence by following environment, all speakers

Speaker Cons. Rhotic Glide Vowel Pause Total Prob.

Roxyn=

%73%75

%100%009

%40%05

%31%36

%54%13

%61%1380

pr.= 0.21

Rosen=

%80%1270

%67%06

%44%27

%35%1090

%40%35

%56%3040

pr.= 0.25

Oliven=

%86%64

%100%006

%63%16

%47%55

%40%10

%67%1510

pr.= 0.34

Mattyn=

%89%1760

%92%12

%74%50

%64%2100

%64%36

%75%4840

pr.= 0.52

Tamasn=

%83%1130

%80%05

%88%34

%71%1070

%74%39

%78%2980

pr.= 0.51

Opaln=

%87%87

n.d.n.d.

%86%22

%66%65

%76%17

%79%1910

pr.= 0.52

Noeln=

%90%84

%100%002

%71%24

%67%76

%84%49

%80%2350

pr.= 0.55

Minan=

%93%73

%100%001

%61%23

%86%63

%82%22

%85%1820

pr.= 0.67

Biggan=

%97%69

%33%12

%100%012

%70%33

%89%09

%84%1350

pr.= 0.74

Dinahn=

%96%1020

%100%002

%92%25

%96%52

%88%24

%95%2050

pr.= 0.83

Mean=N=

%87%9700

%78%55

%74%2380

%63%8060

%70%2540

%75%2,323

Pi= 0.81

(χ2/cell= 1.26)

Philadelphia, Appalachia, Detroit, San Antonio, Los Angeles, the South andSouthwest, rather than the high-deletion pattern of New York City and Washing-ton D.C. Notably, it is identical for all Veeton subgroups — further evidence ofunity across the mesolectal portion of the continuum.


Insertion or deletion?

Table 5.11:(TD)-absence by following environment, speaker sub-groups

Speakers Cons. Rhotic Glide Vowel Pause Total

Roxy, Rose andOliven=

80%0.69262

90%0.7521

50%0.3648

38%0.29196

44%0.3857

60%Pi=0.64584

Matty, Opal,Tamas, Noeln=

88%0.65456

89%0.6519

79%0.49130

67%0.36449

76%0.45140

78%Pi=0.811,194

Mina, Bigga andDinahn=

95%0.70242

47%0.1015

81%0.3359

86%0.33148

85%0.4155

89%Pi=0.93519

Mean

N=

88%0.66960

78%0.4355

74%0.45237

63%0.34793

71%0.43252

76%Pi=0.792,297

(χ2/cell= 1.16)

Figure 5.2:Probability of (TD)-absence by following segment

Although Veeton speakers differ drastically in their overall rates of simplifica-tion, the close resemblance among their patterns argues that a single solution beapplied to all of them. The possibility that the patterns might emerge by chancegrouping of unlike speakers has been soundly rejected. The regularity of phonetic


conditioning shown suggests a process of phonological deletion of underlyingclusters, rather than insertion into clusterless base forms.

Labov (1984b: 136) distinguished the two formally equivalent processes inempirical studies, calling (TD) “a clear case of regular phonological deletion,where all six… properties [considered] occur.” In contrast, insertion processesare characterized by the absence of phonological conditioning, and the occur-rence of hypercorrect forms. In the two preceding sections the hypothesis whichis most compatible with the mechanism of insertion (i.e., that phonologicalfactors do not influence (TD)-absence) has been strongly rejected. Still, aninsertion analysis of (TD) might be preferred by creolists who wish to argue thatsimilar cluster-less surface forms in English and JC arise from distinct underlyingforms and different processes — thus maximizing the contrast between Creoleand English grammars.

The Veeton data show indisputably that upper-mesolectal speakers, at least,have English-like forms and variable processes. To maintain that lower-meso-lectal speakers such as Bigga, Mina, and Dinah operate by means of insertion,one would have to explain:

a. how and why they mimic the phonetic constraints attested for speakers whodelete;

b. why they produce many forms with “correct” clusters, yet never producehypercorrect forms; and

c. why speakers who show only marginal quantitative differences from oneanother, such as Mina and Opal, should be assigned to radically differentgrammars.

The ability to mimic constraints requires speakers to have detailed knowledge ofa variable pattern foreign to their own grammar, since the possibility that itmight occur by chance has also been rejected. The absence of hypercorrectionattests to knowledge of the “correct” shape for hundreds of English lexical items,corresponding to their own cluster-less ones — i.e. the maintenance of a parallellexicon.22 The third point is equally difficult to motivate: as in the other cases,Occam’s Razor cuts against postulating two solutions for every objection, whereone (already required for upper-mesolectal speakers) will do.

22. Word-initial hypercorrect clusters are indeed a common stereotype of basilectal JC — e.g./stanjariin/ fortangerine, /schraiv/ forthrive — but in fifteen hours of recorded data, I found onlyone possible instance of a hypercorrect word-final (TD) cluster.


Ironically, such a traditional creolist position is forced to stipulate (withAkers) that lower-mesolectal speakers possess the linguistic foundations forsomething approaching full competence in the standard, but are constrained fromusing it. The variationist alternative presented here is far simpler: mesolectalspeakers across the continuum simply share the same underlying forms, process-es, and phonological constraints, but differ from one another in rate of applica-tion; as the rate approaches categorical deletion, fine category distinctions (e.g.,in preceding segment) disappear.23

Grammatical category effects in the Veeton data

Mesolectal Jamaican Creole shares with American Englishes both the process ofvariable (TD)-deletion and the most prominent phonological constraints on it.Table 5.12 displays the basic patterning for the major grammatical constraint, themorphological status of (TD) as a suffix.

Typically, negative suffixes show the highest absence, despite the disfavoring

Table 5.12:Percentage of (TD)-absence by grammatical category

Grammatical category absence rate no. of tokens

Negative{-n’t}Mono-morphemeSemi-weakIrregular devoicingRegular past

TOTAL

%87%%71%%59%%38%%79%

%75%

5251,358,0

044026370

2,323,0

effect of preceding nasals (Table 5.8). The irregular devoicing verbs have the lowestabsence but are so infrequent they will not be considered further. However, theregular past verbs show a strikingly high rate, higher than either semi-weak verbs ormono-morphemes, corroborating Akers’s data (Table 5.5). If all of these absences

23. A slightly different option recognizes that speakers lower on the continuum have more cluster-less underlying forms, the effect of which is to blur phonetic distinctions between similar form-classes (e.g., resonants).


were due to phonological deletion, JC would be the first native English-relatedvariety to show more cluster absence in past contexts. To pose the question infunctional terms, why should a deletion process apply more often when iteliminates crucial grammatical information (past-marking) than when it does not?

One possible answer — that there is no (TD)-deletion process, but rather aninsertion process governed by different constraints — has already been discount-ed. A familiar alternative — that the aggregated figures misrepresent the case bymerging distinct, and perhaps opposing, tendencies of individuals or subgroups— will be addressed next. Third, the grammatical categories may be affected bysome non-random distribution across phonological form-classes — i.e., adisguised phonological effect may be at work. This is precisely the sort ofproblem multivariate analysis is designed to unravel.

Table 5.13 provides the familiar breakdown by individuals, with noexclusions. I will concentrate on the relation between mono-morphemic and pastcategories (normally M > P), since semi-weak verbs are so rare (though crucialin relating the derivational status of (TD) to its probability of deletion underGuy’s 1991 exponential hypothesis). This relation is symbolized in the right-mostcolumn of the table.

Seven of the ten speakers have a distinctly higher rate of (TD)-absence inpast verbs than in mono-morphemic words, i.e., the P > M pattern. Two (Mattyand Noel) have a very slight edge in the other direction, but only Roxy stronglyhas the M > P pattern. This is no accident, since Roxy — the teenage child ofmiddle-class professionals, with two siblings who are university graduates — isalso the most acrolectal speaker of the present sample on all linguistic measures.If the M > P relation served as a diagnostic of closeness to metropolitanEnglishes, it would unambiguously pick out Roxy, and Roxy alone. In a trivialsense, then, the Veeton sample does show distinct patterns; but the anomalous P> M ordering truly characterizes most speakers, and is not simply a result ofaggregating diverse sources of data.

In Table 5.14 Varbrul analysis demonstrates that the absence of an M > Ppattern is not merely an artifact of uneven data distribution. When the inconclu-sive {-n’t}, send and semi-weak tokens are discarded and the ten speakers(including Roxy) combined into subgroups once again, none exhibits a tendencyto show the M > P ordering.24

24. The group including Mina has categorical deletion of past verbs, so a probability analysis cannotbe performed; as with the other groups, their tendency is clear from the percentages.


Table 5.13:(TD)-absence by grammatical category, all speakers

Speaker {-n’t} Mono-morph.

Semi-weak

‘Send’verbs

Pastverbs

Total Prob.

Roxyn=

%92%39

%52%79

0%0%01

n.d.n.d.

%37%19

%61%1380

M > P

Rosen=

%79%76

%43%1640

%75%08

%20%05

%61%51

%56%3040

P > M

Oliven=

%85%53

%55%55

%20%05

%25%04

%71%34

%67%1510

P > M

Mattyn=

%95%58

%75%3350

%30%10

%29%07

%70%74

%75%4840

M > P

Tamasn=

%84%86

%69%1530

%100%001

%50%02

%96%56

%78%2980

P > M

Opaln=

%89%45

%72%89

%77%13

%50%04

%88%40

%79%1910

P > M

Noeln=

%92%38

%78%1670

%67%03

0%0%01

%73%26

%80%2350

M > P

Minan=

%92%38

%80%1220

%100%001

%100%001

%100%020

%85%1820

P > M

Biggan=

%70%43

%88%69

%100%001

%100%001

%100%021

%84%1350

P > M

Dinahn=

%98%49

%92%1250

%100%001

%100%001

%100%029

%95%2050

P > M

Mean=N=

%87%5250

%71%1,358,0

%59%44

%38%26

%79%3700

%75%2,323,0

P > M

(χ2/cell= 1.26)

Intersecting variable processes

The overall high rates of absence suggest that the problem to be explained is notlow rates of (TD)-absence among mono-morphemes, but rather elevated ratesamong past verbs. Neither the functionalist nor the exponential hypothesessuggest any obvious solution. Since it has been established that (TD)-deletion is


at work in these data, some additional process must be contributing to the

Table 5.14:(TD)-absence by grammatical category, speaker sub-groups

Speaker Mono-morpheme Past Total

Roxy, Roseand Oliven=

%48%00.00.47

2980

%60%00.00.58

1040

%51%Pi =0.52

4020

Matty, Tamas,Opal and Noeln=

%74%00.00.50

7440

%82%00.00.51

1960

%76%Pi =0.79

9400

Mina, Biggaand Dinahn=

%87%n/a

3160

%100%0n/a70

%89%n/a

3860

MeanN=

%71%1,358,0

%79%3700

%75%1,728,0

(χ2/cell= 1.23)

absence of clusters on past verbs. This process must plausibly be characteristicof JC, but not of native U.S. English dialects, all of which show the M > Prelation instead on the surface.

The best candidate is the morphological process taken up in Chapter 7:variable marking of past-reference by verb-suffixation. Arguments for variableinflection of a range of verb-classes are detailed there, but one fact stands out.Regular past non-syllabic verbs are exceptional when considered from the pointof view of both (TD)-deletion (they show abnormally high absence rates) andpast-marking (they show unusually low marking rates). If the two variableprocesses intersect and apply additively, these twin anomalies can be explained.

Furthermore, the dialectal distribution appears to be correct: all native NorthAmerican English varieties, whether vernacular or standard, ethnic minority ormajority, are presumed to mark past tense categorically at the level of morpholo-gy (including AAVE, cf. Fasold 1972; Labov et al. 1968). This is conspicuously


not the case for JC, where both regular and irregular verbs often appear inunmistakably past contexts without being inflected for past, e.g.:25

(6) The first match I play[ed]… in Sunlight… I play[ed] it againstGeorge’s./f6rs mach a plie in sonlait a plie it agens jaajiz/(Bigga; #40a:115, 11/2/89)

(7) He was a barber. He trim[med] and [sold] ice-cream and [did]everything./im waz a baaba im chrim an im sel ais kriim an du evriting/(Dinah; #45a:375, 11/12/89)

(8) He must have just go[ne] up into the guardroom, load[ed] up one ofthe service revolvers and just c[a]me down and start[ed] to shoot allthe men who were giving him a hard time./im mos bi jos go op ina di gyaadrum lod op wan a di s6rvis rivalva anjos kom dong an staat shat aal di man dem hu dida gi im a haad taim/(Matty; #102a:32, 3/17/90)

Regular past non-syllabic verbs, then, are in turn subject to both variable past-marking — i.e., when they occur in past-reference clauses, they sometimesacquire a past {-ed} suffix and sometimes do not — and to variable (TD)-deletion, i.e., if they have acquired a suffix and now end in a consonant cluster,it is sometimes simplified and sometimes not. When there is no cluster-finalapical in a context where its occurrence would signify past-reference, its absencemay result from either of two causes: either it was never generated by themorphology, or it was generated and then removed. Thus the phonologicalprocess is not fully supplied by the morphological one.

One can never be certain which process has applied, nor predict or interpretspecific cases. The goal for this variationist analysis is to estimate the strengthof each process separately, and also the sum of their interaction and anyconstraints on it. I follow the simplest hypothesis, in which the rules applysuccessively and cumulatively to a pool of forms without complications; past-marking is assumed to be an early and abstract grammatical rule, and clustersimplification a late surface one. The domains of the two rules only partially

25. Tokens of uninflected past verbs are marked in the standardized spelling by representing themissing, but expected, inflections in brackets.


overlap: some forms are subject to (TD)-deletion but not past-marking (e.g.,fist)while others are subject to past-marking but not (TD)-deletion (e.g.,tried).Ideally one could estimate the general rate of application of each rule from thenon-overlapping portion of its domain, and then apply both estimates cumulative-ly to the pool.

However, it is well known that (TD)-deletion applies at different rates todistinct morphological classes (cf. the grammatical category constraint above), inall dialects of English studied, so that one cannot use, say, the mono-morphemedeletion rate to estimate that of past verbs. I therefore borrow a leaf fromChapter 7 and apply an estimate of past-marking rates in order to derive theactual rate of (TD)-deletion for past verbs. Pursuing always the simplest hypothe-sis, I assume that because the base forms of regular verbs (those taking the /-t/,/-d/ and /-Id/ suffixes, depending on their final segment) differ in a straightfor-ward phonological manner, any difference in surface past-marking among themis also attributable to phonological processes, if not to random fluctuation.

Table 5.15 presents the differences in rate of inflection between threeclasses of regular verbs and two classes of non-regular. The former are thosewhich end in /-t/ or /-d/ and take a syllabic suffix (ED), those which are vowel-final (VD), and those which end in other consonants (CD); only the last areeligible for (TD)-deletion. The non-regular verbs are the semi-weak (SW) class,and all other irregular verbs (IRR).26

Table 5.15:Past-marking rates for major morphological categories

Morphological category % Past-marked Probability of marking Total

(CD) Cons.-final regular(VD) Vowel-final regular(ED) Syllabic regular(SW) Semi-weak(IRR) IrregularAll Verbs

%19%%49%%46%%44%%31%%32%

00.00.2300.00.2700.00.6600.00.7800.00.51

Input: 0.31

380135151100624

1,390,0

(χ2/cell= 1.256)

26. See Chapter 6 for a complete description of the past-marking database and exclusions, and of theanalysis in Table 5.15.


Irregular verbs behave as a separate set, with lower rates of past-marking.The VD and ED regular verbs pattern closely together; the semi-weak verbsshow a somewhat lower surface rate (though their overall probability of markingis not distinct). The CD verbs differ dramatically from all other verb classes.The stem-final consonant that solely distinguishes them from other regular verbsmakes them uniquely visible to (TD)-deletion. Following the argument above, Iconclude that the overall marking rate for all regular verb classes is approximate-ly 48%, and the 19% surface rate shown by CD verbs is produced by thesubsequent application of (TD)-deletion.

The process of past-marking by suffixation, though it takes varioussyntactic, semantic and discourse constraints into account, treats all verbs itapplies to in a uniform way, unlike the irregular processes of ablaut etc.27 Itevidently takes place before lower-level rules that are sensitive to phonologicalform, such as (TD)-deletion or the epenthesis and voicing assimilation rules,which distinguish subclasses of the regular verbs.

Estimating the rate of (TD)-deletion

Having estimated overall past-marking among regular verbs at 48%, it is simpleto calculate the rate of (TD)-deletion in the past category, since the two estimatesmust combine to yield the actual surface rate of (TD)-absence: 19% (74/380),from Table 5.15. The process is outlined in (9).

(9) a. No. of CD tokens subject to past-marking in Table 5.15 = 380b. Multiply by the rate of past-marking × 48%c. No. of underlyingly marked verbs with final /-t/ or /-d/ = 182d. Subtract no. of final /-t/ or /-d/ remaining on the surface - 74e. No. of final consonants removed by (TD)-deletion = 108f. Divide by no. of underlyingly present clusters (9c above)÷ 182g. Rate of phonological deletion in past regular CD verbs = 59%

Taking as my base the population of 380 CD verbs in (9a), the past-marking rateof 48% is applied in (9b). Thus only half (182) of the tokens were ever markedwith an underlying /-t/ or /-d/ suffix in the first place (9c). As only 74 of them

27. This question is considered in more detail in Chapter 7 and the conclusion revised, but thecurrent reasoning is not affected.


retain it on the surface (9d), 108 of them must have had their final consonantsstripped offby the phonological deletion process (9e). This number of deleted-consonant tokens, divided by the total pool of underlyingly present clusters, givesthe deletion rate in (9f): that is, 108/182 or approximately 59%.28

A similar calculation may be made for the data in Table 5.12. If the basepopulation of 370 is past-marked at 48%, only 178 tokens will possess underly-ing clusters. Only 78 tokens retain the final /-t/ or /-d/ suffix on the surface(since 292/370, or 79%, are absent), so the number stripped off by (TD)-deletionmust be (178 - 78) = 100. The rate of (TD)-deletion is then (100÷ 178) or 56%,very close to the rate of 59% above.

An immediately striking fact is that the deletion rates for semi-weak and

Table 5.16:Percentage of (TD)-deletion by grammatical category (adjusted)

Grammatical category absence rate no. of tokens

Mono-morphemeSemi-weakRegular past

71%59%56%

1,358,0044370

past verbs are extremely close.29 This too is an unprecedented finding, but onewith a clear interpretation. Earlier explanations, including the functionalist one,rested on the existence of different types of morpheme boundaries in English,which either operated directly as constraints on the rule or bore differentfunctional loads; while the exponential hypothesis assumed different derivationalhistories for the two morpheme classes. Evidently mesolectal JC makes no suchdistinction. This is in line with the generally received notion that creoles eitherlack inflectional morphology altogether or have reduced degrees of it comparedwith European source languages (Holm 1988). It may be that there is only asingle level of inflection at which both the irregular semi-weak and regular pastverbs receive their suffixes, instead of the two or more ordered levels postulatedfor English.

28. The idea for this calculation first emerged in conversation with Gregory Guy (p.c. 1991).

29. The semi-weak verbs in Table 5.16 have all undergone past-marking, or they would have nofinal clusters; consequently the whole effect of (TD)-absence here is due to the deletion process.


Besides giving us information on how the morphology of the mesolectdiffers from related standard languages, these data in part support and in partdisconfirm previous theories. While the semi-weak class might have differedfrom the others in any number of ways, the fact is that it shows a rate identicalto past, the other inflectional class. This is compatible with the exponentialhypothesis insofar as it may be applied to varieties with fewer levels of inflec-tion: under the assumption just made for JC, it would predict precisely that (past= semi-weak).

However, the predicted exponential relation between these and the mono-morphemic class does not emerge. Under the reasoning of Guy (1991), the ratesof retention are related in an exponential manner. Since (TD) is deleted for bothsemi-weak and past at ca. 59%, the retention rate is ca. 41%. The rate forretention in mono-morphemes should thus be the square of that, i.e., 16.8%,since it would be the product of repeated applications of the deletion rule to thesame pool of eligible forms. In that case, the surface deletion rate for mono-morphemes should be considerably higher than it is, ca. 83% rather than 71% —a highly significant difference.30

A similar calculation may be performed for just the upper- and mid-mesolectal subgroups of Table 5.14, leaving out data from Mina, Bigga, andDinah on the reasoning that their categorical absence rates for past verbs arequalitatively different and must be excluded from the process of testing theexponential hypothesis. In this case, the adjustment made in Table 5.16 for thewhole sample produces nearly identical rates of (TD)-deletion in past verbs forthe upper- and mid-mesolectal subgroups (38% and 39%, respectively) — but weare no closer to confirming any exponential relation between retention rates inthe past and mono-morpheme word-classes. Since the figures for the latter arebased on a reliably large number of tokens, and since no other variable processesare known to intersect in the case of mono-morphemes, I conclude that noexponential relation governs the differential application of (TD)-deletion acrossmorphological categories for mesolectal JC.

Nevertheless, the rate of past-marking varies for each speaker (see Chap-ter 7 for details) in a degree sufficient to account for many of the (TD)-absences

30. Alternatively, if both types of inflection occurred at the same level but other processes, notrelevant to (TD), intervened at a second level of morphology, the retention rate might be the cube of41%, i.e. 6.9%, producing a surface deletion rate of 93.1% — even farther offthe actual result.


apparent in Table 5.12. If no exponential relation between M and P holds here,it is at least clear that the anomalous P > M surface rates are also illusory.

The speakers with the highest (TD)-absence rates — Bigga, Mina, andDinah — differ from the rest of the sample in showing categorical absence of(TD) in past verbs, which may be explained in one of several ways. Either theyhave low rates of past-marking and categorical (TD)-deletion for verbs only, orelse they have categorical non-marking of past verbs (in which case there is noway to estimate their rate of (TD)-deletion, but given the rate for other grammat-ical categories one may assume it is comparably high). That is, they are eitherqualitatively different in the way they implement one portion of the (TD)-deletion rule, or they are qualitatively different in their past-marking patterns.31

When past-marking is considered in more detail in subsequent chapters, it willemerge that these speakers are indeed distinct both qualitatively and quantitative-ly in their forms and constraints, on quite independent grounds. The mosteconomical explanation of variation in (TD)-absence, then, is that it results fromdifferences in the overall rate of application of the deletion rule, under anidentical set of constraints, combined with differences in the input due tointersection with variable past-marking.

Conclusions: Constraint order and “creole-ness” in (TD)-deletion

It is clear that the phonological process of (TD)-deletion operates in the Jamaicanmesolect in essentially the same manner as it does in North American varietiesof English, removing underlying and inflectional final apical consonants accord-ing to the major constraints of environment and morphological class. Since themethods of this study are quite comparable to other empirical (TD) studies, it isuseful to compare the constraint orders.

The following segment is consistently the most powerful of the internallinguistic constraints, ranking ahead of both the preceding phonological environ-ment and the grammatical category. In this way Jamaican Creole is like theethnic-minority varieties noted above, in which phonological constraints generallyoutrank grammatical ones. The inclusion of JC alongside Puerto Rican, Chicano,

31. Since the number of regular verbs that these speakers might mark for past (and thus makeavailable for (TD)-deletion) is very small, it is also possible that their categorical rates in Tables 5.13and 5.14 are a chance result.


Tejano, Appalachian White, and African American Vernacular Englishes suggeststhat these varieties may be united in their distance from dominant, writtenstandard languages rather than by any common underlying ethnic, social, orlinguistic history.

It is impossible however to derive a true estimate of the degree to which thegrammatical category factor group — usually one of the most powerful linguisticconstraints — accounts for variation in the data. When compared with thephonological constraints, its contribution is always rejected as statisticallyinsignificant; but that comparison unfortunately builds in the hidden effect of theintersection with variable past-marking (since it is based on the surface markingevidence). Although thesize of that effect was estimated successfully, since itis a prior morphological process it is not possible to neutralize it in the data-base,because its results (absence of final /-t/ or /-d/) are indistinguishable from thoseof deletion. From the strength of the adjusted figures in Table 5.16, it seemslikely that this constraint exerts a significant influence, but its magnitude cannotbe precisely known.32

The best comparison that can be made, then, is one involving raw percent-ages for the two major constraints. Table 5.17 gives data in the form of cross-products for thirteen data-sets: the present study of JC, four groups of U.S. whitespeakers, and eight groups of African American Vernacular English speakers.The latter speech variety is especially relevant both because it is often believedto be historically related to Caribbean English Creoles, and also because of itssimilarly high overall rates of (TD)-deletion. (U.S. speakers are African Ameri-can unless otherwise noted.)

All data are from sociolinguistic interviews unless noted. Wolfram’s tokentotals are inferred from his description (1969: 58). Labov et al. (1968) do notinclude semi-weak verbs, and Wolfram (1969) and Wolfram and Christian (1976)do not mention them; elsewhere, bi-morphemes include both past and semi-weakverbs. Wolfram (1969) counts following-pause tokens as vowels. Patrick (toappear) uses data from Loman (1967) for Washington DC and Bailey et al.

32. This point is neglected by studies which attempt to measure the influence of phonological factorson past-marking without independently measuring the phonological processes that cause “suffix-deletion”. Tagliamonte and Poplack (1993) consider phonological effects on past-marking in AAVEvarieties, but their estimation of constraint order and strength is based on surface data which derivefrom intersecting variable processes — not merely from a single morphological process with aphonological constraint, as their discussion presumes. Their statements about constraint order andsignificance thus appear to be unsupported.


(1991) for the Southern Ex-Slave Elders. Neu (1980) did not distinguishfollowing pauses. My Veeton data here combine consonants with rhotics, andglides with vowels, leaving out following-pause tokens.

The data are displayed as binary cross-products in which grammaticalcategory and following segment are reduced to their strongest terms — mono-vs. bi-morphemes, and consonantal vs. vocalic segments, respectively.

Deletion takes place more evenly across categories in the Jamaican datathan in the other studies, due in part to the inflating effect of intersection withpast-marking on the bi-morphemic figures.33 JC also shows among the highestrates of deletion before vowels, for both morpheme classes: although the sonorityconstraint of following segment is regular and significant, the inhibiting effectof high sonority is considerably less than in U.S. dialects. This is clearly seen inthe mono-morpheme data, where past-marking has no effect: only varieties ofAAVE which delete near-categorically before consonants approach the level ofJC deletion before vowels, and in each case the two environments show morecontrast than in JC.

This is one way in which the Jamaican mesolect, though it shares the sameprocesses, constraints, and underlying forms as U.S. Englishes, has a distinctcharacter. Another, perhaps, is the strong conformity shown by both majorphonological constraints to theoretical sonority-hierarchy predictions, followingthe principle that high-sonority neighboring segments resist deletion. Thoughsonority correlations were first made for U.S. dialects, they are better exempli-fied in the Veeton data, especially for the preceding segment, where cross-dialectal results have not been convincing before. This clearer patterning in acreole variety may reflect a general tendency for creoles to be relatively transpar-ent with respect to language universals — though whether this is due to the roleof universals in creole genesis, or the fact that they are “new” languages not asthickly overlaid by exceptions and irregularities, remains open.34

The most obvious way in which (TD)-deletion in JC displays a distinctive“creole-ness”, however, is in its intersection with variable past-marking. Amongnative varieties of English, not only standard speakers but even the most

33. As the adjustment made above in Table 5.16 cannot be applied to subdivisions of the datawithout guesswork, Table 5.17 reports only surface rates for the Veeton data.

34. It is also possible that the failure of earlier studies to correct for interaction between wordscontaining {-n’t} and preceding nasals has distorted the previous sonority results for precedingsegment and depressed this constraint’s overall significance.


vernacular speakers of non-standard dialects consistently and overwhelmingly

Table 5.17:Comparative studies of (TD)-deletion

Grammatical categoryMono-morphemic Bi-Morphemic

Following segmentData source Speakers _cons _vowel _cons _vowel no. tokens

Kingston JAPatrick 1992

10 all age/classVeeton data

%84%5200

%62%6620

%87%1330

%70%2300 n = 1,545

DetroitWolfram 1969

12 all ages,lower WC

%97%(240?)

%72%(240?)

%76%(180?)

%34%(180?)

unknown(840?)

DetroitWolfram 1969

12 all ages,upper MC

%79%(240?)

%23%(240?)

%49%(180?)

%07%(180?)

unknown(840?)

DetroitWolfram 1969

12 all ages,white UMC

%66%(240?)

%12%(240?)

%36%(180?)

%03%(180?)

unknown(840?)

West VirginiaWolfram 1976

6 all ages,white WC

%74%2000

%17%1500

%67%84

%05%2020 n = 636

Washington DCFasold 1972

47 all ages,all WC

n.d. n.d. %76%1800

%29%2020 n = 382

Washington DCPatrick et al. 96

5 WC children,3 WC adults

%84%2830

%45%31

%70%47

%29%35 n = 396

U.S. SouthPatrick et al. 96

11 ex-slaveelders

%56%5600

%55%1190

%44%1610

%26%88 n = 928

Harlem NYCLabov et al. 68

21 teenagers,group style

%97%3690

%56%92

%73%2180

%17%1630 n = 842


39 teenagers,interviews

%96%7430

%63%2120

%61%2370

%16%2220 n = 1,414


17 WC adults,all styles

%87%3230

%50%1470

%51%1700

%19%1840 n = 824

Inwood NYCLabov et al. 68

8 (pre-)teenswhite WC

%67%1380

%18%45

%24%34

%03%62 n = 279

U.S. NorthNeu 1980

15 adultswhite MC

%38%5640

%19%3820

%13%1240

%05%1130 n = 1,183

mark the past on verbs. While Labov et al. (1968) shows a 74% rate of surfacepast-marking in regular verbs by AAVE speakers in Harlem, unmarked cases arebelieved to be due exclusively to phonological factors; and Fasold (1972) shows


past-marking in irregular verbs to be 98% among AAVE speakers in WashingtonD.C. Thus the assumption that the morphological process of past-marking isuniformly and categorically performed, or at any rate takes place at a consistentlyhigh level, is reliably borne out even for this variety, with its suspected historicallinks to creoles — but not for JC. It may indeed prove that variable processesare more common in mesolectal creoles (at least) than in related metropolitanvarieties, and that the intersection of several processes is a frequent event.

Comparison with another Creole: Deletion revisited

A similar Caribbean intermediate variety, Trinidadian Creole (TC), shows bothcontrasts and resemblances to the Veeton data. The rates of (TD)-absence in thethree subgroups of the Veeton sample may be compared with rates in three socialclasses of TC speakers studied by Winford (1992). While Winford’s groups arestratified on social grounds and the Veeton sub-groups are stratified on linguisticgrounds — according to their rates of (TD)-absence — I will assume for thepresent a connection with social factors that makes comparison possible. For boththese intermediate varieties the overall rate of absence is quite high, comparableto those found in U.S. AAVE communities. The range is similar across the twospeech communities, as it is across the different linguistic environments.Consider the size and direction of the two major constraints.

Figure 5.3 plots the difference in following phonological environmentswithin each grammatical class by subtracting the rate before vowels from thatbefore consonants (results are expected to be positive).

Figure 5.3:Phonological effects on (TD) in Jamaica and Trinidad


All the Jamaican groups show a sizable effect in mono-morphemic words,an effect that is attenuated in bi-morphemic words. The Trinidad upper andlower working-classes (UWC and LWC) show negligible phonological effects;only the lower middle-class group (LMC) evidences a constraining effect offollowing environment, and only among mono-morphemes.35

Figure 5.4 plots the difference of absence rates in mono- and bi-morphemictokens, for each phonological environment.

The highest-status group of Trinidad speakers again shows a considerable

Figure 5.4:Grammatical effects on (TD) in Jamaica and Trinidad

effect in the direction expected from mainland dialect studies, with less (TD)-absence among past-marked verbs; but the effect is slight to negligible amongworking-class speakers, for both environments. By contrast, the Veeton speakersshow a noticeablenegative effect, especially before following vowels, whichwas explained above as due to the intersection of (TD)-deletion with variablepast-marking.

Winford argues against a deletion account of the TC data, and certainly forthe working-class speakers this appears correct: there is no indication that eitherof the two strongest constraints on (TD)-deletion characterize their data, thoughit remains possible that the lower-middle class speakers may operate by a deletionrule. The striking result, however, is that both groups differ from the Veetonspeakers in important ways. Working-class Trinidadians have no (TD)-deletion

35. Winford (1992: 323) notes that the phonological effect proved statistically insignificant.


process while all the Veeton speakers examined do; and whereas the LMCTrinidadians share the universal constraint of following segment, they behave justlike standard English speakers with regard to the influence of grammaticalcategory, unlike the Jamaicans.

Recall that the unexpected behavior of the JC speakers for this constraintwas due to the intersection of two variable rules, (TD)-deletion and variable past-marking. Winford (1992: 322) also supplies comparable data on the patterns ofpast-marking in TC. The regular verbs especially are remarkably similar to thedata given above for mesolectal JC in Table 5.15 (repeated below).36

Table 5.18:Past-inflection rates in Jamaican and Trinidadian Creoles

Jamaican Trinidadian

Rate Tokens Rate Tokens

Non-syllabic (CD)Non-syllabic (VD)Syllabic (ED)Semi-weakIrregular

19%49%46%44%31%

380135151100624

26%49%47%55%55%

551160293239

1,207,0

Evidently, variable past-inflection occurs at comparable rates in TC. Onecan only conclude that the difference between the two speech communities liesin the existence, constraints, and social distribution of a variable deletion rulewhich is present in Jamaica, absent in Trinidad.

Unity versus lectal variety across the creole continuum

One aspect of the unity of the creole continuum which has been addressed hereis the issue of whether there are diverse norms for language production. Guy(1980) speculatively characterized the creole continuum as possessing a largevariety of distinct norms that govern speakers’ linguistic output. The question forany mesolect, then, is this: Is the range of individual variation incompatible with

36. Winford’s Table 4 shows un-marking; his figures are here subtracted from 100% to showmarking rates. The JC past-inflection data are considered at length in Chapter 7; cf. Figure 7.5.


a single group norm? That is, must lects be distinguished within the sample?This question goes to the heart of the definition of the creole continuum, andalso the definition of a speech community. In the urban American dialects Guystudied (and all native speech communities studied since), (TD)-deletion does notshow this sort of variation. Rather, groups behave in a coherent way, withindividual speakers differing from each other in their overall level of deletionbut obeying the same constraints. Moreover, even where speech communitiesdiffer from each other, such as in the value assigned to following pause or therelative ranking of phonological and grammatical constraints, members of onespeech community share the same pattern of variation.

The extension of this claim to the creole continuum has now been tested.For each constraint on (TD)-deletion examined above, stratified but regularpatterns of language use have been found in the Veeton speech community. Evenat the extremes of our sample, differences have emerged that are not radical orqualitative, but minor and quantitative in nature. Bigga, Mina, and Dinah do notpossess the same fine gradation of preceding phonological factors as the others,but they collapse these into a gross distinction preserving the same fundamentalrelation. All sub-groups of speakers treat following pause the same way, similarto vowels and contrasting sharply with consonants. The anomalous P > Msurface order for grammatical category has been largely ascribed to the influenceof an intersecting morphological process, variable past-marking.37 As far asphonological processes are concerned, contrasting surface absence rates may allbe attributed to differences in overall level of deletion.

Other aspects of unity across the continuum are considered for this linguisticvariable in Chapter 8: whether shared or discrete norms for language evaluationexist, and whether the output of individual speakers can be arranged in a regularhierarchy and ordered by reference to extralinguistic social facts. Where languageproduction is considered, the profile of Veeton afforded by the study of (TD)-deletion closely resembles that of many other unified social dialects which aresubject to inherent linguistic variation. As Labov et al. (1968: 154) said in theirHarlem study, where this same rule was first recognized, “[E]very sub-groupwithin the community… obeys the [three] major constraints upon the (TD)simplification rule… We will not encounter, anywhere in this report, a moreregular example of systematic variation.”

37. If the analysis sketched above for Trinidad is correct, social dialects may differ sharply there ina way they do not in Veeton.

C 6

Creole Pre-Verbal Past-Markers

Introduction

A significant reason Atlantic basilectal creoles, including Jamaican, are consid-ered to be independent languages is found in analyses of their verbal tense, moodand aspect systems. Creolists have emphasized their systemic integrity as well asthe distance between their syntactic expression and semantic underpinnings, onthe one hand, and those of the European superstrate languages. To all appearanc-es creole mesolects remain in limbo, however, manifesting neither system plainlybut sharing forms from both, as well as some of their own. This chapter and thenext search for evidence that the classic basilectal grammar underlies themarkingof past-reference in Veeton, considering first the typical creole pre-verbal particles,and second the elements of an English-like past tense inflectional system.

Past-marking, the third and last linguistic variable to be examined, is themost complex and abstract. (KYA) is a variation in form with essentially socialrather than grammatical significance, while (TD) invokes both grammatical andsociolinguistic factors, but is primarily a matter of sound shapes and phonologicalprocesses. Past-marking is an instance where function or meaning, not form, is thedefining criterion, with phonology and other elements playing subordinate roles.

The opposed grammars of the basilectal and acrolectal poles are widelyunderstood to differ in basic ways: in the semantic principles which drive thesyntactic machinery; in their requirements for agreement within the verb phrase,and the nature of the morphology that implements it; and in their transparency tofunctional pressures of discourse organization, among other factors. Still, theclassic descriptions of past-marking in standard European languages and in creolebasilects represent them both as internally invariant, in the sense that themechanisms for marking and agreement apply without exception; the result is astrict and predictable correspondence between form and meaning.

Variation analysis is possible only where such strict relations do not apply.


It takes the relations between form and meaning as a subject for empiricalexploration, rather than as the axiomatic basis for analysis and interpretation. Theurban mesolectal speakers of Veeton make use of all available modes to marktime reference in the verb phrase: classic creole invariant pre-verbal markers oftense, mood and aspect (TMA), verb inflection on the model of standard English,and zero-marking of regular and irregular verbs. Closely examined, every speakershows considerable variability in their choices. Chapters 6 and 7 describe thevariation that occurs, seeking to reconcile it with first one and then the otherpolar system. This will be done by testing the constraints hypothesized to governthem, again using multi-variate analysis.

It may prove impossible to characterize the mesolect as differing only insurface forms, yet underlyingly identical to one of the polar grammars. If so,then the order within its intermediate and variable system must be identified, andits coherence across the speech community considered. How does the mesolectalgrammar incorporate alternative strategies for marking the past? Are individualdifferences once again merely quantitative, or are there grammatical fault lineswhich separate groups of Veeton speakers? How many variable patterns arethere, and what is their social distribution? (Or, what broad social factors arespeakers manipulating or being influenced by in their choice of pattern?) Finally,does the social distribution of past-marking support an integrated model of themesolect, and a unified representation of the speech community? The last twoquestions are addressed in the concluding chapter.

I begin with general considerations of tense, aspect, and past-marking increoles and in JC, and then discuss the major constraints, including stativity,punctuality, and anteriority. The first two are defined together, while the latter isoperationalized as one particular relation between clauses that involve past-reference. Other relations potentially relevant to past-marking involve temporal,irrealis, and narrative clauses. Since these may be defined as mutually exclusive,clause-type is considered as a general constraint — an arrangement which doesnot preclude considering the significance of each relation on its own (e.g.anterior versus all non-anterior clauses, temporal versus non-temporal, etc.).

Basilectal TMA markerben1 is briefly discussed, since it serves as the

1. The lexical itemben is directly equivalent tobin in Guyanese Creole, and has counterparts inmost English basilectal creoles (Sranan, Saramaccan, etc.). In this and subsequent chapters, when alexical item is designated categorically, as here, I italicize it:ben; when reference is made to itsphonological form, or to a particular utterance, I use phonemic notation and enclose it in slashes: /ben/.

CREOLE PRE-VERBAL PAST-MARKERS 169

basis for predicting grammatical relations in the mesolect. Two mesolectal past-markers are then considered, negativeneva and positive unemphaticdid.Linguistic and social variation of the latter are described and analyzed in detail.The influence of the creole constraints mentioned above (modified to accommo-date a variationist hypothesis) is confirmed fordid, and shown to converge withpatterns well-known in metropolitan varieties. A general explanation is offered,based on principles of discourse organization, which finds common groundbetween the JC mesolect and varieties of English around the world.

Tense, aspect and past-marking in creoles

In a standard treatment of the typology of tense, Comrie defines it as “gram-maticalized location in time” (1985: 9), and goes on to crucially distinguishbetween the study of tense and the overall investigation of “how informationrelating to time reference is conveyed” (ibid.:53). The current project belongs tothe latter enterprise: exploring how past-reference is expressed in mesolectal JCby means of a crucial set of forms, and determining constraints on their use.

For Comrie, clear cases of grammaticalization involve elements that areobligatory and morphologically bound. It will turn out that the expression ofpast-reference in JC is not obligatory, i.e., there are grammatical utterances thatare systematically ambiguous as to time-reference. Furthermore, there is greatvariation across Veeton speakers in whether past-reference is marked primarilyby bound elements, or even by “grammatical words adjacent to the verb”(ibid.:12). Beyond demonstrating that the expression of past-reference is bothvariable and mixed, it must ultimately be determined whether the grammar istenseless (Singler 1990a). I will be concerned less with exploring the grammati-cal meaning of the JC forms than examining their distribution and discoursefunctions — specifically, their co-occurrence with types of clauses and verbs.

Pidgins and creoles are often said to differ from European superstratelanguages in having aspect-prominent verbal marking, rather than tense-promi-nent systems (Alleyne 1980; Singler 1990a; Sankoff 1991). This distinction is arelative one, however: the metropolitan languages in question grammaticallyindicate both tense and aspect distinctions in their verb morphology and peri-phrastic structures (Holm 1988: 154), while the temporal location of an event isinherently correlated with mood and aspect distinctions (Chung and Timberlake1985). For mesolectal JC, then, the relevant questions include whether the same


aspectual distinctions apply, whether it can be said to have a tense-markingsystem, and whether similar correlations hold between the tense, mood andaspect distinctions that are realized.

The touchstone for discussion of pidgin/creole TMA systems — the pastreference point, one might say — is a proposal by Derek Bickerton, first madein his studies of the Guyanese Creole mesolect (1974, 1975) and later elaboratedon the basis of comparative evidence into his Language Bioprogram Hypothesis(1981, 1984, 1988). Introducing a recent volume of individual studies, Singlerobserves that “comparison with Bickerton’s prototypical system is the diagnostic,the starting point from which further analysis proceeds” (1990a:xi). The thesismost relevant to past-marking is that, for basilectal creoles, aspectual distinctionsof stativity and punctuality underlie a tense distinction which he calls anteriority.

While Bickerton’s Language Bioprogram Hypothesis has stimulated bothdescriptive analyses and theoretical debates in pidgin and creole studies, it is hisearlier work on Guyanese Creole (GC) — with its complex definitions, richnatural speech examples, and quantitative data — that is useful as a point ofcomparison. The first full study of a creole continuum to draw on variationistideas, Bickerton’s (1975) data have been extensively re-analysed and re-interpret-ed by creolists and sociolinguists. His methods have provoked careful anddetailed critical responses (e.g. Sankoff 1977 and 1990; Rickford 1986d;Winford 1992) which are elaborate guides to accountable quantitative reasoningin themselves. Though some scholars have taken his results for valid character-izations of a general “creole prototype” (e.g., Tagliamonte and Poplack 1988),Bickerton’s sampling, data collection, and quantitative reasoning have beenwidely criticized, the details of his conclusions often disputed, and the reality ofsuch a prototype questioned. Nevertheless, his insights into the workings of theTMA system in GC have been influential.

In what follows, I extract a series of claims and predictions from his workand others’, operationalize it for variationist investigation, and test it against theVeeton corpus. Several earlier efforts of this sort provide relevant comparisonsto such varieties as Liberian English (Singler 1984, 1990c), Guyanese Creole(Rickford 1986d, 1987a), Tok Pisin and Sranan (Sankoff 1990), TrinidadianCreole (Winford 1992, 1993a, 1993b), Samaná and Nova Scotian and othervarieties of African American English (Tagliamonte and Poplack 1993; Poplackand Tagliamonte 1991), and assorted other pidgins and creoles (e.g. Myhill1991). The most recent of these use recorded speech data of similar quantity andmake use of the same general types of analysis, especially the multivariate


methods that are crucial to disentangling the many factors that typically influenceTMA marking, which a percentage analysis often cannot satisfactorily tease apart.2

TMA markers in Jamaican Creole

The Jamaican Creole system of TMA markers is described in detail elsewhere(Bailey 1966a; Mufwene 1984a; Patrick forthcoming) and has much in commonwith other Caribbean English-related creole systems such as Guyanese andTrinidadian (Bickerton 1975; Gibson 1982; Rickford 1987a; Winer 1993;Winford 1993a). Many descriptions separate lects within the grammars on thebasis of forms, e.g., saying thatbin is the basilectal anterior marker, whiledidoccurs in the mesolect and {-ed} marks the acrolectal past tense. For reasonsdiscussed below, sucha priori categorical statements equating form and meaningare misleading and of little interest in a variationist investigation. The variousalternate forms used by JC speakers across different levels of language include:

(1) a. AspectPerfective:∅ ; completivedon (both pre- and post-VP)Imperfective:3 Progressivea/da + V, dida + V; also (be) + V

+ { -in}Habitual∅ ; past habitualyuus(t)u+ V, did + V

b. TenseAnterior: ben+ V, did + V, ∅Past: ∅ , { -ed}Future: a go + V, go + V, gwain + V, wi + V

The most freely combining particle is progressivea, which (along with the relicform da) may be preceded by anteriorbenor did or precede futurego to yieldpredictable past and future progressive meanings.4 Ben and did also combine

2. Tagliamonte and Poplack (1993) closely parallels some of the analyses and conclusions presentedearlier in Patrick (1992).

3. Winford (1996) argues that the distinct grammaticalization of habitual and progressive aspect inJC precludes use of the term ‘imperfective’. Synchronically they are indeed quite separate, thoughhistorically they were unified (Patrick 1988); imperfective is still useful as a cover term.

4. In rare casesa may also carry habitual meaning (Christie 1986). Patrick (1988) found 11 suchcases out of 257 habituals recorded in the 1950s by David DeCamp; but none here withdida+V.


with the locative copulade. Bickerton (1975: 72) notes that in GC “did + a neveroccurs”; among 101 tokens of preverbaldid in the Veeton data, I find five ofprogressivedida + V (eight of habitualdid + V). In both JC and GCdid alsooccurs before V + {-in}, contra Bailey (1966a: 140; cf. also Bickerton 1975: 82).

Most of these forms will not concern us hereafter; as described more fullybelow, the investigation excludes imperfective aspect (except fordid), completivedon, and future tenses. Instead I will focus on the alternation of anterior/pasttense forms, considering whether an anterior tense (as operationalized below)describes urban mesolectal JC, by what forms it is grammaticalized, and whatconstrains their alternation. The situation in (1b) represents a starting point forinvestigation, and captures common proposals for an anterior system in basilectaland mesolectal JC, as well as for an English-like past tense in upper mesolectaland acrolectal JC or Jamaican English.

Stativity and punctuality

Stativity and punctuality are the dimensions of verbal meaning to which Bicker-ton assigns the greatest significance in determining the distribution and interpre-tation of combinations of TMA markers. The distinction between stative andnon-stative verbs is seen as primary, since “states have by definition an extendedduration” (1975: 46). Among the effects of stativity, the continuative anditerative markera is said to be restricted to non-stative verbs (1975: 34, the“Main Stative Rule”, but see Rickford 1987a: 226). Furthermore, the stem formof verbs is said to receive unmarked-past interpretation with non-statives, butnon-past with statives (Bickerton 1975: 28–9). Similarly, the past-markersbin anddid are said to have past-before-past meaning with non-stative verbs, but simplepast with statives (1975: 35, 70–1). Bickerton is at pains to emphasize that agrammar founded on this distinction “clearly bears little or no relation to thesystem of English” (1975: 47), a point he later generalizes to “a significantdifference between creole and Indo-European systems” (1981: 160). The MainStative Rule aside, the intersection of stativity and past-reference bears theweight of this claim.

Stativity and punctuality are usually viewed as aspects of the verb’saktionsartor inherent lexical aspect. Winford (1992: 332) for Trinidadian Creole,and Poplack and Tagliamonte (1993) for AAVE, rely on formal criteria forstativity such as a verb’s ability to accept progressive morphology. This strategy


presumably treats all instances of a given verb as identical in their stativity value.In observing that lexically stative verbs are sometimes used non-statively andvice versa (1975: 30), Bickerton takes a different approach, as will I, followingComrie (1976: 36). This is partly for comparability, but it also seems lessmechanical and more responsive to the influence of the local discourse context.For example, three utterances by the same speaker all contain the verbhave, buteach shows a higher degree of stative meaning than the last:

(2) /mai faada an mada av twenti chiljren/‘My father and mother had twenty children.’(Mina; #98b:265, 3/9/90)

(3) /bot chru him an di liedi hav a fos/‘But because he and the lady had an argument…’(Mina; #98b:250, 3/9/90)

(4) /so evibadi hav den haas/‘So everybody had their own horse.’(Mina; #99a:115, 3/9/90)

This verb is very frequently stative in meaning — so often that it tends tounbalance this (and probably any) sample, as will be seen later. However in (2)it is punctual: several of the children died young or in childbirth, so it is thesuccessive giving birth (not the durative possession, or the time spent in labor)that is in focus. In (3)haveis non-punctual, while in (4) it is stative, in the mostcommon sense of possession. Following such a coding scheme requires that theresearcher pay close attention to the course of a conversation, including sharedknowledge of the topic, sometimes bringing to bear information from other partsof an interview as well as ethnographic observations. In addition, as Andersen(1990) notes, it may be appropriate to focus on a verb alone, a verb/particlecombination, a predicate, or an entire clause, depending on the utterance.

The first decision, then, is whether a verb carries stative meaning or not.States are opposed to dynamic situations.5 Both generally have duration, but ifsubdivided into distinct phases of time, the phases of a state are to be thought ofas identical, while those of a dynamic situation necessarily involve change. Statesare typically continuous; dynamic situations may be so, e.g., when they have

5. This discussion follows Comrie (1976), who subsumes states, events and processes under the label‘situation’.


progressive meaning, or not, e.g., when they have perfective meaning. (Note thatwhile many verbal statives in JC correspond to English adjectives such assick,and may be marked for past-reference with pre-verbal elements such asbin ordid, marking by inflection with {-ed} is never possible. Since a crucial variant ismissing, they are not included in the analysis of verb inflection.)

Surveys of stativity by Sag (1973) and Mufwene (1984b), the latter withspecial reference to creoles, attempt to give a unified account. Both come to theconclusion that no clear-cut syntactic distinction exists in English betweenstatives and non-statives. The score of tests discussed by Sag and Mufwene“all… appear to be inoperative… these tests single out overlapping [verb]classes… rather than one class of statives” (Mufwene 1984b: 15). Among thetests considered and rejected are the occurrence of the {-ing} progressive suffixand the imperative, often relied on by those scholars who prefer to identifystatives by lexical form.

Sag (1973: 87–9) and Mufwene (1984b: 36) each propose a scale of stativityinstead, the latter’s being more detailed. Mufwene defines stativity in terms ofthe expected duration of the action or state signified by a verb, or its “potentialfor permanence/expansion in time… Verbs may be described as incorporatingthis feature to varying degrees” (1984b: 40). Given a scale of verbs according totheir lexical semantics, plus the fact that the vast majority of verbs in mesolectalJC correspond to English usage, stativity may be defined in approximately thesame way in JC and in English.6 In testing the significance of stativity for past-reference in the Veeton speech community I use just such a scale, except that itis a scale applied to verbuses.

One end of the scale is stative verbs; the other terms require discussion ofpunctuality. Punctual situations are viewed as having no duration, hence theycannot possibly be stative — they represent the other end of the scale.7 Punc-tuals also cannot logically have any internal structure, thus cannot have imperfec-tive meaning. In typical punctual usages, both the simple past and progressiveforms imply repeated action, as in (2) above, rather than one continuous action.

In referring to punctuals below, I will be speaking of such clear cases only;similarly with statives. This seems preferable to analyses which oppose statives to a

6. This position differs from both Bickerton and Mufwene (1984b: 18–19). DeBose and Faraclas(1993) find that Black English verbs also can vary in their stativity according to context, and give asimilar account, employing a third intermediate or neutral category as I do below.

7. Dowty (1977) suggests they occurr over small intervals of time rather than at points.


large class of non-stative verbs that range all the way to punctuals (and vice versa fornon-punctuals). However, the classes are relatively small and there are still manyverbs neither stative nor punctual which must be accounted for: statives make uponly 15% of the whole sample, punctuals 13%, and the intermediate class 72%.This residual class of [–stative, –punctual] verbs I will call ‘neutral’ for conve-nience, though it should be remembered they too cover a wide range of verbmeanings. Consequently, it will still be possible to consider the punctual/non-punctual constraint or the stative/non-stative constraint on past-marking byanalyzing the three categories separately and then collapsing them into two:

(5) a. [stative] vs. non-stative [neutral + punctual]b. [punctual] vs. non-punctual [neutral + stative]8

Further warrant for this scalar arrangement comes from Bickerton’s (1975)handling of the matter. Though he treats stativity and punctuality as independentdimensions, the impossibility of having them co-occur in stative punctuals isevidence that they are not. Moreover, Comrie’s definition of punctuality andMufwene’s of stativity are both stated in terms of potential duration. Finally,there is a tendency cross-linguistically for statives to be linked to imperfectivity,and nonstatives (especially punctuals) to perfectivity; Comrie’s (1976: 122)examples of this, coincidentally, are the West African languages Yoruba andIgbo, both plausible substrate candidates for the JC verb system.

Examples of verbs and their typical codings include:

(6) a. Stative: contain, cost, know, belong, consist, need, matter;trust, believe, want, intend, love, depend.

b. Neutral: enjoy, wait, stay, stand, lie, remain, sit, see;turn, work, run, read, revolve, study, eat, buy;say, speak, call, claim, argue, portray, reject.

c. Punctual: kick, reach, crack, die, break, hit, forget.

The statives on the first line represent verbs Mufwene characterizes as “highlymarked for permanence… [and] not commonly inflected in the progressive”(1984b: 27); they include members of the semantic classes sometimes labeled

8. Following Singler (1990a), this non-punctual category might also be called imperfective (but seenote 3 above). The punctual category correspond’s to Vendler’s (1967) “achievements”. The neutralcategory corresponds to both his “accomplishments” and “activities”, which differ in their telicity butare both non-stative and non-punctual (Andersen 1990).


measure verbs, mental-perception verbs, and certain relation verbs. Some of these(e.g.consist) are better characterized as often expressing essential or constitutivequalities, rather than permanent duration. The second line of statives do notalways convey permanence either, and are often inflected for progressive, but“their non-progressive inflection is preferably interpreted as denoting a perma-nent state of affairs rather than a habit” (Mufwene 1984b: 26); this warrantsgrouping them with the preceding set. They include the emotion or attitude verbs.

Mufwene judges the intermediate group neutral with respect to expectedduration; their simple present forms normally receive a habitual interpretation(unless they occur in the rare and particular contexts for present narration, suchas stage directions or “play-by-play” simultaneous descriptions). This largestclass includes members of the bodily-perception, stance and relation verbs aswell as verbs of speaking.

In this description I have tried to show where classification by the variouscompeting schemes coheres, as it does to a considerable extent. It is important toremember, however, that in the present study each utterance is weighed in itsdiscourse context and not assigned invariably according to the verb’s lexicalform and/or semantic class. Though it might be thought that the latter procedureis more easily replicable, in fact studies of relevant varieties are often notcomparable either: e.g., Winford (1992) does not count bodily-perception or-sensation verbs or stance verbs as stative, whereas Poplack and Tagliamonte(1993) do. An initial attempt to code using dichotomies forced many sucharbitrary-seeming decisions among intermediate verbs and uses, and had to beabandoned. The 3-way scalar solution not only appears more reliable, but allowsone to discover whether the neutral group does behave in an intermediate fashionor like one of the extremes.

The question of whether punctuality or stativity is more important to past-marking for mesolectal JC speakers can thus be answered empirically. It will beaddressed in conjunction with the factor of anteriority, with which it interacts.9

9. This general plan of analysis was replicated with similar results for Samaná and U.S. Ex-SlaveRecording data by Poplack and Tagliamonte (1993); their methods and conclusions are similar toPatrick (1992).


Anteriority: the classic syntactic account

The primary distinction between the past tense of standard English varieties andthe anterior tense described by Bickerton for GC can be illuminated by thedifference between an absolute tense and a relative one. Absolute tense takes themoment of speaking as the deictic center, as part of its grammatical meaning,while a relative tense need not, and may locate it instead at some other referencepoint given by the context. Thus English finite clauses necessarily locate theirtime reference as past, present, or future with respect to the moment of utterance.Non-finite clauses, which do not, have relative tense, taking their time referencefrom nearby absolute tense forms (finite verbs). In a relative tense the momentof speaking is not required to be the reference point, but neither is it prohibited;thus it is quite possible that the reference point coincide with the moment ofspeaking, in which case it is practically indistinguishable from an absolute tense.10

The GC system Bickerton calls anterior is not strictly relative but ratherabsolute-relative: a reference point is located with respect to the moment ofspeaking (the “absolute” part), and the situation indicated by the verb is locatedrelative to that reference point. Stativity is crucial here, according to Bickerton:with a stative predicate, the moment of reference is by default the present, andso anterior tense is said to be absolute for statives; but with the more commoncase of non-statives, the reference point is taken to be the past.11

Markers of anteriority in the grammar of GC are invariant pre-verbalelements:bin in the basilect, anddid in the mesolect. The occurrence of such amarker with a stative verb causes the time reference to be shifted from thedefault present, as in (7), to the past, before the present moment, as in (8) (GCexamples from Bickerton 1975: 129 and 35):

(7) Yu get big peepa, man, yu kuda get jab.‘You’ve got good qualifications, man, you could have found work.’

10. The discussion generally follows Comrie (1986).

11. This thesis, usually associated with Bickerton (1974), appears earlier among Africanists and inAgheyisi’s work on West African Pidgin English (1971). She does not express it as a categoricalassociation but a tendency: “[bare] action verbs… generally express past tense… [bare] stativeverbs… are characteristically associated with the non-past tense” (quoted in Bickerton 1975: 52).Relevant substrate languages for WAPE include Yoruba and Igbo, which show a similar distinction(Comrie 1976; Welmers 1973); see also Dahl (1985) on Akan.


(8) Dem bin gat wan lil haus.12

‘They had a little house.’

Occurrence of an anterior marker with a non-stative verb causes the timereference to be shifted from default past to a past-before-past (i.e., some timebefore the previously assumed past reference point), as in (9) below. Only thegeneral location of these time references is included in the grammatical meaning ofthe tense-marker itself, and further fixing of the time is left to features of the context.

This account is somewhat clearer than the original in Bickerton(1975: 35ff), where he discusses several overlapping meanings of anteriorbin:past-before-past; action at a very specific past time; action at a remote past time;past durative action; and completed action or terminated state. The latter twomeanings are aspectual, and the first three tense, in nature. Though Bickertonclearly seesbin as an “aspectual marker” (1975: 150), current creolist consensusis that anterior is rather a tense. Only the first of Bickerton’s five characteriza-tions is considered to describe its grammatical meaning; the others result fromthe failure to distinguish between a form’s primary meaning and its discourse use(including pragmatic meanings that arise through implicatures; see Rickford1987a: 139). The opposition between GC (and, according to the LanguageBioprogram Hypothesis, other creoles) and the European lexifier languages hasbeen reconceived as one of aspect-prominence versus tense-prominence, wherethe indication of location in time is relatively infrequent and unimportant increoles.13 With the understanding that an absolute-relative past tense is by nomeans unique to creoles, I will retain the term “anterior”.

In addition to the difficulty of selecting which meaning(s) of anteriority tooperationalize, there is also a philosophical disagreement. Bickerton insists thatall grammatical markers whichdo occur must occur, while where they do notoccur they are said to be prohibited — a relation which has been referred to asprivative. A privative relation requires an invariant coupling between grammati-cal forms (including zero) and grammaticalized meanings; in particular, it“assigns to the unmarked member of a pair or set a unique semantic interpreta-tion” (Sankoff 1990: 296). The result is that readings which might better beanalyzed as the result of general, context-independent meanings interacting withparticular contexts are said to have a one-to-one mapping with grammatical

12. The form /gat/ is not an inflected but a base form of the GC verb for possession.

13. For evidence of diversity among creoles in this regard, see Singler (1990b) and Winford (1996).


forms; and where such forms occur, one is duty-bound to find the predictedinterpretation.

For example, he explicitly claims that the second /wok/ in (9), because it isa non-stative verb in its bare form, “cannot refer to the earlier of two actionssimultaneously under discussion… [This action] is therefore [+anterior], and aform containing /bin/ must be used” (1975: 47, ex. 2.91):

(9) Hau awi dis bina wok dem na eebl fi wok bikaz dem gro saaf.14

‘They can’t work like we worked because they’ve grown soft.’

Only the first /wok/, which is accompanied by pre-verbal /bina/, can refer to theearlier event, since in the absence ofbin the unmarked (zero- or stem-) form ofthe verb must have non-anterior interpretation. This accurately renders (9), inwhich the second /wok/ is in any case non-finite, but it amounts to ana prioridenial of the variable occurrence of markers with anterior meaning. As will beseen, the empirical fact is that unmarked forms in mesolectal JC may have past,past-before-past or non-past meaning, regardless of their stativity and dependingon context.15

The question then will be, are there quantitative constraints which do admitof limited exceptions, but show a statistically significant tendency in the directionidentified by Bickerton and other creole scholars? (Note that one possibleoutcome is to confirm the existence of a privative opposition, should an essen-tially exceptionless pattern indeed prove to characterize the data.) In thisframework, exceptions need not be counter-examples which invalidate a rule, butmight be cases in which other features of linguistic or social context conspiredto overpower a general tendency.

One advantage of this approach is greater parsimony. Analysts need notattach a host of secondary meanings to elements likebin simply because it doesoccur with them in a few cases. Neither, whenbin is absent where expected,need they struggle to force appropriate readings for every case, since suchprobabilistic processes are conceived as inherently variable to some degree.

14. Bina is the combination of anteriorbin and progressivea, which according to Bickerton occursonly with non-punctual verbs.

15. Pollard (1989) gives JC counter-examples of both sorts: absence ofbenwhere it ought to occur,and presence where it should not be, according to Bickerton’s criteria. Sankoff(1990) providesquantitative evidence for Tok Pisin and Sranan, opposes Bickerton’s approach to form-meaning andform-function assignment, and shows that privative oppositions are unlikely to have arisen in younglanguages which generally lack compulsory and redundant marking mechanisms.


Given a linguistic option, speakers can be expected to exercise it occasionally inways that even the most insightful linguist may be unable to fully explain —though not so often as to entirely disrupt a correctly analyzed pattern. Bicker-ton’s combination of multiple meanings for markers and privative co-occurrencerelations often proves an unfortunate one, requiring readers to take the analyst’sword for the speaker’s intentions and knowledge more often than not. In contrast,the methods adopted here will specify a single primary meaning for anteriority,and empirically examine co-occurrence relations within the corpus in an account-able manner.

Table 6.1 summarizes the distribution of tense-markers and time-referencein the GC basilect according to Bickerton’s model (though non-stative verbs havebeen separated into neutral and punctual as outlined in the last section).

In the default case, bare statives are understood to refer to the present, and

Table 6.1:Anterior tense-marking in Guyanese Creole basilect

Tense Tense-markerLexical aspect and time-reference

Stative Neutral Punctual

defaultanterior

∅bin

presentpast

pastp-b-p

pastp-b-p

bare non-statives to the past. Anterior tense-markerbin indicates the simple pastwith statives and has past-before-past (“p-b-p”) reference with non-statives.(“Default” is not a tense, of course, but simply the absence of tense-marking.The non-anterior tense is, properly, wider — it includes what in English iscovered by present and future — but as the various possibilities are not allrelevant here, some have been omitted.) It is this model which Bickerton haspredicted to emerge generally from the process of creolization, which has beentested by creolists against a range of pidgin and creole varieties, and which willbe considered for the JC mesolect.

There are however several important exceptions to the general predictions:these concern temporalwhen-clauses, clauses in the irrealis mood, and narrativeclauses which purport to recreate a sequence of events in their original order.Each of these will be considered and analyzed separately.


Narrative clauses and anteriority: A discourse account

The account of anterior-marking given by Bickerton contains a crucial exception.If “[two] actions are sequent ones in a narrative” (1975: 53), the earlier one neednot be marked withbin, even if both are already past. However, “when a speakerinverts normal narrative order (i.e., refers to anearlier eventafter a later [past]one),” the anterior marker must occur (109). This requirement, which has beenaccepted and elaborated (Givon 1979; Pollard 1989), is neither a semantic nor asyntactic but a discourse constraint. Anterior particles may thus be conceived asmarking “the disruption of temporal order,” in contrast with past tense particleswhich reinforce temporal sequencing (Singler 1990c: 213). In such an account, itis not that lexical, grammatical, or semantic features, e.g., stativity, triggerbin.Rather stativity is correlated with discursive requirements — e.g., provision ofbackground information in a narrative — which lead to the disruption oftemporal sequencing.

This reformulation has several implications. Exceptions are predicted tooccur due to competing pressures without producing ungrammatical utterances orinvalidating the primary constraint. Explanations must account not only fortokens marked withbin or its equivalents but equally for their non-occurrence.Earlier analyses have simply stipulated a default mechanism to account for themarker’s absence — often a general one that is not independently verifiable, suchas stigmatization (Roberts 1976: 185), decreolization (Bickerton 1975), orforegrounding (Pollard 1989). A variationist approach, by contrast, pays equalattention to marking and unmarking, weighing the hypothesized factors againsteach other based on their relative presence and influence in the linguistic context.

The most interesting implication, however, is that one is not forced todetermine for each mesolectal speaker whether an English-like past-tense systemor a creole-prototype grammar is in place, with the two seen as antithetical.Instead, it is quite possible that the mesolect contains both sorts of markers:those that function to signal the disruption of temporal sequence, and those thatfunction to reinforce it. Alongside systems privileging one or the other tendency,it is quite conceivable that both may operate in a single variable grammar whichhas grammaticalized both options. Furthermore, though the forms may be creole-specific, the discourse contexts and principles which condition their alternationare not likely to be — they may have wider application, even universal functions.

Since Labov and Waletzky (1967), the personal narrative has frequentlyserved as a discourse-level unit of linguistic analysis for the marking of tense


(Schiffrin 1981; Wolfram and Hatfield 1984). Narratives have been defined ascomposed of a sequence of clauses whose order of utterance basically mirrors thechronological ordering of the events narrated — events which (whether fictionalor real) necessarily took place in the past, relative to the time of telling. In thisway linguists have isolated a speech event whose temporal parameters are fixedand clear. There is a clear expectation of iconic order in the telling of narratives,and one can expect departures from it to be few and marked in some way, if notalways grammatically. This framing is useful to the study of creoles too, whereany constraints on the possible meaning or marking of past forms are welcome.

When a sequence of clauses refers to a series of past situations, then, it mayeither preserve normal (iconic) narrative order, or it may invert it. In the firstcase I will refer to ‘sequenced’ clauses, and in the second to ‘anterior’ clauses(following Bickerton’s own definition, 1975: 109; also Rickford 1987a: 141ff).Note that the sequence of events, along with its syntactic reflection, defines theseclasses: the form of a clause alone may not be sufficient, and knowledge of thecontext and surrounding speech (available from the recording and ethnographicobservations) is often required.

Note too that sequenced and anterior clauses may occur in anything fromfull-blown narrative performance to a simple pair describing two actions in order.The mapping of syntax and function is identical in both cases. However, fullyperformed narratives are only a fraction of past utterances, and their structureand social context are more elaborate than those of the minimal units. Inaddition, sequenced and anterior clauses are not here restricted to what Labovand Waletzky call “complicating actions” that move a narrative forward.Consequently I will not use that label, or the equivalent “narrative clauses,” asa cover term.

Both anterior and sequenced clauses thus defined may involve stative verbs,though they are a minority:

(10) /a wa im go ina palitiks im neva waan no moni/why he go into politics he- lack money‘What did he enter politics for? He wasn’t poor.’(Dinah; 45a:260, 11/12/89)

The subject of (10), Dinah’s distant cousin, was well off financially when hedecided to run for office. Non-stative /go ina/ ‘enter’, which comes first in thesequence of two clauses, specifies an action committed after he was already inthe condition described by stative /waan/ ‘lack.’ Dinah’s evaluative description


follows and provides background information for the narrative event, breakingthe temporal sequence for rhetorical effect.

Anterior clauses in this study are a subset of Bickerton’s category, whichalso appears to include cases not loosely interpretable as narrative in nature, aswell as those with the range of secondary meanings noted above. I followconsensus practice in taking disruption of temporal sequence — the denial ofcurrent relevance, and the shifting of time-reference to something preceding theestablished moment — as the primary meaning of anterior (Singler 1990a;Winford 1992; Comrie 1986). Only cases where two or more (past) situationscanbe related in time provide unambiguous identification and may be reliably coded.

The data from which these tokens have been extracted comprise continuousstretches of taped interviews and other interactions, often including elements ofnarrative woven in and out of other genres. Since a great deal of everydayspeech referring to the past is loosely cast in narrative mode, this gives thecorrect prediction that non-stative JC verbs with past-reference will generally beunmarked. The relative rarity of anterior markers in corpus studies (e.g., Sankoff

1990) is then due to the fact that the disruption of temporal sequencing itself israre: it accounts for only 3% of Tagliamonte and Poplack’s (1993: 179) Ex-SlaveRecording data, 6% of their Samaná English past-marking corpus, and 9% of theVeeton data.

Finally, the creole unmarking of tense on non-stative verbs in narrativeclauses has been likened to the Historical Present (HP) in English (Rickford1986d, 1987a). In the HP pattern, third-person singular verbs which appear inconversational narratives may be marked with the present tense suffix {- s}, andother verbs may be uninflected, although the time-reference is understood to bepast (Wolfson 1979; Schiffrin 1981). The speaker appears to be using thepresent tense in a past context. The main similarity to creoles is not in third-singular {-s}, which appears quite infrequently in them (JC included). Rather, itis that in both cases the chosen past-reference verbs receive the default markingoption: in English this is zero in all persons but third singular, where it is {-s},and in creoles it is zero everywhere.

The differences are important, however. Since English marks past tensecategorically in most environments, the failure to do so in narrative clauses isstriking. But since English-related creoles mark the past variably, and often usethe bare stem for past verbs in any case, the contrast is only quantitative: morezeroes, or less past-marking, in narrative clauses than outside them. No single


token can signal to a hearer that a different mode of time-reference is in effect,as happens with the HP in English.

The chief evidence offered for the HP in creoles, Rickford’s (1986d) carefulexamination of mesolectal GC, is also avowedly equivocal. The prediction is thatnarrative clauses should show less past-marking than non-narrative ones. In adetailed study of one mesolectal speaker comprising 635 past-reference verbs,Rickford found past-marking in 43% of narrative clauses but 74% of non-narrative clauses, a difference significant atp< 0.01. (These figures excludeverbs in which (TD)-deletion might have contributed to unmarking.) However,the contrast is entirely due to the exceptional verbsbe and have, where past-marking is nearly categorical; when these are excluded from tabulation, past-markingin both clause-types is “virtually identical” at around 40% (1986d: 393 n. 22).

It would be mistaken to presume that there is a distinct Historical Present increoles which intersects or interferes with past-marking (Rickford 1987a: 189).Rather, I propose that we reverse the telescope: the HP in English should be seenas a limited case of variable marking in a particular discourse context — a subsetof the sort of process that is more widespread in (mesolectal) creoles. Using theHP label for the creole phenomenon obscures more than it reveals, especially ifit inclines analysts to assign meaninga priori to the absent or zero forms (seee.g., Tagliamonte and Poplack 1988). However, research on the HP can suggestuseful constraints on past-marking.16

Temporal clauses

One factor noted by Wolfson (1979) for the HP has also been studied forCaribbean English Creoles. Wolfson found that temporal clauses embedded underthe wordwhenoverwhelmingly disfavored use of the Historical Present — i.e.,they favored the marking of past tense — even though they otherwise fulfilledthe conditions of narrative clauses. Oddly, Bickerton (1975: 150) found, and Rickford(1986d: 387) confirmed, the reverse effect in Guyanese Creole:when-clauses tend

16. Indeed, creolist research ought to furnish hypotheses for the English HP as well. Anteriority,stativity and other factors have not yet been considered as constraints on variability in vernacularAmerican English narrative. Comparative work building on the notion of a “creole prototype”presumes such factors do not apply there, and takes evidence of their influence in creoles astestimony to fundamentally different grammars — but this question calls for empirical research.


not to be marked for past. In both cases,when-clauses coincide with the defaultcase: past-marking in English, but non-marking in GC.17 The creole constraintpredicts the absence of basilectal pre-verbal TMA markers (except completivedon), as well as inflection with {-ed} in the mesolect, in temporal clauses.

There is some question as to what should be counted here. Bickerton(1975: 31, 150ff) and Rickford clearly define temporal clauses aswhen-clauses.Yet there are temporal clauses of like nature withoutwhen: e.g., relations ofsubsequence withAfter…, of simultaneity withThe minute (that)…, and ofprecedence withUp until… . Conversely, several kinds of time relation may beindicated by the use ofwhen: e.g., subsequence or futurity as inWhen (I die)…,simultaneity as inJust when (you thought)…, and habituality as inWhenever….Tagliamonte and Poplack (1993) grouped together all verbs subordinated by suchtemporal conjunctions. They also (separately) considered the presence oftemporal adverbs in clauses, having in mind this explanation: temporal disambi-guation by such non-verbal elements might render past-marking by verbalmorphology redundant, and therefore less likely. This proved to be true for theconjunctions in their Samaná data (though they still argue against creole ancestryfor Samaná), but not for the adverbs.

Interestingly Comrie (1986: 31) makes a similar functionalist argument,asserting there is “virtual complementary distribution between tense and timeadverbials.” He observes that,

In Jamaican Creole, for instance, it is usual to omit tense markers when anovert adverbial of time location is present: compareMi en a sing‘I anteriorprogressive sing,’ i.e. ‘I was singing,’ withYeside mi (?en) a sing‘YesterdayI was singing’.

This assertion proves to be inaccurate, however, with counterexamples in bothdirections. Not only is it quite common to have unmarked past-reference formswith no overt temporal expression, but cases of temporal elements co-occurringwith anterior markers are not at all unusual or strained. Fourteen of 100 tokensof pre-verbaldid in my data contain such expressions. The examples in (11a–c)show temporal conjunctions, while those in (11d–f) have temporal adverbs andother phrases (temporal elements underlined):

17. This observation is due to Gillian Sankoff(p.c.).


(11) a. /bifuor ai did baan/‘before I was born’(Matty; #102a:220, 3/17/90)

b. /fram di taim yu de ya yu did uon it/‘Since the time you were (put) there, you owned it.’(Matty; #102b:160, 3/17/90)

c. /hwen a kom alang a did av a fren/‘When I was growing up, I had a friend’(Tamas; #9b:315, 8/17/89)

d. /dat lov, dat ziyl, wat wi did hav f6rs taim/‘That love, that zeal, that we had in earlier times’(Mina; #99a:070, 3/9/90)

e. /shi did av sombadi kyari ar g6 w6rk a maanin taim/‘She had somebody give her a ride to work in the morning.’(Dinah; #95a:015, 2/25/90)

f. /ten tauzin yiyrz ag6dem did penichriet aal dem ting/‘10,000 years agothey (already) understood all these things.’(Matty; #102b:210, 3/17/90)

Comrie’s point about collocation in creoles evidently does not hold for meso-lectal JC. I will not further examine temporal adverbials. In the interest ofcomparability with studies of GC, temporal subordinating clauses featuringwhenare retained as a separate category for investigation. These clauses are firstseparated from all others, and those verbs embedded under thewhenare coded[+temporal]; those in the complement clause are not. Verbs conjoined to theembedded verb are also coded [+temporal] unless there is an intervening time-word (e.g.and then) or other indication that their time reference is consequent orotherwise different.

Irrealis clauses

Another environment distinguished by most researchers consists of irrealisclauses. Irrealis mood is distinct from tense and aspect; it is expressed in part bysimilar preverbal particles and in part by modals. In JC irrealis particles do notappear in the same verb phrase with tense and aspect markers, though modalsmay. In addition, irrealis meaning often characterizes clauses without eithermodals or particles, which are subordinated underif or other conjunctions.


Irrealis preverbal markers in JC include predictivego andwi, as well as prospec-tive gwain and a go (see (1b) above).18 In practice many of these particlesunambiguously designate future occasions, so the majority of cases consideredbelow for past-marking are conditionals, usually involvingif.

The meaning of irrealis is unrealized possibility; it describes hypotheticalsituations which are not presently occurring and “have not actually occurred,whether these are expressed by future or conditional tenses or by modals”(Bickerton 1975: 42; see also Comrie 1986: 39ff).19 It subsumes meaningsexpressed in other languages by, e.g., the future, modals of possibility orobligation, conditionals, counterfactuals, the subjunctive, and the like. In anumber of pidgins and creoles, irrealis and habitual (including past habitual)share the same marker (Singler 1990c; Silva 1990) — often in the consequentclauses of temporals or conditionals — perhaps because the habitual is nonspecificand often involves induction and generalization (Bickerton 1981; Comrie 1986).20

Creoles like JC contrast with European lexifier languages like English(where future meaning is also expressed as mood, rather than tense) in that thesame irrealis particle marks several such meanings. The most typical are futureand conditional — though Singler points out that ‘future’ in creoles is relativerather than absolute, and is better termed ‘posterior’, parallel to the anteriortense. Instead of marking a situation subsequent to the moment of speech,posterior refers to “an event occurring subsequent to a discourse-determinedreference point” (1990c: 207), whether that point is present, past, or itself in thefuture. Winford (1996) contends that the use of the term ‘irrealis’ for what isclearly a future tense in most creoles is misleading; but as this investigation isinterested precisely in those cases of irrealis which do not have future meaning,it is apt here.

In English as in other languages there is a complex relation between tenseand mood such that non-past hypothetical clauses may employ past verb forms— e.g., “If you told me (tomorrow)…,” or “Suppose youwanted it (right

18. A go is a periphrastic construction parallel to Englishgoing to and other cross-linguisticallycommon cases of future meaning grammaticalized with motion verbs. The meaning of progressiveais transformed in this process, and thus it is not an exception to the prohibition on co-occurrence withaspect markers.

19. Modality (e.g. epistemic and deontic) is expressed in JC by two sets of verbal particles whichcontrast with TMA markers and main verbs (Bailey 1966a: 45).

20. Kru Pidgin English uses irrealisgo andwe here (Singler 1990c), similar to JCgo andwi.


now)?,” set in the future and (an alternate) present respectively. (Absent thetemporal adverbials, such utterances are systematically ambiguous betweenhypothetical and past realis readings.) Strikingly, the reverse has been noted forTok Pisin: the future markerbai has shifted semantically, expanding to includeirrealis uses, then iterative and habitual, and most recently serving as a punctualmarker with strong past associations (Sankoff 1991). Consequently it seemsimportant to examine JC irrealis clauses separately to see whether they receivedifferent treatment in terms of past-marking.

Bickerton (1984) argues that the realis/irrealis distinction is cognitively morebasic than tense-based ones (e.g., past- vs. non-past as in English) and is thusprominent in true creoles. The present focus is on his specific claim that irrealisclauses tend not to be marked for past by elements likeben or did: “hypo-theticals are favourable environments for non-insertion of pre-verbal markers”(1975: 157). The following examples are typical. Verbs in the irrealis antecedentclause are underlined, and are translated using the English past tense because oftheir time reference; the JC originals are mostly unmarked, however:

(12) a. /if yu waant evribadi kom in yuniti/‘If you wantedeverybody to come together in unity, …’(Mina #99a:065, 3/9/90)

b. /if shi sii a blak pus kom op deyr/‘If she sawa black cat come up there, …’(Opal #86a:545, 2/4/90)

c. /if yu liv in baabikan yu waz kansidad opa midl klaas/‘If you lived in Barbican, you were considered upper middleclass.’(Matty #102a:085, 3/17/90)

d. /if yu gu ova deyr an yu ard som av di gro yong diyr dee swiittu lisn/‘If you went over there and you heardsome of th[ose who] …grew up there as young people … it’s sweet to hear them talk’(Tamas #9b:600, 8/17/89)

e. /an if wi duu enting dee se wen yu faada kom/‘And if we did anything, they said, “When your father comes…”’(Tamas #15a:275, 8/17/89)

Note the conjoined verb /6rd/ in (12d), which is also coded as irrealis since it isopposed to the consequence, unlike /kansidad/ in (12c) which is itself the verb of


consequence, or /se/ in (12e), which follows the antecedent as part of a narrativesequence. In extracting the data, past-reference conditionals, hypotheticals,counterfactuals, and all clauses beginning withif were separated and coded[+irrealis], under rules similar to those described above for temporals.

Summary of coding and exclusions

In order to conduct an accountable quantitative analysis of the constraintsgoverning the occurrence of pre-verbal markers in past-reference clauses, it isnecessary to classify each past-reference verb precisely for each constraint, andto exclude utterances for which this cannot reliably be done. Since multivariateanalysis assumes a variable distribution, any categorical factor — e.g., anenvironment in which pre-verbal markers are either required or prohibited —must also be excluded. This requirement forces variationist research to empirical-ly establish at the outset of analysis whether a rule or process is probabilistic orexceptionless in its effects.

Separate decisions are required for different phenomena. A wider range ofco-occurrence possibilities exists for pre-verbal markers than for inflectionalsuffixing with {-ed}, since the former are independent of the phonetic shape ofthe verb. At the same time, pre-verbal markers may well have a narrowersemantic range than the general meaning of past-reference for which inflectionis appropriate in the English tense system. Pre-verbal markers also occur withprogressive aspect and with attributive predicates which in English are adjectives,with locatives, modals and serial verbs, and in other environments where {-ed}does not. Since the descriptive goal is to identify the primary constraints ondistribution, I have collected preverbal markers where they occur in all theseenvironments.

Nevertheless some exclusions apply generally to both analyses:

• All forms of be;• Completives withdone;• Habituals withyuustu;• Verbs that cannot be past-marked.

Analysis of be requires a complete study of the copula system. In preliminaryexamination of the data I observed a nearly overwhelming tendency for habitualsto be uninflected and (when not preceded byyuustu) otherwise unmarked.


Winford confirms this pattern for TC, arguing further that “instances of pasthabituality form a separate area of variability… and should be handled by ameans of a distinct linguistic variable” (1992: 337). Though I have not carriedout such an investigation, it seems likely that one would come to the conclusionthat past habituals rarely (but occasionally) are preceded bydid. Since both theoverall count of instances of pastdid, and the subset of habitual cases, are small— 100 and 8, respectively — while the general direction of the effect seemsclear, I include these habitual cases in the analysis of pre-verbal markers.21

In a small number of circumstances past verbs simply cannot be marked fortime-reference, and so must be excluded. The most interesting occurs with serialverbs. The following example is the third in a string of narrative sentences, none ofwhich shows any overt marker of past-reference (untildida in the relative clause):

(13) /kom dong an staat shat aal di man dem huu dida gi im a aad taim/‘(He) came down and started shooting all the men who were givinghim a hard time.’(Matty; #102a:405, 3/17/90)

In such an utterance the speaker may choose whether to inflect the initial verb ina serial string, herestart (which Matty elsewhere inflects more often than not).Once the verb has been left bare and the serial verb construction chosen,however, it is virtually impossible to inflect non-initial members of the string. Ifon the other hand Matty did inflect the first verb, various non-serial optionspresent themselves for completing the clause, but all are parallel to English non-finite verbs and none allow inflection of subsequent verbs, either. Consequently,while the first verb in such a serial string may be viewed as the outcome of achoice (though the serial environment itself only allows one option), subsequentverbs are categorically bare. In addition to prohibiting verb inflection, serialstrings also rarely feature preverbal markers in the Veeton corpus, thoughsometimes they do:

(14) /bikaz im iivn did g6get som fantastik figaz/‘Because he even went and got some fantastic figures…’(Matty; #102b:020, 3/17/90)

21. Habituals withdid are however excluded from the analysis of {-ed} inflection.


Again, only the initial member of a string receives past-marking (of course it hasscope over the whole predicate). Consequently, non-first members of serialconstructions are excluded for both analyses.

The problem of including participles has found various solutions. Winford(1993b), in a detailed analysis of the perfect in TC, argues that perfects shouldbe separated from cases of perfective past-reference but acknowledges that in theabsence of a completive marker, or an auxiliary to mark the perfect, there aremany instances where the meaning cannot easily be disambiguated. His purposeis to explain the distribution of variants that carry a single aspectual meaning. Incontrast, Tagliamonte and Poplack’s (1993) purpose is to explain the variation inexistent past-marking patterns; they count all cases in whicheither inflectionorpast Aux occur as marked, including participles. This investigation’s goals aresimilar to the latter’s, so participles have been included and coded according tothe presence of inflection. A few tokens (n=17) showed preceding Aux but noinflection; however none of these were preceded by pastdid, and only one byneva. Adjectival participles were excluded as non-verbal elements.

After exclusions, coding for the constraints above is summarized:

(15a) S

Stative Neutral Punctual

(15b) C-

Irrealis Temporal Sequenced Anterior Other

Recall that stativity judgments are made on the basis of lexical meaning indiscourse context, where individual verbs may vary. For clause-type, irrealismeaning is a distinguishing criterion; the occurrence ofwhendefines temporalclauses; and clauses referring to ordered past events are coded as sequenced iflinguistic order reflects event order, or as anterior if it reverses that order. Therest make up the residual category of Other clauses which includes, for example,many clauses typically classified as abstract, evaluation, or coda in Labov andWaletzky’s (1967) narrative analysis scheme, as well as single (and thereforeunordered) references to past events or states, and references to events for whichno order can be reliably inferred.

Details of coding and exclusions which apply only to the analysis of verb


inflection are given in the next chapter. They include attention to exceptionallexical items which are tallied separately, as well as morphological subclasses.

Infrequency of preverbal tense markers

Creolists have often concentrated their descriptions on areas of the grammarwhere the contrast with European lexifier languages has appeared to be greatest,such as the function, distribution, and meaning of invariant pre-verbal tensemarkers. An important motivation for doing so has been the need to emphasizeto the public and to other scholars of language that creoles are not linguisticallyinferior, degenerate, or derivative, but rather that they are distinct, independent,structurally complete, and valid languages.

In this way linguists have participated in a broader post-colonial movementwhich has rejected negative and demeaning foreign interpretations of Caribbeancultures, both scientifically investigating their historical roots and synchronicstructures and making possible society-wide revisions of their social andsymbolic value. It might even be generally agreed that achieving a sea-change inattitudes towards creole language use is one of the most important byproducts ofa socially responsible creole linguistics. At the same time, such an ideologicalgoal is not seen to be in conflict with the need for valid scientific methods ofdescription, argumentation, and explanation.

All methodological choices have their consequences, however. The dominantparadigm of generative linguistics has influenced creole studies in the samegeneral ways it has affected other areas of linguistics. For example, manyexisting descriptions of creoles are not accountable to a corpus of naturallyoccurring data, but are in large measure abstracted from informal or anecdotalobservations, direct elicitations, folkloric texts, or constructed data (not always bynative speakers).22 Qualitative analyses of idealized creole grammars conductedby such methods are likely to diverge from empirical, quantitative studies ofactual speech in several ways. They may inadvertently exaggerate the contrastbetween creoles and colonial standard languages, and underrepresent theirsimilarities — a result that, as some West Indian scholars have observed (e.g.

22. Notable exceptions to this generalization for Jamaican include Bailey (1966a), Cassidy andLePage (1967), Wells (1973), Lalla and D’Costa (1990).


Rickford 1987a: 186), is likely to go unchallenged since it is consonant withideological goals.

In the study of the distribution of past-reference markers, the frequency ofinvariant pre-verbal tense markers is an example. A scholar whose familiaritywith Caribbean English Creoles was derived from the literature might expectelements such asbento be ubiquitous in Jamaican speech. Yet that scholar, uponjourneying to the island and listening to casual speech in town, as well as a JCnative speaker confronted with a typical description of her mesolectal variety,might both be surprised at the difference between creoles on the page andcreoles in the ear. Though some TMA particles such as progressivea are indeedvery frequent in everyday speech, tense marking withbenanddid is surprisinglyunusual, even rare at mesolectal levels, as will be seen.

While the central role these particles are assigned in qualitative analyses canbe difficult to reconcile with the reality of marginal use and minimal functionalload, several considerations argue for studying them. A traditional assumption isthat they are remnants of an earlier, less decreolized system and thus historicallysignificant as keys to the proto-creole (but see Sankoff 1990). Another is thatthough not numerous, they are salient and mark discourse-relevant aspects ofverb meaning. Third, the patterns established byben are assumed to be thetemplate for other means of tense-marking. Bickerton (1975: 70) says thatdid“simply slots into the space in the grammar vacated bybin”; others havegeneralized this pattern into a prediction about paths of decreolization/grammaticalization. The second and third hypotheses are investigated below, andin the next chapter the dimensions used to examinedid variation are applied tothe study of {-ed} tense-marking.

Before moving on, I note that there is practically no quantitative data on theuse of the pre-verbal markers, and what there is points to very low rates ofoccurrence. Such markers are not part of varieties for which corpus studies havebeen done, e.g., Samaná English or AAVE grammar. They do occur in Guya-nese, of course: Bickerton (1975) gives many examples, but no way of estimat-ing their frequency relative to other means of indicating past. For example, hisTable 2.1 attributes 56 tokens ofbin (and 35 tokens ofbina) to 16 basilectalspeakers, alongside only 5 tokens of past {-ed}. However, the same table shows732 tokens of progressivea, 100 of habitualdoz, and 46 of completivedon. It isdifficult to imagine that only 61 past-reference verbs (i.e. 56 + 5) occurred in acorpus this size. There probably were a large but unreported number of unmarkedpasts, and the frequency ofbin needs to be measured against these as well.


Rickford’s (1987a) collection of GC speech samples — taken from early(pre-1900) texts, recorded interviews with 16 speakers spanning the continuum,and modern texts — runs to nearly 1,600 lines. I count 64 examples of anterioror pastbin (excluding ambiguous pre-locative or perfect cases). More than aquarter of these occur in folk songs or early texts; 33 of the remaining 47 casesare produced by two basilectal speakers, Irene and Granny. In upper mesolectalGC, these pre-verbal markers are apparently extremely rare: Rickford (1986d, fn.10) finds only two cases ofdid and none ofbin alongside 635 past-referenceverbs produced over 2.5 hours of spontaneous interview with Bonnette. Lookingfarther afield at other creoles, less closely related to JC than the very similar GC,Sankoff(1990) examined 536 past-reference clauses of narratives in Sranan andfound 49 instances of anteriorben; while in the Pacific creole Tok Pisin shefinds only five instances ofbin, and only 19 anterior particles in all, among 533narrative clauses.

Proportions like these suggest that pre-verbal particles may never haveborne a large share of the burden of marking past-reference in JC or GC.Perhaps not only mesolectal but also basilectal speakers routinely mix them withunmarked (and even inflected) forms, with adverbial indicators of time-reference,and in predictable discourse contexts (e.g., narrative), in a rich, mixed, andvariable grammar that has evolved over time — but has never come to resembleeither the strict agreement requirements of standard English, or the neat, predictableand purely functional systems imagined by many linguists to characterize creoles.

The use of ‘ben’ in Veeton

The common wisdom among creolists, variation studies notwithstanding, is thatben is the usual JC marker of past or anterior tense. This information came as asurprise to me since, despite my ten years experience of speaking a mesolectalvariety daily with other schoolchildren in the country, and later in Kingston, pre-verbalbenwas not a productive form in my grammar (though it was part of mypassive competence).

Ben occurs for me, as for many Jamaicans, in locative environments like(16), and in passives like (17):

(16) a. /im ben dong de lang taim/‘{She was/ She has been} down there a long time.’


b. /wich paat im bin/‘Where wasshe?’, ‘Where has she been?’

c. /im ben de huom/‘{She was/ She had been} at home.’

d. /mi naa ben baan dem taim/‘At that time I {was not / had not been} born.’

Such cases alone cannot attest to the active use of pre-verbalben, however. Asthe highlighted portions of the translation indicate, equivalent constructions instandard English involve the itembeen, and omission ofhave is sometimespossible dialectally (for 16). For JC speakers who maintain active pre-verbalbenin other environments, cases like (16–17) are undoubtedly genuine occurrencesof anterior tense marking; but by themselves they are ambiguous evidence,consistent with but not proving that such a category of marker exists. What isneeded are tokens ofbenbefore uninflected past-reference verbs. In fact, a likelypath for decreolization would be disappearance ofben in precisely the latterenvironment, and persistence in those cases where it contrasts minimally withstandard English.

The intuitions of one mesolectal speaker, especially a near-native with laterlinguistic training, count but little as documentation of speech communitypractices. However, they were supported by data over a year of field observation.I was constantly alert for use of this particle or its variants /wen/, /min/ and /en/in the speech of people around me, at the market, on the street, in the policestation, and in the yard — especially when they were talking to each other andmay not have focused on me as an interested audience. Though I noted down afew uses, I concluded thatbenis rarely unself-consciously produced in everydaydiscourse in Kingston.

In the 2,200 tokens of past-marking from interview and spontaneous speechwhich make up the data of this chapter — and, subject to conditions outlinedbelow, I coded every instance of a past-reference verb in 14 hours of speechfrom 10 speakers — not a single token of pre-verbalbenoccurred. Some elderlyVeeton speakers of rural origin do produce it very occasionally in conversation,as in the following extract from a narrative. Macca is a 72–year-old retired policedetective from St. Elizabeth (often cited as the most “backward” of Jamaica’s 14parishes). After telling a danger-of-death story, in which he and another manscouted out illegalganja (marijuana) plots by night, Macca follows with thiscoda in which he reports talking to himself:


(18) /a se bot yu nuo yu n6baan fi ded/‘I said [to myself], “But y’know, you weren’t born to be killed [like that]!/yu pik op yuself an ina klarendan bush a moont jiemz/You took yourself into the Clarendon bush at Mt. James,/tuu chrii aklak a maanin sapuoz man ben get op an kyach yu hin de/2, 3 o’clock in the morning. Suppose someone hadgot up andcaught you in there?”/ai wudav bin a ded man yu no ai wud nat hav bin alaiv tudee/I would’ve beena dead man, y’know. I would not have beenalivetoday.’(Macca; #7a:114, 7/27/89)

Macca first uses /ben/ with counterfactual, past-before-past meaning, then followsit twice with /bin/, in a structure that might be the standard English perfectcopula. The creole use ofbenoccurs in a report of his own thought processes atsome time subsequent to the action, a common device for evaluation in narrativeretellings (Labov and Waletzky 1967), and contrasts with his standard speechwhen addressing the fieldworker. Macca thus displays his ability to accommodateto his audience, code-switching between the rural vernacular appropriate torecollection of his younger days and the educated speech which frames thismemory for consumption by a foreign interviewer in his urban home. (Macca haslived in Veeton for decades now, and no longer visits the country.)

Ben is in fact a stigmatized vernacular form. Speakers may tend to avoidusing it in interview speech and in conversation with an educated white speaker,however mesolectal his speech — or else to carefully frame its use, as Maccadoes here. The almost total absence from urban speech that the above accountsuggests may thus be an exaggeration.Ben is well-known to all, including theyoung and educated, as a stereotype of rural speech. When asked to talk “thereal, raw Patwa” or speak like country folk do, they often volunteer it, and nearlyall produced it in response to the English-to-Creole translation task. Yet most ofthe features produced in answer to such requests occur quite commonly in theirown daily speech, despite their symbolic value.23 Ben is one of a very fewforms that these speakers volunteered but did not use elsewhere, quite unself-consciously.

23. E.g. nearly every speaker volunteered “We yu a go?” (‘Where are you going?’) as country talk,yet progressivea is one of the commonest of all JC features in urban mesolectal speech.


There is also variety in the forms ofben, and the reflections that manyspeakers offered concerning its use, significance, and origin. George, one of themost acrolectal informants, volunteeredbenduring the formal language test andquestionnaire session, ascribing it a Spanish etymology (<bien). Without anyprompting from me as to particular constructions or even past tense, Mattyclaimed that where Kingstonians tend to form the past tense by usingdid go ordida go, rural people in St. Mary saywen de go, and rural people in St. Elizabethsayben de go(#102b:238, 3/17/90). He believes the latter constructions (but notthe ones withdid) to be descended from “African talk.”

June, half-sister to Bigga but herself raised in a middle-class Kingstonhome, gave the following evaluation, reproduced in full because of the light itsheds onben’s connection to urban speech and its social evaluation (the non-standard marker June focuses on is indicated in translation in square brackets):

(19) a. /som parts in jameeka yu no laik yu kan go tu aal sent iylizbet an/‘Some places in Jamaica, you know, like you can go to St.Elizabeth and–/ai am a jameekan rait an yu se yu go dier/I am a Jamaican, right? and you say — You go there,/yu don andastan a w6rd dem se yu no kaa fi dem patwa sofaar oot/you don’t understand a word they say y’know, cause theirPatwa is so far out./yu no laik dem dee iz laik a kompliit difren patwa/Y’know like they– they– It’s like a complete different Patwa./yaa se waa an dem taak so faas yu no an dem wil se/You’re saying “What?” And they talk so fast y’know! Andthey’ll say,/mi ben de go dong de an yu no yaa se/“I [ben] went down there” and y’know you’re saying,/a waa dem a se an yuu taak patwa yuself yu no/“What’re they saying?” And you talk Patwa yourself, youknow!/yu no ’oo a miin so iz laik difren difren/You know how I mean? So it’s like different!(June, #89b:205, 2/18/90)


Although she represents this rural speech as “a complete different Patwa,” Junenevertheless uses the form easily, echoing Matty’s version of who says what (her“we” here refers to Kingstonians):

(20) a. /or laik wi wuda se kom mek wi go dong de so ino/‘Or like we’d say, “Come, let’s go down there”, y’know?

/or him dida go dong de so a sent iylizbet p6s6n wuda se/Or, “He [did] went down there.” A St. Elizabeth person wouldsay,

/im ben de go dong de im ben go dong de/“He [bende] went down there”, “He [ben] went down there”.(June #89b:220, 2/18/90)

Several points emerge from this discussion.Ben is clearly considered to be arural form, something not used by urbanites. Variant forms such asben,wen, andbendeare all seen as equivalent in meaning, but social functions may be assignedto them, e.g., contrasting regional differences (St. Mary versus St. Elizabeth)within the stigmatized deep-country identity. The urban equivalent is perceivedto be did (something confirmed by other users of the latter), which no-onereports as stigmatized or old-fashioned. Rural varieties are represented by youngurbanites as practically unintelligible — a clear exaggeration given their facilitywith the forms (and the virtual identity of some “rural” forms to everyday urbanones) — and by older speakers as but one among several varieties they control.Language attitudes thus serve to distinguish identity along the crucial rural/urbanaxis, though there may not be such a clear distinction in language behavior.Attempts to identify the etymology ofben in Spanish or African languagessuggest perception of it as foreign or distanced from modern Jamaican speech.

All of this is consonant with the idea thatben is an infrequent yet salientelement — a marginal or highly restricted strategy for past-marking, whose usemay carry considerable symbolic impact — and with the finding that it simplyis not an active component in the urban mesolectal JC of Veeton. In fact, sinceonly three of the fifteen Veeton speakers in this sample (Roxy, Olive, and Matty)were actually both born and raised in Kingston, the statement has implicationsfor country speech as well. My own experience of language acquisition in coastalSt. Mary — the parish most often cited after St. Elizabeth as being truly rural —30 years ago, right around the time Bailey (1966a) was being written, anec-dotally supports this.


In the virtual absence ofben, does a “prototypically creole” system of past-reference still operate in Veeton speech? Bickerton (1975) suggests that formshigher up the continuum will show the same constraints, though they may appearon the surface to be more like English. Further still, in his decreolizationparadigm, the basilectal underlying semantics and syntax should give way toconstraints that match those of the standard, as the English tense system ofverbal inflection completely replaces the system of invariant pre-verbal markers.The next section examines a form which appears to show both English andcreole patterns, for different sets of mesolectal speakers.

Tense and negation marking with ‘neva’

The three principal negators in JC areno, neva,and duon (Bailey 1966a: 90).The relationship between negation and past-marking at various levels of JCmight be schematized as follows, simplifying a little:

(21) Markers of tense and negation in Jamaican Creole

Basilect Mesolect Acrolect

NegPastNeg + past

no VbenVno benV

duonVdid VnevaV

Aux {-n’t / not} VV-eddidn’t V, nevaV-ed

In the basilect, negation and past combine straightforwardly, in that order; at theacrolectal level, JC generally follows the same rules as standard Englishes. Asusual with such lectal divisions, however, most Veeton speakers employ optionsfrom at least two of the three columns in conversation. Zero-marking of tense isignored here, butno andduonmay occur with otherwise unmarked verbs in pastcontexts, since they are quite independent of any relation to time reference. Thisis not true ofneva, which only occurs with past reference in JC.

The mesolectal paradigm above resembles the basilectal one in that it usessingle invariant pre-verbal markers, rather than the morphological incorporationevident in the acrolect. It is also akin to the acrolect, in that the mesolectalmarkers all occur in syntactic slots superficially identical to their Englishequivalents. In another sense, though, the acrolect and basilect are closer togetherthan either is to the mesolect: both of the former combine elements expressing


past and negation compositionally, e.g.,no plus ben,did plus {-n’t}, or neva+{-ed}. In the basilect negation precedes tense, while the acrolect has bothordering options on the surface. The mesolect however expresses both past andnegative meaning fused into a single element.24 The deployment of this elementis interesting.

In standard English,neveris an adverb with the meaning “not at any time.”Used in the past tense, it covers all relevant past time up to the present moment,and used predictively, it covers all future time after the moment of utterance. InJC, the function ofneva is narrower in that it is rarely used with predictivemeaning except by very standard speakers, but it is also wider: it may be usedas a simple past negator, a usage also found in vernacular English dialects(Cheshire 1982). The two past meanings are exemplified in (22), which carriesthe exclusive meaning “There has been no occasion such that X,” and in (10),repeated here as (23), where the simple past meaning of narrower scope applies:

(22) /a neva sii soch a big gon in aal mi laif/I - see such a big gun in all my life‘I never saw such a big gun in all my life.’(Dinah, #45a:470, 11/12/89)

(23) /a wa im go ina palitiks im neva waan no moni/ why he go into politics he- lack no money‘What did he enter politics for? He wasn’t poor.’(Dinah; #45a:260, 11/12/89)

In (23) Dinah is discussing a distant cousin who started life poor, became well off,went into politics, and was shot by his own bodyguards during the 1980 elections.The equivalent English sentence withnever, “He never lacked for money,” isliterally false, and could not be used of this situation.The meaning is rather thatat the moment when he went into politics, he did not need to do it for money.

Both sentences can be accounted for by allowing the meaning ofneva toapply to the (past) reference time established by the discourse context. This is thetime of entering politics in (23), but expands in (22) to include all of Dinah’slife. This contrasts with the standard English meaning ofnever, which is

24. Rarely,nevaanddid combine, preserving the basilectal order, as with Tamas’s habitual:(i) “Him neva ignorant us, him neva di’ beat us, him did jus talk.”

or this stative predicate uttered by Matty:(ii) “[That] neva did jus’ right.”


contiguous with the moment of speaking, whether it extends into the future orpast, and tends to occur with the experiential perfect (Fenn 1987; Winford1993b). The JC word then is like other anterior and past markers in JC andEnglish in that it shifts time-reference to something preceding the establishedmoment. It also resembles tense markers, and differs from the English adverb,in that it only specifies the general location of a time reference, and leavesfurther fixing of the time to features of the context.

So far, nevaappears to be a TMA marker rather than an adverb. In fact,Escure, speaking of a similar element in Belizean Creole, calls it “the negativeequivalent of the past/anterior morpheme” (1997: 82). In addition to the differ-ence in semantic interpretation, there ought to be a difference in co-occurrencerestrictions too. As an adverb, Englishneverhas no effect on the past-markingof the following verb, and I argued above that JC adverbs do not either. If it isan invariant pre-verbal tense-marker, however,nevashould be incompatible withinflection on past-reference verbs. This is difficult to test for all individualspeakers since it occurs relatively infrequently (only 74 times in all). The tenspeakers are accordingly grouped into three sets in Table 6.2, which I refer to asHigh, Middle, and Low, based on their overall verb-inflection rate in all categories.

This grouping is a pre-theoretical move, not intended to create three distinct

Table 6.2:Division of speakers into groups by overall verb-inflection rate

Group Individuals Percent Probability Tokens

HighMiddleLow

Roxy, Rose, Noel, OliveMatty, OpalTamas, Bigga, Mina, Dinah

71%36%10%

0.860.560.17

661588872

(dia)lects. The division in Table 6.2 was a natural one given the individual data,and it is statistically significant.25 Aggregating the data in this way allows usto examine in Table 6.3 whethernevahas any effect on its following verb forspeakers who mark the past to different degrees. (Only regular verbs areconsidered; the first three columns of figures describe those clauses containing

25. In a step-wise Varbrul run which included all linguistic factor groups, it was the first groupadded. See the procedure in Chap. 5, which gave nearly the identical grouping and ranking results forthe (TD) variable.


neva, while the latter two give overall figures for inflection of regular verbsacross the whole sample.)

Table 6.3 reveals that the High group tend to inflect verbs followingnevaabout

Table 6.3:Inflection of verbs after ‘neva’

neva+inflected V

neva+bare V

Inflection ratew/neva

Inflection w/regular verbs

Tokens,regular verbs

HighMiddleLow

902

081144

53%00%04%

57%32%11%

228225270

half the time, which is in fact their usual rate of inflection — in other words,neva appears to have no effect on their past-marking. In contrast, the otherspeakers practically never past-mark verbs afterneva. (The two exceptions areboth spoken by Tamas when recalling his time working in England.) This is notsimply due to generally low past-marking, since their usual rate is considerablyhigher than the rate afterneva. As the Middle and Low groups behave alikeinthis respect, one may combine their figures and use a chi-square test to compare themwith the High group: the difference is significant atp< .001 (c2 = 26.18).

For the upper mesolect, then,nevais just an adverb as in English, while theother speakers treat it as a (negative) pre-verbal tense-marker likebenanddid.This is further evidence against Comrie’s functionalist idea that temporaladverbials disfavor tense-marking, since what is crucial forneva is not itsadverbial status but its ability to appear between subject and verb and its reducedsemantic content, factors favoring grammaticalization into a TMA marker.

Here is an example of the classic mesolectal “camouflage” situation, inwhich creole grammatical relations underlie use of forms that, on the surface,resemble the standard. The same element is produced in both JC and Englishwith the general meaning of negated past. The structure disfavored in Creole(neva+ inflected verb) is perfectly grammatical in standard English. Even themeaning distinction sketched above is a typical case of creole variability insemantics: the extension of negation to approach the moment of speaking, partof the literal meaning of Englishnever, is grammaticalized in English butremains merely an implicature in JC. The superficial similarity of structuresbelies a division within the mesolect between speakers who have an English-likesystem and those whose tense-marking resembles the classic creole prototype.


Description and distribution of pre-verbal ‘did’

The use of pre-verbaldid to mark past or anterior tense is often reported forCaribbean English Creoles, both eastern varieties spoken in, e.g., Trinidad (Winer1993) and Barbados (Burrowes 1983), and western ones such as Miskito CoastCreole English (Holm 1983), Limón Creole English (Herzfeld 1983), andacrolectal Belize Creole English (Escure 1997). This feature is usually assignedto the mesolect or higher on the continuum, and seen as “less deviant fromstandard usage and thus less stigmatized” thanben, according to Holm(1988: 152).

Bickerton claims that the syntax and semantics of the two forms areidentical:did is “simply slotted into place in [the] creole structures” of Guyanese(1975: 70). It is predicted to operate according to the same rules and with thesame anterior meaning: “the mesolectal Guyanese speaker has…did for [+ anterior]past actions and states” (1975: 103).26 Given the absence ofben and the rarityof did itself in the Veeton corpus, a direct comparison with GC cannot be made.This section describes the distribution ofdid in the data, and considers whetherthe syntactic, semantic and discourse constraints follow the prototypical creolemodel.

Only 152 tokens of the verbdo with past-reference occur. Forms of the verbinclude unmarked /du/, past-marked /did/ and reduced /di/, and negative /didn/.Cases fall into three categories: pastdo as a main verb, with 44 tokens;do-support, with only five; and past-markerdid. Main verbdo is examined in thenext chapter, as a lexical item of special interest among the irregular verbs.Do-support is quite rare compared with the over 2,100 other past-reference clausescoded. Cases include pro-verbdo, tag questions, and question-inversion withauxiliary do. Four speakers showdo-support: Roxy, Rose, and Noel are middle-class members of the High group (selected in the last section for their overallpast-marking rate), while Opal, a young working-class woman from the Middlegroup, uses it once. I will not considerdo-support further.

Past-markerdid comprises all those instances which on the surface resemblemodern standard English auxiliarydo in its emphatic affirmative use, with past-reference, as in (24):

26. A key difference is that while 75% (39/52) of Bickerton’sbin tokens occur with stative verbs,75% (36/48) of hisdid tokens occur with non-statives. For the Veetondid/neva-users the numbers arevery similar: 68% (104/153) ofdid/nevatokens occur with non-statives.


(24) But I DID give you an example!

The defining characteristic of emphaticdo is that it may, and generally does,receive primary stress. But though there are 100 similar instances in the JC data,not one case has lexical stress on the word /did/; there is no evidence that anyVeeton speakers have such a function for past-markerdid.

In this JC departs almost entirely from modern standard English, where “theuse of auxiliarydo in uninverted affirmative declaratives is limited to emphaticcontexts,” but it well reflects an older phase: “Unemphatic affirmative declara-tive do was in common use in the middle of the 16th century, after which its usedeclined until the modern situation was reached” (Kroch 1989: 217). This usagewas still possible in standard London speech until after 1800 — certainly longenough to have influenced Jamaican — and persists in regional British dialectssuch as the English of Somerset (Ihalainen 1991). Examples (25a,b) are takenfrom Kroch (1989, his (21a,b); references in the original):

(25) a. They worschipped the sonne whanne he DEDE arise.b. When he DYD se[e] that Crist shold be dede…

Although scholars have considered whether habitualdo (be), da, anddozas usedin, e.g., Guyanese Creole, Barbadian, and Gullah derive from English or Irishsources (Rickford 1974, 1986e; Niles 1980; Trudgill 1983), the possible originof past-markerdid in this variable use of unemphaticdid in Early ModernEnglish has not been explored in the creole literature.

There are 100 tokens of Past-markerdid from seven speakers. Dinah, Mina,Tamas, and Matty use it fairly often. Roxy, Noel, and Opal do not produce theconstruction at all, while Rose, Olive, and Bigga produce one or two tokenseach. These six virtual non-users include three of the four middle-class speakers,four of the six females, and all speakers under 30 years of age. The social profileof past-markerdid thus is the opposite of that for standard speech across theJamaican continuum: it is favored by speakers who are working-class, rural, older, ormale. Speakers who are middle-class, young, female, or at least two of the three,use little or nodid (Bigga, a young urban working-class male, also avoids it).

The non-users also include the four who showed evidence ofdo-support, sothere is little overlap between the two constructions. Given the small data-base,it would be rash to conclude that they are in complementary distribution, forseveral reasons. No attempt was made to explicitly elicitdo-support; andprevious research (e.g., Rickford 1983b, 1987a: 135) leads us to expect that somespeakers whose everyday production ranks them quite low on the continuum may


know standard constructions, but choose not to use them. Some creolists mightconclude that the two belong to entirely separate grammars, and that use of bothby the same speaker requires code-switching. However, this need not be true: theEarly Modern English unemphatic affirmative declarativedo, which JC past-marker did resembles, coexisted in a variable grammar of standard Englishalongsidedo-support and emphaticdo for at least a century. This unemphaticdowas entirely integrated with other syntactic constructions of auxiliarydo, e.g.,inversion in questions and incorporation of negatives as indidn’t (Kroch 1989).

More apt than a code-switching model, then, is the notion that variability inthe grammar operates in modules which may be closely or distantly linked. Forexample, to most standard English speakers, the subjunctive is familiar but rarelyor never used in everyday speech; the linguistic environments and socialoccasions which favored it have dwindled, and it strikes them nowadays as amarginal strategy (though the irrealis meaning which it conveys is in fact quitecommon and important). Yet it is still a part of English grammar, intelligible tomost and employed by some although variably — i.e., in many linguisticenvironments where it might be used, even people who command it do not useit, perhaps due to pressures of social context. The variation between subjunctiveand indicative in these cases is simply between two modules of the samegrammar — not two distinct grammars, monolithic structures between whichspeakers must maneuver by code-switching. The same idea of loosely associatedmodules in a variable grammar, with the more infrequent being socially markedand carrying symbolic weight, may characterize the link between past-markerdidanddo-support in JC.

However, I will ignore the 6 speakers who usedid only once or twice intheir past-reference data for the purposes of analyzing this construction. AsTable 6.4 shows, there is a significant contrast between them and thedid-usersnot only for this element, but also for past-marking in general. Dinah, Mina,Tamas, and Matty not only employdid as a regular part of their repertoire, butalso have far fewer inflected verbs, and far more verbs that are not marked at all.Table 6.4 excludes verbs marked with pre-verbalneva(see discussion below, andTables 6.5–10, where they are included).

For both kinds of speakers, some verbs unmarked on the surface undoubted-ly result from phonological deletion of an underlying inflection (as argued inChapter 5). However, fordid-users this number must be small even though theirrate of phonological deletion is high, because the number of tokens for whichthey generate past-inflections is also quite small, severely limiting the effects of


deletion (see also Chapter 7). The great majority of unmarked tokens occur

Table 6.4:Use of past-marker ‘did’ by Veeton speakers

did + verb Unmarked verbs Inflectedverbs

All past clauses

Dinah, Mina,Tamas, Matty

00.%8.5%96

%74%8310

.0%17.5%1970 1,124

Others 0.0%0.5%04

%45%4480

%55%5490 1,001

Totals 0.0%4.5%1000

%60%1,279,00

%35%7460 2,125

because no inflection was ever generated. In a small number of cases, thesereceive pre-verbal marking withdid under appropriate conditions (this operationnaturally precedes a late, low-level rule such as (TD)-deletion).

Quantitative analysis of a three-way (Past) variable

For the fourdid-users, there are thus two choice processes that characterize thethree-way division in Table 6.4: variable inflection, which separates inflectedverbs from all others, and variabledid-marking, which separates tokens withdidfrom other uninflected verbs. The first choice is examined in Chapter 7, since itapplies to all Veeton speakers; the second choice is examined here, consideringonly the four speakers who usedid frequently. It is quite possible to examine thesecond choice as a binary one:

{did} versus {inflection + zero-marking}

But it is unnatural linguistically to join the latter two cases in an analysis that isfocused on variation in marking, since it is quite likely that inflected andunmarked verbs occur in different environments — indeed, that is the nullhypothesis of Chapter 7. Also, both categories already outweigh tokens ofdid insheer numbers. I do not merge them in a single massive category here but ratherkeep all distinct in a three-way ortrinomial Varbrul analysis. Although there areactually two choice processes which lead to this three-way division, the Varbrulanalysis is still appropriate, since it does not imply that a single rule is at work.


The above reasoning would be reversed if cases were found in whichdidco-occurred with inflected verbs: this would imply that the decision to precedea verb with did was primary, and inflection and deletion processes followed,producing at least a few cases where both the pre-verbal marker and the inflec-tion co-occurred. In my corpus there is a single candidate for a counter-example:

(26) /‘im d — ‘im did kiem klaas/‘He d — he () came [to] class’(Bigga #40a:295, 11/2/89)

Besides the fact that only this one case occurs, note that Bigga hesitates,appearing to perform a self-repair, and errs by producing a standard verb-form,i.e., by trying to speak according to prestige norms in this interview situation(perhaps unaware thatdid, unlikenever, is not followed by an inflected form instandard English).27 Moreover, this is one of only two tokens of pre-verbaldidby Bigga (the other is also inconclusive and terminates in a self-interruption); hedoes not use it regularly or display a secure knowledge of the JC norms for use,and neither do any of his age-mates. Consequently (26) is not taken to be acounterexample.

Let us turn now to a quantitative analysis of the effects of verb stativity/punctuality and clause-type on the occurrence ofdid and neva, for the fourspeakers who regularly use both of them as preverbal markers. (For convenience,I will sometimes refer to them together asdid-marking since the analysis unites themhereafter.)28 Only the “creole-prototype” semantic and syntactic factors, and not thephonological and morphological ones of the next chapter, are considered.29

27. Unlike other pre-verbal TMA particles such as progressivea in JC, adverbs may occur betweenthe verb and its precedingdid or neva. The Veeton sample includes /riili/ ‘really’, /uonli/ ‘only’, /jos/‘just’, /kaina/ ‘kinda’ and /iivm/ ‘even’. It is unclear whether this may also be true forben.

28. Did in its various forms andnevaare hereafter considered together as preverbal tense markerswhich function the same way for these speakers, except for the negative meaning ofneva, and areessentially incompatible with inflection. (For the four High speakers who were shown to usenevaasan adverb, inflecting the following verb, tokens includingnevahave not been merged with tokens ofdid.) Tables and figures will reflect these aggregated totals.

29. For morphological category, using the taxonomy of Chapter 7, the regular verbs preceded bydidinclude 19 CD tokens, 2 VD, and 9 ED; 3 semi-weak tokens; and 26 Irregular. In the special lexicalclasses, there are 1 instance ofsend, 1 of se, 2 of do, 10 of go, and 15 ofhave.


Preceding phonological environment is intended to apply word-internally, to thepast-tense suffix; but even if /-d/ is regarded as the suffix of did, it is alwayspreceded by /i/, so this factor would be invariant. Similarly, there is no reason tothink that following phonological environment would determine the appearanceof this morpheme (as it might for a cluster-forming suffix). This holds also forneva.

The variable (Past) here has three terms: the alternation of pre-verbaldid/neva, verbal inflection, and zero-marking (i.e., bare verbs with no precedingmarkers). The first two variants represent past-marking while the last representsnon-marking; tokens of the latter have diverse origins, since at least some aregenerated by deletion of inflections.

In this analysis, the trinomial version of the Varbrul program (Tvarb 2.2)was used on a Vax mainframe computer. This program differs little from thestandard binomial log-linear regression analysis package commonly calledVarbrul in its various versions (Goldvarb, Ivarb). In the latter there are only twochoices for the dependent variable: typically they are applied to the occurrenceof a feature, segment, or construction, and its absence (sometimes, a standardvariant and a nonstandard one). The probabilities range from zero to 1.00 withina factor group, and the program centers them around 0.5. Thus if there are twofactors within a factor-group (e.g., male and female speaker sex, or adults vs.children) one will almost always be greater, and one less, than 0.5; while if thereare more than two, there will always be at least one greater, and at least one less,than 0.5. Any factor with a value over 0.5 is said to ‘favor’ or promote thechoice, while one with a value less than 0.5 ‘disfavors’ it.

Tvarb is used when there are three variants of the dependent variable (here,did/neva, inflection, or zero). The probabilities still range from zero to 1.00within a factor group, but the total probability of occurrence (1.00) is now spreadover three terms. Consequently, a favoring or promoting value may be less than0.5, though in most cases it will be at least 0.33.30 For example, in Table 6.5below, older people usedid far more often than young people, and in Table 6.6working-class speakers do so slightly more often than middle-class (i.e., Matty).Both older and working-class people show probabilities greater than 0.33, butonly the former group has a value over 0.5, since the effect of age is much stronger.

30. In Ivarb, if two values sum to 1.0 then one must be over 0.5; in Tvarb, either one or two valuesmay be over 0.33, so the picture is more complex.


Social distribution of pre-verbal ‘did/neva’

The speakers who use pastdid often — Dinah, Mina, Matty, and Tamas — allshare certain characteristics, the most important being age: all are over 45 yearsold.31 In fact, the only speaker studied in this age-bracket who did not signifi-cantly usedid or nevawas Rose, who is among the highest-status residents ofVeeton and one of the most standard speakers in general. Table 6.5 contrastsolder speakers (including Rose) with all younger speakers, making this associa-tion of age with pre-verbal markers clear.

All four regular did-users were raised in working-class homes; only Matty has

Table 6.5:Age distribution of ‘did’/’neva’ past-marking in Veeton

did/neva Unmarked Inflected No. tokens

Old (> 45) 10%.681153

61%.220926

29%.099433 N = 1,512

Young (< 30) 1%.0915

53%.282353

47%.627313 N = 671

All speakersInput pr.

7%.028158

59%.5691,279

34%.404746 N = 2,183

seriously attempted to cross over into the middle-class, with marginal results.The principal difference by class is not in Matty’s use ofdid, but his significant-ly greater propensity for verb inflection.

Table 6.6 shows the sex and class distribution fordid. Men and women inthis small sub-sample usedid/nevaabout equally, as a proportion of their generalpast-marking — in fact all individuals are remarkably similar, between 12 and14%. Neither is there much difference according to their broad social class.

Jamaican women in general confront a stereotype which both counts young,female, middle-class speech as prestigious, associating it with the highly valued

31. Again, thoughdid and nevaare joined in this part of the analysis, the description holds trueindependently for pre-verbalneva: only 3 tokens were produced by Opal and Bigga, the other 57being used by Dinah, Mina, Matty and Tamas.


standard and opportunities for upward mobility (Miller 1994) — and at the sametime devalues it as pretentious or elitist, associating it with a negatively valuedstyle locally called “speaky-spoky” (see Patrick 1997; and Chapter 8 below).Thus age, class, and gender figure in identifying the users of pastdid, but dolittle to differentiate among them.

Except for Matty, the otherdid-users are all rural-born; Mina and Tamas remain

Table 6.6:Sex and class distribution of ‘did’/‘neva’ past-marking for 4 speakers


Working-class 13%.384102

79%.407619

8%.20860 N = 781

Middle-class(i.e. Matty)

12%.26449

53%.249212

34%.488137 N = 398

Females 13%.35463

81%.394395

6%.25227 N = 485

Males 13%.30288

63%.272436

24%.425170 N = 694

All did-usersInput pr.

13%.127151

70%.708831

17%.165197 N = 1,179

rural-oriented today. Matty however is proud of having been “born under theclock”, i.e., in downtown Kingston (the rarely-ticking clock tower at CrossRoads, a central market and transportation hub, is a symbol of urban life). Hehas never spent long in the country; and he is the most frequent user of pastdid.Matty and June, as well as other urbanites, citeddid as a Kingston feature inopposition to rural use ofben. Yet despite this speaker sentiment, pastdid doesnot systematically distinguish JC speakers along the rural/urban dimension here.Nor does education seem critical for this group: Matty is highly educated, Minamoderately so for her day, and the other two achieved only a very low level.

The association ofdid/nevawith age overwhelms the importance of othersocial factors. Apparent-time data suggest that these markers may be dropping


out of general use in the urban mesolect as indicators of past reference, unlessthere is a hidden stylistic constraint at work for young speakers only (and unlikeben, there is no evidence thatdid and neva are stigmatized features). I haveargued (Patrick 1993) that this change mirrors the process of recession which hasmade ben a form known to all, but marginally used, in Kingston. Attitudestowardsdid are still positive, perhaps because it is consciously associated withurbanness despite the generational shift that appears to be taking place (if real-time data confirm the latter). As in the loss of unemphatic affirmative do inEarly Modern English, a structure which — although firmly embedded in thegrammar — occurs in 10% or less of possible environments may dwindle quiterapidly in use.

The group of four speakers having been divided several ways, individualdata for each of the four speakers are given in Table 6.7.

Bickerton (1975) carefully separated speakers into lects, claiming that mesolectal

Table 6.7:Three-way (Past) marking rates for 4 users of ‘did’ and ‘neva’


Mina 12%.39132

82%.407212

6%.20215 N = 259

Dinah 14%.37331

81%.445183

5%.18212 N = 226

Tamas 13%.32639

76%.312224

11%.36333 N = 296

Matty 12%.18449

53%.155212

34%.660137 N = 398

All did-usersInput pr.

13%.136151

70%.722831

17%.142197 N = 1,179

speakers do not know or appropriately use such acrolectal forms as verbinflection, while basilectal speakers do not use mesolectal forms likedid. Thiscompartmentalization of production finds no parallel in my data, and almost


certainly was based on an underestimation of the range of creole speakers’competence. Subsequent research has shown that nearly all speakers cover arange on the continuum, sometimes an astonishing one (e.g., Roasta or Matty;see also Rickford 1987a). An expanded awareness of competence greatly complicatesthe task, and undermines the usefulness, of separation into exclusive lects.

In other ways, individual variation reveals complexity that is difficult toidealize into complementary codes, even at low levels of frequency. For example,Dinah and Mina show very low rates of verb-inflection in Table 6.7 and apositive preference fordid- and zero-marking.

Yet an examination of types and tokens finds that both women haveinflected forms in their grammars. Dinah’s 12 inflected tokens include 6different irregular verbs, and in every case (leave, go, have, see, shoot, get) shealso produces the uninflected form elsewhere. Mina’s 15 inflected tokens include8 verbs; 5 of them (plant, go, come, say, marry) also show uninflected forms, andhalf of her tokens are regular verbs.

Linguistic variation of pre-verbal ‘did/neva’

The primary issue of linguistic variation in this analysis is whether the use ofdidis conditioned by stativity and anteriority in a way that aligns it with a proto-typical creole grammar, as described by Bickerton and other creolists. Theweakest version of the creolist hypothesis states that when past-reference isindicated by pre-verbal markersdid or neva, it is not equally marked in bothstative and non-stative clauses, or anterior and non-anterior ones.

Consider stativity first. If pastdid has indeed inherited the syntactic mantleof ben, as Bickerton (1975: 70) claims for Guyanese Creole, then stative verbsshould be more often marked by it than punctuals, according to the followingreasoning. Bare statives are assumed to be non-past in reference (1975: 29), whilebare non-statives are assumed to be past (but not past-before-past).Ben withstatives indicates either simple past or anterior, while with non-statives itindicates past-before-past (1975: 35), i.e., anterior. Substitutingdid, and reversingthe direction to proceed from meaning to form, the set of past-reference clausesdivides into statives, all of which should be marked withdid; non-statives withsimple past meaning, which should be unmarked; and the remaining anterior non-statives, marked withdid.


But this is the straight basilectal model, and the predictions for the mesolectare more subtle. Setting aside privative oppositions and giving the scheme avariationist interpretation, JC statives should strongly favor the occurrence ofdidand disfavor marking with {-ed}. Non-statives should disfavordid and favor {-ed}, while punctuals, the polar case of non-statives, should do so strongly.Finally, as one goes up the continuum towards the upper mesolect, the stativitydistinction of basilectal speakers ought to disappear: stative verbs should mergewith neutral ones, creating a general category of non-punctuals (1975: 149).

The prediction for anteriority is simpler.Did ought to mark past-before-pastclauses (which invert the iconic, chronological order of events) significantly moreoften than sequenced clauses (which preserve the iconic order); unmarked verbsare expected to predominate in the latter. Temporalwhen-clauses should beinfrequently marked withdid, and irrealis clauses should behave similarly since“hypotheticals are favourable environments for non-insertion of pre-verbalmarkers” (Bickerton 1975: 157). Finally, clauses in the ‘Other’ (i.e., elsewhere)category should contrast with sequenced clauses by showing more past-markingin general; but there is no clear prediction as to whether this marking should bewith creoledid or English-like verb inflection.

Interaction is possible between these two groups of effects. For example,Bickerton predicts that for verb inflection, verb punctuality overrides clausetemporality, a suggestion investigated and confirmed by Rickford (1986d: 387)for GC and Winford (1992: 322) for TC. Similarly, it has often been observed(e.g., Sankoff1990) that non-complicating action clauses in narratives are oftenstative verbs, and complicating action clauses tend to contain punctual verbs. Thestructure of multivariate analysis encourages the pursuit of such questions;however, the small number of tokens with pastdid means there are insufficientdata to address them in this section (especially as, e.g., temporal and punctualclauses are already infrequent).32 This problem will be overcome in the follow-ing chapter when the choice between inflection and unmarking is examined overa larger data-set, for all ten speakers.

32. In fact, not one of the 16 (+temporal, +punctual) clauses is marked withdid/neva, makingmultivariate analysis of the punctuality vs. temporality question impossible. However, the numbersstrongly suggest that the effect of temporality is not overridden by punctuality for JC pre-verbalmarkers. For the inflection analysis, see Chapter 7.


Stativity and ‘did/neva’ marking

Still considering only the four speakers for whomdid and nevaplay an activerole as pre-verbal past-markers, the effect of stativity is hardly categorical butnevertheless runs in the direction expected by creolists in Table 6.8.

Stative verbs strongly encourage past-marking withdid/neva, and tend to disfavor

Table 6.8:Effect of stativity and punctuality on ‘did’ marking for 4 speakers


Stative verbs 28%.50249

51%.24689

21%.25237 N = 175

Neutral verbs 11%.32888

76%.401607

13%.272103 N = 798

Punctual verbs 7%.19712

68%.329113

25%.47441 N = 166

All verbsInput pr.N

13%.136149

71%.722809

16%.142181 N = 1,139

verb inflection. Punctual verbs, on the other hand, rarely occur withdid/neva,and show a pronounced tendency to receive inflection; they are also quitecompatible with zero-marking. The neutral category is truly intermediate; thesecommon verbs are most often unmarked, but in other respects resemble statives:they show somedid-marking and rarely get inflected. In fact, lumping togetherpunctual and neutral verbs as ‘non-statives’, as is sometimes done in creole TMAstudies, would clearly be inappropriate for these data. Privative oppositions alsoevidently cannot characterize the behavior of these speakers, who show variabili-ty in every case.

Bickerton’s prediction that stativity becomes less important as one goes upthe continuum ought to mean that for mid- and upper-mesolectal speakers, thestative and neutral categories should pattern together, forming a single non-punctual category. This will be examined more fully in the next chapter, wherea wider range of speakers occurs; but such an effect is already visible here for


speakers in the low end of the mesolect. In fact, an analysis which combines thetwo produced a better overall modelling of the data, according to the chi-squaredmeasure.33 While the values for punctual verbs remain essentially identical tothose given above in Table 6.8, the combined non-punctual category values areas shown in Table 6.8a.

The tendencies here are diametrically opposed to those of punctuals. Bickerton,

Table 6.8a:Past-marking of non-punctual verbs for 4 speakers


Non-punctual verbs 14%.434137

72%.336696

14%.230140 N = 973

in describing the passage from basilect to mesolect in GC, noted “how paststatives came to be treated as non-punctuals and … retained stem form evenwhen their reference was clearly past” (1975:149). This nicely describes thebehavior of our four speakers: their past-reference system clearly is lowermesolectal in this respect, distinguishing the verbs as Bickerton observed yet ina manner that is both systematic and variable. It only remains to be noted that,despite fulfilling the earlier predictions, the stative/punctual distinction (evenwhen reconceived as non-punctual/punctual) is a weak, third-order linguisticeffect, which explains less of the variation present in these past-marking datathan other linguistic constraints.

Anteriority, clause-type and ‘did/neva’ marking

‘Clause-type’ is a cover term for several different potential constraints on past-marking, the most important of which is anteriority. All the divisions aredisplayed in Table 6.9 below. Again, it is clear that no privative opposition cancharacterize the distribution of past-marking across clause-types; anterior clauses,

33. Chi-squared figures are not available for Tvarb runs. However, in binary runs pittingdid/nevaagainst the other two options (zero and {-ed}), the figure of 1.07/cell improved to 0.987 whenstatives and neutrals were combined, and the overall difference was significant atp< 0.01.


for example, occur with pastdid/neva, with inflected verbs and wholly un-marked. Opposingdid-marking, as the focus of investigation, to the other twooptions (zero and {-ed}) in a binary analysis that allows measurement ofsignificance and overall goodness-of-fit, clause-type always emerges as the first-order linguistic constraint, i.e. the one that explains the greatest amount ofvariation in past-marking.

Table 6.9:Effect of anteriority and clause-type on ‘did’-marking for 4 speakers


Sequenced 7%.24638

79%.445464

14%.30982 N = 584

Anterior 20%.43223

59%.24367

20%.32523 N = 113

Irrealis 20%.4709

69%.29931

11%.2315 N = 45

Temporal 4%.1403

85%.43762

11%.4238 N = 73

Other 22%.45374

58%.224192

19%.32363 N = 329

All clausesInput pr.N

13%.136147

71%.722816

16%.142181 N = 1,144

Anterior clauses, which invert temporal sequence, do indeed show a strongpreference for pre-verbaldid and neva-marking, and rarely go completelyunmarked, thus following the variationist version of Bickerton’s creole-TMAprediction. Sequenced clauses, which maintain the normal event-order, veryinfrequently takedid/neva, and sharply promote zero-marking. This is preciselythe predicted opposition (in fact the probabilities in these two categories arealmost mirror images of each other), and it empirically confirms the expectationsfor prototypical creole tense-marking.


Close inspection of the other clause-types suggests intriguing resemblances,however, which cannot be accounted for in as straightforward a fashion by theusual creolist explanations. The residual category of ‘Other’ clauses — including,e.g., cases typically classified as abstract, evaluation, and coda in Labov andWaletzky’s (1967) narrative analysis scheme — behaves almost identically toanterior clauses, matching them both in probabilities and percentages. In a sharpdeparture from Bickerton’s predictions, irrealis clauses also closely track thesecategories (though the numbers are too small for certainty). Temporalwhen-clauses disfavordid/nevaas expected, and are surprisingly similar to sequencedclauses. In fact, an analysis which collapses all five clause-types into just twoalong the following lines:

(27) {Anterior + Irrealis + Other} versus {Sequenced + Temporal}Non-ordered Externally-ordered

is statistically almost as good an account of the variation as the five-waydivision.34 Table 6.9a recasts the data of Table 6.9 in this manner.35

There must be a linguistic principle behind such decisions, and I have hinted

Table 6.9a:did/neva-marking in non-ordered and externally-ordered clauses

did/neva Unmarked Inflected No. Tokens

Non-orderedclauses

22%.459106

60%.227290

19%.31491 N = 487

Externally-orderedclauses

6%.22341

80%.451526

14%.32690 N = 657

earlier that discourse constraints may better explain the variation here — adiscourse interpretation which weakens the claimed syntactic contrast between

34. In general,ceteris paribus, the more factors or divisions are made, the more variation can beexplained. The small number of temporal and irrealis tokens, however, tends to make them unreliableas separate sets — a change in just a few tokens may easily alter the proportions.

35. ‘Non-ordered’ clauses combine Anterior, Irrealis and Other categories; ‘Externally-ordered’combines Sequenced and Temporal clauses. The ‘All clauses’ summary in 6.9a is identical toTable 6.9 except for input probabilities, where differences are negligible.


English-related creole and metropolitan English grammars. Anterior and ‘Other’clauses have in common the quality that they do not represent a series of eventsiconically by linguistically mirroring their order in time. The irrealis clauses,which are largely conditionals, similarly represent a disruption of the (natural)temporal order. All of these clauses might be considered either disordered or‘Non-ordered’ with respect to the speaker’s perception of event order in theworld. The function of pre-verbal markers in unambiguously signaling such adisruption in past-before-past (anterior) cases plausibly extends to these; thetendency not to leave them unmarked also has a functional rationale.

In contrast, sequenced clauses by definition recapitulate events in theirperceived original order. At least when they appear in the form of complicatingaction clauses in narratives, they are widely recognized as the least likely to bepast-marked, or the most likely to receive historical present tense-markers. Theirtime-reference is not internally indicated but rather signaled by the frame whichorganizes them; it is not redundantly marked inside the clause. Temporalclausesdiffer, not being defined as part of an ordered sequence that constitutes a discourseevent. However, their time-reference is also typically not internally signaledbutrather established by links to adverbials, time expressions or other orderingelements in the main clause or elsewhere in the discourse. Examples include:

(28) /wan taim a remba wen ai get op a get op intu a fait/‘One time I remember when I got up — I got into a fight’(Bigga, #40a:290, 11/2/89)

(29) /diez afta wen wi wen ai go op dier/‘Days after, when we — when I went up there…’(Tamas, #9b:510, 8/17/89)

(30) /di poliisman kiem an wen ii kiem nou/‘The policeman came, and when he came now…’(Mina #98b:230, 3/9/90)

(31) /wen im se go yu haf tu go wen im se shuut yu jos shuut/‘When he said “Go” you had to go. When he said “Shoot”, you justshot.’(Dinah, #45a:360, 11/12/89)

In (28, 29) the time reference for thewhen-clauses is given by the externaladverbials; in (30) by the main clause which it recapitulates. In (31) the dis-


course frame of recollection indicates general pastness, and the absence ofspecific referents within that time setting leads to the past habitual reading.

Both temporals and sequenced clauses, then, are usually ordered byreference to some larger or external element. There is no strict prohibitionagainst use of pre-verbaldid/nevawhen appropriate — temporal clauses oftenoccur in narratives, and may highlight past-before-past situations,36 for example— or against past-marking by inflection — indeed temporals also favor inflection,and sequenced clauses do not noticeably disfavor it (prob.= 0.309 in Table 6.9).37

But there is a strong tendency to leave both types of clauses unmarked.It may be such cases which inspired Comrie to observe of JC that “it is

usual to omit tense markers when an adverbial of time location is present”(1985: 31). This pattern, I noted above, could not correctly be phrased as asyntactic requirement; it now is evident that discourse function determines thedistribution of tense-markers, in concert with their grammatical meaning. In fact,the division of discourse functions expressed in the clause-type taxonomy is thestrongest constraint on past-marking withdid/neva, for these four speakers.(Social distinctions are never statistically significant, given their similarity on thefactors tested here, as discussed earlier.)

Table 6.10 addresses the questions raised above concerning interaction ofeffects. The paucity of tokens involving pre-verbaldid/neva prevents multi-variate analysis. However, a surface inspection strongly suggests that the effectsmentioned are independent of one another. Table 6.10 shows that statives aremuch more often marked than punctuals, within both sequenced clauses andOther clauses — a distinction roughly parallel to that of complicating actionclauses versus non-complicating action clauses within narrative analysis. Similar-ly, temporals are less often marked than non-temporals, whether the comparisonis made within punctual clauses or non-punctuals.

36. E.g. Tamas relates an English boss’s expression of surprise that he, a black Jamaican, was hiredfor a certain position because, the boss says:

(i) /wen ai did miek di haplikieshan ai sietid a intelijent p6rsn/‘When I did make the application I stated “an intelligent person” ’(Tamas #15a:155, 8/17/89).

The time of the application precedes the occasion of surprise that the boss begins his confession with.

37. This differs from findings in GC and TC; see discussion in the next chapter.


Conclusions: Variable marking as a creole feature

Table 6.10:Possible interaction of constraints on ‘did’/’neva’ marking

Percent marked withdid/neva No. of tokens

Sequenced, stativeSequenced, punctual

29%07%

171060

Other, stativeOther, punctual

27%13%

113030

Punctual, temporalPunctual, non-temporal

00%08%

161500

Non-punctual, temporalNon-punctual, non-temporal

05%14%

579130

All verbs 13% 1,137,00

This chapter has concentrated on creole-identified forms in mesolectal JamaicanCreole (e.g.did), making it clear that they both co-exist and overlap in functionand meaning with standard-identified forms (such as {-ed}), operating in avariable manner that does not adhere to privative oppositions. Some pointsremain to be clarified about the nature of those functions and meanings, and thepatterns in which they participate.

Creolists since Bickerton (1975) have identified pre-verbal markers of thesort of ben, did and neva with the expression of pastness in stative verbs, asopposed to punctual ones, and that relationship is confirmed here fordid/nevainthe Veeton data. Yet it has never been suggested that stativity was part of themeaning of such markers — merely that there were patterns of co-occurrence(whose nature was early stated in inappropriately categorical terms). In contrast,past-before-past has been treated as part of their core grammatical meaningbecause the meaning and the form are often found together — as they are here.

However, past-before-past meaning, strictly interpreted, occurs in only aminority of the clauses involving preverbaldid/neva(see Table 6.9). When thatmeaning is present there is a strong tendency to produce the marker, but this isonly a statistical association; more often when these elements are present, theysignify a sort of general pastness that includes the antithesis of anterior clauses,namely sequenced or narrative ones. This merging of a highly specific pastmeaning with a (set of) more general one(s) might be seen as a result of


decreolization — if indeed a sharper separation can be shown to characterizeearlier or more basilectal speakers — but is probably better understood as part ofa broader process of grammaticalization, which often involves the expansion ofa targeted lexical meaning into a more general category meaning, typically withcontinuation of the former sense (Hopper and Traugott 1993).

It is also clear thatdid and {-ed} contrast in this respect, since the lattershows no difference in distribution across clause-types which are opposed toeach other in their temporal organization (sequenced and anterior). The orienta-tion of did to particular contexts may be typical of basilectal creoles, while theneutrality of {-ed} is surely related to its standard English role of marking tense-agreement categorically in nearly all contexts. Nevertheless the fact that theyshare general past functions, and that JC syntax does not require categoricalmarking or agreement, allows them to co-exist in a variable mesolectal grammarthat differs from both extreme ends of the continuum in its functional organization.

In fact, differences between past-marking in mesolectal JC and standardEnglish do not flow primarily from underlying semantic and syntactic constraintson stativity and anteriority as hypothesized by Bickerton for GC. Rather, aprinciple of wider application — namely, that the need for past-marking isreduced where organization of the discourse makes it redundant — comes intoeffect in JC precisely because the non-categorical syntax and relatively lowgrammaticalization of TMA in the mesolect allow it wide scope.

This is the same principle that operates in the historical present, overridingeven English’s powerful requirement of categorical tense-marking. Schiffrin(1981) found the HP {-s} suffix to mark 30% of past-reference complicating-action clauses in Standard American English, but found verb-inflection rates of97% with {-ed} elsewhere in her narratives. Forms aside, SAE differs inapparently confining this variation to the tightly-defined domain of vernacularpersonal narratives. Whereas the creolist syntactic explanation of tense variationin JC implies that creoles are different and perhaps unusual, an explanation ondiscourse principles instead accounts for both data sets in a general way. Manyother variation analysis studies have already found that where syntactic variabili-ty makes space for it, discourse functions will govern the distribution of gram-matical elements across linguistic contexts.

No-one should mistake the urban JC mesolect for English, and its patternsof marking undoubtedly have a strong creole aspect to them — for example, inthe orientation ofdid/nevamarking to past-before-past, and of course in theforms of the markers and the organization of the TMA system that they express.


But for the phenomena studied in this chapter, what distinguishes past-referencein the JC mesolect from standard and non-standard varieties of English is firstand foremost the existence and the extent of variable marking — other differ-ences follow from that. Such variability is a universal option, widely found inlanguages of the world, and its presence does not compromise the identificationof the mesolect as a creole with a unique heritage. If anything, variable markingof syntactic relations may prove to be characteristic of creoles in general,including basilectal ones, due to their recent evolution and lack of standardiza-tion. It also suggests, however, that rather than systematically opposing creolesto superstrates in formal analyses that maximize their contrasts, it may be fruitfulto look for functional convergence between them, especially where higher-levelorganizing principles may apply.

C 7

Past-Marking by Verb Inflection

Introduction: Verb inflection and non-marking

The previous chapter established that for a subset of older urban-dwellers, aclassic creole system indicating tense-mood-aspect (TMA) via invariant pre-verbal markers plays a considerable role in signalling past reference. Alongsidethis component of their grammar, which is realized through the elementsdid andneva rather than the basilectalben, another typically mesolectal mechanismoperates — variable inflection of regular and irregular verbs (past-reference verbsunderlined in (1) and (2)):

(1) /im waz a baaba yu no im chrim an im sel ais kriim/‘He was a barber y’know, he trimmedand he soldice-cream.’(Dinah, #45a:375, 11/12/89)

(2) /ai hav twelv chiljren wit him tuu dayd/‘I had twelve children with him, two died.’(Mina, #98b:165, 3/9/90)

For all speakers, in fact, the alternation between inflected and unmarked verbsaccounts for the majority of past-reference clauses, as Figure 7.1 makes plain.

Further, bare verbs are more common overall (at 59%, for all speakers) thaninflected ones (at 34%). This chapter asks, how regular is that variation? Whatpatterns exist across the community, and what linguistic factors constrain them?

In investigating the variation in past-marking between the verb-inflectionand zero-marking options, the variable is again (as with pre-verbal past markers)defined by its meaning and function: past-reference. The different instances (orvariants) are not now separate lexical items, but rather the presence of inflectionversus its absence. Since unmarked past verbs are identical in form to verbs innon-past clauses, and frequently do not differ in meaning or use from inflectedpast verbs, the zero-form is not considered here to unambiguously signal or index


any specific meaning, whether perfective or otherwise. This analysis depends on

Figure 7.1:Past-marking patterns in Veeton

the utility of a general meaning of past-reference, in the expression of whichboth inflection and its absence are interchangeable.

This is not to deny that particular verbal markers such asben, didor donmay cover only a portion of the spectrum of past-reference, having more highlyrestricted meanings and conditions of appropriate use. That is entirely possible,even likely, but the study of such elements is outside the focus of this chapter.Similarly, I do not claim that aspectual oppositions such as perfective/imperfec-tive are irrelevant to the distribution of verb inflection and zero-marking (see e.g.Winford 1992, 1993a, 1993b). However, as the most common imperfectives(progressives, and habituals withyuustu) are excluded from this investigation, thedistinction cannot be analyzed here. The present aim is to use quantitativemethods to explore the primary options for expressing general past-reference —not to give a qualitative analysis of the environments in which particularaspectual meanings are expressed (though neither are these two efforts at odds).

In earlier mesolectal studies, including but not limited to Bickerton’s (1973,1975, 1977) detailed proposals for the continuum in Guyanese Creole, analogiesto language acquisition are frequent. It is a commonplace in both first- andsecond-language acquisition (FLA and SLA, respectively) that verb classes andeven individual verbs differ in their rates of inflection, as the learners progressover time towards the goal of categorical marking that characterizes targetvarieties of standard English. To investigate this, a strategy of distinguishingfrequent or exceptional verbs and major verb classes is followed below.

PAST-MARKING BY VERB INFLECTION 225

One important finding is worth previewing. Clear evidence emerges forevery speaker that verb inflection is an active process: no speaker’s inflection islimited to a few frozen items existing in the lexicon only in their strong forms.Indeed, given ten or more tokens of a verb or category, nearly every speakershows variable marking in nearly every verb class.1

In the face of such variability, far greater than found in most vernacularEnglish varieties, creole-valued explanations must be considered. Do stativity andanteriority, or its discourse correlates, powerfully influence this binary variation,as withdid/neva? Or does the absence of those overt pre-verbal TMA markers(which have been excluded from this chapter’s data, since their distribution isknown) coincide with the disappearance of creole grammatical constraints? Ifmesolectal speech resembles a learning continuum of English acquisition, thenunderlying categories that have been claimed as creole-specific should cease tobecome relevant as speakers more closely approximate the target variety.Meanwhile, English-specific constraints ought to emerge as significant, and meso-lectal Jamaican patterns should show kinship with those found in acquisition studies.

I consider the effects of the morphological category of the verb, along withverb stativity and clause-type on verb-inflection (as before). In addition, thephonological factors which were earlier found to exert a significant influence on(TD)-deletion (preceding and following segmental environment) are examinedhere, in part to control for that intersecting process. The importance of thevarious constraints is measured, again using Varbrul analysis, and the questionof whether the underlying relations are characteristically creole, English, or non-distinctive is taken up. In the process I examine individual and subgroup patternsof past-marking. The effects of gender, age, and social class in stratifying thespeech community for this variable are evaluated in Chapter 8.

Morphological categories of the verb

This constraint raises the question, does the variable grammatical rule of past-marking apply at different rates to distinct form classes — morphological classeswhich have the same function but differ in shape?

1. Exceptions to this, explored below, include the verbshave and sayfor some speakers; verbssubject to both (TD)-deletion and variable marking; and the regular verb-classes for Dinah.


The situation is the converse of the grammatical category effect on (TD)-deletion, where the same form (final apicals) served different functions. Again,the simplest result would be that there is but a single rate: past-marking mightvary across speakers or styles, perhaps, but be consistent for all the differentcategories of past-tense morphology, regular and irregular. If this were true,Jamaican Creole would be quite like Standard American English, where allcategories of past verbs are uniformly marked, only variable — although itwould differ from white and black vernacular varieties where variable markingoccurs, such as Samaná English and the Ex-Slave recordings (Tagliamonte andPoplack 1993; Myhill 1995), other older AAVE speech (Schneider 1989), andOzark and Appalachian English (Christian, Wolfram and Dube 1988). All thevariation in past-marking could then be explained as the combined effects of asimple overall past-marking rate, plus the phonological deletion process.

This simple case is not borne out by the data, as suggested in Chapter 5(Table 5.15). In fact, the morphological category of the verb is the strongest andmost significant of all linguistic factors in structuring the variation betweeninflection and non-marking. The differences between categories are considerable,and are only partly explained by (TD)-deletion. In the binomial variable ruleanalyses of this data set, whenever stepwise serial analysis was performed todetermine the relative significance of constraints, morphological category alwaysemerged as the most significant linguistic one, regardless of the constellation ofother factor groups.2 This finding is supported below in the studies of othercreoles and English SLA (which generally used a coarser division of verb-classes).

These are the ten morphological and lexical categories of the analysis:

(3) GO: the alternationgo/wentHAVE: the alternationhave/hadDO: the alternationdo/did (main verbs only)SEND: the alternation of /-d#/ with /-t#/ as insend/sentSE: the alternationsay/said(form is /s7/ plus affix /-d/)SW: Semi-weak verbs, with both ablaut and /-t, -d/ affixation

2. When social factors were included, one always emerged as even more influential. The individualspeaker factor group dominated whenever it was included; when speakers were re-arranged into threesubgroups, that became the dominant factor group; and when speaker (sub)groups were excludedentirely, social class proved to be the most powerful influence. In all these cases, morphologicalcategory was always second. Further discussion is given below.


IRR: All other irregular verbs which form the past by ablautV-D: Vowel-final regular non-syllabic verbsC-D: Consonant-final regular non-syllabic verbs-ED: Regular syllabic verbs, whose stems end in /-d, -t/

Four subclasses consist of a single verb each:do, go, haveand say. These areamong the commonest verbs in English, and all are irregular forms.Go/wentissuppletive,have/hadis replacive (/v/→ /d/), do/did contains a unique vowelchange plus final /-d/.Do-support and pre-verbal past-markerdid have alreadybeen described; here only main-verb uses ofdo are included. Similarly,go oftenfunctions as a serial verb and periphrastic future, in which case inflection isprecluded; these uses have been excluded from the data, and only normal main-verb uses have been retained. Forhave/had, however, I have included both main-verb and, where it occurred, auxiliary use, as no difference was apparent. Wherea second, main verb follows pre-verbal pastdid or an instance ofdo-support,serial or futurego, or indeed any verbal element after which inflection isprohibited, the second verb has not been tabulated; cases following auxiliaryhave/hadare however counted, since inflection is expected there.3

Say/said, which shows both vowel change and affixation of /-d/ in English,is actually a regular vowel-final (V-D) verb in Jamaican: the normal non-pastform is lax short [s7]se, and inflection merely adds /-d/. It is extremely commonas a verb of both direct and indirect quotation, and in these uses is rarelyinflected. It also serves as a complementizer following other verbs of speakingor thought, for example:

(4) /ruoz dem tel im se a klaris mash di pat/Rose and the others told her that it was Claris who broke the pot.(Bailey 1966a: 111)

In the latter use it is never inflected for past. Although occurrences ofse as acomplementizer have been excluded from the data, it is plausible that thisfunction — which is evidently historically related to the main verb — may havea depressing effect on the general frequency of inflection. Accordingly main-verbsehas been separated from other verbs. The relevant categories to compare it withwill be the ablaut Irregular verbs (IRR) and the vowel-final regular verbs (V-D).

3. The modal formhad wasis excluded, along with all other forms ofbe.


Also distinguished are a small class of verbs containing a final voiced apicalstop /-d/ in their root, which is devoiced to /-t/ to form the past. These verbs Irefer to as thesendclass, after its most frequent member; others arespend,bend,lend and build. Only 28 instances occur in the corpus, and more data arerequired to determine whether individual JC speakers actually produce finalclusters in them at all. They are not discussed further, but I present some resultsfor them below. In general they pattern with the semi-weak (SW) verbs, whichwere defined earlier.

Greater variability is to be expected in smaller samples, and several of thesefive lexical classes are quite small, especially thesend-class anddo/did, as wellas semi-weak verbs. They may more easily have extreme values in eitherdirection, and speakers may differ from each other dramatically, based on justa few tokens. (In general I will not give percentages where fewer than fivetokens occur, as they might be misleading, and cells with fewer than ten tokensshould be regarded with suspicion.) As a result, more attention will be focusedon the larger classes, where 25 to 100 types and several hundred tokens mayoccur. In these categories it will be more plausible, statistically and linguistically,to identify general trends and speak of central tendencies.

Among the regular verbs, the subset which is also susceptible to (TD)-deletion — namely, C-D verbs — is the largest. Non-syllabic V-D verbs withstems ending in a vowel, and syllabic -ED verbs, which end in an apical and aresuffixed with /Id/, are less common; the two occur at roughly the same overallfrequency. Finally, there is the residual category of strong Irregular verbs (IRR).These generally undergo a vowel change in the stem (e.g.,know/knew, bring/brought), including cluster-final verbs with no suffix (e.g. find/found), or elsethey are replacives (e.g.make/made); those verbs with identical past and presentforms (e.g.put, beat) must be left out, for obvious reasons.

Other constraints: Stativity and anteriority revisited

The remaining constraints to be considered are familiar ones. As in the analysisof pre-verbal creole markers, stativity and clause-type (including anteriority) arerelevant. To see this, we need only return to Bickerton’s account of the meso-lectal transition between the creole anterior system with pre-verbal past markers,and use of standard English inflectional morphology in regular verbs. Hedescribes the central part of the transition as follows (1975: 121–22):


(5) Stage I: “Forms tied specifically to [−anterior, +past] … are intro-duced” (i.e.neva,had, waz)

Stage II: “didnspreads from [+anterior] to [−anterior, +past] envi-ronments”

Stage III: “The first -ED forms appear, and, as these spread to finiteverbs, the grammar is restructured to replace [+/− anterior] by [+/−past]”

Stage IV: “did is reinterpreted to conform with this underlying shift(i.e. as a pure [+past] marker)”; and

Stage V: “did, now the disfavored competitor of other forms of pastmarking, is abandoned.”

The earlier examination of JCnevashowed that it patterned together withdid. Incontrast with Stage I in GC, wherenevaapparently acts as a missionary outpostfor Standard English, bothnevaanddid reflected a sensitivity to anteriority, butonly as part of an overall pattern of marking general pastness subject to function-al discourse constraints. Stage II, with a separate role for negativedidn, was notaddressed for JC. In the Veeton data, then, the characteristics of the first threestages coexist: speakers at all urban mesolectal levels have some -ED forms, whilethose at the lower levels of the continuum also usedid/nevato mark both [+anterior]and [+past]. In the present sample, Stage IV is missing: speakers either usedidwith a preference for anteriority, or as an auxiliary like English (Stage V).

In place of Bickerton’s articulated five-step model of decreolization andmesolectal variation (these two are cause and effect for him), the Veeton JC datashow only two steps. At the first one, lower mesolectal speakers have bothclassic creole forms and the constraints discussed above, as well as Englishinflectional forms. The question now is whether the same constraints govern thelatter, too — i.e., Is the underlying grammar essentially a creole one, regardlessof the surface forms? — or whether the inflection process is indifferent to creoleinfluences — i.e., Do competing forms essentially carry their grammar withthem? as shown:

(6) did → anterior, {-ed} → English-like past tense

Put another way, Bickerton’s account of GC allows variation in the constraintsgoverningdid, and this has been confirmed for JC, more or less. He furtherpredicts that all speakers with {-ed} will use it in the usual English way, onlyvariably; this remains to be ascertained.


In particular, given the collapsing in Veeton of what Bickerton postulated asfive distinct levels in GC, at the low end of the mesolect some speakers shouldbe usingdid as an anterior marker, should not havedo-support (1975: 95), and— if they have {-ed} and strong past morphemes — should use them as past-tense markers in the English manner. This last prediction, which is quite testable,holds especial interest because it involves a mixing of the two allegedly differentgrammatical systems of past-reference. To determine this, stativity and anteriority(actually, clause-type, once again) are included in the analysis, defined andoperationalized just as they were in the previous chapter.

Other constraints: Phonological environment revisited

The analysis of linguistic constraints also includes attention to the effects of thephonological environment, both preceding and following. Since these areimportant constraints on (TD)-deletion, including them in this analysis will factorout much of the variation due to that process. Phonological factors are notrelevant across the board, however. They have been coded only where suffix-ation is a critical and predictable part of the marking of past reference. Thelexical subclasses ofhave,go, anddo were not coded:wentis suppletive, and thephonological environment (the vowel) preceding the final /-d/ ofhad anddid isalways the same. The Irregular verbs are operated on by diverse processes; likethe others just mentioned, there is no reason to expect the surrounding phoneticcontext to influence their realization.

The syllabic -ED verbs andsayalso have a predictable preceding context;they have been coded for following environment only, since it might affectsuffixation. In some SLA varieties there is a process of final syllable deletionwhich may be responsible for the unmarking of -ED forms. The Vietnameselearners of English studied by Wolfram and Hatfield (1984: 27) showed finalsyllable deletion in words likehundredat a rate of 12% (5 of 43 cases). A briefinvestigation of JC mono-morphemic forms makes clear that no such process isat work: e.g. in the 19 tokens I found of the wordhundred, which also has afinal unstressed /-Id/ in JC, there were no syllable deletions.

Thesendverbs and regular non-syllabics, whether the latter end in a vowel(V-D) or a consonant (C-D), are coded for both environments. Semi-weak verbswere already coded for both environments in the (TD)-deletion analysis. Preced-ing segment is not critical to past-marking, since past may be indicated even


when the suffix is absent (e.g., /kep/ forkept); but as it may still distinguishclass members, it has been retained as a factor here. Note that, unlike theanalysis of (TD)-deletion in consonant clusters, preceding vowel is now a factor:the stem forms of verbs that end in a vowel, vowel plus glide, or vowel plusrhotic are coded alike.

This description of exclusions and inclusions does not repeat details givenin the last chapter, where some exclusions common to both analyses were listed,and other differences between the two were noted. The analysis reported belowincludes all linguistic variables simultaneously — morphological category, verbstativity, clause-type, preceding phonological environment, and followingphonological environment.

Overview of inflection by morphological category

The overall rate of inflection by morphological category of verb, for the wholesample of ten speakers, is reported in Table 7.1. No data exclusions were made.The χ2/cell is 1.256; the Varbrul analysis includes all linguistic constraints, andthe social factor group reflecting individual speakers’ performance.

Table 7.1:Overall inflection rates by morphological category, all speakers

Verb class Rate of inflection Prob. of inflection Token count

go/wenthave/haddo/didsend-verbssay/said

51%70%48%46%18%

0.790.750.730.690.31

076 / 150153 / 219019 / 40013 / 28035 / 198

IRR (irregular)Semi-weak-ED (syllabic regular)V-D (nonsyllabic, V-final)C-D (nonsyllabic, C-final)

31%44%46%49%19%

0.510.780.660.270.23

196 / 624044 / 100070 / 151066 / 135074 / 380

Total 37% Pi = 0.31 N= 746/2,025

(χ2/cell= 1.256)


There is considerable variability across the exceptional lexical items, withhavemost often inflected, andsay least. The probabilities for all these verbs are quiteclose to each other, however, except forsay. A discrepancy involvinghave isapparent: though it is by far the most often inflected, its probability is in line withgo, do andsend. This incongruity suggestshaveis worth investigating more closely.

Among the major categories, the residual class of irregular IRR verbs is lessfrequently marked than the others. The semi-weak, syllabic and non-syllabicverbs are all inflected at similar rates, excepting only the consonant-final C-Dverbs — these show the lowest surface marking rate, because of (TD)-deletion.Inspection of the probabilities turns up several discrepancies. V-D nonsyllabicverbs have about the same probability of inflection as the C-D nonsyllabics, buta much higher rate of surface marking; in the latter, they resemble the syllabic -EDverbs, but not in their probabilities. This too requires a closer look. In the followingsections, the analysis is refined and explanations for these patterns are sought.

Exceptional and irregular verbs

Besides the variation across verb classes, each class also shows the full range ofinflectional possibilities for individual speakers, with (near-) categorical use andnon-use as well as intermediate values. This is strikingly evident in Table 7.2,which gives the frequent and exceptional verbs — also, for comparison, thelarger category of Irregular forms, to which they are akin (these IRR verbs arenot included in the ‘Total’ column, however).

Roxy, Rose, Noel, and Olive show inflection ofhaveand go at rates thatapproach the categorical — possibly also true fordo andsendverbs, though thesmall number of tokens makes it unclear.4 Marking of say is much lower, butstill considerable, for Roxy and Rose. Other speakers, however, rarely inflect thisverb; doing so may be a salient marker of upper-mesolectal and standard speech.These four speakers also have very high rates of inflection in other irregularverbs, high enough so as to clearly mark them off from the rest of the Veetonsample. For Roxy, Rose, Noel, and Olive only, then, inflection of irregular verbsis the norm.

4. In subsequent Varbrul analyses, these two verbs will be combined with IRR or excluded.


At the other extreme Dinah and Mina practically never mark the exceptional

Table 7.2:Exceptional and irregular verb inflection rates, individual speakers

go have do send say Total IRR

Roxyn=

%100%008

%100%013 2/20 n.d.

%63%08

%90%31

%96%25

Rosen=

%88%17

%100%092 n.d.

%67%06

%53%32

%87%1470

%60%92

Noeln=

%100%008

%100%006 n.d. 1/10 0/20

%88%17

%95%21

Oliven=

%89%09

%82%17

%71%07 3/30

0%9%11

%66%47

%71%35

Mattyn=

%42%31

%64%39

%69%13

%29%07

0%0%07

%51%97

%26%98

Opaln=

%79%14

%20%05 1/10 2/40

%13%39

%32%63

%35%63

Biggan=

%50%06 0/30 n.d. 0/10

%33%15

%32%25

%11%56

Tamasn=

%39%18

%13%08

%22%09 1/20

0%0%27

%17%64

0%7%88

Minan=

0%9%23

0%0%07

0%0%06 0/20

0%5%37

0%5%75

0%5%83

Dinahn=

0%6%16

0%3%29 0/20 0/20

0%0%20

0%3%69

%14%63

MeanN=

%51%1500

%70%2190

%48%40

%46%28

%18%1980

%47%6350

%31%6240

items. While they do show evidence of inflection for a variety of other irregularverbs, the frequencies remain very low. In the latter they are joined by Tamasand Bigga, the only young speaker for whom this can be said. However, Bigga’srate of inflection in the exceptional verbs resembles the patterns of Opal andMatty, who are clearly intermediate for these and the IRR verbs. For thesespeakers we observe past-marking of a radically different frequency fromanything found in metropolitan Englishes, including North American AAVE with


its 98% inflection rate for irregular verbs (Fasold 1972; see also Labov et al. 1968).5

Though Bigga’s place is ambiguous at present, the evidence of the irregularand exceptional verbs suggests three distinct strata of speakers: a Low group inwhich inflection is rare, in the 10% range; an intermediate or Mid group inwhich a quarter to a half of eligible verbs are inflected; and a High group, forwhom inflection occurs at least two thirds of the time. If these divisions alignwith the patterning of the regular and semi-weak verbs, the data will be pooledinto these three subgroups for further examination, as before.

Members of the Low group Tamas, Mina, and Dinah are also regular usersof pre-verbaldid. Here they show low levels of inflection for main-verbdo,which supports the notion that the two functions of this word are distinct andpossibly synchronically unrelated. Bickerton contended thatdo inflection is“acquired after”have/hadinflection (1975: 84, 104); however, Veeton speakersappear to inflect them at approximately the same frequencies. His observationthat had is “acquired before”have is not confirmed either: the Low speakersshow a decided preference for the latter. But Jamaican and Guyanese differ here:haveis the normal JC term for possession, while /gat/got is said to predominatein lower-lectal Guyanese.

The frequent/exceptional verbs will be further examined below when thesaliency hypothesis is considered.

Major morphological categories

The semi-weak class, the regular verb classes, and the irregular verbs make upthe major morphological categories — the most important because they describethe vast majority of English verbs, and because regular verbs are rule-governed.Together they constitute over two-thirds of the past-reference verbs in this study(69%, or 1,390 of 2,025 tokens). How is inflection in these categories con-strained by linguistic factors? What regularities underlie the process? Generaliza-tions will once again be built up from a close description of individual behavior.

5. Fasold’s sampling procedure favors frequently-occurring verbs (he analyzed the first 20 tokensfrom each speaker). His figure covers all types of irregular verbs, explicitly includinghave, go, andthe send-class, and probablydo andsay— among the most frequently past-marked for both creolespeakers and SLA advanced learners — so it is possible that they boost the IRR figure here. SeeTable 7.5 below and discussion there of Fasold’s and Labov’s data.


The variability across speakers that characterizes the exceptional verbsextends as well to the major morphological categories in Table 7.3:

Still, the Veeton speakers fall into almost exactly the same pattern seen earlier.

Table 7.3:Inflection rates for major verb classes, individual speakers

IRR Semi-weak -ED V-D C-D Total

Roxyn=

%96%25 n.d. 3/30

%100%007

%74%19

%89%54

Rosen=

%60%92

%78%09

%81%16

%73%22

%38%45

%59%1840

Noeln=

%95%21 3/40

%57%07

%100%008

%24%29

%61%69

Oliven=

%71%35

%75%08

%67%09

%93%15

%29%34

%60%1010

Mattyn=

%26%98

%79%14

%57%44

%31%26

%27%70

%35%2520

Opaln=

%35%63

%71%17

%33%15

%33%09

%11%45

%32%1490

Biggan=

%11%56 3/50

%23%13

0%8%12

0%0%24

%12%1100

Tamasn=

0%7%88

0%6%16

%56%18

%23%13

0%3%58

%11%1930

Minan=

0%5%83

0%0%18

0%6%16

%67%09

0%0%26

0%7%1520

Dinahn=

%14%63

%11%09

0%0%10

0%0%14

0%0%30

0%8%1260

TotalN=

%31%6240

%44%1000

%46%1510

%49%1350

%19%3800

%32%1,390,0

High inflection in most verb classes separates Roxy, Rose, Noel, and Olive fromall other speakers. The contrast is sharpest in IRR and V-D verbs; the C-D classis exceptional (but even here Roxy shows very little unmarking).


On the other end, Dinah has essentially no inflection outside of irregularforms, while Mina and Tamas generally remain in the 10% range.6 If Bigga’sbehavior was ambiguous before, he may now be clearly located in the lowerstratum with these older speakers: his C-D forms are completely unmarked onthe surface, and his V-D and IRR verbs also show a very low rate. Once againMatty and Opal exhibit genuinely intermediate behavior; their variation in IRR verbs,especially, distinguishes them from other speakers in both directions. In light of theagreement between Tables 7.2 and 7.3 the speakers are grouped into three sets:

(7) High: Roxy, Rose, Noel, OliveMid: Matty, OpalLow: Bigga, Tamas, Mina, Dinah

Dinah straddles the very borderline of the lower mesolect and basilect; Roxy isfor all practical purposes a speaker of acrolectal Standard Jamaican English. Allthe others clearly fall between, representing the range of the urban mesolect.

Semi-weak verbs

The semi-weak verb class is defined precisely as it was in Chapter 5, but iscounted differently. While earlier only tokens ending in clusters were counted asinstances of (TD) — i.e. the 44 inflected cases ofleft, told, etc. — now all 100cases are counted as instances of (Past), whether inflected or not. Earlier a tokenof left /l7f/ was counted as showing (TD)-absence; now it is counted as showingpast-marking, due to the vocalic and morphophonemic alternations it displays.Earlier a token ofleave /liiv/ was excluded as lacking a cluster; now it isincluded and coded as showing non-marking.

It has been commonly asserted that JC and other Caribbean creoles such asTrinidadian Creole possess a small set of common lexical items which arerealized categorically. Either these exceptional verbs are said to be uninflected inall contexts, with no alternants corresponding to the English marked forms (e.g.Labov et al. 1968: 138); or else it is said that everywhere they use a marked stemform derived from the English strong past (e.g. Bickerton 1975: 28, but see Holm1988: 98). This class is variously said to contain verbs related to Englishbroke

6. For the specific verbs inflected by Dinah and Mina, see Chapter 6’s section on the socialdistribution of pre-verbaldid/neva.


(JC /br%k/),gone(/gaan/),married (/marid/), andgot (/gat/).I have not separated those items from other irregular verbs since they are

infrequent in this corpus. Rickford (1986d), analyzing a large amount of speechfrom one GC mesolectal speaker, reports little exceptional behavior. Alsoprominently listed in this class of verbs, however, are the verbs related toEnglish semi-weaklost (JC /las/),told (/tuol/) and left (/l7f/). Members of thesemi-weak class in English are listed by Guy and Boyd (1990); to their 16 onemay addcleave/cleft, making 17. Of these, 9 types occur in the Veeton corpusof 100 tokens with the counts given in (8), where they are listed by order offrequency, with the proportion of past-marked to unmarked tokens:7

(8) Semi-weak verbs in the Veeton corpus

tuol = 13tel = 24

fel = 4fiil = 4

swep= 0swiip = 1

lef = 14liiv = 21

kep= 2kiip = 2

sol = 0sel = 1

las = 6luuz = 3

slep= 3sliip = 0

bilt = 1bil = 0

The claim that mesolectal speakers do not inflect these forms, or always inflectthem — e.g. that speakers have /l7f/ for all tenses but no /liiv/ — thus cannot besustained, since wherever there are more than three examples of a lexical item,there is variation. Moreover, this variation is truly mesolectal: Roxy has no semi-weak verbs, but the other High speakers have 16 inflected tokens of the fourcommonest types (and 5 uninflected); Matty and Opal, the Mid group, produce23 inflected tokens (and 8 uninflected); even the Low speakers (all but Mina)produce 5 inflected tokens of pastlef, tuol, fel, andkep(alongside 43 uninflected).

In every case, the same speaker elsewhere produces the uninflected form ofthe verb. Moreover, note that it is the semi-weak verbs of High and Midspeakers that are heavily inflected for past (see also Table 7.3) on the Englishmodel, while those of Low speakers follow the general pattern by showing lesspast-marking.

7. Rose also produces one token ofstold, past ofstole, but with hesitation and self-correction.


Nonsyllabic verbs

Standard English regular verbs are generally considered to form a single class forthe purposes of affixation, but to be divided phonologically according to theshape of their stem. Stems ending in apicals take syllabic suffixes (/-Id/), whileother stem shapes take nonsyllabic suffixes that agree in voicing (e.g. always/-d/, in the case of vowel-final V-D stems). Most analyses agree in postulating asingle base form for the suffix; the question is then whether it is underlyingly/-d/, or even /-t/ — in which case an independently-motivated rule of voicingassimilation applies and a rule of vowel epenthesis gives the /-Id/ form — orinstead /-Id/, in which case a syncope rule is required.

For our purposes, the key question is whether a single inflectional processexists for forming the past in JC. If this holds true, then the -ED, V-D and C-Dclasses should be differentiated in their surface-marking rates only by anystrictly phonological process that may apply, such as (TD)-deletion, final-syllabledeletion (as in Vietnamese English, cf. Wolfram and Hatfield 1984), or /-d/-deletion after vowels (as in AAVE, cf. Labov et al. 1968; Wolfram 1969).Alternatively, the verb classes might be inflected at different fundamental rates,such that e.g. -ED verbs might be inflected categorically while nonsyllabics arevariably marked.

In Chapter 5 a unified process was assumed — though, to be precise, onlyan underlying identity between the C-D and V-D non-syllabic verbs, or (lesslikely) between C-D and -ED, was necessary for the estimation process there,since the V-D and -ED surface-marking rates shown were comparable. Thesimplest and most attractive solution would be to have past-marking applyuniformly to all regular verbs. If this proves not to be the case, some explanationis required; a leading candidate might be the saliency hypothesis, advanced inseveral SLA studies and discussed below, in which phonetic salience promotespast-marking.

The C-D and V-D verbs have been distinguished initially in order tohighlight the effects of intersecting variable rules on C-D verbs. However, intreating them as separate classes, a distinction which is actually phonological hasbeen cast as morphological. This creates an analytical problem, since the natureof the stem-final segment of non-syllabic verbs is already encompassed by thepreceding phonological environment factor group — the stem-final segmentbeing the same one that precedes the suffix — hence it has now been codedtwice. This redundancy or non-independence of explanatory variables may be


responsible for some discrepancies noted in the preliminary analysis of Table 7.1.In order to independently ascertain the influence of phonological environmentand morphological category on verb-inflection, the redundancy should be removed.

There are several ways to do this, and all can be evaluated on both linguis-tic and statistical grounds. One might simply remove the nonsyllabic verbs(analysis I below); however, they are a principal focus of interest. One mightretain these verbs and remove the preceding segment factor-group (analysis II);but since the C-D verbs are subject to (TD)-deletion, and the factor-group is amajor constraint on the deletion process, this would amount to giving up anexplanatory constraint the value of which has already been confirmed. Finally,one might leave both the constraint and the nonsyllabic verbs in place, andeliminate the distinction between C-D and V-D verbs in the morphologicalcategory factor-group (III below). This would be a test of the assumption that thephonological factor-groups alone really can account for the contrast between thetwo types of verbs.

In Table 7.4 the analyses just outlined are compared with a fourth, neutralone. Like III, analysis IV leaves the constraint and nonsyllabic verbs in place,but it also leaves the C-D and V-D verbs uncombined. (It differs from thepreliminary analysis of Table 7.1 only in excluding thehave,go andsay tokensfrom consideration, since each of these has a pattern robustly distinct from themajor categories —sendand do having been combined with IRR. In fact, allfour analyses exclude these tokens, and their only points of contrast are asoutlined in Table 7.4.)

When nonsyllabic verbs are removed, analysis I is considerably worse than

Table 7.4:Four analyses of interaction in constraints on nonsyllabic verbs

χ2/cell p-value

IIIIIIIV

Nonsyllabic verbs removedPreceding segment factor-group removedC-D verbs combined with V-D verbsBaseline analysis (none of the above)

1.461.451.141.14

n.a.p< .001p> 0.10

n.a.

the baseline analysis as measured by theχ2 per cell value (an estimate of howwell the set of constraints models the variation present; a figure of 1.0 is a goodresult). Since the database is drastically different, nop-value is given. When thedatabase remains unaltered but the preceding segment constraint is removed, the


result is similarly poor and the difference between the resulting analysis II andthe baseline in IV is highly significant.

Analysis III, however, which forces the preceding environment constraint tomodel the difference between C-D and V-D verbs, is not significantly differentfrom the baseline analysis at the 0.05 level, and models the variation just as well.In fact there is no statistical justification for separating the two morphologicalclasses (Guy 1988), and they will henceforth be combined.

Linguistically the analyses in Table 7.4 confirm that the preceding phono-logical environment plays an important role in inflection of nonsyllabic pastverbs.8 They also justify the stronger claim that the dramatic surface differencebetween C-D and V-D is attributable entirely to phonological processes. This canbe seen clearly in (9), which contrasts the probabilities of deletion for majormorphological categories in two versions of baseline analysis IV. In (9a)preceding environment is excluded; in (9b) it is included:

(9) Semi-weak -ED syllabic Irregular V-D C-D

a. Excluded:b. Included:

0.720.74

0.650.72

0.620.65

0.600.31

0.180.18

In the first case, V-D verbs appear to pattern with semi-weak, syllabic andirregular verbs (which are all very close in value), as they did at first in thefrequencies of Table 7.1; but the inclusion of the constraint in (9b) corrects thisfalse impression, minimizes the contrast between C-D and V-D nonsyllabics, andsupports the argument that they may share a unified rate of inflection and jointlydisfavor past-marking, unlike other regular and irregular verbs.

The assumption made in estimating (TD)-deletion rates in Chapter 5, that allregular verbs are inflected at the same rate, can now be revised. Nonsyllabics areinflected at a single rate, despite surface disparities, and this provides a firmfoundation for the estimation process undertaken earlier. The probability ofinflection in syllabics appears to differ noticeably from the other regular verbs,which calls for further investigation.

8. Stepwise versions of the Varbrul analyses in Table 7.4 show that neither phonological constraintis significant when nonsyllabic verbs are removed, and that the preceding segment effect is onlysignificant when C-D and V-D verbs are combined. Further analyses, conducted on nonsyllabic verbsonly, confirm the conclusion that the preceding segment effect is statistically significant, and that itmodels the variation better than the C-D/V-D morphological distinction does — probably because itrepresents a finer set of distinctions.


Inflection across the mesolect

The patterning of past-reference verb-inflection in the various verb-classes, bothmajor categories and exceptional items, is summarized in Figures 7.2 and 7.3 forthe three groups of speakers identified.

In each class, the rates of marking may be compared across groups and the

Figure 7.2:Inflection of major verb-classes by speaker group

contrasts in frequency observed. In isolated instances, two groups patterntogether — for semi-weak verbs, the Mid and High groups; for the verbsay, theLow and Mid groups. Yet the overall conclusion is that intermediate behaviorundeniably exists. If a hundred speakers were sampled, the possibilities andrange for intermediate behavior would surely be greater (though the extremeswould probably still resemble Roxy and Dinah) — it is an established componentof the speech community.

If the last section’s generalization over the whole sample is valid, thefinding that nonsyllabics are opposed to the other classes ought to hold for thesmaller divisions as well. Figures 7.2 and 7.3 depict only the surface phenomena,however, and not the underlying relations among the verb classes. A moreaccurate impression can be derived by comparing the subgroups’ probabilities ofinflection, based on Varbrul analysis. Since the latter procedure attempts tobalance figures around a neutral mean of 0.5, differences in absolute frequency


are removed, and what remains in Figure 7.4 is the relative weight of each verb

0% 20% 40% 60% 80% 100%

say

send

do

go

have

Verb inflection

High

Mid

Low

Groups:

Figure 7.3:Inflection of exceptional verbs by speaker group

class.9 While a probability from one set of values cannot usefully be comparedto one from another set, the overall pattern of each set can.

Figure 7.4 shows clearly the underlying tendency of the syllabic, irregularand semi-weak verbs to share high inflection rates. Though they are closest toidentical for the High group, given the small amounts of data for the semiweakand -ED classes the resemblance is quite striking across the board. It appears thatevery verb and verb-class does not have its own probability of being past-marked, but that significant generalizations can be made, which cut across theclass of regular verbs.

Variable inflection in other English Creoles

Thus far, the investigation of JC past-marking by verb inflection has found that:

• speakers differ greatly in their overall rates of inflection;• variable marking is far more common than behavior that approaches the

categorical;

9. The differences in absolute frequency are represented by the input probability for each run. Forthe High group, it is 0.76; for Mid, 0.40; and for the Low, 0.06.


• a few exceptional verbs have unique patterns (although, again, rarely

Figure 7.4:Probability of inflection in major verb classes

categorical) but tend to cohere with the rates of use of larger classes;• phonological factors play a significant role in the surface unmarking of

regular nonsyllabic verbs;• the latter do not pattern together with syllabic verbs; and that• even when the sample of speakers is broken down into small groups, despite

the variety in their marking rates they share an organization of the markingpatterns that differentiate categories of verbs.

Two main questions concerning linguistic constraints on variation remain. First,what accounts for the differential marking patterns discovered, especially for thecontrast among the regular verbs? Second, what effects if any do higher-levelcreole-valued constraints of stativity and anteriority (clause-type) have onpatterns of verb inflection at different mesolectal levels? I address these in turn.

Many creolists, committed to the idea of prototypical creole patterns, lookfirst for pan-creole explanations. It may help in answering the first question to knowhow the patterns of variation in JC compare to those of other creoles. In the case ofCaribbean English-related creoles, the comparative project can be fruitfully widenedto include African-diaspora varieties of English in which past-marking is knownto be variable. Since the continuum concept and decreolization have often beenlinked to acquisition studies, and inflection of verbs by second-language learners


of English has been studied in the variationist paradigm with similar categoriesto those employed here, I examine several SLA studies briefly as well.

Table 7.5 and Figure 7.5 relate the Veeton data to studies of Trinidadian(Winford 1992), Guyanese (Bickerton 1975; Rickford 1986d) and Barbadian(‘Bajan’) Creole English (Blake 1997). This comparison, while the most direct,is also the most difficult since analysts do not all use the same categories, definethem similarly, or make the same exclusions. In the other cases, the categoriesused are explicitly identified with Standard English, so the problem is consider-ably reduced. In assembling these data, I have taken a number of steps to renderthem comparable, and after doing so I have referred to them all using the labelsdescribed earlier.

Blake (1997), a preliminary study of four Bajan speakers — two white andtwo black, with the white speakers producing speech more distant from thestandard — used the same categories employed for JC in Patrick (1992).Rickford (1986d), an in-depth examination of past-marking by a single upper-mesolectal GC speaker (Bonnette), used a fine enough set of distinctions to makecomparison simple; only for semi-weak verbs is there any uncertainty, since thefigures for that category are derived from a list of individual irregular verbs and it isnot clear that they represent all instances of semi-weak verbs in Bonnette’s data.10

Winford’s (1992) TC data are also generally explicitly categorized; since heis comparing them to AAVE he follows Fasold’s (1972) model. It is not clearwhether tokens of main-verbdo are tabulated and in which category. Thesend-class of final-devoicing verbs is not singled out but included with the generalIrregular category; they are typically few. However, he follows Fasold inincluding strong verbs with final clusters which are also part of their stems —i.e. where the cluster does not represent an affix, for examplefind/found— inthe semi-weak category, thus inflating the number of tokens of that infrequentclass and possibly bringing its values closer to the Irregular class (where theother studies of creoles place such verbs). In other respects Winford’s studymatches Rickford’s, Blake’s and the present one in excluding (or making itpossible, by recalculation, to exclude) the common exceptional verbsgo, have,

10. The TC figures by social class are from Winford (1992, Table 5), inverted to give marking rates.Guyanese-1 is from Bickerton (1975, Table 3.10); Guyanese-2 from his Tables 4.7, 4.8, 4.9 and 4.13,recalculated, and both include participles. Guyanese-3 is from Rickford (1986d, Tables 2 and 3); andBarbadian is from Blake (1997, Table 20).


say, and all forms ofbebecause of their distinctive creole behavior. (The JC and

Table 7.5:Inflection rates of major verb classes: 4 Caribbean creoles

Irregular Semi-weak -EDsyllabic

V-Dnonsyllabic

C-Dnonsyllabic

Total

JamaicanVeeton Low

0%9%n=290=n0

%10%48

%25%57

%21%48

%1.5%1380

%10%5810

JamaicanVeeton Mid

%29%n=161=n0

%74%31

%51%59

%31%35

%21%1150

%34%4010

JamaicanVeeton High

%72%n=173=n0

%76%21

%74%35

%87%52

%38%1270

%63%4080

TrinidadianLower working

%33%n=430=n0

%35%80

%16%99

%35%51

0%8%2010

%25%8610

TrinidadianUpper working

%60%n=539=n0

%56%1150

%52%1200

%49%77

%23%2410

%49%1,092,00

TrinidadianLower middle

%85%n=238=n0

%89%44

%81%74

%72%32

%64%1090

%79%4970

Guyanese-1lower mesolect n.d. n.d.

%44%94

0%4%2730

%14%3670

Guyanese-2upper mesolect

%35%n=526=n0

%35%*55*

%60%1020

%37%46

%24%2630

%35%9920

Guyanese-3Bonnette

%54%n=210=n0

%62%45

%17%23

%70%20

0%7%60

%46%3580

Barbadianwhite & black

%16%n=490=n0

%16%2400

%11%75

%15%1010

0%3%4410

%11%1,347,00

Bajan data also excludedo and thesend-class.)The most complex comparison is with Bickerton 1975. He too excludesgo

andsayexplicitly, and appears to excludebe, do, andhave. He also excludestell,the most common member of the semi-weak class (he gives a count for it, so Ihave re-included it in Irregulars), and a number of other verbs he deems tofollow their own minor rules — a claim Rickford (1986d) considers and rejectsfor GC. Bickerton explicitly includes in the Irregular category the semi-weakverbs feel, leaveand lose, suggesting they are rarely inflected, but he gives nocount for them. Consequently the semiweak category in his data (asterisked here)is based solely ontell. This is a reasonable approximation since it is easily the


most frequent type in both Rickford’s and my data (though it is inflected a bitless often than the mean). The division of non-syllabics into V-D and C-D (inthe Guyanese-2 data set) actually represents only a subset of the nonsyllabic data,one which excludes categorical speakers (4 of the 14 in Bickerton’s Table 4.7).To the complete data-set for which Bickerton gives figures in his upper meso-lectal sample (Guyanese-2), I have added an incomplete set for regular verbsonly, from his lower mesolectal sample (Guyanese-1).

In Figure 7.5 each creole variety is represented by only a single compositevalue for simplicity. Here Bickerton’s data set is preferred over Rickford’s purelybecause of the greater number of tokens; the two actually differ quite sharply (ascan be seen in Table 7.5) — unlike the TC and JC data, within each of which ageneral pattern dominates — and collapsing them would be a distortion.

All the creoles show the expected drop in marking in the C-D class relativeto other nonsyllabics (V-D) and all other verbs, arguably due to (TD)-deletion asin JC (but see Chapter 5 for TC analysis). Elsewhere these surface marking datadiffer in their patterns: JC has a notably lower marking rate for irregular verbsthan for nonsyllabic V-D and syllabic -ED, while in Trinidad the irregular andsemi-weak classes are more often marked than any of the regular verbs, and theBajan data are remarkably flat. Bickerton’s GC data have a sharp peak forsyllabic verbs, but Rickford’s GC corpus shows the opposite effect, and otherGuyanese data (Edwards 1975: 251) support his finding.

Figure 7.5:Inflection by verb-class in four creoles


On the basis of the TC data’s internal consistency and resemblance toAAVE patterns (see below), Winford (1992: 325) suggested a “hierarchy ofdistribution of {-ed} [as] perhaps a universal diagnostic of language shift ingeneral.” Claiming support for a historical linkage between AAVE and TC, heargued that both have undergone the same process: “the variable incorporation of{-ed} according to subtype of verb, with irregular verbs attracting {-ed} earliestand most frequently, followed by the other subclasses in the order shown”(324–5), i.e.:

(10) Irr > -ED > V-D > C-D

The hierarchies of marking in TC and AAVE must then resemble each othereither because the process is still underway in both, or because its signatureremains after generations of language transmission and change. In either case, itis reasonable to examine other creoles as well for signs of such robust conditioning.

The result should be a steady decline in Figure 7.5 from left to right. Thisis not the case. The C-D class must be excluded, on grounds that its “decline”relative to V-D is a synchronic phonological effect which does not apply to anyother verb-classes — not a diachronic one of graded acquisition. But then it ishard to see any progression or hierarchy at all. In fact, measured over the wholeTC sample, none of Winford’s figures for Irr, semiweak, -ED, or V-D verbs aresignificantly different from each other atp ≤ 0.05, or evenp ≤ 0.10; while theJamaican trend is not down but up, and Bajan is practically flat. Even should theresemblance between TC and AAVE be confirmed, if Winford is correct aboutits cause it is curious that other creoles do not show this resemblance.11

However, there is no single “creole pattern” observable here. I argued in thelast section that surface-marking data must be viewed with skepticism — theymay indeed represent underlying relations, but there are no grounds for confi-dence that they will do so in a straightforward manner. Thus while it is notimpossible that the patterns displayed here may all result from an identical pan-creole process or set of forces, the present data, taken collectively, lend nosupport to such a claim.

11. Winford’s summary figures (1992, Table 4) were given above in Chapter 5, Table 18.


Variable inflection in African American diaspora varieties

Consider now the AAVE and diaspora data adduced by Winford in support ofhis thesis. Table 7.6 compares studies of several varieties of African AmericanEnglish: the contemporary vernacular of the urban U.S. East Coast (Fasold 1972;Labov et al. 1968), the historic 1940s recordings of ex-slaves (Bailey et al. 1991;Tagliamonte and Poplack 1993), the speech of transplanted African Americansin the Canadian Maritime provinces (Poplack and Tagliamonte 1991) and theSamaná Peninsula of the Dominican Republic (Tagliamonte and Poplack 1988,1993), and the several varieties of English spoken in Liberia today (Singler 1984,1991), some of which are derived from or influenced by the speech of 19th

century African American settlers. Only this last set includes varieties which canbe identified as English-related creoles; the Liberian data are indeed qualitativelydifferent from, though clearly historically related to, the other diaspora forms.12

The Liberian data in Table 7.6, together with most of the studies by Poplackand Tagliamonte, leave out the semiweak class. Where data on this class areavailable (e.g., AAVE and Samaná-1, though the latter study referred to thisclass as “irregular”), it is surprisingly among the least likely to be past-marked— unlike both the creole and SLA data, where it is among the most commonlyinflected of categories. Similarly, the syllabic -ED class is not consistentlyreported, while the nonsyllabics are merged in several accounts. In LiberianEnglish the latter verbs almost categorically lack the inflectional affix, even afterstem-final vowels, due to a syllable structure constraint influenced by surround-ing African substrate languages (Singler reports this but does not give precisecounts since they appear redundant; in the table this is marked “n/c”).

The AAVE data from Washington, also cited by Winford, do show the

12. The Washington data are from Fasold (1972: 99–101 and 188), inverted to show marking;Harlem from Labov et al. (1968, Table 3–7), recalculated; Samaná-1 from Tagliamonte and Poplack(1988, Table 9); the Samaná-2, Ex-slave and Nova Scotia data from Poplack and Tagliamonte (1991,Table 6); and the Liberian data, for punctual past-reference verbs only, from Singler (1984: 109–10and Table 16).


hierarchy given in (10) above.13 With greater intervals than the TC data, the

Table 7.6:Inflection rates of major verb classes: 5 AAVE diaspora varieties


V-D non-syllabic

C-D non-syllabic

Total

AAVEWashington DC

.0%98.4%n=833=n0

%(>20%)>(70)

.0%80.4%?291?0

.0%72.7%1210

.0%49.2%3820

%82%1,627,00

AAVEHarlem NYC

n.d. %59%1110

n.d. %88%1090

%74%2330

%74%4530

Samaná Eng-1Dominican Rep.

n.d. %26%1600

%55%0?

%78%?

%38%0? 7210

Samaná Eng-2Dominican Rep.

%77%n=2,445=n,00

n.d. n.d. %58%1,234,00

%71%3,679,00

Ex-slave AAVESouthern US

%77%n=499=n0

n.d. n.d. %68%2830

%74%7820

Nova ScotiaRural AAVE

%77%n=517=n0

n.d. n.d. %65%3620

%72%8790

Liberian Eng-1(0–3 yrs school)

%36%n=748=n0

n.d. %13%46

0%0%n/c0

0%0%n/c0

n/a0

Liberian Eng-2(4–9 yrs school)

%96%n=386=n0

n.d. %44%34

0%0%n/c0

0%0%n/c0

n/a0

Liberian Eng-3(>10 yrs school)

%96%n=363=n0

n.d. %89%45

0%5%3260

%<1%ca. 900ca. 0

n/a0

rate of marking in the Irregular category is significantly different from that inboth -ED and V-D verbs atp< 0.05 (though the latter regular categories are notsignificantly distinct from each other). These three classes are crucial forWinford’s hypothesis of an inflectional hierarchy; unfortunately, the reports on

13. Fasold (1972: 188) reports a 19.6% suffix absence rate — inverted in Table 6 to give a past-marking rate — but no token count. Elsewhere (99–101) he exhaustively describes the phonologicalenvironments in which suffix absence occurs and gives a count of 57 (53 before consonant or pause,plus 7 before vowels = 60, minus 3 indeterminate cases) — presumably the count for which 19.6%expresses an absence rate. From this I infer that the totaln=291, past-marked at 80.4%. This fits hiscomment (99) that “[Id] is absent… at a lower % rate than [t] or [d], whether in clusters or not”, i.e.that (inverted for past-marking) -ED > C-D/V-D.


Samaná, African Nova Scotian English and the Ex-slave recordings by Poplackand Tagliamonte fail to distinguish more than two classes, so the data will notserve to evaluate Winford’s proposal. The differences reported are highlysignificant for Samaná-2, but the other cases are not significant at thep< 0.05threshold; and they combine the V-D and C-D surface-marking results, which arealmost certain to differ widely, in ways that are not appropriate for presentcomparisons.

The Liberian data, on the other hand, tend to confirm Winford’s hypothesis,with their generally sharp contrast between the Irregular and -ED classes. Here,not only the C-D but also the V-D nonsyllabic verbs are affected by a phonolog-ical process which is much stronger than any similar tendency in Caribbeanmesolectal creoles or AAVE. However, this syllable structure constraint is a veryplausible candidate for an early pidginization or creolization situation, and thetendency of many West and Central African languages to disallow final clustersis perfectly relevant to the historical processes of creolization in the Caribbean— even if these processes differed from the Liberian one, in which a sizablepopulation of native English-speaking African American immigrants played acrucial role.

The most striking and significant contrast between the AAVE diasporavarieties and the Caribbean creoles of Table 7.5 is in the past-marking ofIrregular verbs, generally the largest and most frequent verb-class. All the AAVEvarieties spoken in the Americas, and two of the three Liberian groups, inflectthese verbs more than three-quarters of the time — a rate matched only by thehighest social group of Trinidadian Creole speakers.

It is noteworthy that these AAVE groups are not comparable in social statusto the LMC speakers of TC or the High group of Veeton: they are insteadworking-class urban vernacular or isolated rural speakers, among the mostdistanced socially and linguistically from the habitual users of standard Englishvarieties in neighboring communities (if any — in the Samaná case, there arenone). Despite their social position, these disempowered speakers of discriminat-ed and non-standard varieties have past-marking rates that far exceed the greatmajority of Caribbean Creole speakers. There is indeed a sharp contrast betweenthese AAVE speakers, with their variable marking, and the essentially invariantpatterns of metropolitan standard English varieties; but in quantitative terms, thecontrast between the AAVE and Creole speakers, though both are variable, isseveral times greater.


Variable inflection in second-language acquisition studies

It is often thought that the variation exhibited by creoles may be explained byanalogy to acquisition processes, possibly because language learning is a crucialfeature in all accounts of creolization — and because even linguists with littletheoretical interest in variation recognize that extensive interlanguage variationcharacterizes acquisition. Yet Jamaican Creole is a mature language which by allaccounts has been stable for two centuries, transmitted successfully to each newgeneration of child learners. If acquisition has relevance for variation, then, itmust lie primarily in adult second-language or second-dialect learning of English.In the literature, this conclusion often depends upon a chain of reasoninginvolving decreolization and the continuum, which runs approximately like this:

• As JC includes both intermediate varieties and others relatively close toEnglish and far from the basilect, it has probably decreolized;

• Decreolization, defined as change converging on a standard language, is likethe gradual acquisition of a standard by adult creole speakers;

• Much variation in the current language is thus due to decreolization;• So, perhaps JC fits the profile of adult second-language (SLA) variation.

I have already indicated skepticism about the usefulness of the concept ofdecreolization, especially the way it is commonly linked to the continuum, andtherefore each of the first three steps is suspect, in my view. Yet it is still ofinterest to pursue the acquisition connection by asking briefly, what SLA profilesexist for English past-marking across morphological classes?

Resemblances have been noted between not only decreolization but alsoshift-induced language change, on the one hand, and second-language acquisitionon the other. It has been suggested that the former may perhaps be best under-stood as indirect products of the latter (cf. Andersen 1983; Rickford 1983a;Thomason and Kaufman 1988; but also Silva-Corvalan 1994). The suggestion ofa predictable hierarchy in the inflection of English verb-classes has beenexplored before Winford (1992). A number of second-language acquisitionstudies have looked at past-marking of English verbs from a perspective very similarto the present one and, with full awareness of the complexity of the intersectingprocesses, have attempted to explain patterns by means of a salience principle.14

14. Winford (1992) does not give any SLA data, but cites the same studies described in Patrick(1991) and below, where the argument is against a unified pattern.


The salience or distinctiveness of a set of linguistic features is hypothesizedto correlate with their order of acquisition. Salience is generally defined inphonetic terms, as by Guy (p.c. 1991): “Greater stress and material substance(i.e., more features or segments) lend an element greater salience” — though ithas also been related to sociolinguistic evaluation, dialect contact and processesof language change (cf. Trudgill 1986). Among variationists, it was first ad-vanced to account for patterns among native speakers of Popular BrazilianPortuguese (Naro and Lemle 1976; Naro 1981; Guy 1981).

Several studies have examined the acquisition of English past-marking byadult learners of English living in the United States in similar terms. Wolframand Hatfield (1984: 37), following Hakuta (1976), operationalize the hypothesisfor irregular verbs in a study of Vietnamese ESL: “the more distant phoneticallythe past tense irregular form is from the non-past, the more likely it will bemarked for tense”. Bayley (1991), examining the interlanguage of MandarinChinese-native learners, extends the definition and the principle to regular verbcategories. Though not a study of salience, Schumann (1978) is an exhaustivestudy of a single individual’s speech, examining the interlanguage of Alberto, a33–year-old Costa Rican high-school graduate who began the project knowinglittle English and showed very little linguistic development over 10 months.

Table 7.7 summarizes the results of these three studies for verb inflection.15

Except for the semi-weak verbs — which are presumably merged with Irregularin two of the studies, and pattern with them in the third — the categories havebeen ordered according to Winford’s prediction (see (10) above) in the table. TheVietnamese ESL data cohere nicely with this hypothesis, and in each categorypair except {-ED, V-D} the rates of inflection are significantly different atp< 0.05. For Bayley’s (1991) Chinese speakers, however, a different orderoccurs: syllabic verbs are distinctly the least-often marked, even lower than theC-D non-syllabics.

Bayley makes a cogent case for an ordering of the salience predictions thataccords with his results. The great majority (85%) of the non-syllabic verbs in hiscorpus are stressed on the final (or only) syllable — the one in which the affixoccurs — while syllabic verbs are categorically unstressed on their final syllable.

15. The Vietnamese data are from Wolfram and Hatfield (1984, Tables 2.2, 2.4, and 2.6); theChinese from Bayley (1991, Tables 3.1 and 3.10). Bayley’s semi-weak category (“doubly-marked”)includes verbs that delete the stem-final consonant such asbring, thinkas well as those that result inclusters after affixation. The Spanish data are from Schumann (1978, Table III.2–5).


Following Guy, he assigns considerable importance to the role of stress, and thus

Table 7.7:Inflection rates of major verb classes in 3 English SLA varieties


V-D non-syllabic

C-D non-syllabic

Total

Vietnamese %55%7010 n.d.

%31%58

%20%1250

%12%4360

%36%1,320,00

Chinese %56%8850

%58%9540

%22%2590

%38%2080

%32%6470

%47%2,953,00

Spanish %65%2450 n.d.

*0%7%*42 n/a

*This figure includes all three categories: (-ED) + (V-D) + (C-D) together.

predicts that -ED syllabics should be the least-marked verb class. His study is themost careful of those cited here, with the most data, and the only one to conductmultivariate analysis (which confirms the percentage results reported above).

Bayley argues for the universality of the salience hierarchy, and cites theresults of Wolfram and Hatfield (1984) and Rickford (1986d; see Guyanese-3, inTable 7.5) in support. However, it must be noted that no other study reported inTables 7.5–7 — including the ones he cites — finds syllabic -ED verbs to beless-often marked than C-D nonsyllabics. Bayley’s unique finding has bothspecific and general consequences for the present investigation.

The specific consequence is that there is as yet no single pattern or predic-tion to be expected from adult SLA of English verb inflection. It is not surpris-ing, then, that the JC data in Table 7.5 reflect neither Wolfram’s nor Bayley’shierarchy in detail, nor even the simpler one of Schumann. The preference formarking Irregular over all regular verb classes, which can be noted in all of theSLA studies (as well as the AAVE varieties), was not found for creole speakersin general and is not found in Veeton: at every level, speakers show less past-marking of Irregular verbs than of any other type, except only C-D. While the JCHigh group shows great consistency in marking V-D verbs, as do Bayley’sChinese learners, the Low group favors -ED syllabics, more like the Vietnameselearners. There is a diversity of patterns among Veeton speakers, but it is noteasily explained by analogy to these SLA salience studies.16

16. In addition, the almost total absence of regularization further distinguishes mesolectal JC fromboth SLA and FLA patterns.


There are also specific predictions for types of irregular verbs. In Bayley’sschema, suppletion (e.g.go/went) is judged most salient, then the combination ofinternal vowel change plus affixation (“doubly-marked”, e.g.do/did), followedby internal vowel change only (e.g.find/found), and final consonant replacement(e.g.have/had); all are judged more salient than syllabic verbs. Bayley’s resultsconfirmed this ordering (1991, Table 3.2):

(11) Suppletive >Doubly-marked> Internal V > Final C > Syllabic

prob.=66%.75

58%.70

46%.56

33%.46

22%.27

The ordering of three of these categories can be tested against the JC data onfrequent and exceptional verbsgo,do,have,say(see Table 7.2 above), while theinflection of syllabic and semiweak verbs is already known (for “doubly-marked”, see footnote 15). Table 7.8 gives these data.

The verb classes are ordered according to Bayley’s salience prediction. For all

Table 7.8:Inflection of exceptional verbs by speaker group: Salience predictions

go do Semiweak have say -ED syllabic

JC Low %21%63

%12%17

%10%48

0%4%47

% 7%99

%25%57

JC Mid %53%45

%71%14

%74%31

%59%44

%11%46

%51%59

JC High %93%42

%78%09

%76%21

%98%1280

%43%53

%74%35

Veeton groups, the -ED syllabic verbs disrupt the expected pattern. Otherdisruptions occur among the Mid and High groups as well. While Table 7.8suggests that salience may have some utility for the Low speakers, note that themajor verb-class pattern in Table 7.5 (including the Irregular verbs) did notconfirm this. Moreover, Bayley (1991) found the salience hierarchy to hold forhis Chinese speakers of both low and high proficiency, where the latter grouphad inflection rates intermediate between the JC Mid and High groups. No suchregularity of behavior appears across the JC continuum depicted here, or indeedacross all verb-types at any level of it.


The general consequence of comparison with the SLA studies above is thatthe salience hypothesis turns out to hold little predictive value as presentlyoperationalized, since it is stated at such a general level that different learnervarieties of the same language appear to generate (or require) very differentpredictions.17 However, there is reason to think this is in fact the correctapproach. For example, Bayley’s formulation depends heavily on the role oflexical stress, which apparently overwhelms the effects of consonant clustersimplification and its conditioning by phonological environment. To see this, oneneed only consider the alternative marking predictions made by the two constraints:

(12) a. More stress > No stress(V-D, C-D) (-ED)

b. Preceding vowel > Preceding consonant(V-D, -ED) (C-D)

If stress, operating as in (12a), contributes more to salience, then the markingrates in the non-syllabics will be similar and will be greater than that of thesyllabics, as Bayley found. (In 12a, it is assumed that V-D and C-D verbs arejust as likely to be stressed on the final syllable.) If on the other hand phonologi-cal constraints on simplification, as in (12b), are more powerful so that thesonority of preceding segment outweighs stress, then the V-D and -ED classeswill be marked at comparable rates and will contrast with C-D, as the JC data show.

It would be an unsurprising conclusion that lexical stress and the operationof phonological deletion rules are of differing importance for Chinese learnersand JC native speakers. The point is not that the salience hypothesis is discon-firmed, but rather that it is currently a heuristic device capable of yielding suchinsights, not a predictive or explanatory principle capable of accounting for allthe patterns described above. There is, then, no single “SLA profile” for past-tense inflection by morphological class — just as there was no “creole pattern”— and a leading candidate for explaining creole inflection patterns by analogyto acquisition processes has proven incapable of doing so.

17. Both Bayley (1991) and Wolfram and Hatfield (1984) predict a salience order which matches theordering found in their data; Bayley reverses the latter’s ordering of the two vowel-change categories.These seem to be empirical results rather than theoretical predictions.


Stativity, punctuality, inflection, and the verb ‘have’

The last chapter examined the marking of past-reference with pre-verbaldid/neva. The classical predictions for a creole TMA system were borne out, for thefour speakers who commonly useddid/neva: non-punctual verbs, includingstatives, showed a strong tendency to receive pre-verbal past marking. Whatsignificance do stativity and punctuality hold for the alternation of verb-inflectionwith zero-marking?

In order to determine this it will be necessary to consider both clause-typeand morphological category. In both English and creole narratives, analysts haveobserved that stative verbs are rare in complicating-action clauses and oftencluster in non-narrative clauses (Labov and Waletzky 1967; Corne 1977;Bickerton 1981; Rickford 1987a; Sankoff 1990). This is especially true oforientation clauses which set the scene at the beginning of the narrative, andevaluation clauses which voice the narrator’s values; both types, if past, wouldoften fall into the ‘Other’ category of clauses. It is likely, then, that stativity willnot be distributed independently of clause-type: the effect of statives on verb-inflection may show up in the Other category — or else, vice versa, the effectsof this clause-type may show up among statives.

In Table 7.9 it is evident that the first point is true. Nearly three-quarters of

Table 7.9:Past-marking in Other clauses by stativity, all speakers

Stative Neutral Punctual All verbs

‘Other’ clauses %65%2020

%35%2490

%41%39

%48%4900

All clauses %58%2750

%30%1,337,00

%36%2640

%35%1,876,00

all stative verbs (73%, or 202/275) occur in the Other category, which is themost frequently inflected of any clause-type. Moreover, these stative/Otherclauses are much more often marked for past than punctual or neutral clausesare. Yet causes are notoriously difficult to extract from correlations. Are stativescausing Other clauses to be more often inflected, or is it vice versa, or does athird factor influence both?

Examining the distribution of stative verbs across morphological categories willhelp to answer this question. The single commonest member of the frequent and


exceptional verbs ishave, which in its possessive and existential uses — by far thegreat majority of its occurrences — is generally stative. These tokens of stativehavemake up two-thirds of all stative verbs (186/275, or 68%), and 10% of all verbs.18

But have is also the most frequently-inflected exceptional verb. Thus thepresence ofhavein the sample considerably increases the positive correlation ofstative verbs with past-marking, a fact which may be plainly seen in Table 7.10.

By contrast, the exclusion ofhaveradically reduces the proportion of past-

Table 7.10:Inflection rates of ‘have’, statives, and non-statives, all speakers

Rate of inflection No. of tokens

have, all tokensAll stative verbsAll statives excepthaveAll non-stative verbsAll verbs

71%58%31%31%37%

198275089

1,601,02,025,0

marking among stative verbs — in fact, they can no longer be distinguished fromnon-statives, since both are inflected 31% of the time. Put another way, ifhavewere not so highly-marked, the [±stative] constraint would be negligible.Evidently, it is not stativity that contributes to the high past-marking rate ofhavebut the other way around. Moreover, since a majority of stative verbs arehave,and a disproportionately large number of Other clauses are stative (41%,202/490; compare this to 15% of all clauses coded for stativity, 275/1,876), thepropensity ofhave for past-marking also contributes to the tendency for Otherclauses to be past-marked.

The behavior of this single, crucial verb dramatically influences the profileof inflection for Veeton speakers, and distorts the influence of other semantic,syntactic and discourse environments. Recall that the JC mesolect differs in thisrespect from Bickerton’s results: the “acquisition” ofhave/hadwas portrayed asslow and late across the GC continuum (where the common verb of possessionis insteadgat). If havehas such an impact on the class of stative verbs, it isimportant to examine the patterning of factors among different groups in Veeton:if they differ in their treatment ofhave, they may also differ on the importanceof the stative-to-punctual continuum.

18. All verbs that were coded for the stativity factor group, that is: 186 of 1,876.


In Table 7.11, it can be seen that the Mid and High speakers inflecthavevery frequently — for the latter, essentially categorically — and far more thaneither statives or non-statives.19

For all three groups, statives withouthave are not significantly different

Table 7.11:Inflection rates of ‘have’, statives, and non-statives, by group

have Statives,excepthave

Non-statives All verbs

High group %98%1280

%57%23

%65%4230

%71%6500

Mid group %59%44

%41%29

%32%4690

%36%5610

Low group 0%4%47

0%9%33

%10%7090

%10%8140

from non-statives. The Low speakers are distinct, however, in that they showlittle sign of inflection for pasthaveat all: in Bickerton’s terms, those closest tothe basilect have not yet acquired it. These are the same speakers for whomstatives favored the use ofdid/neva, and punctuals appeared to favor the use of{-ed} inflection — in fact, it proved inappropriate to combine punctuals withneutral verbs to form non-statives, and the constraint was strongest when statedin terms of [±punctual].20

Accordingly, when punctuals, neutral verbs, and statives are distinguishedand re-examined for the Low group, the real opposition that emerges is betweenpunctual and non-punctual verbs (whether or nothaveis excluded). Multivariateanalysis confirms this result. The factor-group for stative/neutral/punctual isnever retained as significant to the analysis of the Mid and High group data, butis consistently retained for the Low data, which are displayed in (13):

19. For the Mid group, theχ2 of 4.32 is significant atp< 0.05; for the High group, theχ2 of 8.45is significant atp< 0.01. The difference between statives and non-statives however is not significantfor any of the groups even atp< 0.30.

20. Tamas, Mina and Dinah belong to both groups; Matty is adid-user but not a member of the Lowgroup for verb-inflection; Bigga belongs to the latter but not the former. See discussion below. Inanalyses of both groups, the probabilities for stative and neutral verbs are nearly identical, disfavoringinflection, and are significantly distinct from punctuals, which favor inflection.


(13) [Stative + neutral] Punctual All verbs

Low group 0%8%00.00.46

37

0%7%00.00.45

4410

%18%00.00.71

1020

0%9%n/a05800

For the speakers closest to the basilect, and for them only, [±punctual] is animportant influence on verb-inflection, following right behind morphologicalclass in importance. Punctual verbs promote inflection, and as shown earlier theyare very rarely marked withdid/neva; thus they may be the environment whereinflection as past-tense marking first securely enters the grammar, as Bickertonhypothesized. His Table 14.4 (1975: 154) shows 14 mesolectal GC speakersinflecting past in punctual verbs 38% of the time (n=597), but only 12% of thetime (n=428) in nonpunctuals.21

The last chapter noted that stative verbs were the most likely to be past-marked withdid/neva, and this one has found that the class of statives is likelyto be influenced by the behavior ofhave. In fact, to the extent that other creolesbehave similarly to JC, studies of stativity which do not pay close attention tosuch a common and exceptional verb may be suspect. This raises questions aboutthe earlier analysis of pre-verbal markers: What effect did have have ondid?What would happen if one removed the tokens ofhavefrom that analysis?

Table 7.12:Past-marking rates of stative verbs with and without ‘have’

did/neva Unmarked Inflected All verbs

All statives %28%00.000.502

49

%51%00.000.246

89

%21%00.000.252

37 N = 175

Statives,excepthave

%33%00.000.499

28

%51%000.00.234

43

%15%000.00.267

13 N = 84

21. Bickerton combines [−punctual] verbs with verbs in [+temporal] clauses, regardless of the latter’spunctuality. As is seen below, temporals also strongly disfavor inflection in Veeton.


The answer is, practically no effect, as shown in Table 7.12. Though 21 of the49 stative cases ofdid/nevamarking were instances ofhave, its profile for past-marking is nearly identical to that of the other verbs (see Table 6.8 above). Forthe did-users, statives (or better, non-punctuals) includinghave are acoherentclass, and they promote the classic creole TMA marking system as expected.

In sum, for speakers in the lower mesolect, the [±punctual] distinction notonly conditions the use of pre-verbal past-marking, it also tends to govern verbinflection. In both respects, it is largely irrelevant to most mid- and upper-mesolectal speakers. Punctuality is associated with the lower part of the continu-um in general. A speaker may show its influence in the productive use of pastdid, but employ inflection fairly often without regard to it, like Matty. Alterna-tively, he may eschew preverbal markers yet be constrained by punctuality in theinflection of past verbs, as is Bigga.

This suggests a constraint that is characteristic of creole grammar and yetnot strictly tied to creole forms. It also points to a distinction between speakerswho manipulate parallel subsystems with similar functions (e.g., past-reference)but separate forms and constraints, and those who apply a single set of underly-ing principles to the resources available in their grammar.

Clause-type, anteriority and verb inflection

In the examination of pre-verbal markers across clause-types, it turned out thatVeeton speakers who usedid/neva to signal past-reference fit the profile forprototypical creole tense-marking. Anterior clauses rarely go unmarked andfrequently featuredid, while the reverse is true for sequenced clauses, whichrelate past events in the order of their occurrence, and for temporal clauses — allas predicted by Bickerton’s (1975) classic analysis of GC (though amended togive a variationist account).22

This account was reframed, however, as a constraint that is neither exclusiveto creoles, nor underlyingly syntactic or semantic in nature. Where the organiza-tion of the discourse makes past-marking in the verb phrase redundant —because the time-reference and order of events is signalled by an external adverb,or main clause, or by the discourse frame itself — pre-verbal markers are

22. Bickerton (1975: 157) also predicted the absence of pre-verbal markers in irrealis clauses; inChapter 6 the opposite result appeared.


distinctly less likely to occur: that is, in sequenced and temporal clauses (jointlyreferred to as ‘externally-ordered’ clauses). Elsewhere, past-reference clauses arevery likely to be marked withdid/neva: that is, irrealis and anterior clauses,where the time-reference and order of events is neither plain nor iconic, and inother clauses in general (jointly, ‘non-ordered’ clauses).

Seen in this light, with discourse functions governing the distribution ofcreole tense-markers, past-marking in Veeton is not unique but participates ingeneral principles of grammatical organization. Mesolectal JC is differentiatedfrom the superstrate by the categoricity of tense-marking and agreement instandard varieties of English. In varieties or genres of English where variablemarking is the norm, however, the contexts in which unmarking occurs are notrandom, but often constrained by factors of the sort proposed here (e.g., thehistorical present in English narratives).

What is unusual about mesolectal creoles is the presence of competingforms in a single grammar: creole-valued ones (did/neva) alongside standard-valued ones (regular inflection with {-ed}). The constraints on the former havebeen established, and show strong functional effects, for the lower portion of themesolect. It remains to investigate the effect of clause-type on the alternation ofverb-inflection with zero-marking across the Veeton sample. The analysesincorporate everything learned so far about significant constraints:

• speakers are examined in the familiar subgroups;• haveis sometimes excluded, but only where it distorts the pattern;• other frequent/exceptional verbs are considered separately, merged with the

Irregular class, or excluded, where appropriate; while• the influences of punctuality and phonological environment are also consid-

ered, but (as above) only included in the final analysis of those speakergroups for whom there is a statistically significant effect.

Table 7.13 compares the rate of inflection in different clause-types for allVeeton speakers. First, an analysis with each clause-type considered separatelyis given; second, the clause-types are combined into the ‘externally-ordered’ and‘non-ordered’ categories which emerged as relevant before, in the analysis ofpre-verbal past-marking withdid/neva.23 The best overall analysis proves to be

23. Table 13 may be compared to Table 9 of the last chapter; differences are due to data exclusions andinclusions, especially the inclusion of data from the six non-did-users who inflect more often. Heresayhasbeen excluded,sendmerged with Irregular verbs,go,do, andhavemerged with semi-weak verbs, and


the separated one. As before, sequenced verbs are significantly less likely to beinflected than anteriors and verbs in ‘Other’ clauses — though anteriors appearto be neutral, at 0.50. This suggests some mixing of distinct patterns among thesubgroups, a lack of unanimity in constraints on inflection.

Further inspection shows that the affinities previously noticed for temporaland irrealis clauses are now reversed. Temporals are quite likely to be inflected,and therefore pattern with anterior clauses. (Earlier they behaved like sequencedclauses with respect todid-marking; the arrangement of categories in Table 7.13reflects this expectation.) Irrealis clauses rarely contain inflected verbs; thus theynow resemble sequenced clauses, though earlier they behaved like anteriorclauses with respect todid-marking. Note, however, that the number of irrealisclauses is quite small, which may in part explain their instability. These shiftingpatterns are partly a consequence of the complexity possible when three or moreoptions for past-marking occur.

Combining the separate clause-types into the externally-ordered and non-ordered

Table 7.13:Inflection rates by clause-type, all speakers

Externally-ordered Non-ordered

Temporal Sequenced Anterior Other Irrealis Total

Separated 31%0.58

32%0.44

43%0.50

49%0.61

21%0.31

37%Pi = 0.42

Tokens n=118 891 158 485 47 N=1,699

Combined 32%0.46

46%0.56

%37%Pi = 0.41

categories does nothing to improve the analysis. Moreover, the overall measureof the model’s goodness of fit is not impressive (χ2=1.62 for Table 7.13). Thefunctional pattern found for creole pre-verbal markers is simply not evident withinflection. It is impossible to satisfactorily generalize this constraint over allVeeton speakers, and all the variants of (Past).

This result is not too surprising — after all, punctuality proved earlier todifferentiate the Low speakers from the rest. Rather, it is evident that the factors

the phonological factor groups simplified (preceding segment ranges stops and obstruents againstvowels, following segment merges consonants and glides against vowels and pauses).


constraining variation in past-marking not only diverge at the level of speakersubgroups, but also differ by the form of marking. Table 7.14 considers whetherclause-type is relevant to inflection for the Low speakers. It gives the optimalanalysis for these speakers, and then includes the clause-type factor-group (note,however, that thebest analysis is one that leaves clause-type out entirely).

Strikingly, there is no significant effect whatever of clause-type on verbinflection. The expected contrasts — anterior vs. sequenced clauses, irrealis vs.temporal — do not arise; while Other clauses are close in value to the rest.

The explanation does not lie in inadequate data. The general rate of inflection for

Table 7.14:Inflection rates by clause-type, Low speakers



Separated(n.s.)

%12%00.00.61

0%9%00.00.47

%10%00.00.50

%10%00.00.52

%14%00.00.67

%10%Pi = 0.09

Tokens n=66=n 4440 59 1980 22 N=789=N0

Combined(n.s.)

0%9%00.00.48

%10%00.00.53

%10%Pi = 0.09

these speakers is low, yet a similar level ofdid/nevamarking was high enoughto show strong co-occurrence patterns. Occasionally, when the data are brokendown by sub-group, the temporal and/or irrealis categories are too sparselypopulated to be stable or reliable — but the anterior/sequenced comparisonalways provides enough material, as it does here. The clear functional effectsdiscovered for creole-valued past-markers among the Low speakers find noparallel in their standard-valued marking, however it is analyzed.

For the Mid speakers, on the other hand, Table 7.15 shows that inflectionfollows the same constraint asdid/nevamarking does for the Low speakers. Thatis, sequenced and temporal clauses disfavor marking, while anterior and otherclauses are likely environments for it. The pattern holds for both Matty and Opal— though only Matty also marks past withdid, where he follows the sameconstraint. These speakers also differ in another way from those closer to thebasilect: punctuality has no significant effect on their past-marking patterns,regardless of the inclusion ofhave.

In Table 7.16, the latter is also true of the High speakers, but the former is not.Like the Low speakers, they too show no functional effect of clause-type on inflection.


In fact, the sequenced and anterior clauses are so close together in rates that

Table 7.15:Inflection rates by clause-type, Mid speakers



Separated %27%00.00.43

%32%00.00.45

%51%00.00.67

%49%00.00.62

%13%00.00.23

%37%Pi = 0.45

Tokens n=30=n 2890 49 1100 15 N= 493

Combined %31%00.00.44

%50%00.00.63

%13%00.00.24

%37%Pi = 0.46

Table 7.16:Inflection rates by clause-type, High speakers



Separated %75%00.00.73

n=20

%61%00.00.45

1910

%61%00.00.41

46

%73%00.00.64

78

%36%00.00.22

11

%64%Pi = 0.79N= 346

rather than contrast them, the model is actually improved statistically if they arejoined in a single category. There is no obvious linguistic rationale for such amove, however. Given the generally low importance of clause-type for thesespeakers — the least powerful of five constraints on past-marking — it is clearthat the pattern of anteriority first identified by Bickerton does not characterizetheir speech.

Conclusion: Past-marking patterns in the Veeton mesolect

In this chapter and the last I have employed multivariate analysis to explore howpast-reference is marked in the verb-phrase in urban mesolectal Jamaican Creole,describing the patterns of variation that exist across the community and investi-gating the linguistic factors that constrain them. The picture that has emergedboth confirms and challenges traditional descriptions and assumptions about thenature of creole continua and mesolects.

For the speakers most distant from standard varieties in their everydayspeech, there are classic creole forms and grammatical dimensions at work —


alongside English-like morphology, which is only partly governed by creoleconstraints. Those whose speech is nearest to that of the elite have a grammarthat is essentially English-like, independent of basilectal forms and influences —except that (Past) is variable, much more often unmarked than in such (possiblyrelated) vernacular English dialects as are spoken in the AAVE diaspora. Thereare also a complex range of intermediate positions.

The situation is depicted in Table 7.17, which eschews numbers to representthe relative influence of the various constraints on the different types ofmarking. (Verb-class is generally the most powerful influence across the sample;it has not been represented in Table 7.17 because its high ranking now appearsinevitable, given the predictable disparities among different types of verbs —thus it holds no distinguishing value for us.)

Punctuality and anteriority are quite irrelevant to the High speakers. Their past-

Table 7.17:Relative influence of constraints on past-marking, by speaker

did/neva Verb inflection

±punctual ±anterior ±punctual ±anterior prec. envt. foll. envt.

RoxyRoseNoelOliveOpalMattyBiggaTamasMinaDinah

∅∅∅∅∅∅

∅∅∅∅

∅∅∅∅

∅∅

≈≈≈≈

Primary constraint Secondary constraint ≈ Equivocal constraint ∅ Not significant (Not applicable)

marking consists of inflection only, and shows powerful phonological influencesin the expected directions: preceding vowels strongly favor past-marking asopposed to consonants of all sorts, and following vowels also promote inflectioncompared to non-vowels (including pause). These results reflect English patterns,and testify also to the regularity of (TD)-deletion affecting the common C-D


class of verbs.24 These speakers, of course, never use pre-verbal markers.At the other end of the scale, thedid-users all show the functional discourse

effects associated with clause-type (here abbreviated [±anterior], after Bickerton1975) as the primary constraint, but punctuality also figures significantly. In fact,for the Low speakers the influence of the [±punctual] category carries over toinflection, a creole constraint affecting the distribution of a standard form —even for Bigga, who shows practically no use ofdid/neva. Something similarholds for Matty and Opal, the Mid speakers: anteriority conditions inflection,although punctuality does not, and this is as true of Opal as it is ofdid-user Matty.

Phonological constraints carry some weight for Mid and Low speakers, butdo not dominate as they did among the High. Indeed, preceding environment isthe most powerful constraint for Low speakers, but in less clear form: precedingvowels favor inflection, and obstruents disfavor, except that stops unaccountablyalso promote marking (despite their low sonority value). Again, followingsegment is marginally significant but with an unfamiliar pattern: verbs before apause are highly likely to receive inflection, while all following segments(consonants, vowels and glides) are quite close in value. This is no doubt due tointerference from the high levels of morphological unmarking, and perhaps alsofrom lexical items which lack underlying clusters (see discussion in Chapter 5).

In short, the influence of English-like phonological rules and forms isstrongest among speakers who show the most inflection, and becomes attenuatedor distorted as the level of past-marking falls through the mesolect. Classic creoleconstraints are operative at lower levels of inflection, where they contend withphonological factors, and dominate where invariant pre-verbal markers are incommon use.

A considerable portion of the mesolect exhibits both creole- and standard-valued forms. Wherever creole forms exist they are reliably governed by thegrammatical principles established in earlier studies (though anteriority, at least,is subject to reformulation as an instance of more general discourse patterns).Moreover, the sphere of influence of these principles bleeds over into the speechof young and educated speakers who tend to avoid creole forms and incorporateEnglish morphological marking processes at low levels.

24. In fact, for this group only, preceding environment is the strongest constraint — stronger eventhan verb-class.

C 8

Social Variation in the Veeton Speech Community

Nature of a creole speech community

What sort of speech community produces the urban mesolect of Veeton?Categorical approaches to linguistics, eliminating variation in the pursuit of

homogeneity, typically seek to account for general properties of language by thestudy of highly restricted linguistic objects (speaker intuitions, standard dialects,historical reconstructions which exclude functional variation, etc.). This is in linewith the belief that linguistic universals in the grammar are indifferent to thesocial context of language use. The study of the speech community, in contrast,begins by empirically observing heterogeneous behavior by individuals andproceeds to discover regularities that exist in their most systematic form at thelevel of the group. The idea behind this is that languages and language varietiesare in part socially defined and constituted, and language change is alwayssociolinguistic in impetus (if not in mechanism, and not consciously; cf. Labov1994), while investigations of grammar which are blind to the social contextnecessarily distort the object of study.

The classic variationist notion of a speech community requires that a socialcommunity exist, that its members share patterns of language use, and cruciallythat they share norms for social evaluation of speech. In studies of New YorkCity (Labov 1966), Detroit (Wolfram 1969), Belfast (Milroy 1980), Sydney(Horvath 1985), and other urban centers, individual variation is distributeddifferentially in a manner ordered in part by social stratification, and is interpret-able in the light of values which are to a great degree held in common. Guy(1980) showed convincingly that the speech of individuals in the New York andPhiladelphia speech communities reflects group norms and confirm this model.

The creole continuum in its original formulation (DeCamp 1971; Bickerton1973) was held to challenge this notion of the speech community. Grammaticalrules were said to differ significantly between individual speakers in such a way


that they could not be resolved into discrete social or geographical dialectgroupings, because the contrasts refused to bundle together and required a largevariety of norms to account for all the individual behaviors. At the same time,the contrast between the extreme ends of the continuum was taken to be toogreat to allow for shared patterns of use or, presumably, a unified evaluativemechanism. In this ‘polylectal’ model there is a linear ordering of varieties, butit is not predicated upon the social stratification of speakers — in fact, Bickerton(1980) and DeCamp (1971) stress that social characteristics of speakers shouldnot be used to distinguish varieties.1

To complete the assessment of the continuum hypothesis, several keyquestions must be answered. Veeton as a social community has been describedalready, and patterns of language use detailed for (KYA), (TD), (Past) withdid/nevaand {-ed} individually. Considering all four variable phenomena studiedin summary, what conclusions about discreteness can be drawn? Are theredistinct varieties, a true continuum, or what Bailey (1974) has called a ‘grad-atum’ — a situation where there may be continuous variation within a widemesolect, but sharp boundaries between it and the acrolect and basilect?2 Theanalyses of phonological variation with (TD) and morphological past-markingwith {-ed} in interview and casual speech provided evidence that speakerbehavior in Veeton varies in a more or less continuous manner, approaching thecategorical only at the extremes. It also proved possible, on purely linguisticgrounds, to consolidate speakers into subgroups that contrast with each other butshow internal agreement on key properties — both quantitative norms, andunderlying principles and patterns of linguistic organization.

In a sociolinguistics that takes speech community members’ attitudes andevaluations of language as basic and important data (though it does not confusethem with analyses of linguistic structure), we also need to know how thequotidian production of mesolectal speakers relates to their evaluative norms.People in Veeton vary between the poles of the continuum, but how do theyconceive those poles? Do they possess focused norms (like other urban speakers)

1. Bickerton’s alternative was the synchronic reflection of diachronic change processes that he andBailey (1973) believed all variation expresses (see comments on the historicist fallacy, Chapter 1).DeCamp’s was the style co-occurrence rules, based on formality, that his implicational rulesexpressed (Chapter 1, Table 1.1). However, style is also socially-grounded and DeCamp’s objectionsto circular reasoning (1971: 355) have been overcome by advances in sociolinguistic methods.

2. This distinction is implicit in Bailey’s (1974) discussion; Fasold (1990: 196) raises it explicitly.

SOCIAL VARIATION IN THE VEETON SPEECH COMMUNITY 269

for acrolectal and basilectal speech, or are their norms generally diffuse (like theBelizean speakers of LePage and Tabouret-Keller’s (1985) multidimensionalcontinuum)? Finally, since the hypothesis that variation is mainly ordered alonga single linguistic dimension is intended to allow correlation with social factors(DeCamp 1971: 355), how well do speaker characteristics like occupation andeducation account for the Veeton data? (Recall that this investigation is not a testof the unidimensionality criterion; my interest instead is in the social nature ofexplanatory dimensions.)

In the process of answering these questions I consider elicited formal datafor evidence of style-shifting range and norms, summarize the findings of earlierchapters on the discreteness issue, and evaluate the significance of the socialhierarchies (occupation, education, and residence) developed in Chapter 2 forvariation, as well as other relevant factors, including sex, age and class. I arguethat while the Kingston mesolect can usefully be characterized as part of a creolecontinuum, this does not make it incompatible with other urban sociolinguisticcomplexes subject to the normal processes of language variation and change.

Testing the polar stereotypes: Creole and English translation tasks

The English-to-Creole and Creole-to-English translation tasks, described inChapter 3, were designed to elicit a wider range of performance than speakerstypically manifest in their conversational or interview speech. Figures 8.1 and8.2, respectively, show the results for (TD) and for past-marking in Veeton.3

The fact that nearly everyone succeeds in illustrating a range of variationconfirms Rickford’s (1979) demonstration, for Guyanese, that the competence ofspeakers in a creole continuum often considerably exceeds measures that assignthem to narrow points or lects (e.g. DeCamp 1971; Bickerton 1975).

The translation tasks invited speakers to maximize the contrast between“English” (operationalized as the output of the Creole-to-English translations) and“Patwa” (the output of the English-to-Creole task), exemplifying their nativestereotypes. In the Creole-to-English task, I asked people to use their “best, mostproper English”; this test came first, following on the heels of the languageattitudes questionnaire, which was also administered in a very formal manner.

3. In these tests, both bare verbs and use ofdid/nevacounted as “Patwa” variants of (Past).


Next the tables were turned as I asked them to use “the real Patwa”, translating

Figure 8.1:Test and conversational data for (TD)

the recorded stimulus into something appropriate in a village setting amongintimates. Neither test involved reading.

These extreme productions allow comparison of specific linguistic variableswith the levels of the same variables produced in taped conversational data (thematerials studied in earlier chapters). This design facilitates an empirical answerto the question of whether intermediate speech exists and follows regularpatterns. Figures 8.1 and 8.2 give three values for each speaker, then: “English”,“Patwa” and “conversation”.4

The two sets of recorded stimuli (Creole-to-English, with six sentences, andEnglish-to-Creole, with five) created opportunities for realizing multiple variablesin a single frame; I will only report on (Past) and (TD) instances. Both passagesconsisted of individual sentences forming a short but coherent narrative, includ-ing a clear past-reference context, so that regular verbs were expected to acquirefinal (TD) as past inflection in the “English” translation. Other items involved

4. For (Past), “English” data are missing for Matty (represented “n.d.” in Figure 8.2). He insisted ontranslating the untensed JC verbs with English present -sforms, instead of past, except for a singlemain-verbdid. If present forms count as knowledge of the “English” tense system, Matty would havea perfect score of 10/10, thus covering the widest range of all. Tamas, too, did not perform the taskas requested.


mono-morphemic or semi-weak (TD) via word substitution: e.g., JC /gaan/→

Figure 8.2:Test and conversational data for (Past)

Englishwentor left, JC /da pikni de/→ English that child. Tokens of (Past) inthe stimuli included regular verbs, both syllabic and non-syllabic, and irregular,including a token each ofgo, say, have and do. The number of tokens perspeaker varied with the person’s number of attempts or repetitions, with a meanof 9.95 per cell:

(1) (TD) “English” n = 113 (Past) “English” n = 114(TD) “Patwa” n = 76 (Past) “Patwa” n = 85

Figures 8.1 and 8.2 exhibit a number of striking regularities. All speakers clearlydistinguish “English” and “Patwa”. All vary them in the expected direction, withgreater (TD)-deletion in “Patwa”, and greater verb-inflection in “English”. (Thelone exception, Tamas inverts the pattern for the latter — whether by accident ordesign I cannot tell; I will disregard his data in generalizations.) The range oftheir differentiation, however, and the location of the speaker’s conversationalnorm relative to the extremes, show unexpected patterns.

Speakers across the sample show strong consensus on “Patwa” norms forboth variables. Agreement on (TD) focuses around 70–80% deletion, high butnot categorical; Dinah and Tamas are the only exceptions, both showing a verynarrow range (though Tamas’s conversational rate of deletion is 78%). Verb-inflection is nearly as focused, with 7 speakers agreeing that “Patwa” shows noinflection. This consensus is remarkable because the speakers vary dramatically


in their status positions, age, and life experiences; it lends strong support to theidea of JC as a national vernacular shared across social boundaries, a resourceand locus of identity for Jamaicans. It is also one argument for Veeton as aunified speech community, with common patterns of language use and evalua-tion. It is worth noting that while the “English” translation ranged from being ahighly stressful experience for Dinah to a neutral one requiring little thought forRose, the “Patwa” translation that followed it tended to provoke signs of pleasureand enjoyment from most, as well as much spontaneous metalinguistic commentary.

The “English” norms, on the other hand, are very diffuse. For (TD) mostof them fall in the 20–50% range, but several are well outside that. Verb-inflection in “English” ranges from 0–33% for Low and Mid speakers, but from40–100% for Noel, Olive, Rose and Roxy. For both variables, while the stereotypeof “Patwa” is relatively flat across the sample, the characterization of “English”varies widely and appears to correlate with a speaker’s conversational production.

The exceptional performers are revealing. Dinah is qualitatively differentfrom all the others: her range is almost non-existent, her “English” barelydistinguished from her “Patwa” and interview speech. Moreover, her “English”values for (TD) resemble the general “Patwa” norm, while her “Patwa” showscategorical deletion; similarly, for (Past) she is simply unable to produce verb-inflection on demand. These tests show clearly what was suggested beforehand:with Dinah we have found the lower limits of the mesolect and passed into thebasilect. Based on conversational data alone, one might debate whether herperformance for (TD) represents a gradual or sharp separation — thoughfollowing the criterion of 80% for categoricality (Bailey 1973; Rickford 1998),she would still stand out. However, her restricted range and inability to projectan “English” target that differs from the consensus one for “Patwa” clearlydistinguish her.

At the other end Rose shows a greater range than any other speaker, withfirmly anchored “Patwa” values and nearly categorical “English” production.There are younger speakers who match her in the latter, but several of them(Noel, Roxy) evince a shallow grounding in “Patwa” for verb-inflection,signaling this stereotype with levels of the variable that match or surpass thehighest levels of “English” for Mid and Low speakers. However, none of theHigh speakers can be clearly marked off from the rest: though Roxy is a stepcloser to the standard in her past-marking, it appears to be a gradual step and nota sharp distinction comparable to Dinah’s separate status.


The two variables show somewhat different profiles. Practically everyone’sconversational deletion rates for (TD) are close to their stereotypical “Patwa”values, matching or exceeding them in a majority of speakers. Even the Highspeakers Olive, Rose and Roxy show over 50% deletion in their conversationalspeech, a figure comparable to working-class vernacular speakers of U.S. non-standard varieties. Most Veeton speakers recognize a different target for“English” on this variable, then, yet do little in their interview speech to departfrom “Patwa” norms. There is stratification but on a gentle slope, and the“Patwa” norm dominates with little competition from the prestige stereotype.

Verb-inflection contrasts sharply. The Low speakers Dinah, Mina, Bigga andTamas produce interview speech which closely resembles the “Patwa” norm,although most of them recognize a distinction. The Mid and High speakers,however, each closely approach their “English” norm in conversational speech —even though their stereotypes of “English” differ widely. Opal, for example,resembles Bigga and Mina in her range, but her common practice maximizes“English”-ness; the same is true of Olive, who significantly exceeds her “Eng-lish” target. These two working-class young women are educated and explicit intheir desire for upward social mobility. For this variable, the stratification inproduction covers a much wider range than (TD), while the behavior of speakerssuggests that dual norms exist and divide the community.

Evaluative norms in a creole speech community: Concord and contrast

The belief that there are two stable and distinct codes, commonly labeled“English” and “Patwa”, with nothing in between, is even more widely held byJamaicans than it is by creolists. This folk position, which is the easiest one toelicit from JC speakers, does not explicitly recognize intermediate varieties, andconfers no firm sense of alternative identity upon the mesolect. In languageattitude questionnaire sessions, however, many people in Veeton were alsowilling to grant that people sometimes “mix” them.

One conclusion that may be drawn from the above data is that the intuitionsof speakers as to the structural nature of “Patwa” and the levels of variabilitythat characterize it locally are much more reliable and systematic than theirintuitions for “English”. It is plain that the asymmetry is not caused by any lackof sensitivity to the contrasting social value of these two polar stereotypes. Asone descends the social order such sensitivity does not diminish, but the practical


knowledge speakers have of the educated standard shrinks rapidly. The result isthat varieties which are structurally remote from English come to serve the socialfunctions of the standard and be used in its domains. Dinah illustrates thisgraphically in her language attitudes interview:

(2) PLP /yu main if a as yu somting aboot di patwa an inglish ting/‘Mind if I ask you something about the Patwa and Englishstuff?

Dinah /di patwa hhh yu no wan taim mi yuusi kuda taak di patwa/‘The Patwa. [laughs] Y’know, I used to be able to speak Patwa.’

/mi no memba boot hoo di patwa go so iizi agen yu no/‘I don’t remember so well any more how Patwa goes,y’know.’

/de a tong so lang yu no/‘Been in town so long, y’know?’

/laik di riil patwa/‘Like the real Patwa…’

/miebi wen mi s- miebi spiikin tu sombadi somtaim/‘Maybe when I’m s- maybe speaking to somebody sometime’

/a patwa slip op stil yu no/‘it’s Patwa that still slips in, y’know?’

PLP /s6wich wan yu se yu yuuz muor a di taim/‘So which one would you say you use more of the time,’

/yuuz inglish or patwa muor/‘do you use English or Patwa more?’

Dinah /inglish/‘English!’

PLP /inglish muor/‘English more?’

Dinah /inglish yee yu no riili/‘English. Yeah you don’t really–

/yu no riili a go waan yuuz patwa/‘You’re not really gonna wanna use Patwa.’


/mi no put mi main pan it bikaa mi no waan/‘I don’t think about it because I don’t want–’

/mi no riili waan spiik ina patwa langwij/‘I don’t really want to speak in Patwa language.’

(Dinah; #95a, 2/25/90)

Here, social reality and the reality of linguistic structure do not coincide. In aformal interview with a white American, “proper English” is required by localnorms: the situation calls for Dinah to demonstrate both her abilities in thestandard and the correct public attitudes towards the “Patwa”. Unable to meet thefirst demand adequately, she compensates by adhering to the prevailing prestigenorms, voicing disdain for the “Patwa”, and noting its social undesirability in anurban context against her own extended urban residence. Though Dinah’s speechin this context is clearly JC and not English — that is, she fails the linguistic test— it is most important in daily life, especially for speakers with very limitedknowledge of the standard, to correctly evaluate and address the social require-ments of a speech situation.

This episode demonstrates that no matter how strong or reliable thespeaker’s (or the native-speaking linguist’s) intuition that a polarized two-codesituation exists, it cannot serve as an adequate analysis of language use withoutempirical confirmation. Norms of language production (i.e., speech behavior) andnorms of sociolinguistic evaluation (i.e., speech attitudes and expectations) aredistinct types of evidence.

Speech behavior is socially stratified in Veeton — i.e., it is differentiatedinto linguistic strata (cf. Figures 8.1 and 8.2 above), and the strata are orderedwith reference to social values for “English” and “Patwa”. Even Dinah, at thebottom of the social order in the Veeton sample, binds herself to publicly-acknowledged values — values which denigrate her own speech form andhandicap her in the linguistic marketplace (Sankoff and Laberge 1979; Sankoff

et al. 1989). This is typical of the hegemony exercised by standard languages inurbanized speech communities. In such circumstances the power of prestigeforms, promulgated by the middle classes through educational and other institu-tions, may be counter-balanced to some extent by the “covert prestige” (Labov1966; Trudgill 1972) that attaches to stigmatized vernacular forms expressing agroup identity which speakers view favorably. However, speakers’ use ofcovertly prestigious forms does not alter their expressed opinion that the standardis the more valuable variety, and the one they aspire to speak.


In contrast to this ‘consensus’ model of a speech community, ‘conflict’models describe cases in which non-elite speakers overtly value their own varietymore than the standard for important domains. For example, in the Guyanesecontinuum Rickford (1986a, 1986c) describes speech acts and attitudes illustrat-ing both concord and contrast within a single village. Speakers share the use andinterpretation of “rowing” (public verbal disagreement) and agree in associatingspeech styles with certain occupations on a status measure. On the other hand,speech events such as “talkin Nansi” (telling African-derived folktales) are doneby Estate Class workers only, while the Estate and Non-estate classes disagree onwhich speech styles are most likely to be used by those they would label“friends” (a solidarity measure). Rickford concludes that the defining characteris-tic of a speech community cannot be consensus on the value of speech: evensmall speech communities may have internally contrasting patterns of languageuse and evaluation.

The language-attitude interviews conducted in Veeton reveal a dual con-sciousness there too. While it does not fall strictly along class lines as Rickfordfound, it nevertheless cannot be reconciled with a simple consensus model.People report “English” as preferable in mass media news and weather reporting,in the classroom, in business communication with other nations, and for generalpublic communications between strangers. Media figures are praised for their“proper” speech, such as the moderators of daily call-in radio talk shows.

However, the most popular of the moderators with interviewees are thosewho also speak Patwa to callers as needed, or when making a persuasive point;while very few people report watching non-news television shows conductedentirely in English, but practically everyone speaks most favorably of comediesconducted largely in Patwa. People also regularly report Patwa as the code ofchoice for speech events involving forms of humor, dispute, and verbal abuse.They frequently volunteer with pride, as an exemplary speaker, “Miss Lou” —the Hon. Louise Bennett-Coverley — a revered and internationally-honored poet,actor, and folklorist who pioneered Jamaican “dialect poetry” as an oral andwritten public art form in the 1940s through radio spots and topical verse in thedaily newspaper (Bennett 1966, 1982; Morris 1967; Cooper 1978).

There is thus wide public agreement on the cultural value and rhetoricaleffectiveness of Patwa, alongside a general acceptance of the official hegemonyof the standard. This resembles the situation Rickford describes for Guyana, aswell as Winford’s (1988) insistence that variation in the creole continuum is notunidirectional, in the sense that there is not merely a single society-wide prestige


target. Winford and Rickford agree that the creole speech community may bedefined not only with regard to linguistic structure but also on cultural grounds,though for the latter culture appears to be somewhat fractured along class lines.

Speaky-spoky: Consensus on conflicting norms

‘Speaky-spoky’ is another speech genre which demonstrates that evaluativenorms may be mutually opposed yet widely-accepted, and cannot necessarily beresolved strictly on grounds of social class (Patrick and McElhinny 1993; Patrick1997). ‘Speaky-spoky’ is a negatively-valued label for a style of JC speechwhich typically manipulates a few prestigious, highly salient sociolinguisticvariables, rather than an entire grammatical system. It is a kind of qualitativehypercorrection (Janda and Auger 1992) that uses linguistic resources drawnfrom the standard in non-standard ways, superimposing them on the speaker’snative JC grammar.5

Speaky-spoky involves the substitution of the vowel /f/, which does notexist for most mesolectal JC speakers as a distinct phoneme (see Chapter 4), intolow-vowel environments, including many which do not have a rounded vowel instandard dialects. It also involves insertion of /h/, which is normally absent in JC,before non-emphatic vowel-initial lexical items, again including ones that lack itin English.6 Both phones are recognized by Jamaicans as belonging to standardmetropolitan varieties. Hypercorrect insertion of them is understood as a claim to ahigher social status than the speaker’s normal Patwa variety implies, and accusingsomeone of “talkin speaky-spoky” is a challenge to the validity of that claim.

However, “talkin speaky-spoky” or “speakin and spokin” is not strictlydefined by linguistic criteria: hypercorrect use of the variables alone is neithernecessary nor sufficient to establish that it has occurred. The speaker’s socialidentity and competence in the standard, plus the context of use, are also crucialelements. What is required is that the intention to speak “proper English” bemade salient, and that the success of the effort be open to question. Speaky-

5. Quantitative hypercorrection of the sort classically exemplified by consonantal /r/ in New YorkCity (Labov 1972a) may be difficult to measure in a continuum situation where the prestige targetvaries as widely as it does in Figures 8.1 and 8.2.

6. Initial /h/-insertion is sometimes emphatic in JC, and is not necessarily an instance of a prestigevariable in those cases. Initial /h/-deletion is also common, but is not prestigious.


spoky is associated with lower mesolectal speakers because of their distancefrom the standard — acrolectal and upper mesolectal speakers are seen asappropriately using Standard Jamaican English, and not making linguistic errorsin its use — but it is not associated with all such speakers at all times, and it isnot simply a class-linked dialect. It is associated with conflict, but not conflictbetween social groups so much as among comparable members of the samegroup, who are competing for the valuable and limited benefits and opportunitiesto which the standard is linked.

The charge of speaky-spoky is a powerful way to expose a communitymember’s ambitions — to brand them a social climber, opportunist, lame ortraitor. Someone who challenges talk as speaky-spoky objects to perceived errorsin “English”, and can thus be seen as policing standard language norms. Yet thechallenger may also be objecting to the speaker distancing herself from “Patwa”,and can thus be seen as enforcing local-team language values (Blom andGumperz 1972). Speaky-spoky simultaneously constructs and resists the authorityof the standard, and in this way constitutes a strategic resource for conflict talk.7

Speaky-spoky also plays off of attitudes widely shared across the society.The association of English with social status and mobility, as well as the links ofPatwa to positive cultural and community values, are indeed norms on whichthere is a consensus in the Veeton sample.8

This suggests a more dialectical model of the creole speech community.Agreement on opposing values unifies community members by providing thema common framework and set of symbolic resources. Conflict between thesevalues is not localized within particular classes or groups. Change in socialposition (e.g., upward or downward mobility) provides a special locus for suchconflict, and fits with a dynamic notion of stratification. The availability ofintermediate speech forms and levels (e.g., those utilized in “speakin andspokin”), and the salience of their social implications, make language a primaryarena for accomplishing mobility.

7. Bonnie McElhinny contributed to my thoughts on this topic and is responsible for some of theformulations in this paragraph. The topic of speaky-spoky arose spontaneously in the language-attitude interviews; evidence for it in the Veeton sample is primarily derived from them, though it isalso attested in print and broadcast media (Patrick and McElhinny 1993).

8. Following Duranti (1994), Morgan describes a similar situation in the U.S. African Americanspeech community: “heteroglossia… refers to the simultaneous existence and use of multiple normsand forms of language and communication style which comprise a coherent yet contrasting systemof language and discourse rules and norms” (1998: 254).


Discreteness revisited: Findings for the four variables summarized

As the question of discreteness versus continuity was posed in Chapter 1, itinvolves viewing grammars as a whole: do the boundaries of grammaticalsystems and subsystems line up together to create a sharp contrast, or do theyoverlap to yield a finely articulated spectrum? Any empirical solution must bebased on a selection of particular linguistic phenomena. DeCamp’s (1971)answer, affirming the continuum, was exemplified by his analysis of a variety ofunrelated lexical items and phonological variables.

But the case for the independence of Jamaican Creole from English, as withother related creoles and AAVE, rests on the analysis of deeper grammaticalproperties involving central elements of the verb phrase, especially TMAmarking systems. DeCamp’s data illustrated his idea, but did not provide asustained examination of appropriate features using the continuum model.Accordingly, the present analysis has included past-reference marking withpreverbal did/neva and verb inflection, as well as the related phonologicalvariable of (TD)-deletion, which is motivated quite independently of past-marking but intersects with it. The other phonological element analyzed, (KYA),has no such connection with the verb phrase and is similar to the surface-levelvariation of DeCamp’s (th) and (dh) variables (fortition of initial /θ/ and /ð/).Two of the four variables here are creole-valued (KYA anddid/neva), one isstandard-valued ({-ed}), and one is neutral.

The palatal glide (KYA) shows regular style contrasts and unified socialevaluation as a non-prestigious but ubiquitous marker. In short-A words, its mostfrequent environment, it is almost categorically present in casual speech for allspeakers, and only lightly suppressed under formal conditions. However, in theAR environment where change appears to be proceeding by the elimination ofthe glide, the variable stratifies the sample neatly into two sharp patterns.Table 8.1 outlines this across variables. Prestige-pattern speakers — the upperhalf of the (KYA) column — show categorical absence of the glide in AR, bothin test speech (derived from reading word-lists and sentences) and in conversation.Traditional-pattern speakers style-shift, reducing their use of (KYA) in AR words fortest speech, but they retain it variably in their conversational speech. (KYA) thusexhibits an entirely discontinuous, non-gradient pattern in the Veeton mesolect.

In Table 8.1 I represent categorical patterns in conversational data byenclosing the speakers who exhibit them in a box. All speakers not so enclosedare ordered by their probability of use of the variable. However, since the high


rate of glides in other word-classes than AR does not distinguish Veeton

Table 8.1:Discontinuities in the distribution of four linguistic variables

(KYA) in AR (TD) did/neva {- ed}

GeorgeRoxyRoseNoelOliveOpal

RoseRoxyOliveNoel

TamasMattyOpalBiggaMina

RoxyRoxyRoseNoelOlive

RoseNoelOliveOpalBigga Matty

OpalTamas

Walker Matty BiggaSista Tamas Mina

Macca MinaMina Dinah Dinah

Tamas DinahMattyRoastaDinah

Dotted lines represent pre-theoretical differences of usage that are quantitative and maynot amount to major grammatical distinctions, e.g., the speaker groups identified for (TD)in Chapter 5 by deletion rate, and for Past {-ed} in Chapter 7 by marking rate. Allcolumns are arranged so that usage approximating the standard appears at the top; thusabsence of (KYA) in AR is compared to presence of (TD), absence ofdid/neva, andpresence of {-ed}.

speakers, I have not highlighted the categorical nature of (KYA) usage in suchenvironments — only in AR words, which are crucial to our comparison here.Speaker-names in italics designate those who only appear for this variable. For the(KYA) data summarized here see Chapter 4, especially Figures 4.5–7 and Table 4.3.

By contrast, (TD)-deletion shows a smooth progression across the sample,with fine stratification: only quantitative distinctions in usage separate onespeaker from the next. There is regular style-shifting for all, and agreement ona unified creole value: all speakers agree that “English” is typified by reducedrates of absence (see Figure 8.1 above). The principal constraints are phonologi-cal, and reflect influences operative in most varieties of English. They apply in


a uniform way to all speakers, losing some resolution as deletion approaches thecategorical but still displaying broader phonological oppositions (e.g., obstru-ent/resonant; see Chapter 5, Figures 5.1–2, Tables 5.8 and 5.11 for the (TD)data). Even the grammatical constraint interacts in a systematic way with variableverb inflection to yield the relationship expected from other studies. In terms oflanguage production, there is a single stratified but regular (TD) pattern inVeeton, with minor quantitative contrasts in surface absence rates that areattributable to differences in the overall deletion rate.

Discontinuity can however be seen in the targeted levels of usage. The (TD)variable assigns Dinah to the basilect not just because of her near-categoricalproduction in conversation, but primarily because she does not share the samenorms either for “English” or for “Patwa” with other Veeton speakers, andbecause her ability to differentiate the two in speaking is slight — as one mightexpect of someone with minimal access to the standard. By contrast, Mina shareswith others a set of mesolectal norms that would allow her to style-shift with(TD) in a manner appropriate to a wide variety of social situations, and to useher knowledge to discriminate among other speakers with variable (TD) production.

The data for (TD) give no evidence of a similar discontinuity along theacrolectal boundary. It is possible that a significant quantitative gap in productionexists between Roxy or Rose (both with 48% deletion rates) and more standardJamaican speakers. However, this seems unlikely as the feature is highly variablein the metropolitan standard. Neu’s (1980) cross-dialectal study of Americancollege graduates showed a mean deletion rate of 28%, and if a comparablerange of variation exists for Jamaicans of similar status then no great gap is tobe expected. Again, it may be that acrolectal speakers have a differencecomparable to Dinah’s, and fail to share the general “Patwa” norms. Nothing inmy data suggests this, however, and I believe the asymmetry noted — with mostJamaicans having ample access to “Patwa”, but access to “English” beingrestricted as a function of social position — is likely to be quite general.9 Whatcan be said with certainty is that Roxy, Rose and Olive do not differ in importantways from other mesolectal speakers in Veeton where (TD)-deletion is concerned.

9. The reverse situation might, however, be found, in a situation where JC is a minority and Englisha majority language — e.g., in the London Jamaican and British Black English speech communitiesdescribed by Sutcliffe (1982), Hewitt (1986), Edwards (1986), and Sebba (1993). Such a situationmakes poor grounds for arguing against the continuum model, however (see Winford 1993a), sincethey consist of second-language learners with incomplete acquisition, few or none of whom commanda full creole grammar.


Like (KYA), Past-marking with pre-verbal markersdid/nevamanifests asharp division in usage. Only older speakers habitually employ these elements inconversation as an important device for indicating past-reference; Rose and theyounger speakers avoid it categorically (4 instances in 1,001 clauses). However,all speakers again demonstrate awareness of the creole-valued construction viastyle-shift. In the English-to-Creole translation task,did was used 27 times tomark the past, by nine of ten speakers — all but Tamas, whose frequent use ofit is already attested. (Rose also used past progressiveena, a basilectal markerrelated toben, once.)

In the Creole-to-English task pre-verbaldid never occurred.Nevawas usedonly once, by Mina; this is in keeping with the camouflaged nature of the lattermarker. I conclude, then, that regular use of pre-verbaldid according to theconstraints of punctuality and anteriority represents a basilectal construction;speakers who use it often, and who do not use {-ed} in mesolectal fashion, havean essentially basilectal past-marking system.10 (This sample has only one suchspeaker, Dinah.)

Finally, Past {-ed} exhibits a combination of properties observed for theother variables. As with (TD), verb inflection in conversational speech displaysfine stratification and a relatively continuous progression across the sample inrates of use. Style-shifting in the translation tasks is regular and there is nearlyunanimous identification of the variable as standard-valued (except for Tamas’saberrant test behavior). Again, Dinah is qualitatively distinct from other speakers.She shows no evidence of inflection in either the Creole-to-English or theEnglish-to-Creole tests (0/15 and 0/16 tokens, respectively), thus projecting an“English” target identical to the “Patwa” one and differing clearly from Bigga,Tamas and even Mina, whose conversational inflection rates are comparable to hers.

Dinah exemplifies the classic portrayal of a monolingual basilectal speakerfor {-ed}, and a discontinuity in norms and targets separates her from all otherspeakers. In another respect, however, she shares something (creole influences on{-ed}) with the other Low and Mid speakers. As observed fordid above (thoughwith a different division of speakers), prototypical creole features are entirely

10. This can be maintained on grammatical grounds despite the urban/rural opposition ofbenanddid, since there is nothing contradictory about an urban basilect. Some creolists prefer to identify themesolect through a “distinct-forms” approach, rather than by underlying grammar — e.g. identifyingdid as the mesolectal equivalent ofben— but where these two definitions clash, the latter is morefundamental.


lacking at the upper end of the sample — for Roxy, Rose, Noel and Olive. Onlythe phonological environment, both preceding and following, constrains {-ed} intheir speech, accounting for variation due to the intersection of (TD)-deletion andvariable past-marking. The speech of others is characterized in various ways bythe “creole constraints” of anteriority or punctuality (Chapter 7, Table 7.17), andthe “English” phonological factors are correspondingly less important.

It is possible to argue that this is the primary discontinuity in the sample forpast-marking since the speakers below it clearly show the grammatical influenceof factors operating in the creole basilect and those above do not. However, it isequally possible to argue that the presence of English-like forms of inflectiondistinguishes most of the Veeton speakers from the basilect just as sharply.Finally, Bickerton (1975) argues that the disappearance of punctuality as aconditioning factor marks a major transition in underlying grammar (comparableto the earlier “collapse” of the stativity distinction which signals the onset of themesolect in GC). That transition occurs here between the Mid and the Lowspeakers (between Opal and Tamas), and we find both users and non-users ofcreoledid on either side of it. Thus there are at least two, and possibly three,major discontinuities for the past {-ed} variable, and only one of them dividesthe sample in a way seen before.

The overall picture emerging from the Veeton sample is that most variablesshow a relatively sharp break in their distribution across the population, but thesebreaks tend not to coincide. All the variables studied here include discontinuitiesat a boundary that can be labelled basilectal, however; the prospects for a sharpdistinction between basilect and mesolect on the grounds of variable patterningare good. In addition some of the variables mark boundaries that might well becalled upper-/mid-mesolectal, or mid-/lower-mesolectal. Yet the bundling ofcontrasts that would encourage dialectologists to clearly distinguish such varietieson structural grounds does not occur; and when the sociolinguistic evidence ofevaluative norms is added, it does not resolve the dilemma. To a great extent,then, a continuum model, or at least a model resembling Bailey’s gradatum onits lower end, seems justified.

Where there is continuity, it sometimes takes the form of fine stratificationof a sort familiar from North American and European sociolinguistic surveys ofurban speech communities, as here for (TD). To the extent that this occurs,whatis the principal difference between the continuum model and the variationistnotion of a unified speech community — in which social stratification, plus astrong set of shared evaluative norms, and normal processes of language change,


constrain the linguistic variability in regular ways? I believe it resides in theasymmetry of dual sets of norms for (synchronically-) related varieties in thecreole continuum: public adherence to the prestige value of English in institution-al functions, alongside shared competence in and allegiance to Patwa as a symbolof national identity and a cultural resource.

One consequence of this difference might be to enrich the variationistparadigm by an expansion of the notion of speech community. Earlier worksimply assumed that a continuum could not be handled by normal variationistmethods, being a fundamentally different sort of sociolinguistic structure (e.g.Guy 1980). Caribbean scholars such as Carrington and Winford, on the otherhand, have rejected versions of the continuum model as incapable of describingcreole speech communities, with their typically heterogeneous and manifoldnorms and varilingual competence.

Both of these rejections are, I believe, premature. Instead, a synthesis andre-imagining of these two approaches will be more generally useful for describ-ing Caribbean sociolinguistic complexes. Revising the framework involvesintegrating situation-types more varied than the usual American or Europeanmonolingual urban center with its standard-plus-dialect case, and anticipatingnormative relationships less monolithic than those where the hegemony of themetropolitan standard has subdued all competitors (see e.g. Santa Ana and Parodí1998). Such an enterprise will invigorate both the creole continuum concept andthe variationist notion of speech community.

Social dimensions of variation in a creole continuum

The original justification for the unidimensionality hypothesis was to allow atypical variationist move: correlation of social factors with linguistic production.DeCamp (1971: 355) reasoned that banishing social elements from the constructionof the creole continuum would prevent any problem of circularity that might arisewhen using them to interpret it. However, other continuum theorists such as Baileyand Bickerton professed no interest in social correlations, and in fact they werenever seriously attempted for the Jamaican mesolect. Recognizing the difficultiesinherent in the task and the limitations of the present sample size, I neverthelesssketch the outlines of socially-ordered variation among the Veeton speakers.

First I comment on the primary social divisions of age, sex and class, andthe relative influence each exercises over the linguistic variation, as well as their


connection to linguistic change. In addition to these, a number of rankings weregiven at the end of Chapter 2 for the status factors of occupation, education, andresidence, as well as an overall status ranking which was a composite of thethree (but most closely paralleled the occupation scale). In the next section, theseare compared to the linguistic rankings of speakers on the four variables studied,from Table 8.1 above.

I have hypothesized that (KYA) is undergoing a change in progress, so it isnot surprising that the primary correlation is with age: all speakers under 30years old categorically avoid the glide in the AR environment. This prestigepattern, visible in the upper half of Table 8.1, blurs class lines by including suchupwardly mobile members of the working class as Olive and Opal. Gender playsa role too: their mid-status male counterparts (Roasta, Matty) preserve thetraditional pattern. The long-standing prestige pattern is also displayed by oldermiddle-class speakers like Rose who share an urban orientation and higheducation with the young. Multiple social dimensions are thus required to modelthis linguistic change.

The use of pre-verbaldid as a past-marker is also strongly correlated with age;class and sex appear to be of little relevance. This feature was explicitly identified asurban by all those who commented overtly on it, and urban characteristics aregenerally associated with the young and with high social status. Paradoxically,however, the most frequent users ofdid are all middle-aged or older, including threespeakers with strong rural backgrounds (Mina, Tamas and Dinah; see Chapter 4,Table 4.3), while the non-users are all firmly urban-oriented.

To resolve thisdid must be seen in its proper social context. The linguisticanalysis has compared it to its true urban alternants (verb inflection and bareverbs) but speakers oppose it instead to basilectal and ruralben, which rarelyappeared in the interviews with Veeton mesolectal speakers. The rural/urbanconflict and its powerful stereotypes are still symbolically salient, though itappears that current practice has changed.

The social categories that influence linguistic behavior exist independentlyof it; either the social relations or the linguistic patterns may change without theother keeping pace. When these alignments shift, a re-analysis of the meaningsof particular linguistic variants or variable patterns may occur, leaving behindestablished stereotypes and stigmatized elements (such as the famous Bronxstereotype of “Toity-toid (=33rd) Street”, a pronunciation which has apparentlyvanished from New York City speech production but continues to live ondecades after in the popular imagination; cf. Labov 1966).


Thus for many speakersdid still symbolizes urbanity in opposition toben,which itself must have once been more frequent in town — perhaps differentiat-ed from did purely on the axis of social status, before it gained a rural value.More recently, however,did has been pushed out of use by younger speakers,possibly due to increasing access to standard models and a rise in verb inflection.The latter has not yet achieved stereotype status, but it is quite possible thatinflection will eventually come to symbolize urban values and be cited byspeakers in folk-linguistic explanations, as is now the case withdid. If thisshould happen, the latter will surely cease to have statusful urban connotations— a development that will lag the actual linguistic practice (documented above)by at least a generation.

The historical process outlined above is largely speculative (see Patrick1993) and based on apparent-time data only. However, if it is plausible it willserve to illustrate a point about multi-dimensionality. The very existence of theurban/rural, high/low status, and creole/standard dimensions, plus the tendency oflinguistic changes and alternations to gather and then to shift social meaning,almost guarantee that a multi-dimensional model will be required to describe thesociolinguistic trajectory of language change. It is unlikely that all relevant socialdimensions will consistently be aligned for each socially significant linguisticvariable, at each moment in the course of a change, so that the unidimensionalityhypothesis will be valid.11 Almost any change in progress is a potential sourceof trouble for this assumption.

Past-reference with {-ed} also bears watching as a candidate for change.Both social class and age are statistically significant factors influencing itsdistribution, with middle-class and young informants favoring verb inflection. Infact they are the primary constraints, carrying greater weight even than the verb’smorphological class. This is reflected in the variable’s steep slope of stratificationacross the sample for conversational data (compare Figure 8.2 to 8.1, above).

In this respect past {-ed} contrasts with (TD). The primary constraints hereare linguistic — the phonological environments — followed by social class andsex. Age is the least powerful of all factors affecting distribution, supporting theobservation that (TD) is a stable variable in Jamaica as it is elsewhere in theEnglish-speaking world, and not one undergoing historical movement from one

11. Miller (1994) gives an historical explanation for shifts in the constellation of gender, educationand occupation in Jamaica over the last century — changes of the sort that an adequate diachronicanalysis must take into account.


generation to the next.The sex effects in these data, with women favoring (TD)-deletion and past-

marking with {-ed}, are not due to any consistent tendency for men or womenthat runs parallel to the consistently pro-standard tendencies of younger andmiddle-class speakers. In fact there are women at both extremes of Table 8.1,with men in the middle. However, in this sample a preponderance of women(andtherefore, the greater weight of data) inhabit the upper end of the linguistic scale.Without carefully matching male and female speakers for other social and linguisticcharacteristics, no descriptive generalization about sex differences can be drawn.

Correlating linguistic and social variation

Table 8.2 depicts the correlation of social and linguistic indices for the tenspeakers for whom full comparisons are available. The overall status ranking,and the component rankings on occupational, educational and residential scalesfrom which it was constructed, are condensed from Table 2.8 in Chapter 2. Theoverall linguistic ranking is derived in identical manner from the rankings forindividual variables, given in Table 8.1 above. These processes resulted in anumber of tied rankings, e.g. Roxy and Rose together define the top of thelinguistic scale, while Noel and Tamas together occupy the center of the socialstatus scale.

Since there is a great deal of agreement in the chart between the individualsocial and linguistic variables and their respective overall rankings, I have onlygiven names where exceptions apply (elsewhere, three dots indicate agreement inranking). For example, no-one ranks lower than Dinah on any social criteria, noron any linguistic ones; thus there are no exceptions to the tenth rank in eitherdirection. On the other hand Olive’s residence index is lower, and her educationindex higher, than her overall status rank — she lives in Veeton with her motherDinah, but has a high degree of education (secondary graduate plus businessschool). Thus her name appears in the eighth rank for residence and the third foreducation — but not in the occupation column: her respectable job occupies theexpected fourth rank.12 Similarly, Tamas’s name appears in the fifth rank for(TD)-deletion, since he deleted less often than Opal and Matty, who are ranked

12. In Chapter 2, Table 2.8, Olive’s occupation was ranked 6th, but above her were Walker andMacca — here left out of the comparison, since only (KYA) data were computed for them.


above him overall in the linguistic index.

Table 8.2:Linguistic and social rankings compared (exceptions to overall rankings noted)

Linguistic Variables Overall Ranking Social Variables

(KYA) (TD) did {-ed} Language Status Occup. Educ. Resid.

… … … … Roxy and 1 Roxy … … …

… … … … Rose 2 Rose … Matty …

… … … … Noel and 3 Matty … Olive Tamas

… … … … Olive 4 Olive … Rose Matty

… Tamas … Matty Opal 5 Noel and … … Mina

Mina … Bigga Opal Matty 6 Tamas Opal Opal …

… Opal Matty … Tamas 7 Opal and Tamas Bigga …

Matty … Tamas … Bigga 8 Mina … … Olive

… … … … Mina 9 Bigga … Tamas …

… … … … Dinah 10 Dinah … … …

First let us consider each set of variables separately. It is striking howclosely the linguistic rankings cohere. All but one of the exceptions are off byonly one or two ranks, and most of them are confined to the center of the scale;upper- and lower-mesolectal speakers are quite stable, while Opal, Matty, andTamas are responsible for most of the movement. The effects of the factorsoutlined earlier are summarized here, e.g., Bigga’s rank fordid is high becauseas a young speaker he does not use it productively, while Tamas and Matty do,being older. Altogether it is clear that, whatever the dimensions that structure thelinguistic variation, the output in terms of speaker ordering is very regular.

This is less true for the social dimensions measured here. Though all factorsare equally weighted, occupation is the best predictor of overall status.13 Bothresidence and education show the effect of generational differences, however.Tamas and Mina rank high for residence because they have gradually improved

13. Recall from Chapter 2 that Opal’s occupation is only projected, since she was still in school atthe time of the data collection; thus it is easily possible that she and Tamas might switch places, inwhich case there would be no irregularities at all here.


their situations over decades, but this is not reflected in the other measures (norin their speech). Perhaps surprisingly, education — measured in years ofschooling — is also a poor predictor of status, and does not correlate at all welleven with occupation. This is due to the fact that the amount of formal educationcustomary for an occupation or status level has increased dramatically since thedays of the older people (Rose, Tamas), while schooling alone is necessary butnot sufficient to guarantee status for the young (Bigga, Opal).

The real test of the continuum model’s sociolinguistic value lies in its abilityto correlate graduated linguistic variation with social factors. In comparing theoverall rankings, the question for a synchronic sociolinguistic survey must be:How can social characteristics help explain the patterned choices that speakersmake? Applying this question to the central columns of Table 8.2, and reasoningfrom the status rankings on the right to the linguistic rankings on the left, onenotices a certain amount of stability at the extremes and considerable mobilityacross the central portion. The social positions of Dinah at the basilectal end, andRose and Roxy at the acrolectal border, accurately predict the variation in theirspeech. In between, however, the same can be said only for Olive. There is littleabout these four speakers that unites them socially, other than that all are female,since they cover the spectrum of age, class, education, residence, and occupation.

As similar statements can be made about the other speakers, it may appearat first that the continuum founders on the variation exhibited by this handful ofspeakers. On closer inspection, however, an age-related pattern emerges. InFigure 8.3, the data for speakers from the apparently unstable central portion ofFigure 8.2 are reexamined. Without exception, all the speakers whose linguisticranking is higher than their status ranking are young — in fact, Noel, Opal, andBigga are all 17 — while everyone whose linguistic ranking is lower than theirstatus ranking is over 45 (Matty, 49, Tamas, 70, and Mina, 75).

Moreover, the youths all express optimism about upward mobility. Noel hassacrificed for his apprenticeship in the business world; Opal, a good student,plans to finish her education and attend secretarial school; Bigga hopes forsuccess as a cricketer. These ambitions are reflected in their formal speech. Thefirst two spoke earnestly and carefully in their language attitude interviews. Noelwas very prescriptive about media standards, and Opal, in describing appropriateoccasions for the use of “proper English”, produced some fine examples ofspeaky-spoky:


Young (<18), upwardly mobile

Older (>45), status established

Overallranking:

Overallranking:

Language Status1

2

Noel 3 Matty

4

Opal Noel

&

Matty Tamas

Tamas

Opal

&

Bigga 8 Mina

Mina Bigga

10

Figure 8.3:Age and social mobility patterns in ranked data


(3) You are in [hIn] a business place speaking to somebody, or you aremaking a complaint [kfmple˜nt] to a particular [pfrtIkyula] teacheror principal… or you are in [hIn] a conference [kfnfr7ns].(Opal, #97b, 3/11/90)

Note how Opal’s example neatly joins the education and workplace spheres.Given the pressure on young people seeking employment in Kingston, and theintense competition with older adults of wider experience (if often less school-ing) for entry-level jobs, it is natural for upwardly mobile young people tomanipulate all the symbolic resources available to them in order to projectthemselves to influential adults as respectable, educated, and therefore deservingof opportunity.

The ideology of social mobility in Jamaica, it is widely agreed (e.g. Foner1973; Kuper 1976; Austin 1984), is the same both for the working and middleclasses: “people succeed because they are educated” (Kuper 1976: 88). However,“education also mean[s] proper behavior, manners” (Austin 1984: 222) — that is,a broad range of behaviors with moral and symbolic value. Proper speech is ahighly salient component of this public face, its worth intertwined with others indidactic prescriptions for the young that are supported not just by the educationalsystem and the labor economy but also by the moral authority of the church:“Dress neatly, mind your language, and remember God” (Kuper 1976: 88).

Behind the distinction of age, then, it is the mobilization of symbolic capitalin support of an upward class trajectory that is responsible for the contrast inrelations between status and language in Table 8.3. This effort is partly afunction of life-stage: Tamas and Mina, elderly and retired, do not share theyoung speakers’ economic motivation to raise their perceived status through“proper” speech.

Matty, the part-time photographer, is the exception that proves the rule.Though his financial situation is precarious, his education, experience andmiddle-class connections have earned him considerable status with neighbors inGullyside. He projects an ideological commitment to vernacular culture andspeech both in the topic and style of his discourse, yet he also displays aneloquent command of the standard, and an almost academic preference forprecise and erudite word-choice in the language attitudes interview — with narya hint of speaky-spoky.

Matty is motivated to display the breadth of his competence and experience,in order to underline the point that his stylistic preferences are freely chosen fortheir symbolic value. He is a clear example that the affirmation of conflicting


values which underpins speaky-spoky and other speech community practices isnot a compromise forced on speakers due to the limits of their language abilities— rather it is a political and cultural stance, a product of history, and a part ofthe matrix within which language change and sociolinguistic development occur.

Conclusions: Rethinking the creole continuum and the mesolect

This study has brought sustained empirical analysis to bear on urban Jamaicanspeech in a single mixed-class neighborhood in order to address two ultimatelyinseparable questions: the nature of mesolectal grammar, and the sociolinguisticstructure of variation in the creole continuum. I will briefly summarize myconclusions on both.

The model of the continuum tested here is by definition non-discrete. I haveargued that though discrete distribution across the speech community characteriz-es particular constructions, when a variety of significant grammatical sub-systemsare examined separately their boundaries do not generally coincide. In someareas of grammar, there is indeed the continuity that the model asserts; it extendsnot only to phonology but also to morphosyntax, and even to the principlesunderlying “creole” constraints (e.g., anteriority and punctuality as described inChapter 7). By illustrating extensive continuity, I thus affirm a moderate versionof the pro-continuum position, at least for the discreteness criterion.

There is an important caveat, however. From the selection of phenomenaanalyzed, it appears that basilectal speakers can regularly be distinguished frommesolectal, using a combination of categorical and variable structural constraints,regularities of evaluation, and knowledge of target norms. This suggests that aversion of Bailey’s (1974) gradatum model is preferable to a strict continuum.No evidence occurred in the Veeton sample to convince us that the same is trueat the acrolectal end. In fact, the highly focused nature of “Patwa” norms versusthe very diffuse nature of “English” norms strongly suggests that asymmetryhere is characteristic of the Jamaican situation.

Winford (1993a) has argued that the ability to link linguistic elements inregular patterns of variation from basilect to acrolect does not prove they belongto the same grammar, and my findings on the basilectal boundary bear out thispoint. For him the alternative is code-switching, an option which I argued againstin the introduction and one that has never been supported by empirical studies.Instead I propose that themesolect itself is a single system — not the entire


acrolect-to-basilect continuum, as the early polylectal models suggest. This proposalis motivated by the evidence, presented above, that mesolectal speakers do not have(or at any rate, use) a full basilectal grammar, but have not fully acquired anEnglish one. Thus if they have a grammatical system, it must be a mixed one.

This being the case the creole continuum, far from being a moribundconcept, should really be the default model since it is the most descriptivelyadequate — at least when it is linked to a concept of the mesolect whichcrucially involves differential knowledge of standard structures.14 Departuresfrom the continuum model can be characterized more clearly (as cases wheremesolectal populations show discontinuities that coincide for major grammaticalsubsystems) than examples of it can be predicted, since there are more possibili-ties for non-coincidence than coincidence.

It seems likely, too, that the types of structures and constraints possiblewithin a continuum cannot be fixed or predicted through contrastive analysis ofthe contributing distinct grammars (basilect and acrolect). Rather there is greatstructural freedom and the nature and order of constraints is negotiated in part byindividuals. This resembles Thomason and Kaufman’s (1988: 13–19) point thatlinguistic constraints on language interference in contact are generally invalid —the structural resistance and integrity of systems are routinely overcome by thepressure of social context.

Part of the structural looseness of the JC mesolect is due to the lack of strictagreement and marking patterns characteristic of standard languages like English,accompanied by the weakening and disappearance of basilectal constraints. In thecurrent state of JC, English forms are used variably and creole forms tend to besuppressed as one goes up the continuum. Since JC is not endangered, and hasconsiderable ethnolinguistic and structural vitality, it seems almost inevitable thatJC forms should carry JC grammar with them, as observed above fordid.

For English forms the case is not the same. When the categorical use typicalof English morphology gives way to variability, room is created for linguisticcontextual factors to constrain the variation. Thus, where English or ambiguousforms alternate with or replace JC forms in variable use, it is equally natural thatsome of the factors constraining the use of the English forms will be creole-valued

14. Whether the standard is also the historical superstrate is an empirical question. (Of course thisis more or less the case in Jamaica, if one ignores that today’s standard is no doubt distinct in at leastsome respects from 17th century vernacular English.) The link to decreolization, however, is not tobe assumed.


— but factors operative in English may also be influential (e.g. withneva, {-ed}).As the selection of forms from English and their propagation across the

mesolect becomes conventionalized, and perhaps acquires particular socialmeanings (“urban”did), characteristic social distributions become part of thecontext in which a feature is used and learned. Thus contextual constraints on thechoice of forms become intertwined with social constraints on appropriate use.As in any other variety, these processes jointly explain the mesolect’s ability tofunction as a single grammar, evolving and yet stable enough to serve the needsof its users, variable and yet internally-ordered enough to constitute a system.

It has been suggested that the creole continuum should be retained as agrammatical construct for describing the way an acrolect interacts with a basilect,but rejected as a model for sociolinguistic structure — used as a model for “whathappens in grammars, rather than in communities” (Fasold 1990: 198). Preferringa whole loaf to the half, I have assumed instead that the goal should be tointegrate a linguistic description of the Jamaican creole continuum with anunderstanding of local norms and practices. I have tried to show that Veeton isa unified speech community, though not a monolithic one; and that it may bedefined on linguistic grounds, since both behavior (which is intermediate andvariable) and evaluation (of the polar varieties) are regular in many respects.

At the same time it has been demonstrated that toleration and manipulationof conflicting norms, as a Jamaican and Caribbean cultural value, is also anappropriate criterion for speech community membership. Kingston is not, likeBelize, a multi-lingual territory with several distinct norms which is, overall,diffuse. There is rather a highly focused characterization of Patwa (as in otherurban sociolinguistic complexes), and a certain diffuseness in the target ofstandard English — the latter is not accidental, and plays an important role in thepolitical economy of language in Jamaica.

Though I did not set out either to study linguistic change, or to test theunidimensionality hypothesis associated with the continuum by Rickford (1987a),both topics have been touched on here. The examination of several variableswhich are probably involved in changes in progress has strongly suggested thatmultiple social dimensions may be required to model the process, and that theyare unlikely to co-vary along a single “creole-to-standard” plane throughout thewhole course of a change. The evidence that social mobility is crucially involvedin explaining the correlation of linguistic variation with social status measuresfurther supported this argument. The “creole”-valued speech behavior of Mattydiffers significantly in its motivations from that of Tamas and Mina, and still


more from that of Dinah; while Dinah’s “standard”-valued speech differs hardlyat all from her “creole”, but an important social dimension is nevertheless involved.

Using the methods of variationist sociolinguistics, I have discovered orderwithin the intermediate system of mesolectal JC, and located Kingston within theworld-wide context of urban English dialectology. I have likened the variabilityin Veeton speech to general patterns of sociolinguistic variation. The presence ofcreole features and constraints has in part confirmed the classic picture ofCaribbean English Creole grammar, yet features of the portrait are unexpected,too, and possibly unique to urban Jamaica.

The beliefs, structures, and ways of speaking whose coherence across thecommunity I have argued for in this book are of course daily facts of life toVeeton speakers — old news, perhaps. Yet the quotidian expression of the man orwoman in the streets of Veeton remains vivid and memorable, quintessentially creolein character, and Jamaican to the last word (Bennett 1966: 209, from “Gay Paree”):

“Is not show offdem dah-show off,But is how dem language go!”

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Index of Language Varieties

AAAVE, see English, varieties of:

African American VernacularAfrican languages, 4, 85, 92–4, 106,

198; see also Akan, Fante, Gã,Igbo, Twi, Yoruba

Akan, 93–4, 177

BBarbadian Creole (Bajan), 18, 203–4,

244–6Belizean Creole, 201, 203, 269, 294Brazilian Portuguese, 252

CChinese (Mandarin), 252–5creole languages, see Barbadian,

Belizean, Gullah, Guyanese, Limon,Miskito Coast, Saramaccan, Sranan,Tok Pisin, Trinidadian

DDutch, 123

EEnglish, varieties of, 145–6, 162

African American Vernacular(AAVE) 3, 12, 17–19, 22, 72,77, 123, 130, 133–4, 140, 145,153, 159–63, 170, 172, 226, 233,238, 244–50, 253, 265, 279

African Nova Scotian, 22, 170,248–50

Appalachian, 123, 133, 145, 147,159, 226

Belfast, 77, 86, 88, 90, 268British Black (London Jamaican),

72, 77, 281British dialects, 85, 89–92, 106, 204Charleston, 91, 119Chicano, 123, 130, 132–3, 145,

147, 159Detroit, 140, 147, 161, 268Ex–Slave Recordings (U.S. AAVE),

145, 160–1, 176, 183, 193, 226,248, 250

Harlem, 74, 140, 161–2, 166, 248–9Liberian, 170, 248–50London, 91, 204New York City, 56, 117, 130, 147,

161, 268, 277, 285North American vernaculars, 81,

137, 145–6, 153, 159, 184,281

Northern Ireland, 89–90, 119Norwich, 117Ocracoke, 123Ozark, 226Pennsylvania, 86Philadelphia, 130, 133, 145, 147,

267Puerto Rican, 123, 130, 133, 159

322 INDEX OF LANGUAGE VARIETIES

Received Pronunciation (RP), 47,85–6, 92

Samaná, 77, 170, 176, 183, 185,193, 226, 248–50

Scots, 76, 89–90, 123Singapore, 123South Atlantic (US) dialects, 89–90,

147Standard (generalized), 7, 79, 83,

90, 121, 134, 137, 140, 159, 165,177, 194–6, 199–205, 220–2, 224,228, 238, 250, 261, 274–8, 293–4

Standard American, 47, 62, 67–8,133–4, 221, 226

Standard Jamaican (SJE), 5, 21, 47,62, 67–9, 79, 85, 94, 124, 136,150, 236, 278

Sydney, 117, 267Tejano, 123, 133, 145–147, 159Ulster, 89–90U.S. Northern, 161, 281Vietnamese, 230, 238, 252–3Washington D.C., 140, 145, 160–2,

248–9

FFante, 93

GGã, 93German, Köln dialect, 123Gullah, 18, 84, 204Guyanese Creole (GC), 5, 16, 76,

168–171, 180, 184, 193, 203–4,212–15, 219–21, 224, 229–30, 234,237, 244–6, 253, 257–60, 269, 276,283

HHindi, 114

IIgbo, 175, 177Irish (Gaelic), 90, 204

LLimon Creole English, 203London Jamaican,seeEnglish, British

Black

MMiskito Coast Creole English, 203

PPatwa, Jamaican, 22, 47, 68, 80, 122,

136, 196–7, 269–78, 281, 284, 292,294

SSaramaccan, 84, 168Spanish, 197–8Sranan, 84, 168, 170, 179, 194, 252–3Swedish, 123

TTok Pisin, 170, 179, 188, 194Trinidadian Creole (TC), 5, 123,

163–6, 170–2, 203, 213, 219, 236,244–7

Twi, 93

WWest African Pidgin English, 177

YYoruba, 175, 177

Index of Subjects

Aacrolect, 5, 6, 16, 19, 47, 67–8, 85,

134, 167, 199, 236, 268, 278, 281,282, 292–4;see alsoEnglish,Standard Jamaican

African American, 22, 248, 250;seealso English, African AmericanVernacular

African culture, 4, 67, 93, 276African diaspora varieties, 3, 4, 243,

248ff

African substrate, 4, 84, 90, 92, 93–4,118, 175, 177, 248, 250;see alsoAfrican languages

Anansi story, 48, 67, 276anterior tense

across mesolect, 265–6, 282–3, 292and other clause-types, 185, 187, 191discourse model, 181ff

in prototypical creoles, 3, 168–72,177ff, 212

with ben, 194–5with -ed, 225, 228ff, 260ff

with nevaanddid, 201, 203, 215ff,220–1

apparent-time data, 17, 117, 136, 210,286

aspect, 168, 169ff, 178, 180, 186,189, 191, 224

BBailey, Beryl, 5, 66, 172, 192, 198

Barbados, 18, 90–1basilect, 5, 6, 47, 72

and consonant clusters, 134–6, 144,149

and creole continuum, 106, 236,251, 282–3, 289, 292–4

and decreolization, 16–19and tense-marking, 167, 170, 180,

193–4, 199, 211, 215, 221–2,259, 263, 282–3

in language tests, 69, 80be, 184, 189, 204, 227, 245ben, 2, 168, 171, 188, 193–200,

202–3, 210–2, 220, 223–4Bennett(-Coverley), Louise, 45, 276,

295bilingual model, 134, 137

CCassidy, F. G., 5, 22, 66, 86, 89, 93,

118, 192categorical grammar/marking

and variable rules, 125–6, 138, 189in acrolect, 221, 224, 261, 272, 293in basilect, 99, 220, 272, 292in past-marking, 153, 162, 183,

220–1, 224, 232, 238, 242, 258,261, 282

in phonology, 105, 108, 110, 134,150–2, 158, 162, 248, 271,279–81, 285

324 INDEX OF SUBJECTS

categorical linguistics, 9, 15, 138, 171,267

cell, 141, 146, 228chi-squared, 19, 141, 202, 215, 239Chinese population in Jamaica, 6, 25class conflict, 26, 33–7, 50, 56, 58, 67,

70, 74, 77, 276–8class culture, 40, 58, 74, 275–8, 291code-switching, 9, 10, 14, 136, 196,

205, 212, 292co-existent systems, 9competence, 14, 18, 106, 134, 137,

150, 212, 269, 277, 284, 291consensus vs. conflict model, 50, 52,

58, 276–8copula, 19, 128, 172, 189, 196correlation of linguistic and social, 13,

50, 58, 64, 77, 116, 126, 269,284–5, 287ff

covert prestige, 112, 275creole continuum, 3, 37, 77, 170, 279,

281and decreolization, 15ff, 21, 199,

243, 251and discreteness, 5ff, 65, 83, 121,

267, 292and individual variation, 112, 139,

165–6, 212, 267–9, 289and linguistic change/acquisition,

137, 199, 214, 225, 229, 243,251, 294

and past-marking, 199, 203, 214,221, 229, 254, 260

and phonological variation, 89, 117,134, 136, 147, 150

and social factors, 52, 58, 63, 117,136–7, 269, 284, 289

and speech community, 267–8, 276,283–4

and unidimensionality, 11ff, 49, 65,269, 284, 294

in Guyana, 170, 194, 276creole prototype, 1, 170, 181, 184,

199, 202–3, 207, 212, 216, 243,255, 260, 282

creolization, 18, 86, 118, 180, 250–1period in Jamaica, 91, 93–4, 106

DDeCamp, David, 5, 6ff, 11, 13, 21,

117, 268, 279, 284decreolization, 8, 137, 181, 193, 221,

229, 293;see alsocreole continuumdeletion,seephonological deletiondialect acquisition, 106, 111, 114,

122–3, 251dialect mixing and contact, 9, 49,

88–9, 91, 106, 138, 252did, 2, 49, 169, 171–4, 177, 185–6,

188, 190–4, 197–222, 224, 226ff,254, 256–63, 265–6

diffuse vs. focused norms, 12, 49,122, 268–9, 272, 292, 294

diglossia, 6, 7, 10, 14, 18, 83discourse constraint, 156, 167, 169,

181ff, 193, 203, 217–9, 221, 229,260–1, 266

discreteness, 7–8, 15–16, 83, 89, 99,117, 166, 268–9, 279ff, 292

do, 203ff, 207, 211, 226–34, 239,244–5, 254, 261

EEast Indian, 25;seeIndian population

in JamaicaEast Kingston, 23, 29–37, 42, 58, 70, 79envelope of variation, 11ethnography of speaking, 14

INDEX OF SUBJECTS 325

evaluation clauses in narratives, 191,196, 217, 256

exclusions, 95, 123ff, 128, 139, 142,155, 189ff, 231, 244–7, 261

exponential hypothesis, 20, 132–3,145, 151–2, 157–8

ex-slaves, 97;see alsoEnglish,Ex-Slave Recordings (US AAVE)

Ffactor group, 126–8, 130, 139, 141,

201, 208, 226, 238–9, 258, 263folk speakers, 5, 90functionalist explanations

of deletion, 124, 132–3, 139, 151–2,157

of social stratification, 50, 52, 58of sound change, 86, 89, 92, 115, 117of tense-marking, 185, 193–4, 202,

218, 221–2, 229, 261–3, 266

Ggender, 3, 210, 285, 286Georgetown, Guyana, 5go, 171, 187, 207, 212, 226–34, 239,

244–5, 254, 261gradatum, 268, 283, 292grammaticalization, 169, 171, 172,

178, 181, 187, 193, 202, 221

H/h/-deletion and -insertion, 22, 80,

95–6, 277habitual, 171, 176, 185, 187–90, 193,

204, 219, 224have, 173, 184, 195, 207, 212,

226–34, 239, 244–5, 254, 256ff,261, 263

hegemony, 37, 61, 111, 275–6, 284

historical present, 183–4, 218, 221, 261historicist fallacy, 15, 268hypercorrection, 56, 87, 99, 149, 277

Iideology, 14, 50, 61, 192, 291implicational scale, 7–8, 117, 138,

141, 268independence of factors, 82, 143, 189,

238, 256, 285Indian population in Jamaica, 6, 25, 115inherent variation, 9, 77, 134, 137,

166, 179input probability, 128, 142, 242insertion,seephonological insertioninteraction of factors, 141, 154, 162,

176, 213, 219, 239, 281interlanguage, 19, 251–2intersecting rules, 2, 81, 122, 125,

129, 152ff, 158–60, 162, 164, 172,184, 225, 238, 251, 279, 283

IPA (International Phonetic Alphabet),22, 101

irrealis mood, 186ff, 191, 205, 213,217–8, 260–3

KKingston

Metropolitan Area, 23, 27–33, 41,42, 69

Parish, 27, 29, 30, 36–7, 69, 210population change, 25, 29–30, 32–3,

41, 45, 70, 91population density, 28–31, 39

(KYA), 2, 76, 77, 80–1; 83ff(Ch.4);121, 167, 279–80, 285, 288defined, 84ff

prestige pattern, 2, 87–9, 94, 96,101, 105–6, 109, 111–7, 279, 285


Llanguage acquisition, 118, 224–5

first (FLA), 86, 224second (SLA), 11, 13, 18, 137, 224,

234, 243, 251ff, 281, 293see alsodialect acquisition

language attitudes, 48, 66, 76, 79ff,192, 198, 211, 268–9, 274–6, 278,289, 291

language bioprogram hypothesis, 170,178

language death, 17–8language tests, 48, 56, 66, 69, 73, 76,

79ff, 95, 96, 105, 107, 110, 112,136, 139, 197, 269ff, 279, 282;seealso translation tasks

laterals, 126–7, 130–1, 135, 140–6Lebanese population in Jamaica, 6, 25,

35–8LePage, Robert B., 5, 13, 15, 93, 192lexifier language, 17, 178, 187, 192life-cycle, pidgin-creole, 7, 21linguistic anthropology, 14linguistic change

and acquisition, 122, 251–2and decreolization, 19, 199, 251and social factors, 49, 51, 72, 136,

267, 285–6, 292, 294and variation, 9, 122, 137, 268,

269, 283, 286benanddid as change in progress,

195, 210–1, 285–6(KYA) change in progress/historical

change, 3, 15, 83, 85–92, 96,111, 113–19, 279, 285

linguistic index, 107linguistic marketplace, 275linguistic variable(s), 13, 15, 19

and discreteness, 279ff

and language tests, 80, 270–3and social stratification, 64, 95,

285–8and unidimensionality, 294defined, 11in speaky-spoky, 277types and examples, 2, 77, 95,

98–9, 117, 121–3, 137, 167, 190with three variants, 208

Mmerger, 85ff, 91, 106, 118mesolect

and acquisition, 224–5, 228–9and acrolect/standard, 66, 69, 106,

167, 169, 199, 211, 221–2, 225,261, 278, 292–3

and basilect, 193, 199, 211, 221,236, 272, 281–3, 292

and decreolization, 15ff, 21and language attitudes, 121–2, 273and phonological deletion, 129,

149–50, 158–9and tense-marking, 169–70, 176,

181, 184defined, 16grammar of, 1, 122, 162–3, 167–8,

181, 199, 221, 260, 273, 292–3social distribution of, 5, 72, 117,

137, 165, 184, 193–4, 199, 211,213–5, 221–2, 228–9, 264ff

variation in, 10, 65, 81, 83, 88, 117,150, 158–9, 162–3, 165, 168,202, 236–7, 243, 260

vowels in, 85, 88, 106, 113migration

from Jamaica overseas, 44, 47, 97to Jamaica, 90–1urban, 6, 12, 28–30, 46, 49


minimal pairs, 88multivariate analysis, 13, 19, 81, 121,

128, 141, 151, 170, 189, 213, 219,253, 258, 264

Nnarrative, 68, 80, 181ff, 189, 191,

194–6, 213, 217–9, 221, 256, 261nasal flaps, 125neutralization, 125, 128neva, 2, 8, 169, 191, 199ff, 205,

207–20, 256–63, 266-n’t, 127, 128, 140, 143, 146, 150–2,

162, 199, 200, 205

Ooccupation, 34, 47, 50ff, 59, 62–4, 94,

97, 276, 285, 287–9orientation clauses in narratives, 256orthography, 22

Ppalatal glides, 2; 83ff(Ch.4)palatal stops, 84–7, 90–2, 93palatalization, 84–6, 89–95, 105, 119(Past) defined, 206–8, 236past-before-past, 172, 178–80, 196,

212, 213, 215ff, 220–1past-marking, 2, 49, 77, 80–1, 98–9,

122, 128–9, 136, 151, 153–66,167ff (Ch. 6), 223ff(Ch.7), 269,272, 279, 282–3

past-reference, 121, 150, 153–4,167–7, 172, 174, 183–5, 189,191ff, 199–203, 210–2, 215, 223–4,230, 241, 260, 264, 270, 282

patois,seePatwa, Jamaicanpause, 125, 127, 130, 145–8, 160, 166,

249, 261, 265–6

phono-lexical variation, 2, 81, 85–9,95, 113

phonological deletion, 19, 98–9, 114;121ff (Ch. 5); 205–8, 225–8, 230,238–40, 246, 265, 271–3, 280–1,283

phonological insertion, 80, 87, 148ff,277

plural-marking, 80, 98–9plural society, 14, 51polylectal model, 268, 293Portuguese Jewish population in

Jamaica, 6, 25post-colonial, 4, 26, 50, 52, 59, 66, 192prestige, sociolinguistic, 14, 56, 67,

69, 80, 95, 111–2, 119, 207, 209,273–7, 279, 284

prestige pattern,see(KYA), prestigepattern

privative opositions, 178–80, 213–5,220

probability value, 20, 81, 128, 141,142, 144, 151, 208, 241–2

progressive aspect, 171–6, 179, 185,187, 189, 193, 196, 207, 224

punctual verbs, 170, 172ff, 179–80,188, 191, 207, 212–15, 219–20,248, 256ff, 261–6, 282–3, 292

Qquantitative analysis, 13, 19ff, 80ff,

170, 179, 189, 192, 206ff, 224

R/r/, 22, 56, 88, 92, 125–7, 131, 277Rastafarian, 29, 61, 136reading passages, 66, 76, 80, 107,

110–1regularization, 128, 253


rhotics, 130, 145–8, 160, 231rural/urban dimension, 6, 43ff, 97,

107, 198, 210, 282, 285–6

Ssalience, 234, 238, 251–5say, 207, 212, 226–34, 239, 245, 254,

261sequenced clauses, 181ff, 191, 213,

215ff, 220–1, 260–4send, 141, 146, 151–2, 207, 226–34,

239, 244–5, 261serial verbs, 189–91, 227sibilants, 126–7, 130–1, 135, 140–4social class, 26, 46–7, 50ff, 70, 77,

94–6, 107, 111, 115–7, 163–4, 226,275–8, 285–6, 291

social mobility, 4, 14, 26, 34, 47,51–59, 60, 74, 77, 87, 111–5, 119,210, 273, 278, 281, 290–1, 294

social networks, 12, 18, 56, 72, 117social status, 12, 28, 32–6, 40, 43–4,

48, 50ff, 62–4, 67–8, 80, 94–6,111, 115, 164, 250, 276–8, 285–9,291, 294

social stratification, 25–6, 29, 37,50ff, 95, 116, 118, 122, 129, 163,267–8, 275, 278, 283

sociolinguistic interview, 56, 66, 69,71, 75ff, 85, 94–5, 98–9, 136, 160,196, 269, 272–3

sonority, 20, 130–2, 135, 139, 144–6,162, 255, 266

speaky-spoky, 87, 210, 277–8, 289,291

speech acts, 276speech community

evaluative norms, 275, 277, 292, 294language change, 18, 106, 113, 137membership, 66, 68, 195, 268

models, 3, 14, 37, 48, 118, 165,267, 278, 284

surveys, 6, 65, 80, 129–30, 267, 283variation within, 9, 58, 88, 106,

113, 122, 166, 168, 292Veeton as unified, 118, 122, 129,

146, 168, 268, 272, 294standard language, 11, 17, 47, 49, 58,

61–2, 69, 83, 112, 118–9, 121, 133,157, 159, 192, 250–1, 264, 274–8,281, 284, 293–4;see alsoEnglish,varieties of

standardization, 14, 49statistical significance, 128, 138, 141,

160, 164, 179, 201–2, 204, 216–7,219, 226, 240, 261, 286

statives, 170, 172ff, 177–84, 191, 203,207, 212–5, 219–21, 225, 228ff, 283

stress, 84–5, 204, 230, 252–5structuralism, 9, 82styles, style-shift, 8, 69, 73, 76, 79,

95–6, 105, 110–1, 116, 118, 124,268, 269, 276–7, 279–82

substrate, 4, 90, 93ff, 118, 175, 177,248

superstrate, 114, 118, 167, 169, 222,261, 293

Surinam, 91

T(TD)-deletion, 2, 11, 77, 80–1, 98–9;

121ff (Ch. 5); 167, 184, 201, 206,225–32, 236–40, 246, 265, 269–73,279–83, 286–8defined, 123ff

temporal clauses, 180, 184ff, 187,191, 213, 217–9, 259, 260–4

tense, 153, 169ff, 171, 177–84, 185ff,199ff, 216, 219, 221, 261absolute vs. relative, 177–8, 187


translation tasks, 80, 269ff, 282Creole-to-English, 80, 269ff

English-to-Creole, 69, 80, 96,269ff, 282

trinomial analysis, 206, 208

U(u) variable, 88,see alsoEnglish,

Belfastunderlying form, 3, 8, 92, 113–4, 123,

125, 134, 136, 138, 148–50, 156–9,162, 238, 266

unidimensionality, 7, 11ff, 49, 58, 65,284, 286, 294

universals, linguistic, 4, 19, 118, 124,130, 162, 164, 181, 222, 247, 253,267

unmarking,seezero-markingurbanization, 6, 43ff, 53, 58, 119, 275

VVarbrul, 12, 19ff, 81–2, 122, 128,

138, 139–44, 151, 206, 208, 231,240, 241

variable,seelinguistic variablevariable rule, 19, 81, 114, 122, 126–9,

133, 134, 138, 139, 154, 157–8,165–6, 206, 225–6, 238

variants, 8, 11–2, 49, 56, 81, 84, 93–5,103, 117, 126, 128, 174, 191, 198,208, 223, 269, 285

variation(ist) analysisand language change, 10, 137, 251of (KYA), 150, 154of (Past), 169–70, 181, 189, 213,

216, 260methods, 2, 19, 83, 95–6, 126, 189,

295principles, 126, 134, 137, 167, 181,

221, 267, 284

vs. categorical, 15, 171, 213, 267variet(ies), 9, 11, 16, 21, 67, 69, 106,

113, 119, 122–3, 198, 248, 250,255, 267–8, 273, 284

vernacular, 22, 49, 65–9, 72, 86, 91–5,106, 110–5, 118, 196, 226, 250,265, 272, 275, 291

vowel length, 84, 85, 88, 90–2, 96,100, 106, 113–5, 118

WWest Kingston, 29–30, 42word-class, 81, 85ff, 91–2, 95–6,

100ff, 280word-list, 79, 80, 105, 107, 136, 279

Yyards, 28, 36–9, 43–4, 56, 57Youth Club, 69, 72ff, 76

Zzero-marking (=unmarking), 21, 181,

223–4of (Past):

in AAVE, 162, 265in English dialects, 261in Guyanese Creole, 179, 184,

193–4, 212–3in JC, 3, 98–9, 132, 168, 179,

193–4, 199, 205–8,212–9, 223–4, 243, 256,261, 265–6

in narrative clauses, 182–4, 218in Samaná, 185in Sranan, 179, 194in Trinidadian Creole, 165, 213in Tok Pisin, 179, 194in Vietnamese English, 230

of plural, 98–9

In the series VARIETIES OF ENGLISH AROUND THE WORLD (VEAW) the followingtitles have been published thus far:

G1. LANHAM, L.W. & C.A. MaCDONALD: The Standard in South African English andits Social History. Heidelberg (Groos), 1979.

G2. DAY, R.R (ed.): Issues in English Creoles: Papers from the 1975 Hawaii Conference.Heidelberg (Groos), 1980.

G3. VIERECK, Wolfgang, Edgar SCHNEIDER & Manfred GÖRLACH (comps): A Bibli-ography of Writings on Varieties of English, 1965-1983. 1984.

G4. VIERECK, Wolfgang (ed.): Focus on: England and Wales. 1984.G5. GÖRLACH, Manfred (ed.): Focus on: Scotland. 1985.G6. PETYT, K.M.: ‘Dialect’ and ‘Accent’ in Industrial West Yorkshire. 1985.G7. PENFIELD, Joyce & Jack ORNSTEIN-GALICIA: Chicano English. 1985.G8. GÖRLACH, Manfred and John A. HOLM (eds): Focus on the Caribbean. 1986.G9. GÖRLACH, Manfred: Englishes. Studies in varieties of English 1984-1988. 1991.G10. FISCHER, Andreas and Daniel AMMAN: An Index to Dialect Maps of Great Britain.

1991.G11. CLARKE, Sandra (ed.): Focus on Canada. 1993.G12. GLAUSER, Beat, Edgar W. SCHNEIDER and Manfred GÖRLACH: A New Bibliog-

raphy of Writings on Varieties of English, 1984-1992/93. 1993.G13. GÖRLACH, Manfred: More Englishes: New studies in varieties of English 1988-1994.

1995.G14. McCLURE, J. Derrick: Scots and its Literature. 1995.G15. DE KLERK, Vivian (ed.): Focus on South Africa. 1996.G16. SCHNEIDER, Edgar W. (ed.): Focus on the USA. 1996.G17. PETER PATRICK: Linguistic Variation in Urban Jamaican Creole. A sociolinguistic

study of Kingston, Jamaica. 1999.G18. SCHNEIDER, Edgar W. (ed.): Englishes around the World, Volume 1. General studies,

British Isles, North America. Studies in honour of Manfred Görlach. 1997.G19. SCHNEIDER, Edgar W. (ed.): Englishes around the World, Volume 2. Carribbean,

Africa, Asia, Australasia. Studies in honour of Manfred Görlach. 1997.G20. MACAULAY, Ronald K.S.: Standards and Variation in Urban Speech: Examples

from Lowland Scots. 1997.G21. KALLEN, Jeffrey L. (ed.): Focus on Ireland. 1997.G22. GÖRLACH, Manfred: Even More Englishes. 1998.G23. HUNDT, Marianne: New Zealand English Grammar - Fact or Fiction? A corpus-based

study in morphosyntactic variation. 1998.G24. HUBER, Magnus: Ghanaian Pidgin English in its West African Context. A socio-

historical and structural analysis. 1999.G25. BELL, Allan and Koenraad KUIPER (eds.): New Zealand English. n.y.p.G26. BLAIR, David and Peter COLLINS (eds.): English in Australia. 2001.G27. LANEHART, Sonja L. (ed.): Sociocultural and Historical Contexts of African

American English. n.y.p.

T1. TODD, Loreto: Cameroon. Heidelberg (Groos), 1982. Spoken examples on tape (ca. 56min.)

veaw.serie.p65 22/05/01, 10:021

T2. HOLM, John: Central American English. Heidelberg (Groos), 1982. Spoken exampleson tape (ca. 92 min.)

T3. MACAFEE, Caroline: Glasgow. 1983. Spoken examples on tape (ca. 60 min.)T4. PLATT, John, Heidi WEBER & Mian Lian HO: Singapore and Malaysia. 1983.T5. WAKELIN, Martyn F.: The Southwest of England. 1986. Spoken examples on tape (ca.

60 min.)T6. WINER, Lise: Trinidad and Tobago. 1993. Spoken examples on tape.T7. MEHROTRA, Raja Ram: Indian English. Texts and Interpretation. 1998.

veaw.serie.p65 22/05/01, 10:022

Urban Jamaican Creole: Variation in the Mesolect (Varieties of English Around the World General...

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