No matter the subject, there is always someone who knows more than you. Experts navigate the ins and outs of car engines or quantum physics or water reclamation or Minecraft with ease, while the rest of us struggle to keep up with the conversation. Just ask your seven-year-old about her Shopkins collection and be amazed at how much more than you she knows about this world of miniature painted plastic resin figures with faces. Her knowledge of their names and relationships and the whole Shoppie world leaves you in the dust. Not that you admit it out loud, but you find yourself an outsider. Those possessing such specialized knowledge and shared values or goals pertaining to a particular subject form a specific discourse community.
Discourse communities maintain their identity with an understanding of a particular literacy, a literary cohesiveness unique to that particular group. And although it may seem junior high cliquish, most people belong to multiple communities without much hassle. We are born into many discourse communities, while we acquire other discourse community affiliations when we get that first job as a Wendy’s fry cook, participate in a Boy Scout troop, join the jazz band in junior high, or get dragged to Comic-Con without consent.
Regardless of how you gain membership into a discourse community, or how deeply you become entrenched in that culture, the fact remains that upon joining you obtain a new level of literacy, a specialized literacy that outsiders to the community are shut out of until they receive the knowledge necessary to navigate the community, or at least the linguistic side of it. And I have to remind myself frequently that not everyone belongs to the same discourse communities I do. My non-teacher friends don’t really appreciate the jargon I spew during a social media rant about educational policy. Those of a different faith may have a hard time understanding some of my philosophical viewpoints. And sadly, not everyone knows their cuts of meat either.
It is also important to realize that within any given discourse community, there are levels of understanding and inner circles of acceptance and inclusion—casual observers or participants, if you will, as opposed to hardball fanatics.
My father-in-law describes his involvement with his colleagues in higher education with a simple academic bifurcation: “There are two types of post-grad professors—those who will do anything in their power to helpyou reach where they are; the others do everything in their power to preventyou from reaching where they are.” This perception illustrates a common, dangerous attitude that some members of specialized discourse communities hold: you are either in the club or out. Unfortunately, no matter how hard we try to avoid them, prejudices regarding whether you are part of the group or not exist regardless of whether we’re talking about academia, anime, or aerospace engineering.
I was personally reminded of the disparity involved with discourse communities when I attended an Orem Owlz baseball game last year. Side note: it happened to be Star Warsnight, a completely separate community. Regardless, that particular night I happened to be wearing one of my favorite T-shirts: a simple black shirt with a math equation on it:
As I headed back to my seat after pillaging the concession stand—or rather they pillaged my wallet—during a pitching change, one of the ushers stopped me and pointed at my shirt. She said, “The first time I saw that shirt I thought it was just some bad math…maybe that ‘new’ math stuff. Then someone explained it to me, and now it’s one of my favorite shirts. Gonna get me one.” I simply thanked her, told her where she could order one online, and returned to my seat.
Twice more I had to maneuver by her, and each time I overheard her explain her updated baseball literacy to others, beaming with pride. Despite her involvement in the baseball community, she still lacked some fundamental vocabulary skills. I’m glad I helped initiate this rite of passage into a deeper sanctum in the circles of baseball discourse.
Before leaving the ballpark that night I posted about it on social media. As an afterthought I added a snarky hashtag: #itsasmartpersonsgame, flaunting my mastery of the baseball community discourse. The only people who “liked” it already had a passion for the game.
Driving home I realized my remark might be misconstrued as being elitist, kind of like those uppity professors my father-in-law warned me about, definitely not the signal I wanted to transmit to the world.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t edit my post just then, but when I did find a minute to retract my unintentional snobbery, I found that my cousin Tina had been brave enough to post her baseball ignorance:
T: Ok. Someone explain it to me! I imagine it’s related to baseball?
Within minutes of her plea, my friend Richard responded with a simple explanation, giving her (and the rest of cyberspace not included in the discourse community) the knowledge to be part of the in-crowd.
R: Each position in baseball is assigned a number. In this case 6 for shortstop, 4 for 2ndbase, and 3 for 1stbase. In scorekeeping, 6-4-3 is the most common notation to indicate the batter has grounded into a double play. So 6 to 4 to 3 equals 2 (outs).
Tina’s replied, voicing the thoughts of all who come to be included in a new discourse.
T: Richard, thank you. That makes perfect sense, and not being a baseball fan, I feel less stupid since that’s some pretty specific notation going on there!!
Other friends and family then proceeded to admit their own lack of baseball expertise. Richard, only too happy to help, then went on to include a link to a video clip of the 6-4-3 in action, adding to Tina’s newfound discourse knowledge. What a guy!
While this small piece of baseball literacy might not be pertinent to anyone’s salvation, or even semi-important to the general public’s pursuit of trivia, a division still exists between people who know why the infield fly rule is important and those who couldn’t care less about the designated hitter debate. However, the social boundaries that discourse communities create shouldn’t erect fences similar to Boston’s Green Monster. I shouldn’t be a snob about what I know and others don’t. Even if I had a degree in baseball, I shouldn’t wave it in others’ faces.
Yesterday, I wore the double play shirt again, and I observed occasional head bobs, nods, and knowing smiles—all signs of discourse inclusion, of shared knowledge, of understanding. However, more obvious were those people furrowing their brows, awkwardly doing the math, counting in their minds—a few on their fingers. This at bat, though, encouraged me to be more empathetic toward those not included in the discourse communities where I have membership. I even stopped and explained in to one young man and two grandmotherly women on my way back from lunch. Helping outsiders find a way into the ballpark, even if it means sneaking them through the turnstile after the game has already started, brings more joy than an autographed ball. To those rookies, I can be the veteran on the bench, sharing the discourse instead of withholding it.
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