Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects: Quichua in the Ecuadorian Andes 9781853597077

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Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects

BILINGUAL EDUCATION AND BILINGUALISM Series Editors: Professor Nancy H. Hornberger, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, USA and Professor Colin Baker, University of Wales, Bangor, Wales, UK. Other Books in the Series Becoming Bilingual: Language Acquisition in a Bilingual Community Jean Lyon Child-Rearing in Ethnic Minorities J.S. Dosanjh and Paul A.S. Ghuman Curriculum Related Assessment, Cummins and Bilingual Children Tony Cline and Norah Frederickson (eds) Foundations of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism Colin Baker Japanese Children Abroad: Cultural, Educational and Language Issues Asako Yamada-Yamamoto and Brian Richards (eds) Languages in America: A Pluralist View Susan J. Dicker Learning English at School: Identity, Social Relations and Classroom Practice Kelleen Toohey Language, Power and Pedagogy: Bilingual Children in the Crossfire Jim Cummins The Languages of Israel: Policy, Ideology and Practice Bernard Spolsky and Elana Shohamy Multicultural Children in the Early Years P. Woods, M. Boyle and N. Hubbard Multicultural Child Care P. Vedder, E. Bouwer and T. Pels Policy and Practice in Bilingual Education O. García and C. Baker (eds) The Sociopolitics of English Language Teaching Joan Kelly Hall and William G. Eggington (eds) Studies in Japanese Bilingualism Mary Goebel Noguchi and Sandra Fotos (eds) Teaching and Learning in Multicultural Schools Elizabeth Coelho Teaching Science to Language Minority Students Judith W. Rosenthal Working with Bilingual Children M.K. Verma, K.P. Corrigan and S. Firth (eds) Young Bilingual Children in Nursery School Linda Thompson

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BILINGUAL EDUCATION AND BILINGUALISM 24 Series Editors: Nancy Hornberger and Colin Baker

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Quichua in the Ecuadorian Andes

Kendall A. King

MULTILINGUAL MATTERS LTD Clevedon • Buffalo • Toronto • Sydney

For JHDH

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data King, Kendall A. Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects: Quichua in the Ecuadorian Andes/Kendall A. King. Bilingual Education and Bilingualism: 24. 1. Quechua language–Study and teaching–Ecuador–Saraguro Region. 2. Quechua language–Ecuador–Saraguro Region–Grammar. 3. Quechua Indians–Ethnic identity. 4. Communication and culture–Ecuador–Saraguro Region. 5. Education, Bilingual–Ecuador–Saraguro Region. 6. Code switching (Linguistics)–Ecuador– Saraguro Region. 7. Saraguro Region (Ecuador)–Social life and customs. I. Title. II. Series. PM6309.5.S38 K55 2000 498’.323’071086625–dc21 00-030545 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 1-85359-495-4 (hbk) ISBN 1-85359-494-6 (pbk) Multilingual Matters Ltd UK: Frankfurt Lodge, Clevedon Hall, Victoria Road, Clevedon BS21 7HH. USA: UTP, 2250 Military Road, Tonawanda, NY 14150, USA. Canada: UTP, 5201 Dufferin Street, North York, Ontario M3H 5T8, Canada. Australia: P.O. Box 586, Artarmon, NSW, Australia. Copyright © 2001 Kendall A. King. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. Typeset by Archetype-IT Ltd (http://www.archetype-it.com). Printed and bound in Great Britain by the Cromwell Press Ltd.

Contents Foreword by Nancy Hornberger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi 1

Language Revitalization. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Basic terms and definitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Language revitalization as a field of study . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Language shift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Language planning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Ethnography of communication. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Organization of book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

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Setting the Scene . . . . . . The Ecuadorian context Saraguro and Saraguros Research methods . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . .

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Language Use and Ethnic Identity in Lagunas . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Language shift in Lagunas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Language use in the home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Marked language use in the community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 ‘Authentic Quichua’ and Unified Quichua. . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Language and ethnicity in Lagunas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106

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Language Use and Ethnic Identity in Tambopamba . . . Language competencies and language shift . . . . . . Language use in the home and community. . . . . . . Language attitudes and conceptions of ethnic identity Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Quichua Instruction and the Community Schools. School organization, philosophy, and history . Quichua instruction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Student and teacher use of Quichua . . . . . . . Student knowledge and learning of Quichua. . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Prospects and Processes Revisited. . . . . . . . . . . . . Language revitalization prospects . . . . . . . . . . . Language revitalization processes . . . . . . . . . . . Language obsolescence and language revitalization Language planning and language revitalization . . . Language revitalization and second language acquisition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Suggestions for language revitalization in Saraguro and beyond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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185 185 189 196 199

Appendices. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix 1: Monthly schedule of research activities Appendix 2: Log of audio-taped interviews . . . . . Appendix 3: Interview guides . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240 Indices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254

Foreword Kendall King’s study of school and community efforts to teach, promote and restore Quichua within two indigenous yet predominantly Spanishspeaking communities of Saraguro, Ecuador is at the cutting edge of a growing scholarship on the reversal of language shift and the revival of dying languages. In today’s world we are experiencing the rapid extinction of living languages and of the cultural and intellectual resources they carry with them, a matter of considerable concern to linguists and other scholars, not to mention the speakers of the languages. King’s study of community members’ attitudes toward Quichua language and Indian identity as these attitudes relate to the goals, curricula and pedagogical practices of Quichua-as-a-second-language programs in the schools is of great significance, not only to those directly concerned with Andean studies and with language and education in Quichua/Quechua, but also to those interested in the larger question of the viability of a locally controlled educational program as means for a subordinate minority group to restore and revitalize its language and culture. King brings her experience as a second language teacher, her expertise in sociolinguistic, ethnographic and educational theory and research, her knowledge of Quichua, and her intellect and insight to bear in this innovative work, which not only elucidates the Saraguro Quichua case but also provides a window for analysis of larger theoretical questions such as the relationship between language, culture and identity; the interactions between communities and schools around issues of language and ethnicity; and the role of locally controlled educational programs in political struggles for indigenous rights. Particularly valuable is her linking of descriptions of actual language use and interaction in home and classroom settings to a wider discussion of second language acquisition and instruction, language planning and language revitalization efforts and principles. Like my own study a decade earlier (Hornberger, 1988), King’s study focuses on two schools and their communities in the rural Andes, on language use and language attitudes in the communities, and on the role of the schools in language shift, maintenance and revitalization there. Unlike my study, which considered instruction through the medium of Quechua vii

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Foreword

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as mother tongue and its role in Quechua language maintenance, King’s study looks at instruction of Quichua as a second language and its role in language revitalization. The change in emphasis is in part a reflection of different community contexts, different national contexts and different conceptual frameworks brought to the study. In this respect, the two studies, viewed comparatively, mutually inform each other and deepen our understanding of the complex and shifting realities of language use and language attitudes in Quechua communities of the Andes. Perhaps even more revealing, though, it may be that the shift, in only a decade’s time, from a focus on language maintenance to one on language revitalization is an indication of Quechua’s increasingly threatened status throughout the Andes. Given that increasing threat and the value of Quechua ways of speaking, writing, being, acting and believing not only for Quechua speakers but for all of us, the need for careful case studies such as King offers us here is all the more salient. Nancy Hornberger University of Pennsylvania

Acknowledgements First and foremost I wish to acknowledge the guidance, insight, and inspiration provided by my former professor and continual mentor, Nancy Hornberger of the University of Pennsylvania. As my dissertation supervisor as well as the co-editor of the Bilingual Education and Bilingualism series for Multilingual Matters, her influence, both intellectual and editorial, has enriched and improved nearly every page of the text. I feel extremely lucky to have had her as a model of a careful scholar, prolific writer, and compassionate teacher. Colin Baker of the University of Wales at Bangor, co-editor of the series with Nancy, is to be credited not only for his warm encouragement and many helpful suggestions that improved the book, but also for his lightening quick turn-around time. In addition to this mighty twosome, over the last few years I was lucky to find a small group of astute and insightful readers who unselfishly waded through rough drafts of the manuscript. Nancy Dorian of Bryn Mawr College provided pages of detailed commentary which motivated me to rethink some basic arguments and which undoubtedly improved the text. Leena Huss of Uppsala University shared her experiences with Sami revitalization in Scandinavia; these keen insights are also reflected in the book. Charlotte Basham of the University of Alaska at Fairbanks had a peculiar knack for asking the right questions at the right time which helped me clarify both my thinking and writing on several key issues. And Carol Benson of Stockholm University deserves more than a sentence of thanks for several early readings of the first few chapters. Assistance at various stages of the research project was provided by a scholarship from the Language in Education Division of the University of Pennsylvania; a Foreign Language and Area Studies (FLAS) Award from the Fulbright Foundation; a fellowship from the Office of Bilingual Education and Minority Language Affairs of the U.S. Department of Education; and a Research Challenge Grant from New York University’s School of Education. In addition, Ruth Moya of the University of Cuenca and Miguel Contento and Miguel Angel Vacacela Quishpe of the Indigenous Directorate of Intercultural Bilingual Education of Loja provided essential assistance in accessing the research site and securing my visa. ix

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Acknowledgements

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The final drafts of the book were written while I was a visitor at the Centre for Research on Bilingualism at Stockholm University during the 1998–99 academic year. I am grateful to Kenneth Hyltenstam and other members of the Centre for providing me with a physical and intellectual space which was both stimulating and serene. This visit was made possible in part through a grant of a special leave from New York University’s School of Education. A number of non-Saraguro, Saraguro-experts enriched my study of Saraguro and my experiences in the region. Archeologists Dennis Ogburn and Elizabeth Bravo, and ethno-musicologist Nan Leigh Volinsky kindly shared their preliminary findings with me. Linda and Jim Belote of the University of Minnesota, anthropologists who have spent decades in Saraguro, provided me (and many others) with a rare longitudinal glimpse of changes which have taken place in the region, as well as their encouragement and friendship. In addition, Jim kindly shared his detailed maps of Saraguro which appear in Chapter 2. I am also grateful to Melina Selverston, a political scientist from Columbia University, who allowed me to tag along as she conducted her own dissertation fieldwork in Ecuador in 1993; her generosity introduced me to Saraguro and provided me with key contacts in the area. Finally, my deepest gratitude lies with the many Saraguros who opened their homes and shared their lives with me. I am indebted by the kindness and friendship extended by many people in and around the two communities where I worked. Their generosity made this project possible.

Preface Throughout the book, the speech of community members is provided in its original form, in either Quichua or Spanish, and is accompanied by its English translation. Quichua excerpts are transcribed into Ecuadorian Unified Quichua, and the Spanish excerpts into standard Castilian. An exception to this is the spellings of the schools and communities, which follow local conventions and were not changed to Unified Quichua. Community members’ speech was not altered for grammatical correctness or for clarity. As a result, the Quichua and Spanish reader might notice the local, non-standard aspects of the Saraguro varieties of Quichua and Spanish. The translations into English are my own and are based on my understanding of the local meaning of words and expressions. Each quotation is designated as either Quichua (/Q/) or Spanish (/S/), and is accompanied by its tape number (T #), or its field note number (FN #) and date. In describing her decision to use the past tense in her ethnographic description of literacy and schooling practices in a Mexican community of southern California, Concha Delgado-Gaitan (1990: 3) notes that because people and ‘their conditions changed so rapidly’, she felt it would be ‘an injustice to use the present tense for fear that the audience would interpret it [and them] in a static way’. Thus, in order ‘to depict the essence of the cultural process and change’, she opts for the use of the past tense throughout the text. Initially, I had intended to follow Delgado-Gaitan’s lead and to do the same. However, as I wrote, revised, and edited the text, I came to feel that consistent use of the past tense tended to portray the Saraguros, their language, culture and communities as obsolete. The invariable use of the past tense seemed to suggest that the unequal relations between the town whites and indigenous Saraguros, or the struggles to maintain Quichua in communities, for instance, had ceased to exist. Thus, in the effort to present the Saraguro communities as continuing to negotiate the remnants of their colonial past, yet at the same time, constantly changing, I employ both present and past tenses. I use the past tense when referring to specific actions and events that took place during my year of investigation in Saraguro, the present tense for general descriptions of the xi

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communities, the schools, the general patterns of interactions between whites and Saraguros, etc. Lastly, in accordance with the desires of study participants, some of their names have been altered to ensure their anonymity. The majority of participants, however, opted to have their names appear in the text. Their full names, as well as the names of communities, schools, and events are real.

Chapter 1

Language Revitalization The town meeting hall in the southern Ecuadorian highlands was filled beyond capacity. Women sat with their children on rows of small wooden benches; most of the men and the older boys stood to the sides and at the back, clustered near the entrance. After several delays, numerous speeches, and lengthy rounds of applause for the organizers of the event, the selection of the Sara Ñuesta (/Q/ ‘Corn Queen’) of Saraguro began. Each of the six teenage contestants, carefully clothed in her best and most traditional attire, was escorted to the stage by a teenage boy, also in traditional costume. While much of their clothing was just a finer, newer version of their everyday attire, all of the teenagers had exchanged their usual soft, felt hats for large, heavy ones made of pressed wool, typically worn only by the eldest Saraguros. And instead of their everyday sandals and athletic shoes, all were barefoot. Upon reaching the stage, contestants were asked the same five basic questions about themselves and their communities in Quichua, a language which was not their mother tongue. The questions had been given to the Spanishdominant contestants in advance so that they would have several days to prepare and practice their answers. Yet their responses clearly revealed their unfamiliarity with what has become, for most Saraguros, a second or foreign language. Some contestants stumbled through their answers, pausing after each Quichua word; others, unable to respond at all to the simplest questions about their name and age, awkwardly remained silent. Between presentations of the contestants, the event’s principal organizers (in fluent Spanish and halting Quichua) explained the benefits of knowing Quichua. Reasons ranged from the cultural importance of Quichua for Saraguros to the ‘proven superiority’ of Quichua as a computer programming language. While Quichua was clearly not the primary language of the contestants, the pronunciation and word choice of the event organizers indicated that they too spoke Quichua as a second language. Furthermore, the commotion and conversation during the Quichua monologues suggested that Quichua was also not a primary, nor even a fully comprehensible language for most of the audience. 1

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Language Revitalization

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Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects

The selection of the 1994 Saraguro ‘Corn Queen’ depended, to a large extent, on speaking a language no longer regularly used by most Saraguros. The annual contest is not a harvest ritual inherited by Saraguros from their Andean ancestors, but rather one of many events organized in recent years by Saraguros to display and promote what is perceived to be traditional Saraguro culture. These events, which might be described as exhibitions of ‘metaculture’ (Urban, 1993), focus on emblematic components of Saraguro ethnic identity. It is not surprising that language, as one of the more tangible aspects of identity, is frequently a central focus of public attention. This focus on language is particularly interesting given the position of the Saraguros. As the Saraguros have shifted from speaking primarily Quichua to speaking mostly Spanish, they have nonetheless retained their Saraguro ethnic identity, that is, they define themselves as indigenous and carefully mark themselves as such with locally and nationally recognized indigenous Saraguro apparel and hair styles. While clearly identifiable as Saraguros, this group is also part of the Quichua nation. The Quichua, with over two million members, are by far the most numerous of the ten indigenous nationalities in Ecuador. Yet the Saraguros are also one of a growing number of indigenous groups who face the possibility of losing their ancestral language as an oral channel of communication. In recent years, as it has become clear that most Saraguro communities are quickly approaching Spanish monolingualism, the decline in both Quichua competence and usage has increasingly become a source of concern and even embarrassment for many Saraguros. Concomitantly, as will be discussed in Chapter 2, in recent decades Saraguros have gained greater authority over their own schools and communities. Largely as a result of these two developments, many Saraguros, both individually and collectively, are attempting to use Quichua in new ways and to revitalize the language within their communities. These efforts and the communities in which they are embedded are the starting points for this study. More precisely, this book seeks to contribute to our understanding of language revitalization through analysis of language use and ethnic identity in two Saraguro communities. Drawing on long-term fieldwork in the region and detailed descriptions of school and community patterns of language use, language attitudes, and conceptions of ethnic identity, the book analyzes the socioeconomic, linguistic, and cultural processes that correspond with ‘positive,’ societal-level language shift.

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Basic Terms and Definitions Language revitalization is best conceptualized as one of several types of societal-level language shift. Perhaps the most well-known instance of language revitalization to date is the case of Hebrew, which in the period of 1880–1921 was transformed from a literary, scholarly, and liturgical language to a regularly spoken vernacular (Spolsky, 1995). Before delving into the discussion of language revitalization in detail, it is helpful to consider briefly three closely related terms: (1) language maintenance, (2) language loss or obsolescence, and (3) language death. Only in the context of these sister terms can the concept of language revitalization be fully understood. Language maintenance, quite simply, is the continued use of a language by a particular group. For more powerful, majority-language groups, this continuation of use is often a non-issue, and something of which most speakers are not conscious. Spanish speakers in Mexico or Spain, for example, might worry about speaking ‘good’ Spanish; they are not, however, concerned with the possible death or disappearance of the Spanish language. For less powerful, minority-language speakers in contrast, language maintenance tends to entail conscious effort and is often a collective goal in the face of adverse circumstances. Most definitions of language maintenance implicitly adopt the perspective of speakers of minority languages. Nahir (1984: 315), for example, defines language maintenance as the preservation of the use of a group’s native language, as a first or even as a second language, where political, social, economic, educational, or other pressures threaten or cause (or are perceived to threaten or cause) a decline in the status of the language as a means of communication, a cultural medium, or a symbol of group or national identity. Similarly, Marshall’s (1994: 24) definition also implies planned efforts in the face of adverse conditions, and emphasizes that language maintenance consists of efforts ‘to counteract slippage in number of speakers’. Hyltenstam and Stroud (1996: 568) argue that for the concepts of language maintenance or language shift even to be relevant in a particular context, two conditions must be met. First, there must exist a ‘contact situation between speech communities of two (or more) languages/varieties’. Second, there must be a ‘factual and/or perceived power differential or state of inequitable access to important resources (be they political, legislative, economic, educational, or cultural) between groups’. For

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Hyltenstam and Stroud, in other words, language maintenance is a salient term only when a group has both the opportunity and the incentive to collectively shift from one language to another. Thus, while language maintenance simply can refer to the continued use of a particular language by a specific group, the term also tends to imply that the group intentionally does so under socially, economically, or otherwise adverse conditions. Language loss, in contrast, means that a particular group ceases to maintain its language and that the ‘community gives up a language completely in favor of another one’ (Fasold, 1992: 213). As Dorian (1982: 46) has noted, this ‘gradual displacement of one language by another in the lives of the community members’ – often through the contraction in the number of speakers and domains of use – typically occurs ‘where there is a sharp difference in prestige and in the level of official support for the two (or more) languages concerned’. This process of language loss, which is often referred to by linguists as language obsolescence, ‘may result in the emergence of historically inappropriate morphology and/or phonological forms together with extensive borrowing’ (Brenzinger & Dimmendaal, 1992: 3). The end-point of language loss or obsolescence is language death (Jones, 1998a). Language death can be conceptualized in two ways. First, a language is said to have died when there are no longer any living speakers of that language. For example, the Yana language, indigenous to North America, is reported to have died with the death of its last and famous speaker, Ishi (Kroeber, 1961; Grinevald Craig, 1997). This is the most common way in which the term is used. However, the concept of language death can also be applied in a second manner: to describe the end result of language loss within a particular community. Fasold (1992: 213), for example, seems to adopt this second stance, defining language death as that which ‘occurs when a community shifts to a new language totally so that the old language is no longer used’. Applying the term in this second manner, many Saraguro communities can be said to be close to experiencing the death of Quichua. Despite the fact that Quichua (or related varieties of the language) is spoken by roughly ten million indigenous persons in Peru, Bolivia, and Ecuador, Quichua might well die out within the next two or three decades in the Saraguro region. Faced with the imminent possibility of language death, Saraguros have initiated efforts which seek to revitalize Quichua within their communities. Language revitalization can be defined as the attempt to add new forms or new functions to a language which is threatened with language loss or death, with the aim of increasing its uses and users. This definition will be

Language Revitalization

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discussed in greater detail later. For now, it is important to note that as it is defined here, language revitalization encompasses efforts not only to expand the linguistic system of an embattled minority language, but also to bring the language into new domains for new uses among new types of speakers.

Language Revitalization as a Field of Study The last decade has witnessed an explosion of interest in societal-level language shift in general and language revitalization in particular. When I first began to investigate language revitalization efforts in the early 1990s, there were few published works on the topic. Several excellent, indepth studies of language loss and language death had been published, most notably those of Gal (1979), Dorian (1981), and Hill and Hill (1986). However, there were only two works dedicated to the topic of language revitalization at that time. The first among these was Ellis and mac a’Ghobhainn’s The Problem of Language Revival, an early, inspirational, and insightful attempt to present a general introduction to ‘the task of cultural and linguistic revival,’ as well as to encourage speakers of Celtic languages to continue their struggles towards that end (Ellis & mac a’Ghobhainn, 1971: 9). A second important work appearing two decades later was Fishman’s Reversing Language Shift (1991), which provided policy-level overviews of 13 cases of language revitalization from around the globe. In addition to Ellis, mac a’Ghobhainn, and Fishman, a small number of other scholars had begun to direct their attention to issues related to language revitalization. As early as 1971, for example, John Macnamara assessed the successes and failures of the Irish restoration movement. Benton (1986) provided an early analysis of the roles of schools in language revival in Ireland and New Zealand; and Brandt and Ayoungman (1989) published a practical guide to language renewal and maintenance. While the 1970s and 1980s saw a handful of articles on language revitalization such as these (additional examples include Brandt, 1988; Dressler & Wodak-Leodolter, 1977), as both the severity and awareness of the problem of language loss and death intensified, interest in how ‘to do’ language revitalization correspondingly increased. This trend holds true among community-level activists, as well as academics. At the community level, it has often been the case that only as the last remaining native speakers of an ancestral language reach their final years, do members become sufficiently alarmed and motivated to begin arduous and intensive efforts to either archive or teach their native language (Huss,

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1999). Drawing from her study of Karelian, a threatened language of northwest Russia, Pyöli (1998: 129) notes that ‘paradoxically, some kind of ethnic awakening does not seem to arise among the minorities until the terminal stage of a language, when statistics already reflect the decline of minoritylanguage speakers’ (emphasis hers). Leanne Hinton (1994) documents how language revitalization efforts have developed in recent years among dozens of Native Californian groups, most of which have less than a dozen living speakers. For example, Wintu, an indigenous Californian language, has only six fluent speakers. For Wintu and other California Indian languages, the main hope for ‘rebuilding the fire’ rests with the Master–Apprentice Language Learning Program, which pairs older, fluent speakers of the threatened languages with young learners. These language learning ‘teams’ attempt to create an immersion experience in which the language is acquired through regular, intensive, and naturalistic sessions where the younger member of the pair informally converses with and elicits language from the elder native speaker (Hinton, 1994). As part of this program, for example, Florence Jones, a Wintu Indian doctor, works four times a week with her granddaughter and apprentice, Caleen Sisk-Franco, to pass on the Wintu language. The program seems to be successful not just in transmitting the language to new speakers, but also in enriching the lives and relationships of both the masters and the apprentices. For some members of the roughly 20 tribes which have participated in the program, the teams’ efforts have also renewed pride in their heritage and hope for the future (Hinton, 1998a). Yet, at the same time, in assessing the prospects for the survival of these languages, many of which have only a handful of speakers, it is hard not to wonder if this effort might be a case of ‘too little, too late’. And given the fact that none of California’s 50 indigenous languages is currently being learned in the home by children as a primary language (Hinton, 1998a), the prospects for the continued survival of these languages seem less than certain. At the academic level, only after multiple ‘doomsday’ predictions of the imminent loss of most of the world’s languages – at times followed by debate concerning whether the topic merited the attention of linguists at all (e.g. Dorian, 1993; Ladefoged, 1992) – did language revitalization begin to receive serious attention from the academic community and beyond. For those not directly witnessing language loss or language death in their own language communities, the dramatic quantitative picture of the future world linguistic landscape has perhaps been the most convincing ‘call to arms.’

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It is generally agreed that of the estimated 6000 languages on the planet, roughly half are either currently endangered or near extinction (Krauss, 1992a; Wurm, 1998). Within the United States and Canada, for instance, of the 210 indigenous languages still extant, about 86% are moribund, that is, no longer spoken by children (Krauss, 1998b). Furthermore, predictive calculations based on the number of ‘safe’ languages – those which enjoy official state support and relatively large numbers of speakers – suggest that by the year 2100, as many as 90% of the world’s languages could be either extinct or moribund (Krauss, 1992a). This estimate is further supported by recent data from the Summer Institute of Linguistics which indicate that there are 51 languages with only one remaining speaker and almost 500 languages with fewer than 100 speakers (Crystal, 1999). Indeed, given the fact that 96% of the world’s languages are spoken by only 4% of its people, it is hardly surprising that we are currently losing roughly one language every two weeks (Crystal, 1999; Geary, 1997). Turning to the linguistic situation in South America, it is estimated that 27% (110 of 400) of the continent’s indigenous languages are moribund (Krauss, 1992a). Yet despite the gravity of the situation, South America’s indigenous languages, when compared to the status of those on other continents, seem to be faring relatively well. For example, in Alaska and the Soviet North together, 90% (45 of 50) of the indigenous languages are moribund (Krauss, 1992a). However, the current relative numerical strength of indigenous languages in South America obfuscates the fact that many of the continent’s indigenous languages have already disappeared. As Adelaar (1991: 45) has observed, South America is home to a comparatively small number of languages which exhibit ‘unsurpassed genetic variety’, a fact which suggests that large numbers of languages have already been lost. Quichua, or Quechua as it is commonly known outside of Ecuador, is one South American language that has survived. Indeed, with more than ten million speakers, Quechua is presently the most widely spoken indigenous language on the continent. Yet Quechua is also a threatened language. After centuries of maintaining ‘an unchallenged position in a vast part of western South America, accompanied by an unprecedented expansion into areas where it had not been in use before, it is now rapidly losing ground’ (Adelaar, 1991: 50). Thus, although there are many ‘small’ indigenous languages with a few hundred speakers which are in danger of being lost altogether, ‘large’ indigenous languages, like Quechua, are also dwindling as speakers shift towards dominant, often national languages of wider currency. The evidence that Quechua is threatened – and in fact is quickly

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contracting – is apparent in varied types of data and across a range of contexts. In Peru, for example, figures from the official census reveal that Quechua monolingualism is steadily giving way to temporary, subtractive bilingualism in one generation, followed by Spanish monolingualism in the next (Hornberger & King, in press). As the percentage of Quechua monolinguals has declined (from 31% in 1940, to 17% in 1961, to 11% in 1982), the percentage of bilinguals has held almost constant, and the percentage of Spanish monolinguals has risen (from 50% in 1940, to 65% in 1961, to 72% in 1982) (von Gleich, 1992: 59). Data from Bolivia suggest a similar pattern of language shift. While 36.5% of the population reported using Quechua most frequently in 1950, only 25.7% did in 1976; during that same period, the number of Bolivians who reportedly used primarily Spanish doubled (from 26% in 1950 to 54.1% in 1976) (von Gleich, 1994: 90). Recent sociolinguistic studies in the Ecuadorian highlands also provide evidence that language shift is well underway. Haboud (1996: 175), for example, finds that the indigenous household, traditionally an exclusively Quichua domain, has largely become a ‘bilingual space,’ where at the expense of Quichua, Spanish is now regularly employed. Thus, for Quechua, as for so many languages around the globe, there are multiple and abundant indicators that the numbers of speakers are quickly dwindling. Of course, languages, as well as the social and cultural systems in which they operate, have never been static. This is true of the forms of a language, in terms of its phonological, morphological, lexical, and syntactic features, as well as the functions of the language, in terms of the number and kind of uses and users. Indeed, historical linguists correctly point out that language shift and language death are not new phenomena; the world’s languages have constantly changed and merged, sometimes disappearing altogether in the process. For example, while some Indo-European languages, such as Indo-Iranian and Latin thrived and diverged into some of the major modern languages of today, others, such as Anatolian and Tocharian, are now extinct. Yet while language loss is clearly not a new phenomenon, the present pattern of linguistic change is of an unprecedented nature, scale, and scope. The current process of shift is altogether distinct from the regular grammatical merger in language contact situations within confined geographic areas and among small communities which was common in the periods prior to the development of large nation-states (Hale, 1992). The current trend towards the replacement of thousands of local languages by a few world languages is part of a ‘much larger process of loss of cultural and intellectual diversity in which politically dominant languages and cultures

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simply overwhelm indigenous local languages and cultures, placing them in a condition which can only be described as embattled’ (Hale, 1992: 1). In recent years, ‘small’ languages have disappeared at both an unprecedented rate (in terms of the sheer numbers lost), and pace (in terms of the rapidity of the shift from one language to another) (Wurm, 1991). For many, the death of great numbers of languages represents an important loss to the intellectual and cultural diversity of the world. For such individuals, ‘each language is indissolubly tied up with a unique culture, literature, and world view, all of which represent the end point of thousands of years of human inventiveness’ (Diamond, 1993: 84). Or in Ezra Pound’s words, ‘the sum of human wisdom is not contained in any one language and no single language is capable of expressing all forms and degrees of human comprehension’ (in Crystal, 1999). Thus, for many, the loss of hundreds and thousands of languages represents an ‘intellectual catastrophe’ (Zepeda & Hill, 1991: 135). For others, however, the relationship between language and thought, and the necessity of linguistic survival for cultural maintenance remain far from clear, and the question of what should be done by whom remains open for debate. (See Ladefoged [1992] and Dorian [1993] for an example of how this debate has played out among academic linguists.) Sidestepping these contentious issues altogether, one might convincingly argue that language loss and revitalization merit our attention simply because an increasing number of groups have established revitalization of their native languages as a primary educational, cultural, and political goal. Hence, language death and language revitalization warrant attention because they are major concerns and the focus of substantial resources among many indigenous minority groups. The ample evidence that the world’s languages are quickly disappearing has attracted considerable attention in recent years. As the situation has become more desperate and action more urgent, academic and applied work in the area has intensified and there has been seemingly unprecedented collaboration across disciplines and interest groups. Such attention and effort are evidenced by the dramatic growth in the number of organizations, conferences, books, and journal articles dedicated to the topic of language loss in general, and to language revitalization efforts in particular. As Krauss (1998b: 110) has noted, since the early 1990s, ‘there has been a truly remarkable leap in interest and concern of academic linguists that so many languages are dying or are endangered’. Recent academic interest is evidenced by volumes such as Hinton’s Flutes of Fire (1994), which describes the struggles of California Indian groups to recapture their linguistic heritage; Hornberger’s edited volume,

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Indigenous Literacies in the Americas: Language Planning from the Bottom Up (1996), which is a compilation of articles addressing native language education efforts by indigenous and non-indigenous scholars; and Stabilizing Indigenous Languages (Cantoni, 1996), Teaching Indigenous Languages (Reyner, 1997), and Revitalizing Indigenous Languages (Reyner et al., 1999), edited volumes of conference papers. Other important publications include Grenoble and Whaley’s (1998a) edited volume, Endangered Languages: Current Issues and Future Prospects; a special edition of Anthropology and Education Quarterly, Authenticity and Identity: Lessons from Indigenous Language Education (1999) edited by Henze and Davis; and finally, a forthcoming book edited by Hale and Hinton, The Green Book: Language Revitalization in Practice. Examples of non-profit, advocacy organizations dedicated to language revitalization and language maintenance include Terralingua, the Endangered Language Fund, and the Foundation for Endangered Languages (See Table 1.1). Academic organizations concerned with endangered languages also have been formed since the early 1990s. For instance, in 1992, the Linguistic Society of America established a Committee on Endangered Languages and their Preservation. Initially chaired by Michael Krauss, the central goals of the committee are to influence ‘linguistics departments to increase interest and incentives for investigating and documenting [as well as] supporting the viability status especially of endangered or dying languages, and to providing more appropriate training’ towards this end (Krauss, 1998b: 111). With good reason, the majority of these academic efforts have been practically oriented. As so many languages are near extinction, there is a clear sense of urgency to do something quickly on their behalf. Many of the works listed here are the result of community activists, teachers, educational administrators, and academics coming together to share their experiences and ideas concerning community-based language revitalization. Not surprisingly, the final products tend to take the form of ‘hands-on’ reports of ‘what worked’ (or did not work) in a particular endangered language community. Documentation of these ventures undoubtedly proves useful and informative for those involved in revitalization efforts, and, indeed, often may save participants from the need to ‘re-invent the wheel’ while at the same time providing readers with a clear idea of the many challenges of language revitalization. There are, however, relatively few studies which examine the activities and the communities in which they are embedded from a sociolinguistic perspective, with an eye to understanding both the micro- and macro-level processes of positive language shift. Thus,

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Table 1.1 Selected language revitalization organizations Endangered Language Fund (http://sapir.ling.yale.edu/~elf/index.html) The Endangered Language Fund is devoted to the scientific study of endangered languages, the support of native efforts to maintain endangered languages, and the dissemination, to both the native communities and the scholarly world, of the fruits of these efforts. The fund provides grants for the preservation of the texts of a native culture, the preparation of videotaped instruction in the language, and the study and acquisition of a native language by its community members. Foundation for Endangered Languages (http://www.ogmios.org) The aims of the foundation are to raise awareness of endangered languages, support fieldwork with endangered languages, monitor policies and practices concerning endangered languages worldwide, and disseminate information about the above. The foundation has organized several international meetings concerning language endangerment and language revitalization, and publishes a newsletter, Ogmios, which is available on line. Institute for the Preservation of the Original Languages of the Americas (IPOLA) (http://www.collectorsguide.com/fa/fa059.shtml) The mission of IPOLA is to work with indigenous communities to preserve and perpetuate the indigenous languages of the Western hemisphere. In collaboration with indigenous community leaders, IPOLA facilitates programs in the areas of language education, information sharing, public awareness, and language preservation. Terralingua (http://cougar.ucdavis.edu/nas/terralin/home.html) Terralingua aims to preserve the world’s linguistic diversity while investigating the connection between biological and cultural survival. Goals include working with indigenous community leadership, as well as organizations of academic linguists, biologists, and anthropologists.

although we currently have numerous journal articles, conference papers, and book chapters which discuss educational and community efforts to revitalize threatened languages, there are relatively few attempts to systematically describe the processes which lie behind language revitalization or to analyze the sociolinguistic transformations which are part and parcel of the process of language revitalization. Given the imperiled state of

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so many of the world’s languages, the need to focus on the practical is extremely pressing. Yet it is also important to analyze the linguistic, socioeconomic, and cultural dynamics which underlie language revitalization. Greater exploration of these dynamics will not only enhance our understanding of societal-level language shift, but also likely prove valuable in planning sound language revitalization programs. One way to begin to study language revitalization systematically and perhaps gain insight into the processes which underlie it is to draw from three highly relevant fields of study: (1) language shift, the study of societal-level language change; (2) language planning, the study of efforts to influence the language behavior of others; and (3) the ethnography of communication, the study of community patterns of language use. These areas provide the theoretical framework for the study and now each are discussed in turn.

Language Shift Language revitalization rightly belongs within the sociolinguistic study of language shift. Yet language shift typically has been equated with societal or group-level language loss. For example, both Dorian (1982) and Fasold (1992) describe language shift as a negative, subtractive phase, which ultimately leads to language death. However, it is also possible – and profitable – to conceptualize language shift as positive or negative, referring to either the gain or loss of a group’s language, and thus encompassing all societal-level processes of language change. In everyday English, ‘to shift’ means to ‘change direction’ (MerriamWebster, 1999). Applying this definition to the present discussion, language shift might be towards recouping or reinvigorating use of the native tongue on the one hand, or away from and it and towards a new language, on the other. In a similar vein, Kaplan and Baldauf (1997: 284), with reference to borrowing or eliminating foreign lexicon, note that language shift ‘may occur in either direction, either purging [minimizing] or enhancing [maximizing] the influence of a particular language’. Thus, language shift is a term that, at least in theory, is as applicable to language revitalization as it is to language loss. Yet perhaps due to the fact that there seem to be many more instances of ‘negative’ than ‘positive’ language shift, since its inception, the field has been dominated by studies of language loss (Fishman, 1990), a point returned to later. The study of language shift dates back roughly three decades. Perhaps not surprisingly given the interdisciplinary and multi-faceted nature of the topic, it has been approached somewhat differently by linguists,

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sociolinguistics, and anthropologists. Each of these varied approaches is now outlined. Language shift from a linguistic perspective From a linguistic perspective, scholars have been concerned primarily with the identification of structural changes which languages undergo during the process of obsolescence, largely through the comparison of the ‘deviant language production of imperfect final-speakers with the language production of fully proficient speakers’ (Dorian, 1999: 99). Studies within this line of research have tended to focus on the processes of ‘contraction, reduction, simplification, and loss’ (Dorian, 1999). In recent years, interest in these processes has extended to investigations of the relationship between additive and subtractive language processes (Hyltenstam & Viberg, 1993). For instance, scholars have long been interested in the ‘regression hypothesis’, which maintains that the process of language loss is the converse of language acquisition, or in other words, ‘that what is lost first is what is learned last’ (Grinevald Craig, 1997: 260). An addition line of research has focused on the extent to which language loss might be considered the reverse of language contact processes such as pidginization or creolization (e.g. Bickerton, 1980; Trudgill, 1976). While the relationships outlined here are far from understood, linguists have made considerable progress in the identification of the widespread, if not universal, structural changes that dying languages undergo. First, at the lexical level, the existence of high numbers of borrowed items from the more prestigious contact language has been well documented (Garzon, 1992; Hill & Hill, 1977). A second common feature of obsolescing languages is the loss of morphological features. For example, Dorian found that some speakers of Sutherland Gaelic no longer used the conditional or future verb morphology (Dorian, 1999). Similarly, Hill (1983), in her study of the loss of Tlazcalan Nahuatl, documents the erosion of honorific and referential markers on verbs and nouns. A third shared feature of dying languages is the loss of certain syntactic constructions (Grinevald Craig, 1997). Schmidt (1985), for instance, found that young speakers of Dyirbal, an aboriginal language of Australia, exhibited a ‘breakdown in agreement rules in the noun phrase and verb complex’ (Dorian, 1999: 100). A further example of syntactic reduction is the widespread tendency for obsolescing languages (e.g. Cupeño, Trinidad Bhojpuri, East Sutherland Gaelic, Dyirbal) to exhibit a reduction in the frequency of relative clauses (Hill, 1989). In addition to documenting these common structural changes, studies of the linguistic processes of language shift yield a further insight: while language change is a process which is constantly occurring in all

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languages, a key difference among obsolescing languages is the rate of change. As Dorian (1981: 154) observes: ‘the types of changes in formal language structures…are not notably different from those well established in the study of language change in general. But the time span for change seems to be compressed…and the amount of change seems relatively large’. Language shift from a macro-sociolinguistic perspective From a different angle, sociologists concerned with language have tended to view language shift as a function of social, economic, and to a lesser extent, cultural factors. Within this second paradigm, societal-level language change is understood to be the result of factors such as shifting economic incentives and political systems or surges in ethnic consciousness. For example, Fishman (1964), in an early and influential article on language shift and language maintenance, suggested that societal-level language change is linked with important sociological shifts, such as migration or industrialization. Since Fishman’s article first appeared more than three decades ago, many additional case studies of language loss have been published. Yet their conclusions do not differ dramatically. As Fasold (1992: 217) notes, ‘there is a tendency for language shift to be attributed to the same causes in study after study.’ These typically include industrialization, education, urbanization, and most recently, access to communications technology (Colin Baker, personal communication, 25 August 1999). It is not surprising that factors such as these are typically cited as causes of language shift since they often either incite or coincide with dramatic social change within the region or language community. In Peru, for example, ‘the percentage of Quechua and Aymara speakers in the total population has diminished drastically during the last four decades’ (Adelaar, 1998). This shift towards Spanish and away from indigenous languages is often explained as the result of the widespread migration from the (traditionally Aymara and Quechua-speaking) Andean highlands to (mainly Spanish-speaking) Peruvian coastal cities (von Gleich, 1994). After migration to urban areas, Quechua speakers often find themselves in close contact with speakers of Spanish, who not only provide an opportunity to learn the language, but often make highlanders keenly aware of the occupational, educational, and social benefits of doing so. In their new urban environments, rural highlanders might also find greater need to use Spanish on a daily basis, at school, at work, or in their community. Thus, to oversimplify matters somewhat, migration provides both strong incentives, as well as increased opportunities to learn and use Spanish, often at the expense of Quechua.

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Yet while numerous studies have documented the important role that demographic, economic, and sociological factors play in societal-level language change, this approach often leads to post hoc explanations which assign responsibility to different variables after the change has taken place. As numerous scholars have pointed out (e.g. Fasold, 1992; Gal, 1979; Grenoble & Whaley, 1998b; Kulick, 1992), as of yet we have no model which allows us to predict language change a priori. This is a significant detraction from such an approach. For if we are unable to accurately predict language shift through use of present theories or models, we should be extremely wary of post hoc explanations generated by them. Furthermore, while academics have argued that factors such as migration and education often play a role in instigating or furthering language loss, this overly simple causal relationship tends to mask the fact that there are also numerous and intriguing ‘divergences from the typical scenario for language loss: individual speech communities which have resisted language shift against all expectations, as well as regions of the world which do not fit smoothly in the general picture’ (Grenoble & Whaley, 1998b: 22). Kulick, for instance, describes a community of Papua New Guinea which rapidly shifted away from the local, traditional vernacular, Taiap, towards Tok Pisin, the language of regional and wider communication. Despite the rapid shift from one language to another, Kulick (1992) argues that commonly cited macro-sociological factors, such as urbanization or industrialization, were nearly absent from the context and thus do not adequately explain the shift. Similarly, Lanoue (1991: 87) describes how the Sekani, a Native American group of Northern British Columbia, have shifted to English despite the fact that there is little direct ‘contact with Euro-Canadians and no particular advantages, in terms of adaptation to the new economic regime, in doing so.’ Currently, then, we have no comprehensive model that can accurately assess or predict whether a particular language will expand or contract. Such a model would not only provide a means of organizing relevant variables, but a system for weighing them, both individually and collectively, in order to predict the outcome of a particular sociolinguistic situation. However, the fact that such a model does not exist does not mean that there have not been attempts to formulate one. Indeed, since the early 1990s, the development of this sort of model has been of interest to many leaders in the field. Fishman (1990: 1991), for example, proposes an eight-step typology for the assessment of threatened languages, known as the Graded Intergenerational Dislocation Scale (GIDS). Fishman’s scale is designed to provide a means of assessing (1) the status of a language, (2) the prospects

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for intergenerational transmission of the language, and by implication, (3) the level of success of efforts to maintain and revitalize the language. In addition, the GIDS is also a heuristic device, or in Fishman’s (1990: 18) words, a ‘graded series of reversing language shift priorities for analysis of the process’. The GIDS consists of eight stages of language shift divided into two periods: those before, and those after diglossia has been achieved. Initially, during the first and ‘weakest’ stages, the efforts are aimed at achieving stable diglossia within the community and consist of reconstructing, promoting, and teaching the language in the home and community domains. Subsequent to the attainment of diglossia, ‘strong’ efforts focus on extending the language to uses beyond intimate settings, bringing it into local, regional, and national work spheres, the mass media, and governmental services, including the public schools. Fishman (1991) points out, however, that the stages are non-linear, and it is possible, and often beneficial, to engage simultaneously in both ‘strong’ and ‘weak’ efforts. Taking a slightly different approach, Hyltenstam and Stroud (1991; 1996: 569) present a thorough study of the ‘extra-linguistic framing conditions that might propel a speech community along the path of language shift or impede such a shift.’ Their framework details factors at three levels: (1) those which describe the relationship between the minority and majority speech community (e.g. economic conditions, educational systems, political, and legal situations); (2) those which refer to the speech community itself (e.g. demographic factors and language characteristics); and (3) those which characterize individual members of the speech community (e.g. patterns of language choice, patterns of child language socialization). In their framework, both within and across the three levels, these factors interact ‘in various ways to promote language maintenance or contribute to the tip of scales in favor of a language shift’ (Hyltenstam & Stroud, 1996: 570). Another attempt at a comprehensive model is Edwards’ (1992) typology of endangered languages. In contrast to Hyltenstam and Stroud’s model, Edwards groups factors along two parameters or dimensions. At the first level, Categorization A, are 11 ‘perspectives’ by which different groups can be characterized, such as demography, linguistics, and education (Edwards, 1992: 49). The second level, Categorization B, identifies the scope over which the A-variables might be applied: Speakers, Language, and Setting. Combined together, these two categories produce a table of 33 cells, with each cell targeting a specific aspect of the speakers, the language or the setting. Like that of Hyltenstam and Stroud, Edwards’ model, with separate columns for the Speakers and the Language on the one hand, and

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Setting on the other, allows for a distinction between features of the individual speech community (micro-variables) and features of the broader national and regional context (macro-variables). For Edwards, macro-variables are most useful in identifying factors which pose a potential threat to minority languages at a regional level; micro-variables, in contrast, are characteristics of the particular speech community which determine how these external changes play out at the community level. It is here, at the level of micro-variables, where one can begin to account ‘for how differences in the rate, outcome, and reversibility’ of different language-shift cases come about (Grenoble & Whaley, 1998b: 28). While the models of Fishman (1990; 1991), Hyltenstam and Stroud (1991; 1996), and Edwards (1992) provide an outline of the factors which are important for language survival across contexts, as well as suggestions concerning how these factors might best be organized or prioritized, we still have limited understanding of how they should be weighted individually and measured together to form a comprehensive model. And although these and other attempts to devise a model which predicts language shift have made important strides, sociolinguists are still quite far from developing a model which can not just offer post hoc explanations, but can also systematically predict societal-level language shift. While these models are problematic in that they are still rather crude and inaccurate instruments, a final unsettling issue which merits discussion stems from the predictions which result from the application of these models. Leena Huss, for instance, notes that speakers of threatened languages of the Arctic North have reacted bitterly to the forecasts of imminent language death by outside academics (personal communication, 29 January 1999). While predictions concerning the sustainability of threatened languages can serve as a ‘call to arms’ for speakers of those languages, there is also the dangerous possibility that such predictions become selffulfilling prophecies which serve to hasten the decline of those languages. Language shift from an anthropological perspective Susan Gal (1979: 3) argued more than two decades ago that a satisfactory understanding of language shift would not be gained by building larger and more complex models such as those outlined previously, but rather through placing language shift ‘within a broader framework of expressive and symbolically used linguistic variation.’ Such an approach to language shift has been adopted by linguistically oriented anthropologists (or in Dorian’s case, anthropologically oriented linguists), most notably Gal (1979), Dorian (1981), and Kulick (1992). These works are part of the move away from attempts to uncover universal explanatory factors and towards

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the conceptualization of language shift as the result of changes in individual and group values and goals (Kulick, 1992). Within this anthropological framework, ‘the study of language shift becomes the study of a people’s conceptions of themselves in relation to one another and to their changing social world, and of how those conceptions are encoded by and mediated through language’ (Kulick, 1992: 9). This approach has greatly contributed to our understanding of the processes of language loss and language death. One of the earliest works in this tradition is Gal’s (1979) study of language shift in Austria. In tracing the rise of German and concomitant fall of Hungarian in Oberwart, Austria, Gal finds a critical shift around the period of the Second World War. For hundreds of years prior to that period, peasants in the region were bilingual in German and Hungarian. With the influx of higher class, Germanspeaking migrants in the early half of the 20th century, however, German became strongly associated with the upper social classes; Hungarian, nevertheless, retained its status and prestige as an ethnic symbol for Oberwart peasants, who were still able to support themselves primarily through agricultural work. Prior to the Second World War, German and Hungarian language identities co-existed, each with its own prestige and domains of use. After the Second World War, the changing local economy and the rise of industry and commerce undermined this equilibrium. Participation in the formal economy became more attractive to many Hungarian-speaking peasants; this participation exclusively required knowledge of German. Soon, German became associated with the wage-earning working class, Hungarian with poor, peasant life. Thus, German remained, as always, the language of the local elite and of wage work, while Hungarian lost its prestigious connotations and was linked primarily with peasant status. This, occurring at the time that peasant status was being stigmatized not only by the German speaking upper classes of Oberwart, but by bilingual workers themselves contributed to the shift. (Gal, 1979: 171) What is important to note is that while certainly macro-sociological factors played an important role in the shift, the emphasis of Gal’s study is on how these changes were conceptualized by community members, how their perceptions of (desirable) identity were altered, and how these changes concerning identity ultimately led the population to shift towards German and away from Hungarian. Another well-known study of language shift is Nancy Dorian’s (1981) investigation of a Scottish Gaelic dialect. The dialect has an unusual

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history. In the early part of the 19th century, agricultural landlords removed Gaelic-speaking peasants in order to use the land for sheepherding, an emerging and highly profitable industry. The peasants were relocated to the coastal regions and told to become fishermen. Despite their lack of training or experience with the trade – but not without considerable hardship, many of the highlanders did just that. The ‘Fisherfolk,’ as they came to be known, lived in a separate part of the town, referred to as ‘Fishertown,’ and mingled little with long-term residents. Dorian notes that the distinctiveness of this group was not a result of their use of Gaelic, but of their unique occupation and refugee status. From these facts, ‘the rest of the distinguishing ethnic features arose: residential segregation, endogamy, distinctive occupation, and of course, ultimately also distinctive language’ (Dorian, 1981: 54). The Fisherfolk were extremely socially stigmatized; in interviews with Dorian, both members and non-members concurred that the Fisherfolk were ‘no class’ and ‘inferior’ (p. 61). As most of the town was English monolingual, Gaelic became the primary symbol of this ethnic identity. Their separate occupational sphere both ‘protected’ their particular dialect, and simultaneously, ‘prevented’ them from learning English (p. 102). Yet, as in many other cases of language shift, when the opportunity to socially advance and integrate arrived, members seized it and quickly began to move away from Gaelic and towards English monolingualism. For the Fisherfolk, this began after the First World War, when the fishing industry declined, and members were forced to seek other jobs which brought them into closer contact with non-Fisherfolk in the region. Quickly, Gaelic shifted from the language of occupational, familial, and community domains, to a restricted position limited to the home domain. By the late 1970s, even this domain was threatened, as parents tended to use both languages in the home, a situation which seemed to bode poorly for the future of the language. Don Kulick’s (1992) investigation of linguistic and cultural change in the small community of Gapun, in the Sepik region of Papua New Guinea, provides another detailed case study of language shift. During the time of his study, Gapun, a small village of roughly 100 people, was extremely isolated, surrounded on all sides by swamps and rain forests. Villagers had long spoken a language known as Taiap, only used by Gapun members. ‘Since the late 1970s, however, the number of people who [spoke] Taiap [had] been getting smaller, despite the fact that the village population [was] the largest within memory’ (Kulick, 1992: 7). Although all adults desired that their children learn and use Taiap, at the time of the study, no village children under the age of ten actively used Taiap and some seemed not to

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even understand it. The village, despite its relative isolation from outside influence, was in the midst of a rapid language shift towards Tok Pisin, a language that was originally a pidgin language, but now in wide use at the national level. Kulick (1992: 17) argues that ‘the conceptions that people have about language, children, the self, and the place of these in those people’s interpretation of their social world are central to an understanding of why they come to abandon their language’. Accordingly, the reasons behind the shift away from Taiap and towards Tok Pisin, Kulick finds, are extremely complicated, and not so much economic or sociological, but rather ‘cosmological’ (p. 249). Villagers believed that a new and better way of life was imminent. The arrival of white men in New Guinea was a harbinger of this new lifestyle. Indeed, ‘their presence in New Guinea came to be understood in terms of an impending metamorphosis that would transform every aspect of the villagers’ lives, including their physical beings’ (1992: 249). Villagers associated Tok Pisin, the language of the white men, with this new future, and believed that acquisition of Tok Pisin would accelerate the changes needed, such as the construction of the new road, to bring about this new way of life. For two or three decades, Tok Pisin was spoken only by village men who had returned from work outside the community. Around the Second World War, village women began to actively use the language amongst themselves and with their children. In analyzing how and why villagers shifted away from their traditional language, Kulick (1992: 17) places emphasis on the importance of the ‘villagers’ own ideas about their world and on how the ways in which they have made sense of their changing world have come to affect the ways they use language’. Aside from offering rich and detailed descriptions of community-level, linguistic and cultural change, each of these studies makes a substantial contribution in part because the authors demonstrate how the macro-level societal factors, such as migration or economic change translate into microor community-level shifts in language use. These studies, then, address not just why, but how language shift has occurred. In doing so, investigations such as these provide great insights not only into the macro-sociological factors which seem to positively correlate with language shift, but into the cultural and linguistic mechanisms by which these factors impinge on and influence the interactional patterns of community members. Critical to note, however, is the fact that studies such as these have focused almost exclusively on ‘negative,’ societal-level language shift, that is the process of language loss and language death. Consequently, we have a limited understanding of the social, cultural, and economic processes that are part of ‘positive,’ societal-level language shift. One volume that has

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begun to address this gap in the literature is Maguire’s (1991) study of a community-based language revival effort in Belfast. Maguire provides a rich description of the historic development of the group’s efforts to construct a space where children would be socialized in the home, school, and community in Irish. However, although the author’s account is detailed and at places inspirational, she does not, as one reviewer notes, base her study in careful description and analysis (Edwards, 1993). While Maguire’s work has many strengths, a careful sociolinguistic analysis which would allow the reader to compare the work with other cases in the literature is perhaps not one of them. Further investigation in this area is clearly needed. Building on previous work in the field and addressing this gap in the literature on language shift, this book seeks to add to our growing understanding of societal-level shift in general, and contribute to our fledgling knowledge of the processes that underlie language revitalization in particular. In the effort to do so, I analyze language shift and language revitalization among one particular group, the Saraguros of the southern Ecuadorian highlands. I describe language use patterns in the home, schools, and community; language attitudes of members; and efforts to teach the language both formally and informally. Like the volumes by authors such as Gal (1979), Dorian (1981), and Kulick (1992) described earlier, I attempt to uncover both why and how language shift takes place by illuminating patterns of language use, as well as how these patterns are connected to the group’s conceptions of their ethnic identity and their socioeconomic position. In order to best do so, the study adopts an approach which has come to be known as the ethnography of communication. Before addressing this area however, it is beneficial to first step back and consider language revitalization from a policy and planning perspective.

Language Planning A second area of study that frames the investigation of language revitalization in Saraguro is language planning. Language planning ‘refers to deliberate efforts to influence the behavior of others with respect to the acquisition, structure, or functional allocation of their language codes’ (Cooper, 1989: 43). Language planning, then, involves conscious, deliberate, and organized attempts to influence language use or language structure. As Kaplan and Baldauf (1997: 3), drawing from Rubin and Jernudd (1971), emphasize, ‘language planning involves deliberate, although not always overt, future-oriented change in systems of language code and/or speaking in a societal context’ (emphasis theirs). As these definitions

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suggest, language planning traditionally has been conceived of as a ‘topdown’ affair conducted by ‘language planners.’ At the beginning of this chapter I argued that language revitalization, like language loss, is a type of societal-level language shift. However, it is also the case that the planned nature of language revitalization differentiates it from other types of language shift. Language maintenance and revitalization definitions frequently connote a planned effort, or indeed, explicit language planning (e.g. Fasold, 1992; Fishman, 1991; Leap, 1981; Marshall, 1994). As Brandt and Ayoungman (1989: 44) state, ‘language renewal requires language planning activity’. In contrast, language shift and death are typically conceptualized as changes which ‘just happen’ to a group of speakers, a community, or a language variety. This difference is reminiscent of the contrast made by Ferguson (1968) in his discussion of the distinctions between the study of language change (which happens naturally, without conscious intervention) and language planning (which involves initiative, organization, and often institutional planning). However as McCarty et al. (1993: 3) remind us, the use of the word ‘natural’ is deceptive; language loss is ‘not a “natural” process, but is a function of asymmetrical power relations and ideologies of domination and control’ (1999: 3). Nevertheless, the point here is that the planned nature of language revitalization clearly plants it within the field of language planning (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997). Corpus planning, status planning and acquisition planning Language planning encompasses three areas: corpus planning, status planning, and acquisition planning. As Hornberger (1994) observes, while the term ‘language planning’ dates back to Haugen’s (1959) study of language standardization in Norway, the first use of the now widely recognized status planning/corpus planning distinction was by Kloss (1969) a decade later. Corpus planning has been defined as ‘those aspects of language planning which are primarily linguistic and hence internal to the language’ (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997: 38). In other words, corpus planning consists of ‘those efforts related to the adequacy of the form or structure of the language’ (Hornberger, 1994: 78). Typical corpus planning goals include, for example, modernization of the lexicon or graphization of a previously unwritten language. Status planning, in contrast, ‘can be defined as those aspects of language planning which reflect primarily social issues and concerns and hence are external to the language(s) being planned’ (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997: 30). In slightly different terms, status planning might be considered to be ‘those efforts directed toward the allocation of function of languages’ in a given

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speech community (Hornberger, 1994: 78). For instance, common status planning aims include officialization of a language, or the promotion of a language (such as Esperanto) for international communication. Thus, while corpus planning concerns the language as a linguistic system, status planning addresses the uses of a language. The third area of language planning, acquisition planning, was developed conceptually by Cooper in the late 1980s. Cooper (1989) argued that because so many language planning efforts focus on language spread or on the users of the language, yet fall outside of the domains of both status and corpus planning, it was a necessary addition to the field. Acquisition planning efforts target the (potential or actual) users of the language, including ‘efforts to influence the allocation of users or the distribution of languages,’ most often through the creation or improvement of opportunities or incentives to learn them (Hornberger, 1994: 78). Examples of acquisition planning include attempts to create or improve opportunities or incentives to acquire a language through its promotion in school, mass media or work spheres. Language revitalization defined Language revitalization, as I define it, is the attempt to add new linguistic forms or social functions to an embattled minority language with the aim of increasing its uses or users. More specifically, language revitalization, as conceptualized here, encompasses efforts which might target the language structure, the uses of the language, as well as the users of the language. To use language planning terminology, language revitalization might entail corpus planning, status planning, as well as acquisition planning. More generally, this definition of language revitalization can be seen as extending Stewart’s (1968: 536) early concept of language vitality, which he defined as ‘use of the linguistic system by an unisolated community of native speakers’. Language revitalization is thus the process of moving towards renewed vitality of the threatened language. Somewhat similarly, although more focused on home–family use of the threatened language, Spolsky (1995: 178) views language revitalization as a process of restoring vitality which may add both a new set of speakers and a new function, spreading the language to babies and young children who become its native speakers… At the same time, it adds the functions associated with the domain of home and family, resulting in various kinds of informal and intimate language use and the related emotional associations of the language.

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Spolsky’s definition – specifically his focus on the restoration of the language as a mother tongue – holds much in common with Fishman’s concept of reversing language shift, outlined later. Paulston et al. (1993: 276) define language revitalization as the act of ‘imparting new vigor to a language still in use, most commonly through the expansion of domains’. While their definition, like my own outlined earlier, includes efforts to move the language into new domains for new uses, it excludes overt attempts to introduce the language to new speakers, as well as the addition of new forms of the language, both of which seem to be important aspects of language revitalization efforts. Language revitalization is, of course, closely related to Fishman’s (1990; 1991) term, reversing language shift (RLS), and other similar designations, including language revival and language renewal. These terms are not applied consistently in the literature, and are often used interchangeably. Conversely, as illustrated by Table 1.2, the same term frequently is employed to describe quite different phenomena and circumstances. For instance, while two of the definitions of language revival (Dorian, 1994; Paulston et al., 1993) imply that the language must be ‘dead’ (i.e. with no remaining native speakers), Leap (1981) and Marshall (1994) use the same term to refer to situations where the language is merely threatened. Of all of the similar and often over-lapping terms, perhaps the most well known and widely used is Fishman’s reversing language shift (RLS). First and foremost, RLS aims to reinstate intergenerational transmission of a particular language-in-culture pattern (Fishman, 1991). In Fishman’s view, restoration of a threatened language entails reinstating it in the home as the primary language of parent–child communication. As Fishman emphasizes throughout his writings on the topic, all efforts which fall short of this critical aim are short-term gains which merely bide time before the inevitable loss of the language; for him, the only real, lasting, and significant gain is reinstatement of mother-tongue transmission of the language. Although the expansion of use of the language into new domains might well be an important aspect of the process of RLS, the primary and critical aim is reinstatement of home and family transmission of the language. Language revitalization differs from Fishman’s conception of language shift reversal in that it is does not necessarily focus on the reinstatement of mother-tongue transmission. Language revitalization efforts often do not set reinstatement of mother-tongue transmission as the primary or essential goal, but rather, as the definition suggests, attempt to promote new uses of the language and to increase the number of users of the language, often expanding it to new domains. Similarly, Paulston et al. (1993: 281)

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Table 1.2 Definitions of ‘positive’ societal-level language shift Language revival

‘The act of reviving a language that was no longer used by any native speakers’ (Paulston et al., 1993: 276) Reviving a language that is ‘no longer spoken as a vernacular’ (Dorian, 1994: 481) ‘Instances where members of a speech community are trying to revive a fluency which already exists; as well as instances where people want to strengthen existing competence and expand the uses to which knowledge of the language can be directed’ [consisting of] ‘deliberately planned activities which result from conscious decision making about local language needs and possible ways to resolve them’ (Leap, 1981: 211) ‘The adding of new domains, even before absorbing speakers of another language’ (Marshall, 1994: 24).

Language revitalization

‘Imparting new vigor to a language still in limited use, most commonly by increased use through the expansion of domains’ (Paulston et al., 1993: 276) ‘The restoration of vitality (to use the term coined by Stewart [1968] to refer to use as a native language) to a language that had lost or was losing this attribute [which may add] both a new set of speakers and a new function, spreading the language to babies and young children who become its native speakers… At the same time, it adds the functions associated with the domain of home and family, resulting in various kinds of informal and intimate language use and the related emotional associations of the language’ (Spolsky, 1995: 178)

Language shift reversal

‘Assistance to speech communities whose native languages are threatened because their intergenerational continuity is proceeding negatively with fewer and fewer users or uses every generation’ (Fishman, 1991: 1) Attempts ‘to foster, to attain, to assist a particular language in culture content and pattern’ (Fishman, 1991: 17) ‘Turning about of present trends in a language’ (Paulston et al., 1993: 281)

Language renewal

‘An organized adult effort to ensure that at least some members of a group whose traditional language has a steadily declining number of speakers will continue to use the language and will promote its being learned by others in the group’ (Otto, 1982; in Brandt & Ayoungman, 1989: 43)

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note that ‘unlike revitalization, reversal does not focus on the process of expansion of domains (although expansion may be a result).’ Thus, while restoration of familial transmission might be a desirable goal for many language revitalization efforts, the scope of language revitalization, in a sense, is broader. Language revitalization efforts can be understood as not necessarily attempting to bring the language back to former patterns of familial usage, but rather to bring the language forward to new users and uses. Throughout the book, this difference is apparent in the description of the new uses and users of Quichua among the Saraguros. Indeed, the use of Quichua during the Sara Ñuesta contest described at the beginning of the chapter is one of many examples of the ways the language is being brought into new domains by new users as Saraguros attempt to revitalize Quichua. And as will be clear in the chapters which follow, Saraguros are engaged in a process which is best described and defined as language revitalization rather than reversing language shift. Language revitalization in language planning frameworks In the previous sections the argument was made that the overt and intentional nature of language revitalization distinguishes it from other types of language shift and plants the topic firmly within the field of language planning. Thus, unlike most instances of language loss or language death, language revitalization cases can be potentially analyzed, as well as informed and guided, by concepts and theory from the field of language planning. For example, language revitalization cases, at least theoretically, can be analyzed using a general model of language planning processes such as that proposed by Haugen (1983). Haugen suggests that there are four stages or types of language planning activities: (1) language selection – which focuses on the development of language policy; (2) language codification – which focuses on the development of a formal linguistic system and literary norms; (3) language implementation – which aims to put into place the policies and practices needed to support the new policy; and (4) elaboration – which focuses on the ‘functional development of that language’ (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997: 43). While any language planning case might be dissected and analyzed using Haugen’s four stages, for reasons which will become apparent in the following chapters, language revitalization efforts in Saraguro do not easily fit into such top-down models or frameworks.

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Because language revitalization efforts in Saraguro have not originated with a central planning body, but rather have developed from multiple sources in both private and public arenas, efforts are better understood in a descriptive framework such as Cooper’s. From a more recent and slightly different tradition than Haugen, Cooper (1989) has proposed a general accounting scheme for the study of language planning which is perhaps better suited for language revitalization cases. Condensed here, Cooper’s scheme consists of eight components: (1) What actors (2) attempt to influence what behaviors (3) of which people (4) for what ends (5) under what conditions (6) by what means (7) through what decision making process (8) with what effect? (Cooper, 1989) In the chapters that follow the description of language use in the schools and communities, we will step back and selectively apply this language planning framework in order to more effectively analyze language revitalization in Saraguro. In doing so an important distinction will become clear: while some language revitalization efforts seek to restore the language to its previous position in the community, others aim to transform the language by promoting its use in new ways among new types of speakers (Bentahila & Davies, 1993). Before delving into this discussion however, it is necessary to consider the theoretical framework for the description of language use among Saraguros.

Ethnography of Communication The third and final area of study that frames the investigation of language revitalization in Saraguro is the ethnography of communication. The present study is concerned with understanding the processes of positive, societal-level language shift, largely through the description and analysis of community patterns of language use. Given this intent, the study falls squarely within a tradition of scholarship known as the ethnography of communication. The ethnography of communication has been described as a sub-discipline of anthropology and linguistics (Saville-Troike, 1996). Like all disciplines, it consists of particular content knowledge, as well as methods for discovering that knowledge. While the specifics of the research methods employed in this study are discussed in detail in Chapter 2, the theoretical framework and general research approach of the field are addressed here. The ethnography of communication is concerned principally with ‘how communicative situations and events are organized and with how patterns

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in communication interrelate in a systematic way – and derive meaning from – other aspects of culture’ (Saville-Troike, 1996: 353). While the study of interaction is an important means of gathering data, the ethnography of communication differs from micro-ethnography, discourse analysis, and conversational analysis in that the focus is not on analyzing one or two communicative events in fine detail, but on identifying the rules and patterns of communication among a particular group. As Saville-Troike (1996: 354–5) explains, the ethnography of communication is concerned with communicative conventions which operate at a societal level, for example, with regular patterns and constraints that occur in relation to communicative functions, categories of talk, and attitudes about languages and their speakers and with the use of these rules to affect social and cultural outcomes. As such, analysis is typically not limited to one or two individuals or one or two events, but rather encompasses description of a range of interactions among a larger social group, often referred to as a speech community. Speech community The focus of study for the ethnographer of communication traditionally has been the speech community, a term which itself merits some discussion. Speech communities have been defined as a group of speakers who participate ‘in a shared set of norms’ regarding the evaluation of language forms and use (Labov, 1972: 120–1). Labov, applying his own definition, for example, would view New York City as one united speech community since members evaluate the level of prestige of each other’s speech using the same norms. Hymes (1972), in contrast, maintains that the defining characteristic of a speech community is that members share the rules not just for interpreting language, but for using it. Applying Hymes’ definition, New York City would probably be considered too diverse, not only in terms of the number of different languages and language varieties employed, but also in the divergent rules for using them to be considered one speech community. Both of these definitions delineate linguistic criteria for membership in the speech community. However, there is another approach that merits consideration. Saville-Troike (1989: 17) has argued that ‘since patterns of language use and interpretation, rules of speaking, and attitudes concerning language are part of the product of ethnographic investigation, it is circular to use them as basic criteria for defining a group to study’. She maintains that in order to minimize circularity, ethnographers of communication should define their speech communities of study using non-

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linguistic criteria, such as those based on political boundaries or geography. ‘From this perspective, patterns of language use do not define a community to be investigated, but their description is part of the outcome of an ethnographic study which focuses on a community selected according to non-linguistic criteria’ (p. 18). This is the approach adopted in the present study. While understanding community-level patterns of language use is a primary goal, the communities under investigation are not defined by these patterns. As detailed in the chapter which follows, the speech communities studied here are politically recognized and geographically delineated comunidades (‘communities’ /S/). Communicative acts, events, and situations Unlike some of the well-known sociolinguistic studies of language use and language change that focus on pronunciation patterns, such as when which types of speakers ‘drop their gs’ (e.g. ‘she is talkin’ for ‘she is talking’) (Labov, 1966), or ‘drop their ss’ (e.g. ‘she talk’ for ‘she talks’) (Holmes, 1992), ethnographers of communication focus their analysis on larger chunks of language. For them, the critical units of analysis are communicative acts, communicative events, and the communicative situations in which they occur. Each of these terms is discussed in turn. For ethnographers of communication, the minimal unit of analysis, defined as the most basic activity which has recognized boundaries, is the communicative act (Hymes, 1972). An act is ‘generally coterminous with a single interactional function’ (Saville-Troike, 1996: 371). Examples include a question, a referential statement, or a command. A communicative event is the next largest unit of analysis. An event typically consists of multiple components and various acts. As SavilleTroike (1996: 370) explains, a single event is defined by a unified set of components throughout, beginning with the same general purpose of communication, the same general topic, and the same participants, generally using the same language variety, maintaining the same tone or key and using the same rules for interaction, in the same setting. The event ends (and a new one begins), for example, when there is a change of participants or a change in topic or focus of the communication. An example of a communicative event might be a conversation or a service encounter. Communicative acts and events are both embedded within particular communicative situations. ‘A single situation maintains a consistent general configuration of activities and the same overall ecology within

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which communication takes place, although there may be great diversity in the kinds of interaction that occur there’ (Saville-Troike, 1996: 377). A communicative situation might include a lecture, a church service, or a recess break for students. SPEAKING The analysis and description of how communicative acts are realized within different events and situations in a particular community requires consideration of many aspects of their components. Organized under the mnemonic ‘SPEAKING,’ Hymes (1974) offers a framework for analyzing speech across eight dimensions, where: S P E A K I N G

stands for setting or scene; for participants; for ends (outcomes and goals); for act (both message form and message content); for key (tone and manner); for instrumentals (channels and forms); for norms (interaction and interpretation); and for genres.

Any of the components in the mnemonic might be analyzed for any communicative act or event although it is often the case that one or two are highly salient for any particular act. For example, in understanding the selection of Quichua in speech by Saraguros (what Hymes would call selection of the ‘instrument’), any and all of the components of the mnemonic might be described and considered. However, in many speech acts, the component that determines whether Quichua or Spanish is selected is simply the age of the ‘participants.’ One of the strengths of Hymes’ framework is that it allows us to isolate one particular aspect of communication for closer inspection, yet also encourages us to consider that for each communicative act, multiple components come into play. I adopt this framework for much of the description of how Quichua is used in Saraguro communities. More precisely, I use Hymes’ framework to analyze how Quichua is employed in different events and situations, and how these patterns relate to other aspects of the communities’ changing attitudes and ethnic identities. As we direct our attention to language use in different situations in the Saraguro communities, salient components of the mnemonic will be addressed in greater detail. These three areas then, language shift, language planning, and the ethnography of communication, provide the theoretical and disciplinary

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boundaries of the study of language revitalization among the Saraguros, with each contributing an essential component. The study of language shift provides decades of data from anthropological, linguistic, and sociolinguistic investigations of societal-level language change, many of which are relevant to the Saraguro case. The field of language planning, in turn, offers frameworks and typologies of efforts to influence language behavior which assist us in analyzing the stages of language revitalization and comparing the present case with others around the globe. And lastly, the ethnography of communication contributes a proven methodological approach for uncovering community patterns of language use.

Organization of Book This book consists of four parts, each with its particular focus. The first part introduces the investigation of language revitalization in Saraguro, and includes the present chapter which outlines the theoretical framework of the study. Also included in this first part is Chapter 2, which provides critical background information concerning the national context, focusing in particular the development of bilingual education and indigenous politics in Ecuador; the local context of Saraguro; and characteristics of the two particular communities under study. In addition, Chapter 2 outlines the research approach and methods of the study. The second part of the book addresses language use in the communities of Las Lagunas (Chapter 3) and Tambopamba (Chapter 4). The goal of these chapters is to provide detailed description of the distribution of Quichua and Spanish in each of the two communities. The present levels of Quichua and Spanish competencies, and language use patterns in the home and community are analyzed here, as well as language attitudes. Special attention is paid to the development of distinct varieties of Quichua in the region. Throughout both chapters, emphasis is placed on understanding the cultural and socio-economic dynamics which facilitated the shift towards Spanish, as well as the factors and processes which underlie the attempts to shift towards Quichua in recent years. The third part of the book analyzes language use and language instruction in the Inti Raimi school of Las Lagunas and the Huayna Capac school of Tambopamba (Chapter 5). For each of the two schools, the general organization of teaching and learning is outlined, and special attention directed towards analyzing Quichua language instruction and language acquisition in these contexts. The aim is to provide the reader with an understanding of how the language is (and is not) instructed and transmitted in the community schools.

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The final part of the book steps back from the detailed description of language use at the community level and analyzes the processes and prospects of language revitalization in Saraguro and beyond. The first sections of Chapter 6 focus on the prospects and processes of languages loss and gain, and analyze language revitalization in Saraguro from sociolinguistic and language planning perspectives. Lastly, the final sections of Chapter 6 present recent findings of second-language-acquisition research, and in light of these findings, provide recommendations for successful language revitalization in Saraguro and beyond.

Chapter 2

Setting the Scene The Saraguros hold much in common with other endangered language groups around the world. Like many communities which find their native tongue under the threat of extinction, the Saraguros are members of an ethnic minority in a state which for most of its history, has either attempted to assimilate them into the dominant culture, or alternatively, ignored and neglected their particular needs altogether. As is frequently the case in contexts of language loss, the Saraguros’ native tongue, Quichua, is highly stigmatized and low-status in the national context. Furthermore, while Saraguros are not powerless, they remain outside of the nation’s traditional power structures, and as a result, like other endangered language groups, are marginalized within their own country. And lastly, for the Saraguros, as for most threatened language groups, there are many other, more immediate and in the opinion of some, more pressing concerns that compete with language for attention. In other respects, however, the Saraguros are an unusual indigenous group, and reside in a country which in some ways stands apart from many in Latin America. First, the Saraguros are one of the two most economically successful indigenous groups in Ecuador. This economic success, to a certain extent, has afforded them freedom from the harshest forms of harassment, discrimination, and abuse which have been inflicted upon indigenous people in other parts of the country (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984). Second, the Saraguros differ from many indigenous groups in the country in that language shift from Quichua to Spanish is at a relatively advanced stage. Indeed, data from a recent national survey of language use indicate that, excluding the capital region of Pinchincha, more Spanish is used in the Saraguro region of Loja than any other part of the Ecuadorian Andes (Haboud, 1996). In addition to the somewhat untypical position of the Saraguros within Ecuador, the political landscape of the entire country is unusual in that Ecuador is home to one of the strongest indigenous organizations in the world. CONAIE, or the Confederación de Nacionalidades Indígenas del Ecuador (Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador /S/), is the official political body representing all indigenous persons in Ecuador. The 33

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Setting the Scene

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Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects

organization has been extremely successful in organizing and mobilizing the indigenous population to work for change in areas such as education and land rights. Yet while the Saraguros are unusual in these respects, there is still much about their situation that is shared with other threatened language groups, and thus, many aspects of their experience are relevant for other communities. One aim of this chapter is to provide the historical and political background needed to understand the process of language revitalization among the Saraguros; a related goal is to describe the local and national situation of the Saraguros so that the findings of this study may be extrapolated and appropriately applied to other contexts. More precisely, this chapter ‘sets the scene’ for the detailed descriptions of language use in the communities and schools of the following chapters. There are three important areas to address here: (1) the Ecuadorian context, (2) the local Saraguro context, and (3) the research approach of the study. Accordingly, the first section depicts the situation of the indigenous population in Ecuador and outlines the development of indigenous political organizations and bilingual education in the country. The second portion of the chapter describes the Saraguros, paying special attention to the political and educational developments in recent decades and providing an overview of the two communities under investigation, Las Lagunas and Tambopamba. The third and final section outlines the study’s research methods.

The Ecuadorian Context Like many post-colonial and developing countries, Ecuador exhibits extreme inequalities in the distributions of income, wealth, and opportunity. And as in much of Latin America, societal divisions tend to fall along ethnic lines. In Ecuador, a ‘castelike gulf’ exists between the small, white elite of latifundistas (‘owners of large agricultural estates’ /S/), coastal agro-exporters, financiers, and industrialists on the one hand, and the indigenous and mestizo (‘of mixed indigenous and Spanish origins’ /S/) masses on the other (Hanratty, 1991: 87).1 While the standard of living for much of the country’s population is low by western measures, the indigenous sector in particular has suffered. As a group, they have long endured economic, social, and political discrimination perpetrated by the more powerful and populous white and mestizo sectors, as a result of, and resulting in their continued low status and general disenfranchisement. Indigenous groups occupy each of Ecuador’s three eco-systems. The Andean sierra (‘mountain range’ /S/) is inhabited by regionally dispersed

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and ethnically varied groups that are all part of the Quichua-speaking nation. These include groups such as the Salasacans, Saraguros, Cañaris, and Otavalos. In the Amazon basin reside other distinct nations, each with their own language: the Huaorani, Siona-Secoya, Cofán, Quichua (del oriente), Shuar, and Achuar. And the western tropical regions are occupied by the Chachis, Awas, and the Tsatschilas (Benítez & Garcés, 1992). Of the ten indigenous nations in the country, with over two million members, the Quichua-speaking nation is by far the largest. The use of the term ‘nation’ merits some discussion. Indigenous groups in Ecuador tend to self-identify as different nations in order to emphasize their distinct historical and political development and unique sociocultural realities. The term also is meant to imply rights of self-determination and autonomy. Generally, nations consist of groups that share the same language. So for example, the Otavalos of the northern Andes and the Saraguros of the southern Andes traditionally have spoken Quichua, and both groups are part of the Quichua nation. Lowland nations such as the Huaorani and Shuar are distinguished from each other, in part by specific beliefs and practices, but also by language. Taken together, indigenous people constitute between 20% and 45% of the Ecuadorian population. Differing methodological approaches, combined with varied political agendas, make it difficult to arrive at a precise and well agreed upon figure. The Ministry of Education, for example, reports that 2,200,000 (20%) of the country’s 11,000,000 people are indigenous (von Gleich, 1994: 95). The Inter-American Development Bank (1990) has claimed that as much as 40% of the population is indigenous (1990). The principal indigenous organization of the country, CONAIE, conducted an ethnic census in 1988 and reported that at least 30% of the population count themselves as indigenous (CONAIE, 1989; Haboud, 1996); and CONAIE currently estimates that 45% of the country is indigenous (CONAIE, 1998). While the exact number is unknown, it is probably safe to estimate that somewhere around a third of the country’s population identifies as indigenous. Despite the fact that a substantial segment of the population counts itself as indigenous, this ethnolinguistic diversity has yet to be recognized fully by the state. Indeed, historically, only three of Ecuador’s 18 constitutions (1945, 1979, and 1983) have included mention of the existence of indigenous groups’ cultures or languages. Full legal recognition of the pluri-cultural, multilingual status of Ecuador has long been a central goal of regional indigenous organizations and of CONAIE in particular. In January of 1998, CONAIE (in collaboration with other social movements) presented its proposal for a new constitution to the National Ecuadorian Assembly.

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CONAIE emphasizes that the proposed constitution stresses ‘unity in diversity’ and that CONAIE aims ‘to form a pluri-national state, but does not aim to divide the state or territories or to create new states within the state’ (CONAIE, 1998: 1). In essence, the goal of CONAIE is for the linguistic, cultural, and social diversity of the country to be recognized by the government as well as represented in the country’s policy. However, like many post-colonial countries, the Ecuadorian government, since its independence, has struggled to create a culturally unified and politically cohesive nation-state (Becker, 1992). Indeed, for most citizens, the label ‘Ecuadorian’ implies that distinct individuals share a common identity, homogenizing all Ecuadorians in terms not only of their civil rights and obligations, but also in terms of their cultural and linguistic identity (Moya, 1988). Modeling itself after a European notion of an ethnically and linguistically homogenous nation-state, the Ecuadorian government, until recently has either downplayed or flatly denied the existence of the indigenous population in the country. For example, governmental agencies systematically have minimized the estimated size of the indigenous population. It is not surprising, then, that the lowest of these three recent estimates of the indigenous population is that of the government’s. In a similar vein, the most recent, 1990 census avoided the issue of ethnic diversity altogether by omitting questions regarding ethnicity. In working towards the development of a culturally homogenous, western-style nation-state, the Ecuadorian government has long recognized the utility of language to serve as ‘a uniquely powerful instrument in unifying a diverse population and in involving individuals and subgroups in the national system’ (Kelman, 1971: 21). Throughout most of Ecuador’s post-colonial history, government policy concerning the indigenous sectors has remained relatively unchanged: to shift away from indigenous languages and ethnic identity towards Spanish language and western or mestizo culture has long been either an implicit or explicit goal. In the words of one Shuar leader, the government’s intent has been ‘through expansion . . . to acculturate, integrate, and finally assimilate indigenous groups and their cultures’ (Puwáinchir Wajárai, 1989: 295). Efforts to promote the acquisition of Spanish by indigenous groups and the concomitant shift away from indigenous tongues have been an integral part of this process. Indigenous organizations and bilingual education While pressure to assimilate into the dominant culture has taken a variety of forms, perhaps the most powerful tool in this government project has been the education system. Prior to the 1960s, formal schooling in Ecuador was nearly universally Spanish in terms of the medium of

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instruction, academic content, and cultural orientation. Aside from often resulting in irrelevant curricula and largely ineffective instruction (evidenced by incomprehension of content material, repetition of grades, high drop out rates), the system abetted the depreciation of native cultures and the social and linguistic assimilation of their members into the white or mestizo sectors (PEBI, n.d.). As one linguist and indigenous highlander summarizes, ‘under the ideology of national unification, educational programs have been ones of Hispanicization and acculturation’ (Chuquin, 1986: 3). Even the national education department has conceded that ‘the education offered to the indigenous people has been traditionally oriented to promote indiscriminate assimilation which has contributed to the limitation of their socio-cultural and economic development’ (Dirección Nacional de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe (DINEIB), 1994: 6). Much of this, however, began to change in the 1960s. With the intensification of pressure to exploit petroleum resources in the Amazon, and the concomitant threats to the economic and cultural survival of the groups native to that region, a new sociopolitical force emerged in Ecuador: the indigenous political organization (Moya, 1991). While native political groups initially focused on environmental concerns, organizations soon began to address other issues as well. Over the next three decades, the Ecuadorian indigenous movement became one of the strongest and most successful in the world. It is worth noting that indigenous political groups grew to be so powerful in Ecuador despite the fact that indigenismo (a pro-indigenous intellectual and political movement which was highly influential in Mexico and later Peru in the first half of the 20th century) has been a minor force in Ecuador. It has been suggested that, paradoxically, the relative weakness of the Ecuadorian indigenista movement in the middle of the century assisted in the formation of a stronger indigenous organization towards the end of the century (Becker, 1995). Thus, it may be that a general lack of effective governmental programs in an attempt to improve Indigenous lives also meant fewer attempts to co-opt incipient community organizations which had the potential for agitating for real and significant social, political, and economic change. A weak indigenista movement . . . left more political space for Indigenous leaders to organize themselves. (Becker, 1995: 10) The first indigenous group to organize along ethnic lines for political action was the Federación Shuar, a confederation of dozens of local Shuar groups, officially established in 1962 (Cotacachi, 1989; Puwáinchir Wajárai, 1989).

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For the Shuar, who number about 45,000 and reside principally in the Amazon basin, self-determination within the context of a recognized, pluri-cultural Ecuadorian state has been the over-arching goal (Puwáinchir Wajárai, 1989). For the Shuar, as is true for many native groups, land and agrarian rights are inextricably connected to cultural and linguistic survival; maintenance of one is dependent upon the survival of the other. A new type of organization for indigenous groups began in Ecuador with the formulation of the Federación Shuar, one which worked to defend the Shuar territory, the base of their cultural system, and also to obtain recognition of and respect for Shuar cultural and social traditions (Ruiz, 1989). The Shuar served as a model and as a stimulus for other indigenous groups who faced similar threats to their culture and in some cases, their very existence. The Quichua of the Amazon organized the Federación de Organizaciones Indígenas de Napa (‘Federation of Indigenous Organizations of Napa’ /S/) and then later the Federación Unión de Nativos de la Amazonia Ecuatoriana (‘Federated Union of Natives of the Ecuadorian Amazon’ /S/). At the regional level, the Confederación de Nacionalidades Indígenas de la Amazonia Ecuatoriana (‘Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of the Ecuadorian Amazon’ /S/), known as CONFENIAE, was formed to represent all Amazonian groups, of which the Shuar was the largest. Throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, both in the Amazonian oriente and in the highland sierra, a multitude of indigenous political organizations developed, merged, and realigned. These efforts culminated in 1986, when CONAIE was officially recognized by the government, thereby unifying ‘the Ecuadorian ethnolinguistic communities, a unique phenomenon on the continent’ (von Gleich, 1994: 96). As the CONAIE (1998: 1) leadership explains, the organization serves as ‘the representative body that guarantees indigenous people the political voice that has too long been denied them, and that expresses their needs and goals within a rapidly changing world’. CONAIE’s goals generally parallel concerns of indigenous people throughout Latin America. Central issues include: (1) land and agrarian rights, (2) questions of local and regional autonomy and self-determination, and (3) issues of cultural identity and legal rights relating to educational and linguistic policies (Stavenhagen, 1992). Thus, while ecological and environmental demands were the initial stimuli for indigenous organization, groups soon focused their attention on issues of language, culture, and education. Understanding of the sociolinguistic contours of the country is important for grasping the dramatic changes in these arenas in recent decades.

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In Ecuador, as in much of Latin America, Spanish is considered by the dominant sectors to be the language of the buena gente (/S/) or the ‘decent people’. Within the national context, indigenous languages are low status and generally viewed as inappropriate for use in most public domains, having an extremely limited functional allocation. For instance, results from a recent, large-scale sociolinguistic survey of Ecuador (Haboud, 1996) reveal that 32% of mestizo informants did not recognize that Quichua was spoken in the country; only 18% were able to name any other indigenous language in use in Ecuador. As Haboud (1996) concludes, mestizos in the country clearly view Spanish as the official language, and while Quichua is recognized as the major indigenous language in the country, for many Ecuadorians, ‘it is not obvious that Quichua is a language’ (Haboud, 1996: 238). Spanish clearly dominates Ecuador in terms of official and unofficial recognition and use, as well as status and prestige. However as Hornberger (1995: 189) has noted, while ‘language policy and language use reflect the socio-cultural and political-economic divisions of a society, they can also be vehicles for challenging those divisions’. In many respects, this captures the indigenous situation and struggle in Ecuador in recent decades. CONAIE and other indigenous organizations have worked for language and education reform on two levels. First, as discussed later, indigenous groups demanded policy change regarding language and education at the national level. Second, during the same period, indigenous groups began to implement their own native language literacy and education programs within their communities. Thus, indigenous groups not only pushed to improve their children’s educational experience by calling for wide-spread pedagogical use of a language that was meaningful to their children and for content and cultural orientation that was relevant and self-affirming, but also began employing their languages in new domains. Among the first of the locally controlled, indigenous education programs was the Sistemas de Educación Radiofónica Bicultural Shuar (‘Shuar Bicultural Distance Radio Education Systems’ /S/) or SERBISH, initiated by the Federación Shuar in 1972. The objectives of the SERBISH program were far-reaching and ambitious, including (1) schooling the entire Shuar population between the ages of six and fifteen; (2) encouraging mutual assistance between regionally dispersed Shuar groups; (3) developing local cultures; and (4) ensuring the permanence of the Shuar communities.

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The pedagogical theory of the program emphasizes not mixing Shuar and Spanish. The program begins initially with the Shuar language for content instruction and literacy acquisition in the first years, eventually using both languages for all topics. A guiding principle is to make the school system reflect the Shuar reality. With 31 radio centers in different communities, SERBISH reached 506 students in its first year, and continued to grow. By the late 1980s, SERBISH had an enrollment of 4519 students at 187 primary schools and 731 students at 39 secondary schools (Puwáinchir Wajárai, 1989). In 1988 the program was officially recognized by the government (1989). Inspired by the Shuar and motivated by their own needs, the Quichua of the Bólivar province formed their own schools in 1972. The schools were organized by the indigenous and locally controlled, Fundación Runacunapac Yachana Huasi (‘Indigenous Schooling’ /Q/ ‘Foundation’ /S/). The goals of the schools are (1) (2) (3) (4)

to use Quichua as the medium of instruction; to teach Spanish as a second language; to enrich the students’ cultural identity; and to encourage the children to remain within the family and community (Caiza, 1989).

In 1989, there were 17 schools, 30 teachers, and more than 600 children participating in the program (Caiza, 1989). Although the academic effectiveness of these and other programs is complicated to assess, the continued demand for them is a powerful, and probably reliable, indicator of their success within the communities. Moreover, the social impact of these and other similar programs has been substantial both within the communities and also in the national context. Many of the children who participated in these early programs became politically conscious of their ethnic identity and went on to become the bilingual school teachers, members of the indigenous intelligentsia, and indigenous political leaders of the present. Furthermore, the indigenous groups, through their organization and mobilization around education, demonstrated, in the words of one indigenous woman, that ‘we no longer want to be the object of investigations and experiments, rather we want to be (and are capable of being) the actors and executors of an intercultural bilingual education that includes our historical, social, political, and cultural reality designed and controlled by us’ (Cotacachi, 1989: 263). The schools stand as reminders for the national community of the existence of indigenous cultures and

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languages, and also as testimony to the groups’ powers to organize, administer, and staff their own institutions. Politics and policies of language and education The policies and practices surrounding the acquisition and use of native languages in Ecuador also have undergone dramatic changes since the 1960s. The question of whether to use Spanish or an indigenous tongue as the language of content instruction and literacy acquisition has been a point of contention in the ongoing discourse between the diverse indigenous minority and the Spanish-speaking majority (King, 1997a). Improved local and regional indigenous organization, increased access to and local control of education, and international support for indigenous demands have allowed the ‘political space’ and power of indigenous groups to grow significantly in recent years (Selverston, 1993). As a result of continued political pressure from the indigenous sectors, significant changes concerning indigenous language education have occurred at the national level. Bilingual education presently has a solid legal basis and is practiced in some form in much of the country. Achieving this was a slow process, however, and there were many small, yet important precursors to the present state of affairs. The first of these was not a political move by the government, but rather a linguistic one by the indigenous organizations. With the technical support of the Indian Education Research Center at the Catholic University of Quito, in 1981, representatives of speakers of the different Ecuadorian varieties of Quichua agreed upon a unified variety of Quichua (Montaluisa, 1980; von Gleich, 1994). Quichua language planners, who were mostly Ecuadorian indigenous political and education leaders, made decisions in two key linguistic areas, which together constituted a major step towards the standardization of Ecuadorian Quichua, known as Unified Quichua or Quichua Unificado (/S/). First, leaders agreed upon a unified system for writing Ecuadorian Quichua. Although the language had existed in written form for hundreds of years, there was no standard writing system, and its graphic representation tended to be based on Spanish orthography. With 20 consonants and three vowels, the orthography of Quichua Unificado differs significantly from Spanish. For instance, Unified Quichua, in contrast to Spanish, does not contain b, d, g, rr, x, e, o, while it includes the consonants sh and ts. Second, planners attempted to modernize and purify the lexicon, expunging Spanish loan words from the language, and replacing them with a regional Quichua term or a neologism. In the years following the meeting, various Unified Quichua dictionaries and grammars were published (e.g.

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CONAIE, 1990; Ministerio de Educación y Cultura, 1982). The codification and move towards standardization of Quichua Unificado was intended to facilitate the acquisition of literacy and the development of Quichua literature, and to contribute to the maintenance and even revitalization of the language. However, while unified in written form, it was accepted and expected that the regional varieties would continue to vary in their spoken forms (CONAIE, 1990). The second and third steps towards bilingual education took place at the level of government policy. The second antecedent to governmentsupported bilingual education emerged in 1980, when through government Decree 000529, intercultural bilingual education was made official in primary and secondary schools where the population was predominantly indigenous. The third precursor to bilingual education was constitutional. Article 1 of the (now defunct) 1979 constitution had designated Spanish as the official language. Although all indigenous languages were previously recognized as national languages which belonged to the country’s ‘cultural heritage’ to be used in ‘areas with a predominantly Indian population’ (von Gleich, 1994: 95), prior to 1983 they were not officially designated as languages of education. In 1983, the constitution was revised; the new version included a provision stating that in indigenous regions the principal language of instruction would be Quichua or the vernacular language; Spanish would be used as the language of intercultural relations. Bilingual education, then, had a legal basis some years before arrival of the governmental initiative necessary to create policies and programs which supported its practice. It was not until the lack of accord between official policy (which mandated bilingual intercultural education) and educational practice (which apart from the community-based indigenous programs previously described had remained basically unchanged) was repeatedly brought to public attention by CONAIE and other organizations that the government acted to rectify the situation (Moya, 1991). The first of the major and truly meaningful governmental policy shifts in terms of reforming educational practice was the establishment of the Dirección Nacional de Educación Indígena Intercultural Bilingüe (‘National Directorate of Bilingual Indigenous Intercultural Education’ /S/) or DINEIIB in November of 1989. (The name of the office has since changed to the Dirección Nacional de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe [‘National Directorate of Bilingual Intercultural Education’ /S/] or DINEIB.) An arm of the Ministry of Education and Culture (what is now the Ministry of Education, Culture, and Sports), DINEIB organizes and administers schools in areas in which the population is more than half indigenous. Officially, DINEIB is

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charged with guaranteeing the unity, quality, and efficiency of indigenous education throughout Ecuador (DINEIIB, 1991). In the months after the establishment of DINEIIB, an agreement of technical cooperation was signed between CONAIE and the Ministry of Education and Culture which allocated high-level positions within DINEIB for CONAIE representatives. In collaboration with CONAIE, DINEIB’s specific functions and responsibilities are: (1) developing appropriate bilingual intercultural education curricula, (2) designing education programs and structures in accord with the needs of the indigenous population, (3) promoting the production and use of didactic materials, and (4) supporting the maintenance and spread of standardized Quichua (DINEIIB, 1991). In order to administer the diverse and numerous indigenous schools in the country, DINEIIB established regional directorates in each of Ecuador’s 21 provinces. The regional directorates are responsible for administering and supervising all indigenous schools within their jurisdiction. As will be discussed later, to the detriment of bilingual education administration and practice in Saraguro, the establishment of the Loja province directorate in the town of Saraguro exacerbated political tensions and local lines of division. Yet despite these and other complications, the allocation of funds and authority to DINEIB marked the first time in the educational history of Latin America that a Hispanic government allowed and supported the establishment of an independent educational administration for the indigenous populations, transferring the right to develop culturally appropriate curricula and independent teacher-training and selection methods (von Gleich, 1994: 96). As noted earlier, these shifts in government policy occurred largely because they were the most viable political option in the face of indigenous organizational pressure (Moya, 1991). When DINEIIB was established in 1989, all educational programs targeted at the indigenous populations fell within its jurisdiction. The most important of these was the experimental Proyecto de Educación Bilingüe Intercultural (‘Intercultural Bilingual Education Project’ /S/), often known simply as PEBI, which also operated in Peru (see Hornberger, 1988). Through an agreement of technical cooperation between the Ecuadorian and German governments, PEBI began in Ecuador in 1986 with its first

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bilingual group of students and added one grade level each year. By 1993, PEBI was working in seven Quichua provinces with 53 pilot schools and close to 175 teachers and 4000 students (PEBI, n.d.). PEBI’s goals included achieving fluency in both oral and written Quichua and Spanish. PEBI emphasized first the affirmation of the students’ own language and ethnicity, and second, the development of competence in interacting with other indigenous and non-indigenous groups. PEBI came to a close at the end of the 1993 school year, leaving a wealth of scholastic texts, technical information, and pedagogical experience behind. The most recent national education reform was initiated in 1993, when the Ecuadorian government adopted the new ‘Model of Bilingual Intercultural Education’ as law. The model, which was part of a general overhaul of the national primary and secondary educational system, applies to all predominantly indigenous schools. Commonly referred to as the Nuevo Modelo (‘New Model’ /S/), it emphasizes community participation and the reflection of local values and norms in the schooling process. Among the most dramatic changes are that the primary grades are divided into two levels of three years each; there are no longer six grades, but two ciclos (‘cycles’ /S/). And promotion, rather than being based on class time, is dependent upon demonstrated mastery of designated skills and content knowledge. Concerning the use of indigenous languages within the model, the state mandates, among other things, that the schools ‘use the languages of the indigenous cultures as the principal languages of education and Spanish as the language of intercultural relations’ (DINEIB, 1994: 23).2 The model was distributed to the provincial directorates prior to the 1994 academic year; implementation was mandated to begin soon after (Miguel Angel Vacacela Quishpe, personal communication: 19 June 1994). Since publication of the model, DINEIB has allocated resources for its public promotion, for the training of teachers and supervisors, and to the development of pedagogical materials. However, the New Model requires numerous, profound changes in both pedagogical practices and school organization; implementation thus far has been, and will likely continue to be, a slow process. Clearly there has been dramatic progress in both the policy and the practice of bilingual education in Ecuador since the 1960s. While not the only factor, the organized ethnic dissent of the indigenous sector has been instrumental in bringing about many of these changes. Saraguros, like other groups in Ecuador, have organized themselves as a political entity. Saraguros also have participated in national events such as protest demonstrations and indigenous educational and linguistic conferences which contributed to the national changes in educational policy and practice

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described earlier. Conversely, as will be discussed later, the national-level educational and political changes have impacted the Saraguro communities in numerous and perhaps unexpected ways.

Saraguro and Saraguros Saraguros are Quichua Indians who reside primarily in the southern Ecuadorian Andean highlands. While having much in common with other Andean peoples, Saraguros comprise an ethnically distinct group, locally and regionally identifiable by their characteristic style of dark clothing, and set apart by some unique traditions and customs. Saraguros, at the same time, are part of the large and diverse Quechua group, whose population is dispersed mainly throughout the Ecuadorian, Peruvian, and Bolivian Andes. Turning for a moment to linguistic terminology, Quechua refers to the linguistic varieties of Peru, Bolivia, and parts of northern Chile. Quechua is also the standard cover term for all varieties of the language. Quichua, in contrast, is used exclusively to refer to the varieties of Ecuador. The difference in terminology is related to the varied phonological evolution of the language in Ecuador, as compared to the other countries. In the former case, the uvular stop /q/ has been lost, and with it the lowering of the /i/ vowel to /e/ in proximity to the /q/. Keeping with common practice, throughout the book, ‘Quichua’ is used to refer to the Ecuadorian varieties and ‘Quechua’ to varieties in use outside of Ecuador, as well as collectively to all of the varieties of the language. The Saraguros number between 20,000 and 22,000 (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1994). The majority of Saraguros live in the rural communities surrounding the town of Saraguro and in the rural parish of San Lucas just south of Saraguro (see Figure 2.1.). Also included in this total estimate are roughly 4500 Saraguros who reside permanently in the oriente, as well as some 1000 Saraguros who maintain their indigenous identity while living in major Ecuadorian cities such as Quito, Loja, Cuenca, and Guayaquil or abroad (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1994). The town of Saraguro, located 3 hours (160 km) south of the city of Cuenca and 2 hours (60 km) north of the provincial capital Loja, is the most significant stop between the two cities on the Pan American highway (see Figure 2.2). It is also the most important commercial, religious, administrative, and social center in the region. The town of Saraguro is located within the parroquia (‘parish’ /S/) of Saraguro, which is part of the Saraguro cantón (‘canton’ /S/). The Saraguro canton is one of 15 cantons that comprise the

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Figure 2.1 Map of Saraguro region

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Figure 2.2 Map of Ecuador

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Loja provincia (‘province’ /S/). As such, Saraguro is the name not only for a particular ethnic group, but a parish, a county, and a town. The origins of Saraguros The temperate, mid-altitude (1800–2800 m) Andean highlands have been the ‘traditional’ home of the Saraguros for the last few centuries (J. Belote & L. Belote, 1997). However, the origin and pre-Hispanic history of the Saraguros is far from clear. Analysis of toponyms and colonial documents, as well as archeological work in the region, indicates that the Saraguro area was occupied long before the arrival of the Incas in the 15th century (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1994). The pre-Incan residents most likely were related to the Quichua-speaking Cañaris, who now reside in the region just north of Saraguro (Ogburn & Bravo, 1995). From roughly 1460 until 1530, the Saraguro region was under Incan rule and was a functional part of the Incan empire. There are several Incan sites in the region, including the remains of a tambo (‘way station’ /Q/), storage and ceremonial buildings. While Incas and people conquered by the Incas resided in the Saraguro region, the area provided no special resources such as silver or gold for the empire. Nevertheless, Saraguro was probably highly valued for its location along the most important road of the Incan empire, that which connected Cuzco and Quito (Ogburn, 1998). The most widely spread belief among the Saraguros concerning their origin is that they are descendants of mitmacuna (/Q/) who were brought by the Incas from the region that is now Bolivia. The mitmacuna were people under Incan rule who were relocated to other Incan regions to serve the Incan empire. Although there is some evidence which supports such a hypothesis (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1994), archeological work in the mid-1990s found little indication that there was a radical change in the population of the region during or after the period of Incan expansion (Ogburn & Bravo, 1995). Although historically it is likely that there were some mitmacuna in the region, because evidence of resettlement is scant, ‘the question remains open concerning the number of inhabitants who were brought as mitmacuna by the Incas, and how the local cultural mix was produced with the mitmacuna brought to this section of the country’ (Ogburn & Bravo, 1995: 18). Ethnic relations and survival strategies in Saraguro All individuals in Saraguro self-identify and are classified by others in the region as either blanco (‘white’ /S/) or indígena (‘indigenous’ /S/). While indigenous persons in Saraguro describe themselves as indígenas, Saraguros, or possibly indios (‘Indians’ /S/), whites in the region refer to

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themselves as blancos or Saragurenses. Dress and hairstyle comprise what Linda Belote (1978) has called ‘identity kits,’ clearly marking individuals as either blanco or indígena. Intermediate categories such as mestizo have traditionally not been recognized, and there is rarely any confusion regarding who belongs to which ethnic group. Saraguro town is inhabited by approximately 2800 persons (Institute Nacional de Estadistica y Censos, 1991; in Volinsky, 1998). Nearly all of the town residents are white. Place of residence in the Saraguro region tends to coincide with ethnic membership, with whites residing in town and indigenous Saraguros in the surrounding countryside. There are, however, two caveats to this statement. First, there has long been a small group of rural whites in the region, known as blancos del campo (‘country whites’ /S/). They generally live in isolated pockets and do not socialize with town whites or with indigenous persons. Second, in recent years, a small but increasing number of Saraguro indigenous persons have rented or purchased homes in town in order to have better access to education, employment, and transportation. As discussed later, this change in residence is one of many social and cultural transformations that are taking place amongst the Saraguros. The town of Saraguro is small and depending on the season, either muddy or dusty. Except for the regular stops by the noisy diesel buses and trucks heading up and down the Pan American highway, it is relatively quiet and uneventful. The main plaza in the center of town is bordered by a Catholic church, phone office, bank, police station, small library, and municipal offices. On the side streets are dozens of small shops, mostly operated out of the fronts of residents’ homes, which offer a nearly identical inventory of basic supplies. In the town of Saraguro, there are two primary schools and three secondary schools. While town-dwelling blancos attempt to follow western cosmopolitan fashions, indígenas of both genders are identified by long single braids, distinctive hats and dark clothing. Indigenous males wear short pants that end just below the knee and a poncho. Indigenous women wear a dark blue or black, pleated anacu (‘skirt’ /Q/), and underneath, a slightly longer, colorful underskirt with an embroidered hem. A bright embroidered blouse and a sweater are common underneath a thick, double folded black wool shawl. A tupu (/Q/), a large silver stick pin common throughout the Andes, fastens the shawl and is sometimes attached to a neck chain which also links large, ornate, silver earrings. All women also wear complex, colorful, and hand-made beaded necklaces. In addition to dramatic contrasts in clothing and appearance, there are also important lifestyle and socioeconomic differences between blancos and

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indígenas. Town whites tend to make their living as shopkeepers, petty bureaucrats, and semi-skilled or unskilled laborers. Work, especially for the young, is scarce and generally low-paying; almost any white wishing to do well financially is forced to leave Saraguro for one of Ecuador’s larger cities. Indigenous persons, in contrast, have adopted multiple strategies for sustaining themselves. The majority of indigenous families engage in subsistence farming and small-scale commercial cattle raising, cultivating food for familial consumption and cattle for cash. The average family owns more than ten hectares of land for these purposes (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984). A small amount of that land is used for growing crops such as corn, beans, and carrots for familial consumption; much of the rest is used for grazing cattle and other animals. Aside from breeding animals for the market, income is also derived from the sale of the milk and cheese that the cows produce. In addition, almost a quarter of Saraguro families control land in the upper Amazon basin of the Zamora-Chinchipe province, known as the oriente. This migratory pattern commenced around the turn of the century, when a few Saraguros, mainly from the communities of Oñacapac, Tambopamba, and Gurudel, began to move their herds of cattle east into the rich, lowland forests of the Yacuambi River valley (J. Belote, 1984). ‘By the 1950’s, hundreds of indigenous families from the parish of Saraguro (and many others from other parishes) were engaged in the occupation, clearing and management of Yacuambi valley land’ (p. 216). Not all Saraguro communities, however, have participated equally in this trend. For instance, in part because residents of Las Lagunas and other communities nearby have access to good pastures, as well as residences near town, relatively few are engaged in colonization of the oriente (less than 20%). In contrast, most residents of the community of Tambopamba, like other communities to the east of the town of Saraguro, are in the oriente for at least part of the year. This is in part because Tambopamba members have limited access to highland pastures around Saraguro. ‘Furthermore, as early participants in the opening of the Yacuambi valley to Saraguro colonization, they had the advantage of occupying many of the best areas of the valley’ (J. Belote, 1984: 218). In addition to the gradual move eastward into the Amazonian region, there have been other significant changes in more recent years. The social, cultural, and economic transformations taking place among the Saraguros over the last four decades have been well documented by Linda and James Belote, who initially settled in Saraguro as Peace Corps workers in 1962 and later for anthropological studies in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. Their long-

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term and intensive contact with the Saraguros provides an important longitudinal perspective. Much of the discussion here is based their work. In the early 1960s, almost all Saraguros maintained themselves as independent, self-sufficient, agro-pastoralists (J. Belote & L. Belote, 1997). During this period, few Saraguros had more than three years of education. Those Saraguros who wished to complete their primary education were forced to attend schools in the town of Saraguro in which, by many accounts, the Saraguros were subject to ‘abuse and humiliation on the part of both [non-indigenous] teachers and non-indigenous students’ (p. 2). However, major changes began to occur in the early 1970s, many of which were sparked by the oil boom of that time. During these years, a great amount of money (garnered from the sale of oil and loans against the country’s oil resources) was invested in infrastructure, and used in part to build roads, power plants, canals, schools, and hospitals in the Saraguro region and elsewhere, all of which provided better services and greater opportunities for indigenous Saraguros (J. Belote & L. Belote, 1997). During this period, Saraguros started to invest in education and move into semiskilled and skilled occupations in significant numbers. Presently, Saraguros are carpenters and shoemakers, nuns, doctors, dentists, nurses, drug-store owners, veterinarians, lawyers, musicians, elected officials at the cantón and national levels, government bureaucrats, directors of region NGO (non-governmental organization) programs, shop owners, goldcamp laborers, construction laborers, maids, owners of body repair shops, mechanics, welders, leaders of pan-indigenous movements, primary and high school teachers and directors of schools. (J. Belote & L. Belote, 1997: 3; Sarango Macas, 1993) While professionally oriented Saraguros do sometimes relocate to the cities for education or employment, the majority eventually return to serve their communities. Furthermore, in sharp contrast to the earlier decades of the 1950s and 1960s, indigenous persons no longer need to shed their ethnic identity to advance scholastically or professionally. This has meant a remarkable set of changes in the region. For example, while indigenous students were not permitted to enroll in secondary school (high school) in the 1960s, today, Saraguros are well represented in the town schools and frequently among the top ranking students. Furthermore, all indigenous students have access to indigenous role models involved in a wide range of professional, academic, and artistic pursuits. In addition to these professional and wage-earning activities, most Saraguros families continue to engage in agro-pastoral activities to some

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extent. Thus, Saraguros not only are well represented in the professional community in the area, but also control most of the land resources of the region. With multiple, successful economic strategies, Saraguros are generally financially better off than the town whites. One consequence of this unusual situation is that ‘ethnic relations in the Saraguro areas are moderated by the economic strength of the Saraguros’ (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984: 34). Because there is considerable competition among white shopkeepers for indigenous business, as well as indigenous goods, ‘their wealth has thus enabled the Saraguros to escape the worst features of the indígena/blanco relations’ which are common throughout the rest of Ecuador (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984: 34). Much like the Otavalos of the northern Ecuadorian Andes, who are wellknown for their artistic and commercial success, Saraguros do not see themselves as dependent upon or subservient to the dominant or white members of Ecuadorian society. This is likely related to the fact that the latifundio (/S/) system of large land holding and peonage never took hold in Saraguro or Otavalo to the degree that it did in other parts of the country. Both groups seem to be aware of their somewhat untypical relationship to mestizo or white society. At a conference of Andean highlanders from different regions, Casagrande (1974) reports that ‘the Saraguros and Otavalos reached identical conclusions – their groups were the most alike, because, said one Otavalo man, “[Neither of us] has to beg from anyone or ask favors . . . [We] aren’t afraid . . . [We] are independent”’ (1974; in L. Belote, 1978: 3). Like Otavalos, Saraguros have a significant tradition of both political and artistic expression; and for both groups, the development of the two has often gone hand in hand. Indeed, members of some of the early grupos artísticos (‘artistic groups’ /S/) have become prominent political leaders as adults. As an ethnomusicologist who has worked in Saraguro points out, this relationship is not coincidental. Like many grupos artísticos, Saraguro culture groups have used the performing arts to try raise the consciousness of young Saraguros about the positive value of indigenous identity (Volinsky, 1998). It is not surprising that some of these same figures eventually moved into political roles in order to defend indigenous rights and interests, and eventually became leaders of Saraguro political organizations. Saraguro political organizations The Saraguros have a complicated and well-disputed history of political organization. Perhaps one of the most important early organizations was the Asociación Comunal de Indígenas de Saraguro (‘Communal Association of

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Indigenous [persons] of Saraguro’ /S/), which in 1981 became the Federación Interprovincial de Indígenas Saraguros (‘Interprovincial Federation of Indigenous Saraguros’ /S/) or more commonly, the FIIS. The association was established with the aim of coordinating development projects, providing a political voice for Saraguros, and forming relationships with other indigenous organizations in the country. In 1981, a sub-group of FIIS was formed, Unión de Jóvenes Indígenas Saraguros (‘Union of Young Indigenous Saraguros’ /S/) or UJIS. Initially, the central function of UJIS was to coordinate music and sporting events. Eventually, however, under the leadership of a charismatic few, UJIS became more focused on political affairs and began to take issue with the practices and positions of its affiliate organization, the FIIS. Much of this tension reportedly surrounded the management of development grants and projects which according to some accounts tended to be administered to the benefit of a few Saraguro communities close to town (Zhingre, 1998). In 1986, UJIS splintered off from the FIIS completely. Its leaders formed a separate (and to many, a rival) organization, the Coordinadora Interprovincial de Organizaciones Indígenas Saraguros, (‘Interprovincial Coordinator of Indigenous Saraguro Organizations’ /S/), or the CIOIS. CIOIS leaders maintain that their organization ‘plays the role of coordinator of the activities [excluding those of the FIIS] developed in the two provinces [of Loja and Zamora-Chinchipe], respecting the autonomy of the regional organizations’ (Sarango Macas, 1993: 21). FIIS leaders claim that theirs was the original Saraguro political organization, and thus the legitimate political representative body for Saraguro indígenas.3 CIOIS leaders counter that the FIIS does not have substantial support beyond the few communities that directly surround the town of Saraguro. Furthermore, they argue that CIOIS has achieved a broader base of support by affiliating with small indigenous organizations in the parishes of Saraguro, San Lucas, Tenta, and in the oriente. While there are numerous contentious issues, it is also important to note that the differences between the two groups often tend to be personal (and perhaps territorial), more than ideological (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1994). What was already a tense political situation in parts of Saraguro was exacerbated by national events. As previously described, in 1986, the government recognized CONAIE as the official representative body for the Ecuadorian indigenous population at the national level. While the CIOIS had affiliated with CONAIE, the FIIS had not (and remains unaffiliated). When DINEIIB was established in 1989, it worked closely with CONAIE to form indigenous educational directorates in each of the provinces. The directorates were created to allow for local indigenous control in areas

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where schools were occupied by a majority of indigenous students. In Saraguro, this meant that the CIOIS, because of its affiliation with CONAIE, was responsible for establishing and administering the Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja (‘Loja Indigenous Directorate of Intercultural Bilingual Education’ /S/), known as the Dirección (‘Directorate’ /S/), which would oversee all indigenous education in the province. In a region in which secure, salaried positions are relatively scarce and highly sought after, this meant that the CIOIS officials, overnight, were in positions of considerable economic and political power. By most accounts, this newly found authority was not handled judiciously nor prudently. CIOIS officials are widely said to have given preferential treatment to fellow CIOIS members. For example, all of the administrative positions were granted to CIOIS members, despite the fact that there were many qualified FIIS education professionals. In addition, CIOIS teachers were often given plum teaching positions in schools close to town, while FIIS teachers, some with many years of teaching experience, were assigned to less desirable, relatively remote communities. Not only did such policies significantly worsen inter-organization relations, but they also caused difficulties for the Dirección in successfully administering the schools. At the time of the study, only one FIIS member held an administrative position at the Dirección. In response, FIIS members formed an alternative association to support indigenous teachers and educational projects, the Asociación de Educadores Bilingües Interculturales de Saraguro (‘Association of Bilingual Intercultural Educators of Saraguro’ /S/). By some accounts, the resentment between groups has lessened in recent years. For instance, the CIOIS and FIIS participated together in the uprisings of the early 1990s, with members collaborating to build blockades along the Pan American highway. And while some members of both organizations continue to dislike and distrust each other, there is growing recognition that the present situation need not be permanent, and periodic discussion of some sort of union of the two organizations. Saraguro communities Most Saraguros live in one of the 53 Andean communities in the province of Loja or 17 lowland communities in the province of ZamoraChinchipe. The highest density of Saraguros is found in the Saraguro parish of the canton of Saraguro. The two communities under investigation, Las Lagunas and Tambopamba, are both in the parish and canton of Saraguro.

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Like all Saraguro communities, Las Lagunas and Tambopamba, are home to a number of dispersed single-family residences. Houses generally consist of three rooms, with walls made of a mixture of mud and grass; a floor of dirt, wood, or cement; and a roof of adobe tiles. Most homes have a kitchen equipped with a gas stove and an area for cooking by fire on the floor. While many residences have a water spigot, during the time of the study, few had bathrooms or outhouses. Most Saraguro homes have electricity for light, radio, and possibly a television and VCR. Reliability of both water and electricity, however, varies throughout the year. Most Saraguro communities are home to a primary school, and a comuna (/S/) or a community center, which typically consists of a few rooms for meetings and other community activities, as well as a small recreational area for football and volleyball. In addition, in most communities, there are several small stores operated from the front rooms of individual homes that carry basic goods such as sugar, salt, rice, Coca-Cola, and candles. While most communities hold these basic features in common, as we will see in the discussion of Las Lagunas and Tambopamba below, in other respects, the communities are far from uniform. Las Lagunas

The community of Las Lagunas – more commonly referred to as simply Lagunas – lies just above the town of Saraguro. From the Lagunas community center to the main plaza of Saraguro is a short walk of 15 or 20 minutes. According to the community’s president at the time of study, Samuel Ortega, some 1000 persons, or roughly 200 families, live in Lagunas. Yet despite the relatively large population, if one probes deeply enough it is nearly always possible to establish a relationship between any two members either by blood or by marriage. Most families still maintain sheep, cattle, and a small garden in which they cultivate food for familial consumption. In addition, as tends to be the case in communities closer to town, there are a considerable number of professionals in the community. Ortega estimated that between 20% and 30% of the families have at least one professional member. Lagunas, for example, is home to school teachers, educational administrators, development workers, business persons, artisans, and university students who study in the larger cities of the country as well as abroad. Indeed, Lagunas, perhaps more so than any other Saraguro community, has participated in the shift towards education and professionalization. Lagunas also stands apart as the political stronghold of the FIIS organization (Zhingre, 1998). Many of the leaders and a substantial number of the active members live in Lagunas. While there are a small minority of CIOIS members, the majority

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of Lagunas either officially or unofficially supports the FIIS, and the community is widely known as being pro-FIIS. Tambopamba

Tambopamba, in contrast, is a smaller and more remote community. Although the straight-line distance from the town is only 5 or 6 km, because of its position behind a mountain ridge, Tambopamba is two or more hours by foot from Saraguro. The president of the community at the time of the study, Carlos Alberto Minga Ambuludi, estimated that during the mid1990s, there were roughly 500 residents. The number is difficult to accurately assess because most Tambopamba residents spend some part of the year in the oriente. Most Tambopamba adults spend their days tending to their cattle, sheep, and fields. Children of all ages are expected to contribute to the family economy, for example, by tending to the cattle or sheep in the pastures, working small plots of vegetables or collecting grass to feed the guinea pigs. While most of the children attend the community school for at least several years, the drop-out rate, especially for girls, is high. Not surprisingly given its location, Tambopamba is more removed from the political struggles of the indigenous organizations which tend to take place closer to town. Most of Tambopamba does not strongly identify with either the FIIS or the CIOIS. While there are some members of both organizations, the majority of members describe themselves as independents. Lagunas and Tambopamba in the Ecuadorian context Both Lagunas and Tambopamba have been affected by the national changes discussed in the previous section. For instance, in the 1980s, the schools of these communities were experimental sites for the bilingual education project, PEBI, which was discussed in the first part of the chapter. And since 1990, the schools have been under the jurisdiction of the national indigenous directorate, DINEIB, which was also outlined earlier. Moreover, members of both of the communities have benefited from the increased educational and occupational opportunities for indígenas in recent decades in Ecuador, although Lagunas members have participated to a much greater extent in the movement into nontraditional sectors. Concomitantly, members of both Lagunas and Tambopamba have participated in and helped to shape national political movements in Ecuador. Residents of Lagunas and Tambopamba have joined the local, regional, and national indigenous political organizations which have been instrumental in bringing about many of the advances of recent years.

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Members of Lagunas, and to a lesser extent Tambopamba, have participated in indigenous political and educational movements, demonstrations, and conferences at the national level. Both individually and collectively, the Saraguros have worked for and participated in the dramatic changes of the last three decades. At the individual level, the most obvious example is that of Dr Luis Alberto Macas, who served as long-time president of CONAIE, and was until recently one of the handful of indigenous representatives in the Ecuadorian National Assembly. Collectively, the Saraguros have also been a force for change. Perhaps the most dramatic example is the participation of the Saraguros in the two levantamientos (/S/), or uprisings, of the early 1990s mentioned earlier. The national and local contexts of the study are thus interconnected in multiple ways. Changes at the national level, such as the rise of the indigenous political organizations and the establishment of a national office for indigenous bilingual education, have had a tangible impact in Saraguro communities. At the same time, the Saraguros, both individually and collectively, have been important in initiating and supporting these changes. Before turning to discuss the relationships between some of these developments and language use patterns, it is necessary to first present how the data were collected within this complicated and politicized local context. This is the third and final component needed to ‘set the scene’ for the chapters that follow.

Research Methods The research approach of this study is ethnographic. In investigating language revitalization in Saraguro, I describe the practices and attitudes surrounding language and ethnicity, but also attempt to uncover the ‘immediate and local meanings of [these] actions’ (Erickson, 1990: 78). More concretely, in analyzing how Quichua is used in the school, home, and community, the approach of the study draws directly from what has come to be known as the ‘ethnography of communication.’ As discussed in detail in Chapter 1, ethnographies of communication are primarily ‘concerned with the situations and uses, patterns and functions, of speaking as an activity in its own right’ (Hymes, 1962; 1972: 101). Researchers who adopt this approach to studying language in context attempt to ‘uncover how communicative units are organized and how they pattern in a much broader sense of “ways of speaking”, as well as with how these patterns interrelate in a systematic way with and derive meaning from other aspects of culture’ (Saville-Troike, 1989: 13). Given this intent, I employed the three qualitative methods in gathering data that are common to most

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ethnographic work: (1) participant observation, (2) structured and unstructured interviews, and (3) systematic record keeping. I now briefly describe each of these, as well as outline my varied roles and relationships as a researcher and resident in Saraguro. Participant observation While I had intended to be a passive observer for the entire year in Saraguro, after a short time in the field, it became clear that I was engaging in three different modes of observation: active participant observation, passive participant observation, and ‘non-participant’ observation. Active participant observation occurred when my presence either directly influenced activities or elicited behavior. For example, students on occasion would ask me questions in Quichua solely for the interest of hearing my odd, foreign way of speaking Quichua. At the same time, however, they were allowing me to observe their own Quichua language competence. A small amount of data was gathered through ‘non-participant’ observation. Because of the open construction of my residences and their location adjacent to the main community roads, I was frequently able to observe and overhear conversations. Because my presence was unknown or forgotten, or simply unimportant to the participants, I was able to observe interaction while not actively participating as a member of the conversation, or even passively participating as an obvious observer. Passive participant observation, in contrast, took place during observations where my presence was recognized and likely influenced participants’ behavior to a greater or lesser degree, but was not the primary eliciting factor for that behavior. For instance, on many Saturdays, I would participate in communal work projects, known as mingas (/Q/).4 Members were not working to demonstrate to me what mingas were, but rather were allowing me to participate in a normal weekly routine. Although I was ‘actively’ participating in digging irrigation ditches, moving rocks, or preparing food, I was passively observing language use and other behavior. While I engaged in all three of these modes of observation in both communities, during most of my fieldwork, I acted as a passive participant observer. I did my best to follow local customs and make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I tried to learn members’ standards of what was appropriate behavior and act accordingly. Although I quickly made acquaintances and friends with neighbors who would tell me what to expect and what was expected of me at an event, some of the requirements

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perhaps seemed so basic that no mention of them was made. This resulted initially in some embarrassing social missteps. For example, during my first month in Lagunas I arrived at a school garden minga, to the great amusement of some of the community members, with no hoe and no pick. Most of my work as a participant observer, however, was neither so embarrassing, nor so physically demanding. Outside of my regular observations in the schools, much of the time I was engaged in basic survival activities which were not unlike those of the women who surrounded me: collecting and carrying water from the spring, washing clothes, bathing in the river, preparing meals, and walking into town for food or other supplies. I also frequently participated in activities which were not necessary for my own survival, but were integral to theirs, such as planting and harvesting corn and other crops or walking to the pastures to tend to the cattle. Throughout my time in the field, all of these activities provided occasions to observe language usage, as well as attitudes towards language and ethnicity. I divided my residence between the two communities of study, Tambopamba and Lagunas. I alternated each month, living in the first community in October, in the second in November, and so on. (See Appendix 1 for a schedule of research activities.) This allowed me to observe each of the schools over most of the academic year as the programs and curricula unfolded. Each weekday I observed at the community school from 7:30 a.m. until 12:30 p.m., the normal school hours. In the afternoons, evenings, and on weekends I participated in a variety of organized community activities. For instance, I attended school meetings, both among the staff and between the parents and staff. I accompanied students and parents to catechism classes held weekly. I also attended community meetings and watched the organized sporting events. I went to weddings, baptisms, and other community fiestas (‘parties’ /S/). And on Sundays I did what most members of the communities of Saraguro did: I dressed in my best clothes and went to town to attend mass, to shop, and to socialize. By my second month in each community I had made a number of women friends and more and more of my time was spent in their company. We frequently would prepare meals together, as we were eager to learn each other’s ways of cooking. Another social activity we frequently engaged in was beading necklaces. These and other activities not only allowed me to spend long periods of time in many homes observing participants’ behavior, but also served as frames for conversations which often were important sources of data.

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Structured and unstructured interviews As should be clear, much of my time in the communities was spent participating in the routines of daily life and work. These activities provided many opportunities for me to introduce into conversation topics that were of particular interest to the study. These unstructured exchanges with both adults and children also frequently provided useful information for conducting the study. While this was true of many acquaintances, it was especially the case with women friends who often revealed particularly crucial information. My women friends in Lagunas, for example, first confided in me about some of the sensitive, political problems in the community regarding the school. Being aware of this issue early on allowed me to adjust my behavior accordingly. Unstructured interviews were the only manner in which I questioned children. While I had anticipated conducting formal, structured interviews with children, after several months in the field I came to believe that asking formal, direct questions would not be fruitful. Often, in my initial attempts to do so, I found that their answers were not reliable, varying from one day to the next. The pressure to give the ‘correct’ answer, as they perceived it, was too great. Instead, I engaged children in conversations and naturally introduced topics pertinent to the investigation. These conversations or unstructured interviews with adults and children also provided opportunities early in my research to learn the conversational styles and appropriate ways of asking and revealing information in the communities. This was important not only for continuing to make contacts and to build relationships in the field, but also for conducting my structured interviews in a culturally appropriate manner. Fifty-one formal, structured interviews were conducted. Of these, 15 consisted of interviews with parents in Tambopamba and Lagunas (for a total of 30); eight were interviews with education administrators and school principals; five were interviews with community and regional political leaders; and eight were interviews with community school teachers. All except for two of these interviewees (one former educational administrator and one teacher) were indigenous Saraguros who openly identified as such. Thirty of the interviewees were women; 21 of the interviewees were male. All of the interviewees were between the ages of 19 and 57. (See Appendix 2 for a log of audio-taped interviews.) Interviewing began during the second half of my fieldwork, after having resided in the region for six months. All interviews were taped and were conducted in Spanish, the interviewees’ first language. Each of the interviews were characterized by a relaxed and friendly tone, and were

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completed without incident. Although some of the interviewees initially expressed concern that they would not be able to respond to the interview questions, at the close of the interview, many remarked that it had been easy and even pleasant, commenting that ‘no me hizo nada feo – facilito’ (‘it wasn’t unpleasant at all – very easy’ /S/) and ‘así está bien, charlar un poco, tranquilitas’ (‘it’s nice like this, to chat a bit, quietly’ /S/). The ease of the interviewing process was undoubtedly related to the fact that I only conducted interviews with adult community members with whom I had established a relationship in which I felt there was a high level of confidence and some degree of intimacy. These were people, for instance, with whom I had taken overnight trips, who I had helped regularly with their or their children’s homework, or who I had assisted when sick. Only interviewing people with whom I had a well-established relationship probably increased the likelihood that responses would be truthful and accurate. In addition, this practice also enabled me to compare and verify their self-reported behavior with my observations of what they actually did. Interview question guides were written specifically for each interview type (which depended on the interviewee’s role and position). (See Appendix 3 for interview guides.) All interview excerpts in the text are noted by their tape number (T #). Record-keeping Lastly, as is the style of all ethnographers, I kept careful notes of my observations and activities. Notes jotted down throughout the day were copied and expanded on my computer each night. Most of the coding, categorizing, and analysis of data was conducted after the fieldwork had been completed. Field notes were transferred to a database designed for the project, by ‘cutting’ and ‘pasting’ descriptions onto ‘electronic note cards’ that were labeled and categorized. In addition to the event description, category and sub-category, each card also noted the date of the event, the event source (e.g. observation, reported information, field document), the location, participants, circumstances, and field note number. (See King [1997b] for greater detail on the organization of categories and sub-categories.) This system allowed the more than 1000 field note cards to be sorted and reviewed with relative ease. Each of the vignettes in the text is noted by its field note number in the database (FN#) and date of occurrence. Roles and relationships Given that the main instrument in ethnographic data collection is the researcher herself, it is important to consider how roles and identity in the

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field impact how relationships are established and data are collected. Being a young and obviously foreign woman held both advantages and disadvantages for me in my fieldwork. While it is impossible to accurately and objectively assess how my identity interacted with aspects of the Saraguro context and ultimately impacted the study, in what follows, I attempt outline how some of my personal traits or characteristics seemed to come into play while working in the communities, as well as how both community perceptions of my presence and the research project evolved over time. Most obviously, my tall height and fair coloring prevented me from ever physically blending in among Saraguros. Indeed, my appearance was perhaps a constant reminder to community members that I was from a different place and held a distinct set of objectives and priorities. Looking (and being) so different did, however, prove advantageous in several ways. Initially, I was a curiosity; many people and especially children were eager to find out about both me and my belongings. This helped me to make acquaintances quickly, some of whom eventually became friends. In addition, because I looked so obviously foreign, it was sometimes expected that I would be unfamiliar with certain practices. It seemed that some people felt compelled to explain how and why they were doing things. However, even if I already knew that clothing should not be washed during a full moon, it was interesting to hear another version of the rationale for this practice. Moreover, I believe that because I was so clearly an outsider, my actions were judged, in some ways, less harshly than if I were from Saraguro or even Ecuador. Women, for example, found humor in, but were also understanding of the fact that my attempts to make bead necklaces resulted more often than not in knotted messes. My status as a foreigner was not only signaled by my odd appearance, but also by my obviously non-Saraguro manner of speaking both Spanish and Quichua. Before beginning work in Saraguro I had studied Spanish formally for more than six years, and had lived in Mexico and Spain. However, although my Spanish was fluent, it was far from native-like, and in any case, was distinct from that spoken by Saraguros. Initially, this elicited laughter and interest from children, while adults were for the most part too polite to comment. Slowly, over a period of months, I acquired some of the Saraguro patterns of conversation, local lexical items, and ways of teasing, asking, and interrupting. After a few months in the communities, adults regularly commented that I had finally learned to communicate myself well (‘communicarse bien’ /S/) in Spanish. However, while my Spanish eventually began to conform with that spoken by Saraguros, the Quichua which I spoke also drew interest and (to my frustration) likewise distinguished me from many Saraguros. The

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most unusual aspect of my Quichua (other than the fact that I was one of the few white people in the region who knew anything of the language), was that the variety which I had learned – through formal study at the University of Wisconsin, Madison – was similar to the Quichua of the northern Ecuadorian groups, and thus distinct from that spoken in the community. In addition to these linguistic differences, many members were aware of the fact that my less than native-like Spanish and Quichua were the result of speaking English as a first language. Saraguros, like many Ecuadorians, are keenly aware of the power and prestige of English, and were curious and eager to hear and learn the names of many everyday objects. These language differences undoubtedly resulted in miscommunication and misunderstandings at times. They also, however, served as a starting point and continual reference for many conversations about language, language attitudes, language use, and language learning which were valuable to the research project. As a woman, I was able to develop friendships with other female community members quickly. We were eager and happy to spend the dark evening hours talking about our families or telling stories of our childhoods. Some women felt that they could confide in me about such sensitive issues as spousal abuse or family planning concerns. This type of contact gave me an understanding of some of the less obvious issues of family life. As a foreign woman among the men, I was sometimes regarded as suspect, but often it seemed I was awarded the status of an ‘honorary’ man. I was invited and expected to act in a way that an indigenous women would not. For instance, at official ceremonies I was asked on some occasions to sit at the head table with the senior men. And I was allowed to attend high-level meetings at the regional school directorate that normally included only men. However, as the year progressed, my status as an ‘honorary’ male slipped. During my last months in the communities, I was sometimes expected to do what was typically women’s work. For example, at one of the last events that I attended, a celebration of Teacher’s Day, I was asked to sell sweets and drinks at the front door with the other younger women. I interpreted this not so much as a demotion in status (although in retrospect perhaps it was), but as part of being accepted, to some degree, as a normal community member, part of which entailed behaving as any other female of my age would. I believe being a young adult was for the most part helpful for my study. As a relatively young person, my questions, especially at school, often seemed to be interpreted as those of a student rather than those of an evaluator. I do not think that I was seen as someone who wielded great authority

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and for that reason I was granted access to some situations that I might not have been available to me had I been perceived as an expert or government authority. I perhaps encouraged this by explicitly stating my position as a student who needed to write a final paper or thesis; and as many Saraguros, especially those in Lagunas, had some knowledge of or experience with similar requirements, my predicament was understandable. Initially there was curiosity about my presence in the communities, and in my first weeks in Saraguro I spent what felt to me to be a great amount of time doing ‘public relations’ work, that is, explaining the purpose of my study, my research questions, my position as a graduate student, and my desire to assist the community in any number of ways. Over time, interest in me and my project diminished as I seemed to be classified as someone who was either ‘doing a study’ or ‘teaching in the schools.’ Interestingly, exactly what I was studying or teaching seemed to be of little concern once this initial categorization became known. Although certain aspects of my identity were important, the context in which I was acting was also a factor in determining my role and relationship to the participants. My role varied considerably and depended largely on whether I was in the Lagunas or Tambopamba schools, in the community, or in the Directorate. In the Directorate, for example, I was seen as both an outside observer and assistant. I was permitted to attend planning meetings, given access to administrative documents, and sought after for technical advice and planning consultation. In the Lagunas school, I was alternatively given the roles of teacher’s helper and teacher. This became apparent in my second week at the school when the school director told me that I needed to sign in and out as the other teachers did, because in her words, I was ‘just one more teacher’ (FN 26: 17 October 1994). Other teachers on occasion asked me to substitute for them when they needed to leave the school for an hour or two. For a month I served as the physical education teacher each Wednesday. I ate breakfast at the teachers’ table with the other staff members. Children, too, saw me in some sort of teacher role. They would frequently request my help or ask for homework assignments. The children also, however, sensed that I was not exactly a normal teacher and felt free to confide in me about not having done their homework or to ask me to play with them during time periods dedicated to academic work. I did not observe students engage in similar behavior with other staff members. At the Tambopamba school, in contrast, my role was more clearly defined as an outside observer. Although I occasionally substituted for teachers and sporadically taught English lessons, I interacted with children much less frequently in an academic and teacher-like manner.

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Furthermore, I did not engage in all the activities that the teachers did during school hours. In both communities, my role fluctuated between that of a researcher and that of a regular member. As discussed earlier, I made an effort to live and act as much like the other residents as possible. I made a point of complying with community regulations, but I also found myself demanding community rights as well. So for example, while I worked at community mingas, I also complained to my neighbor, the water chairperson, when the water went dry or brown. However, while people became accustomed to my residence in the community and eventually seemed at ease with my company, I do not believe I was ever considered to be ‘one of them.’ In other words, although I was trusted and confided in by some, it was never entirely forgotten that I was from a different world with a different agenda. In sum, my roles in the community were in part determined by my identity, but also depended upon the context. My identity as a young, foreign woman inevitably impacted my relationships and data collection in more ways than could possibly be detailed here. However, from my own vantage point (albeit a necessarily restricted one), in many contexts, my identity seemed to work to the advantage of the research project. Practicalities Some of the most basic questions regarding fieldwork, such as how particular sites are selected and how the research community is initially contacted, are frequently absent in research reports. Such information, however, can be crucial because it ultimately impacts the researcher’s perspective, data collection, analysis, and conclusions. Here, I present an overview of some of the practical concerns and decisions of conducting fieldwork in Saraguro. I first came to Saraguro in the company of a political scientist during the summer of 1993. In my first weeks there, I met several of the indigenous political and educational leaders of the region and discussed with them their linguistic situation and their plans to implement a Quichua-as-asecond-language program in the Saraguro schools. After a series of interviews with the director of school supervision and the president of one of the local political organizations, it was agreed that I would return the following summer. For their part, the directors agreed to help me gain access to schools and communities and to allow me to observe their activities. For my part, I promised to share my findings with them, serve as a technical consultant for Directorate research projects, and teach English as requested in the schools.

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When I returned in June of 1994, the country was in the midst of a strike organized by indigenous groups in protest against a proposed land reform bill. It was several weeks before life returned to normal and I could reestablish contact with education and political officials. After a series of conversations with Directorate officials it became increasingly evident that the plan to implement a Quichua-as-a-second-language program in the region’s schools which had been discussed the previous year had, in fact, seen little development and, from what I could discern, had been put entirely on hold. Indeed, none of the Directorate’s plans for implementation of a regional, Quichua-as-a-second-language program had been realized. At that point, the bulk of the Directorate’s planning and administrative work was focused on the implementation of the nationally mandated ‘New Model of Education.’ While the ‘New Model’ incorporated elements of native language instruction, much of the focus at the Directorate was on the development of individual learning materials and learner-centered pedagogical approaches. After several more weeks in Saraguro, it became clear that while the regionally administered programs had not come to fruition, many individual communities were concerned with Quichua language loss and had initiated programs to teach Quichua in their schools. I began to focus my attention intensively on various community programs and efforts, rather than on the plans of the regional Directorate. My principal contact at the Directorate was Miguel Vacacela Quishpe. His assistance was critical in introducing me into the indigenous communities and eventually placing me at a school. Understanding the subject and intent of my research, in early July of 1994, Miguel took me on a short ride on his motorcycle to visit one of the schools of which he had spoken highly, the Inti Raimi school of Lagunas. We toured the community, briefly observed some of the activities at the school, and spoke with the school director, Rosa Delia Quishpe. She explained how the school used a nontraditional methodological approach, which she referred to as activa (‘active’ /S/), and that the school was already in the process of teaching Quichua as a second language to its Spanish-dominant students. Within a few days, Miguel informed me that I had been accepted by the school teachers and parents for the following academic year. In order to understand the range and variation of processes of Quichua loss and revitalization among the Saraguros, I needed to investigate instructional programs and revitalization efforts in at least two different community contexts. Lagunas is relatively close to the town of Saraguro, composed largely of members of the FIIS political organization, and is home to one of the three alternative, activa schools in the Saraguro canton. It

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was thus important that the second community differ significantly from Lagunas, and be representative of the many communities which are located in rural sectors, far from the town of Saraguro. After settling into my home in Lagunas and beginning my observations in the Inti Raimi school, I began to look for a second community site for study. The criteria for the selection of the second community were the following. (1) The community should be representative of the more rural and distant communities and thus should not immediately surround the town of Saraguro. (2) The community should not be dominated by members of the FIIS political organization. (3) The school should not be an alternative, activa school, but rather a traditional school similar to those in most Saraguro communities. (4) The school should be instructing Quichua-as-a-second-language in attempt to revitalize the language. Of course, in addition to these four, a further criterion was that the school staff and community be willing to accept my presence over the course of the coming academic year. The community which best met all of these needs was Tambopamba. After visiting the community several times socially with friends, I made my first official visit to the home of the school director, Jose A. Tene, on my own. He listened coolly to my proposal to observe at the school and instruct English if desired. Some weeks later, after attaining approval from the parents’ association, I was formally accepted into the school and community. My intent was to observe Quichua revitalization processes in two different communities. In selecting two, I not only aimed to explore the potential variation in language revitalization programs and practices, but also sought to represent some of the socioeconomic and cultural diversity that exists among Saraguro communities. Observations in the region indicate that Lagunas and Tambopamba are fairly representative of the Saraguro parish communities which are closer and further away from town. For instance, in general, the communities closer to town are more likely to have members who are educated professionals. In more remote communities, members have less contact with non-indigenous persons and tend to engage exclusively in agricultural work. Lagunas and Tambopamba each matched these and other potentially important characteristics, and thus seemed to provide a reasonable sample of highland Saraguro communities.

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Conclusion Through discussion of the national context, the local context, and the research approach, this chapter has attempted to ‘set the scene’ for the description and analysis of language revitalization in Saraguro which follows. The first and second sections of the chapter presented an overview of the aspects of the national and local scene which are important for understanding language use and ethnic identity among Saraguros. In addition, it is hoped that this information will be useful in appropriately extrapolating lessons from the Saraguro case to other contexts. In the final section of the chapter, I discussed the research approach and practicalities of my fieldwork in Saraguro. The research methods were detailed along with my various roles and relationships with study participants. I hope that in doing so I have made these aspects of the study less mysterious, and the research process less opaque. Having discussed both the context of the research and outlined my positions and activities as a researcher, I now turn to a description and analysis of language use and ethnicity in the communities. Notes 1. ‘Mestizo’ refers to individuals who are of mixed indigenous and Spanish heritage. The term is sometimes used to refer to one’s racial origins, but since most Latin Americans are of mixed descent, the term is more appropriately and more frequently used to describe one’s ethnic or cultural orientation. See EstevaFabregat (1995) for further discussion. 2. More specifically, the goals concerning development of indigenous literacies entail: (1) development of oral and written communication skills, (2) development of student appreciation for different styles of literature: literary, journalistic, scientific, etc., (3) enrichment of vocabulary, (4) promotion and development of use of the indigenous language in the scientific and artistic areas, as well as in social and political environments, (5) instruction of the linguistic system of the group in order to optimize the development of expression, and (6) instruction of the oral tradition of the respective native language and promotion of its intercultural diffusion (DINEIB, 1994). 3. This argument is complicated and has no clear resolution. In the late 1970s, the now defunct Asociación de Comunidades Indígenas (‘Association of Indigenous Communities’ /S/) was formed. In 1972, in the San Lucas parish, Loja Runacunapac Riccharimui (‘Loja Indigenous People Awake’ /Q/) was created which evolved into the Unión de Mayorales de San Lucas (‘Union of Leaders of San Lucas’ /S/) in 1981, and later into the Coordinadora de Organizaciones y Comunidades Indígenas de San Lucas (‘Coordinator of Indigenous Organizations and Communities of San Lucas’ /S/). It is presently known as the Asociación de Comunidades y Organizaciones Indígenas ‘Joaquín Andrade’ (‘Joaquín Andrade’ Association of Communities and Organization’ /S/) and is currently affiliated with the CIOIS.

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4. Note that while minga is a Quichua word, the term is widely used by indigenous and non-indigenous Spanish speakers. When borrowed into Spanish, the Spanish pluralizing morpheme (‘s’), rather than the Quichua (‘cuna’) is regularly applied.

Chapter 3

Language Use and Ethnic Identity in Lagunas Lagunas Panpa ay ay ay Plazaderito ay ay ay (‘Lagunas Plain ay ay ay Little plaza-goer ay ay ay’) (Lyrics from ‘Saragurito,’ a folk song that outlines some of the widely held characteristics of different Saraguro communities.)

Entering Lagunas by foot, one is likely to hear children shouting and joking as they play on the grassy plateau near the entrance road to the community. Nearby, a small sign bearing the Coca-Cola logo welcomes travelers to the community of Lagunas. As one heads deeper into the community, walking along the paved, main road, one overhears women conversing near their homes as they wash clothes or tend their gardens. At the small stores operated out of residents’ homes, one might hear men and women chatting with the owners while making their purchases. And as one turns off the road and walks down the rocky, often muddy path into the Lagunas comuna (/S/), or community area, one might catch a catechism class, a football game on the cement pitch, and perhaps a few students studying in the new and well-equipped library. The beauty and the ornateness of the members’ clothing is striking: the males in black, knee-length pants and dark ponchos, the women and girls in full dark skirts, colorful blouses, ornate silver jewelry, and beaded necklaces. What also might strike the outsider is that despite the overwhelmingly indigenous appearance of the residents, their homes and community, none of the events described here takes place in Quichua, the indigenous and traditional language of the community. This chapter analyzes language and ethnicity in the Saraguro community of Lagunas. The first section of the chapter provides an overview of the shift away from Quichua and towards Spanish that took place this century and describes the present linguistic competencies of the community members. Next, I outline how Quichua is used in the home and in the community, focusing in particular on the ways in which Quichua is 70

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Language and Ethnic Identity in Lagunas

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employed in new contexts by new types of users as members attempt to assert and affirm their indigenous identity. Lastly, I explore how these new uses of Quichua relate to, and might be explained by, community members’ conceptions of ethnic identity.

Language Shift in Lagunas Lagunas was among the first Saraguro communities to shift towards Spanish. This fact is probably related to the community’s position almost adjacent to the Pan American highway and next to the town of Saraguro, the largest commercial center of the region. The proximity of both the highway and town allowed for frequent and intense contact between Lagunas members and Spanish speakers of the town. Yet while the present linguistic situation of Lagunas can be explained in part by the community’s location, the processes involved in the acquisition and transmission of Spanish and the concomitant shift away from Quichua are of course complex and multifaceted. Unlike what has been posited in other studies of language loss (e.g. Gal, 1979), the loss of Quichua in Lagunas did not seem to coincide with decreased solidarity among residents, nor did the shift towards Spanish correspond with a lessening of an ‘us-against-them’ (i.e. indígena versus blanco) separatist mentality (Fasold, 1992). Indeed, Lagunas members, like nearly all Saraguros, have maintained a strong and separate ethnic identity that is forged in part through an oppositional dialectic with town whites (L. Belote, 1978). The move away from Quichua, then, did not entail assimilation into white or mestizo society. Rather, the shift towards Spanish and away from Quichua can best be understood as the result of a changing system of incentives and opportunities for Saraguros in general, and for Lagunas members in particular. Language loss In Saraguro, as in much of Latin America, the history of relations between indigenous and non-indigenous sectors has long been characterized by segregation and discrimination against the indigenous population. Within this social system, language differences not only allow for the instant social classification of individuals, but often preclude inter-group communication and social mobility. Hence, as Albó (1979: 313) has noted, ‘the oppressed language becomes in turn oppressive’. While all Saraguros have either directly or indirectly experienced ethnically based discrimination, the location of Lagunas, adjacent to the highway and town, seemed to have facilitated greater contact with non-

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indigenous persons. Lagunas residents thus were likely exposed to a disproportionate amount of harassment for speaking Quichua and among the first to internalize the importance of Spanish. At the same time, this contact with the non-indigenous and Spanish-speaking population in the region provided sufficient access for at least some acquisition of Spanish by Lagunas members. Thus, the position of the community of Lagunas provided members with both the incentives and opportunities to acquire Spanish. However, as discussed in Chapter 1, recent research on language shift has highlighted the difficulty of explaining or predicting societal-level language change. Thus, the discussion which follows should be understood not as a compilation of rank-orded reasons why language shift is taking place among Saraguros, but rather as an overview of changing aspects of the Saraguro context which seem to have coincided with language shift, and possibly facilitated it. Social and economic factors

Perhaps one of the most significant events which appears to have coincided with Quichua loss in the Saraguro region was the construction of the Pan American highway. With the ‘economic boom’ heralded by the road’s construction and completion in the mid-1940s, the size of the white population in the town of Saraguro increased dramatically (L. Belote, 1978). The completion of the highway also intensified the participation of the entire region in the country’s cash and market economy. There was, for example, a marked increase in the exchange of processed goods such as salt, rice, and sugar, as well as indigenous agricultural products such as cheese and cattle (L. Belote, 1978). These ‘land transactions, cattle sales, the borrowing of money, etc., all required negotiations in Spanish,’ and quickly, ‘the Saraguros realized the value of learning Spanish’ (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1981: 456). Not only did business dealings require Spanish competence, but so did many other transactions, such as arranging for marriage and birth certificates or negotiating travel and transportation. As the Saraguros’ ‘engagement with the outside world increased, many of them began to realize that monopolization (or at least restriction) of the inter-ethnic communication channels was a severe handicap, especially when one had to conduct business and legal affairs [in Spanish]’ (J. Belote, 1984: 61–2). Knowing only Quichua was clearly disadvantageous for Saraguros, and especially for those from communities such as Lagunas, who tended to interact more frequently with whites than those from more remotely located communities. Quichua monolingualism left members in a position where they easily could be

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swindled. Moreover, not knowing the country’s official language, for all practical purposes, precluded any legal recourse. Not only did lack of Spanish competence present an economic liability for Saraguros, but use of their native language often left them open to humiliation and insult in the town of Saraguro. Many members of Lagunas’ older generation recall being made fun of for speaking Quichua. Town whites reportedly ridiculed Quichua speakers as those who ‘no saben hablar’ (‘do not know how to speak’ /S/), or only knew how to speak ‘animal languages’ (T27b). To avoid such harassment and embarrassment, it became the policy of many from Lagunas not to speak Quichua during their regular trips to town. Furthermore, the prejudice of the town whites against Quichua eventually seems to have been internalized by Saraguros themselves. Many older residents of Lagunas recall being laughed at by indígena friends or family for speaking in Quichua in their own communities. As Miguel Angel Vacacela Quishpe explained: ‘hay alguien que decía una palabra era que reían los compañeros y eso ha llevado que no utilicen’ (‘if anyone said a word [in Quichua] his companions would laugh and this has resulted in [them] not using [the language]’ /S/) (T22a/23a). Hence, the pressure not to speak Quichua came from outside the community and, eventually, from within it as well. By the 1950s and 1960s, parents who had struggled to learn Spanish as adults and who had suffered for not knowing it fluently, made a point of speaking their second language, Spanish, rather than Quichua, with their own children. This younger generation understands why their parents made this decision, explaining that they were taught only Spanish so they could ‘defendernos en el pueblo, para que podamos entender y ser entendidos acá, para hacer los papeles y todo eso’ (‘defend ourselves in the town, in order to understand and be understood here, to do paperwork and all that’ /S/) (FN 204: 31 October 1994). The roles of education

Another important, albeit indirect factor in the transition to Spanish was the introduction of education into the lives of Lagunas members. In the early 1960s, boys from Lagunas and other nearby communities gained admission to two elementary schools in town (J. Belote, 1984). By the mid1960s, Saraguro indígenas from the communities near town began to attend primary school in significant numbers. Around the same period, elementary schools were built in three indigenous communities located closest to town: Quisquinchir, Tuncarta, and Lagunas (J. Belote, 1984; T 22a/22b). In both the community and town schools, Spanish was the sole language

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of instruction and the only language permitted by teachers – all of whom were white. Stories of verbal abuse and corporal punishment for speaking Quichua in schools are widespread amongst Lagunas members. Rosa’s recollection, for example, is shared by many: ‘cuando hablábamos quichua en la escuela sabían pegarnos y castigarnos’ (‘when we spoke Quichua in the school they used to hit us and punish us’ /S/) (FN 218: 11 February 1995). Many community members cite the Spanish-only policy of the schools to be a primary factor in language shift and believe that ‘la situación educativa nos ha llevado, o sea, que todos sean castellanos y hablen castellano’ (‘the educational situation has brought us, like, to all be Castilian and speak Castilian’ /S/) (T22a/23a). Although the extent to which children were punished for speaking Spanish is unclear, it is certain – and perhaps linguistically more significant – that parents and children came to believe that speaking Quichua in school would result in corporal punishment and verbal castigation in addition to academic failure. Lagunas parents, sensitive to their children’s experience and concerned about their academic success, logically came to the conclusion that the sooner Spanish was learned, the better off the children would be. As one mother recalled, ‘en las escuelas, maltrataban los Quichuas; tenían que aprender castellano para que no sufran en las escuelas’ (‘in the schools, they mistreated Quichua [speakers]; they had to speak Castilian in order to not suffer in the school’ /S/) (T5b). Hence, Lagunas parents, like many other minority-language parents (cf. Hinton, 1994; Watahomigie, 1998), conscientiously used only their second language with their children, a practice founded on their belief that early and exclusive acquisition of Spanish would promote their children’s academic success and minimize their future hardship both in and out of school. These social, economic, and educational changes correspond with the period in which members of the community of Lagunas maintain that Spanish began to dominate. Lagunas members believe that they ‘began leaving’ Quichua in the 1960s and 1970s. This transition can be understood as the result of the economic and scholastic advantages ‘pulling’ them towards Spanish, and the concomitant prejudice, harassment, and discrimination ‘pushing’ them away from Quichua. As is frequently the case in contexts of language shift (cf. Dorian, 1981), although the climate which led to the rapid adoption of Spanish had been centuries in the making, the bulk of the transition occurred over the span of a just few decades. Indeed, the speed of the shift is clear when the language competencies of today’s adults and children are examined.

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Language competencies Lagunas residents are quick to comment that in Lagunas ‘la gente habla muy poco el quichua’ (‘people speak very little Quichua’ /S/) (T22a/23a). The president of the community, Samuel Ortega, himself in his late forties, describes the linguistic situation of Lagunas as one where ‘la mayoría de los niños no hablan quichua, de mi edad y atrás sí, pero sólo no más con los mayores . . . se ha perdido bastante’ (‘the majority of the children do not speak Quichua, of my age and older, yes, but only with the elders . . . much has been lost’ /S/) (T26b). This assessment has been roughly accurate for at least a decade. More than ten years prior to the present study, anthropologist James Belote noted that ‘the shift to Spanish has gone so far that among some of the indigenous families of Lagunas and Quisquinchir [a nearby community] some young adults, who are without question indígenas and who identify themselves as such, cannot speak Quichua’ (1984: 62). As is true in nearly all communities in the midst of language loss, language competencies in Lagunas differ by age. Thus, while the ‘older members of the speech community still speak the former language, the younger generations have no knowledge or a semi-speaker competence in the language, being brought up with the new language as their mother tongue’ (Brenzinger et al., 1991: 34). In order to examine the language competencies of Lagunas members more closely, community members are grouped into five categories based on both age and language ability (see Table 3.1.). Sixty-one and older

Only older Lagunas residents, aged 61 and above, acquired Quichua as their first language and are Quichua dominant. Most of these individuals have learned to speak Spanish as adults, with generally high but varying degrees of fluency. These residents grew up in homes in which Quichua was predominantly, if not exclusively, spoken. While they were children and teenagers, the highway was under construction and interactions with non-indigenous Spanish speakers became more frequent and intense. This group probably suffered most intensely (at least of all living generations) for not speaking fluent Spanish. Many have internalized the highly negative attitudes prevalent in earlier years. As one Lagunas member explains, ‘los mayores tienen vergüenza hablar en esa forma’ (‘the elders are ashamed to speak in this [Quichua] manner’ /S/) (T4a/4b). These adults were the first of Lagunas to send their children to school, albeit in limited numbers. Some members of this group were also among the first to begin speaking Spanish with their children with the hope of saving them from the hardships that they themselves had suffered. Their grandchildren, who

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Table 3.1 Language competencies of Lagunas members by age group Language skills of age cohort (at time of study)

Age in 1995

1985

1975

1965

1955

1945

Nearly Spanish monolingual with very limited Quichua aural skills

0–15

0–5

–

–

–

–

Spanish dominant; some Quichua aural skills; limited Quichua oral skills

16–30

6–20

0–10

–

–

–

Spanish dominant; understand and speak some Quichua

31–45

21–35

11–25

0–15

0–5

–

Bilingual, Quichua and Spanish

46–60

36–50

26–40

16–30

6–20

1–10

Quichua dominant with Spanish aural/oral competence

61and older

51–65

41–55

31–45

21–35

11–25

Important events in and around Lagunas

Quichua language revitalization programs underway

Bilingual education initiated in Saraguro

Oil boom; Government investment in infrastructure

Residents begin to attend school

Increased engagement in national economy

Pan American highway built

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today comprise many of the community’s young adults, recall that ‘nuestros abuelos no querían que seamos quichuas, que seamos castellanos’ (‘our grandparents did not want us to be Quichuas; [they wanted] for us to be Castilians’ /S/) (T14b). Forty-six to sixty

‘Middle aged’ Lagunas adults (46–60) were the most fully bilingual of the community at the time of the study. Growing up surrounded by Quichua-dominant parents and relatives, but also with parents that spoke some Spanish to them, this group was probably the first that was exposed to Spanish from a young age. Some members of this age group attended school, and most have considerable contact with whites, if not through school, in business and service transactions. This group almost uniformly spoke exclusively Spanish with their children and was the first to send their children to school in large numbers. Thirty-one to forty-five

Adults aged 31–45, some of whom are the children of the previous group, were probably the first to grow up speaking Spanish from infancy, although many members of this group also understand Quichua. While there was considerable diversity in the linguistic skills of this group, many summarize their language skills as Rosa did: ‘entiendo, pero no hablo’ (‘I understand, but I don’t speak’ /S/) (T7b). Additionally, members of this age group noted that they are hesitant to speak because they feel embarrassed by their lack of fluency. As a 31 year-old resident stated about his own skills, ‘puedo entenderlo; puedo hablar, pero muy despacio. Es muy difícil; falta mucha práctica’ (‘I can understand it; I can speak, but very slowly. It’s very difficult; A lot of practice is lacking.’ /S/) (T17b). This group attended primary school in large numbers; some went on to study at secondary schools in Saraguro or elsewhere. Thirty and under

Young adults (16–30) speak a Spanish variety which shows little to no Quichua influence and which differs little from the Spanish of the area’s whites. Some members of this group understand some Quichua; many understand no more than a few words and simple commands. None speak fluently. As a 24 year-old woman of Lagunas summarized: ‘los de mi edad, no sabemos hablar el quichua’ (‘those of my age, we don’t know how to speak Quichua’ /S/) (FN 28: 8 October 1994). The children of Lagunas (0– 15), not surprisingly, speak extremely little Quichua. Some understand a few basic words and commands; many seem to comprehend almost nothing of the language.

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Language shift and socioeconomic adaptation With no fluent speakers under the age of 30, language shift has progressed further in Lagunas than it has in many other more remote communities such as Tambopamba. Indeed, relative to Tambopamba, Lagunas can be considered to be one generation ‘ahead’ in terms of the displacement of Quichua and shift towards Spanish. For example, in Lagunas, it is the 46–60 age group that is the most fully bilingual. This age group elected to speak Spanish with their children and were critically important in shifting the mother tongue of the community. In Tambopamba, in contrast, this role was fulfilled by the 31–45 age group. As will be clear in the discussion which follows, this relatively ‘advanced’ position of Lagunas in terms of Spanish competence is not unconnected to the community’s longstanding and continued socioeconomic security and success. Throughout the last century, Saraguros have adapted skillfully and rapidly to the changing economic and social demands of the times (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1981). The ability and willingness of the residents of Lagunas to adapt to shifting demands and opportunities seems to have been an important factor in the community’s strong economic and social standing. Indeed, Lagunas is generally recognized as one of the most secure, established, and successful communities in the region. Lagunas, for instance, was the first Saraguro community to organize itself and officially register as an indigenous community with the municipality around 1945 (Zhingre, 1998). (Foreshadowing their linguistic future and perhaps revealing the sociolinguistic aspirations of the time, the residents changed the name of the community from ‘Chunquidel,’ a Quichua name, to ‘Las Lagunas,’ a Spanish one.) Town whites also tend to view Lagunas as one of the ‘better’ indigenous communities of the region. Throughout my year of residence in the region, the (white) chief postal clerk of Saraguro regularly noted that ‘los mejores son de Lagunas’ (‘the best [indigenous people] are from Lagunas’ /S/). In economic terms, the residents of Lagunas also stand apart from many other Saraguro communities. A regional survey conducted by the Dirección in 1993, for instance, indicated that Lagunas members, on average, rank high among Saraguros from other communities on the two most important economic indicators of the region: land holdings and cattle ownership (Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja, 1995). Perhaps even more revealing is the fact that many of the residents of Lagunas are professionals, actively employed, for example, as teachers, educational administrators, and development consultants. Thus, in

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addition to their considerable land and cattle holdings, many household incomes are bolstered by regular salaries. As the linguistic and social barriers between Lagunas members and non-Saraguros have fallen, Lagunas residents have been among the first Saraguros to participate, in many cases quite successfully, in the wider non-indigenous society. It is probably impossible to determine the nature of the relationship between these two events. (For instance, on the one hand, it might be the case that Lagunas residents began to participate actively and successfully outside of their community because they were among the first to learn Spanish. On the other hand, one might argue that Lagunas residents were among the first to learn Spanish precisely because they engaged in frequent and intensive contact with non-indigenous sectors.) While the nature of the relationship between these shifts is complex and probably not uni-directional, it does seem likely that the willingness and ability of Saraguros from Lagunas to linguistically adapt to their surroundings is connected to their current strong socioeconomic position. Members recognize that these facts are related, and that the decision to switch to Spanish was both a practical and a conscious one on the part of their parents and grandparents. However, in recent years members have also begun to consider the costs of turning away from Quichua. Attitudes regarding language loss Most members of Lagunas express a mixture of regret, sadness, and embarrassment concerning the loss of Quichua in the community. When discussing their collective dependence on Spanish, the refrain, ‘es una lástima’ (‘it’s a shame’ or ‘it’s a pity’ /S/), was often repeated. De Vos (1975) notes that a critical component of ethnicity is its role in maintaining a sense of connection and continuity with the past. Correspondingly, many members link Quichua with past generations and view the loss of the language as a sign of disrespect for elders and their traditions. Una de las herencias que nos han dejado nuestros antepasados es el idioma. Por naturaleza tenemos que practicar. Lo que pasa es que nosotros no hemos hecho. (‘One of the traditions that our ancestors have left us is the language. By nature, we have to continue to use it. What happens is that we haven’t done so.’ /S/) (T14a) Para mí, es como parte de nuestra cultura, pero es lamentable porque nosotros no hablamos muy bien el quichua . . . más lamentable que el idioma se ha perdido.

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(‘For me, it’s like a part of our culture, but it is lamentable because we don’t speak Quichua very well . . . more lamentable that the language has been lost.’ /S/) (T17b) Es una lengua nativa de nosotros y debemos saber pero, lástimamente no sabemos. (‘It is a native language for us and we should know it, but unfortunately we don’t.’ /S/) (T19b) Other members expressed embarrassment at their collective lack of Quichua competence and use. They described their dependence upon Spanish as a personal shortcoming on their own part or on the part of their parents. Es el malo de nosotros que no sabemos el quichua. (‘It is the bad thing about us, that we don’t know Quichua.’ /S/) (FN 29: 8-10-94) Pero como no supimos valorizar . . . no aprendimos . . . es la culpa de nuestros papás. (‘But as we didn’t know how to value [Quichua] . . . we didn’t learn . . . it is the fault of our parents.’ /S/) (T15a) Muy mejor sólo sería todos sabiendo el quichua, no intentábamos aprender . . . somos muy dejados. (‘It would be much better if only every one knew Quichua, we didn’t try to learn . . . we are very neglectful.’ /S/) (T5a) Tal vez por ser vaga no sé yo cómo hablar. (‘Perhaps due to laziness I don’t know how to speak [Quichua].’ /S/) (T7b) No les hicimos caso por no entender. No pensaba que era importante. Ahora estamos dando cuenta. (‘We didn’t pay attention [to our parents or grandparents] because we didn’t understand. I didn’t think it was important. Now we are realizing.’ /S/) (T17a) Nearly all of these self-critical comments come from adults who were not exposed intensively to the language as children. Thus, these adults are Spanish dominant or Spanish monolingual, not, as many believe, because they are lazy or disrespectful, but simply because they did not have the opportunity to learn the language naturally in the home. The desire to revive the Quichua language, maintain Saraguro ethnic identity, and to in some way ‘undo’ the shift instigated by their parents and grandparents is

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clear when we examine the hopes that today’s parents hold for their own children. Attitudes concerning children, language, and ethnicity All Lagunas parents hope that their children do not ‘deja de ser indígena’ (‘stop being indigenous’ /S/), namely by changing clothing and hairstyle, permanently leaving the community, or marrying a non-indigenous person. Indeed, all parents view the adoption of mestizo or white styles negatively. No quiero que sea blanco; no es blanco. Es indígena. (‘I don’t want him to be white; he’s not white. He’s indigenous.’ /S/) (T5a) Me traicionaría de mí. Me hubiera dado pena del pelo mismo. (‘It would betray me. [Cutting] the hair itself would cause me pain.’ /S/) (T8b) Me sentiría mal. (‘I would feel bad [if he changed].’ /S/) (T17b) Muy mal. No quiero que cambien. Con todo su herencia indígena, nunca van a cambiar. Nacieron indígenas. (‘Very bad. I don’t want them to change. With all of their indigenous heritage, they are not going to change. They were born indigenous.’ /S/) (T15a) While Lagunas parents desire that their children remain indigenous, and not adopt western clothing and habits, many explicitly stated that they also preferred that their children speak Quichua. Hubiera preferido. Es bonito el quichua. (‘I would have preferred it. Quichua is pretty.’ /S/) (T8b) En quichua es feo no entender (‘It’s ugly to not understand Quichua.’ /S/) (T6b) Deben hablar, porque debemos hablar lo nuestro. (‘They should speak, because we should speak what is ours.’ /S/) (T19b) Although parents expressed the desire that their children learn and know Quichua, for the most part, they also seem to be aware that this is not happening. Some parents appear to hold out hope that their children will learn the language with time. Indeed, many Lagunas members believe that

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children cannot learn Quichua from a young age; rather, parents commented that the youngest members of the community would possibly learn Quichua when they are ‘más mayores’ (‘older’ /S/). Other parents, in contrast, are keenly aware that acquisition of Quichua is not happening at any point in their children’s development, and furthermore that the language is in danger of disappearing from the community. Si no tratamos a dar a los niños el idioma, manera de vestirse, si no se hace nada, en diez años – nada. Si no lo hacemos, todo difícil. (‘If we don’t try to give the children the language, the way of dressing, if it’s not done, in ten years – nothing. If we don’t do it, all is very difficult.’ /S/) (T5b) Pienso que no va a terminar. Pero tal vez puede pasar. La mayoría de los padres están preocupados rescatar el idioma. Estamos dando cuenta. (‘I think that it’s not going to end. But perhaps it can happen. The majority of the parents are preoccupied with rescuing the language. We are realizing.’ /S/) (T14a) Si no hacemos nada – quizás termine – ya está pasando. (‘If we don’t do anything – perhaps it ends – it’s already happening.’ /S/) (T8a) Thus, Lagunas parents are aware of the precarious state of the language, and in some respects, are in a difficult position. Parents feel guilty and negligent that the language is not used regularly in the home. Furthermore, many of those of child-bearing and rearing age do not speak Quichua well enough to feel comfortable using it with their children, or possibly, do not know the language at all. Many Lagunas parents, then, want children to learn the language, but are also conscious of the fact that this is not happening. These desires and concerns about language and ethnicity are clearly reflected in the patterns of Quichua use in both the home and community, the topic of the following section.

Language Use in the Home Chapter 1 outlined an approach for description and analysis of community-level language use known as the ethnography of communication. As we consider ‘the rules’ for using Quichua in Lagunas, this approach will assist us in understanding the functions of the language in the community. For the present purposes, we are concerned with speech acts and the speech events and situations in which they occur; as Hymes (1967; 1989: 56)

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notes, ‘it is of speech events and speech acts that one writes formal rules for their occurrence and characteristics’. Hymes’ SPEAKING mnemonic provides a clear and useful framework for outlining how Quichua is employed by Lagunas members in various contexts (Hymes, 1967; 1974: 53–62; 1989: 59–71). As discussed in Chapter 1, the framework allows speech to be analyzed across eight dimensions where ‘S’ stands for setting or scene; ‘P’ for participants; ‘E’ for ends (outcomes and goals); ‘A’ for act (both message form and message content); ‘K’ for key (tone and manner); ‘I’ for instrumentals (channels and forms); ‘N’ for norms (interaction and interpretation), and ‘G’ for genres. In determining when and why Quichua is the selected channel of communication or instrumentality (I) in Lagunas homes, four aspects of the speech act or event are of critical importance: the participants (P), the goals or ‘ends’ (E), the content or ‘act’ (A), and the tone and manner or ‘key’ (K). Given that most adults in Lagunas are Spanish dominant, it is hardly surprising that the principal language of Lagunas homes is Spanish. However, Quichua is not entirely absent from Lagunas homes. Although Spanish is the principal language of communication, Quichua fulfills specific functions between family members in the homes of Lagunas and is selected for four basic purposes: (1) talking with and between the older members of the community, (2) joking, (3) telling secrets, and (4) purposefully teaching and practicing the language. Each of these functions, as well as the corresponding salient contextual factors in term of Hymes’ mnemonic, is discussed in turn below. Quichua with and between community elders Quichua is the normal and appropriate channel of communication when one or more of the participants – which includes the ‘speaker, or sender, the addresser, the hearer, or receiver, or audience, and the addressee’ (Hymes, 1989: 60) – are Quichua-dominant elders. Adults in the community believe that, out of respect, Quichua should be used with elders to the extent possible: ‘El quichua se debe intentar usar con los mayores’ (‘One should try to use Quichua with the elders’ /S/) (T14a). Although there are relatively few homes in which an elderly, Quichua-dominant person lives with the youngest generation, when elderly family members visit or are visited, or when they are amongst themselves, Quichua is the preferred tongue. Quichua for humor ‘Key’ for Hymes (1989) refers to the tone and manner of the event or act, for example, whether it is playful and humorous, or serious and respectful. By all accounts, in Lagunas, Quichua is the best and most appropriate

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language when the key is humorous. As one woman in her early thirties explained, she and her sister mostly speak Quichua ‘para reirnos’ (‘in order to laugh’ /S/) (T15a). In conjunction with other cues, Quichua signals that the intention of the speech act or event is humorous. In the vignette that follows we see that the selection of Quichua suggests that the comment regarding sexual behavior is not meant to be taken at face value, but rather humorously and playfully. Late in the afternoon I enter the kitchen of my house. Rosa and her mother-in-law are sitting at the table. I ask Rosa if she has a remedio (‘cure’ /S/) for nausea, telling them that I am not sure what the cause might be. Rosa smiles and says to her mother-in-law and me, ‘tal vez tiene que ver con shuc jari’ (‘perhaps it has something to do with’ /S/ ‘a man’ /Q/). We laugh together at the (implausible) idea that my nausea is the result of pregnancy. (FN 756: 15-3-95) The three of us together, as well as Rosa and her mother-in-law alone, normally spoke Spanish. In referring to personal sexual behavior, what might have been an impertinent or even accusative comment, was clearly signaled to be a friendly joke through the use of Quichua. It is also common for Quichua to be used for humorous names for people or places. For example, a large, older man in the community was playfully nick-named jatun chaqui (‘big foot’ /Q/). As Stølen (1992) describes in her analysis of language play through code-switching in Danish-American songs, and as Siegel (1995: 100) finds in his study of code-switching and humor in Fiji, the change to another language often ‘signals that joking is taking place’. Similarly, use of Quichua suggests that a comment is not meant to be taken seriously, thus ‘taking the teeth out’ of a potentially contentious remark. Due to the dearth of Quichua competence in Lagunas, extended use of the language for humorous purposes is relatively uncommon. In more Quichua-fluent communities, jokes are made by ‘playing’ with Quichua’s rich morphological system. However, because most Lagunas members lack the mastery of the language needed for this sort of linguistically sophisticated play, jokes are often made by borrowing one or two words into Spanish or through simple code-switches, as described in the previous vignette. Quichua for secrets Quichua is frequently selected in Lagunas when the end of the speech act or event is to secretly convey message content. For Hymes (1967; 1989: 61), ‘ends’ consist of both the ‘conventionally recognized and expected

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outcomes’, and the individual aim or goal of an event or act. In Lagunas homes, Quichua is used among parents ‘en la casa para secretos’ (‘in the home for secrets’ /S/) (T6a), often in order to discuss plans for outings which do not include the children. In the parents’ words, they use Quichua, ‘en casos de salir, para que [los niños] no lloren, no entiendan’ (‘when leaving, so that [the children] don’t cry, they don’t understand’ /S/) (T8b), and ‘para que no entiendan los niños’ (‘in order that the children don’t understand’ /S/) (T7a). Such exclusionary use of language is far from uncommon in situations of language obsolescence; Dorian (1981), for instance, reports that most East Sutherland Gaelic speakers used the language at least periodically to this end. In Saraguro, only slightly older parents use Quichua for secrets; parents under the age of 30, probably because they lack the necessary language skills, tend not to do so. Quichua for purposeful instruction or practice While parents of Lagunas did not use Quichua in their homes for everyday communication, some do make a point of using Quichua ‘para enseñar a los niños’ (‘in order to teach the children’ /S/) (T14b). Most Lagunas parents are quick to note, however, that use of the language for instruction tends to be limited, both in frequency and total amount. En esta casa somos jóvenes. No practicamos mucho. Escuchan palabras, vocabularios que enseñamos poco a poco. (‘In this house we are young. We don’t practice much. They hear words, vocabulary that we teach little by little.’ /S/) (T6a) Recién no más estamos empezando . . . nosotros hemos hecho una esfuerza . . . conversamos. Tratamos a traducirle palabras. (‘Only recently are we beginning . . . we have made an effort . . . we converse. We try to translate words for him.’ /S/) (T5b) Él quiere enseñar de vez en cuando. (‘He [the husband and the children’s father] wants to teach once in a while.’ /S/) (T6b) Cada día habla mi esposo palabras y frases pequeñas con ellos. (‘Every day my husband speaks words and little phrases to them.’ /S/) (T8b) No estamos hablando quichua todos los días en la casa; enseñamos palabras no más. (‘We aren’t speaking Quichua every day in the house; we teach only words.’ /S/) (T17a)

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When the goal of the interaction is instruction of Quichua, part or all of the event or act was conducted in Quichua. Some parents make a game out of instruction, as is the case in the next vignette. Lola and I are sitting in front of her house. She is playing with her son and quizzing him on the parts of the body in Quichua. ¿Maitaj ñahui? (‘Where are your eyes?’ /Q/) (covers both of his eyes with both hands) ¿Maitaj shimi? (‘Where is your mouth?’ /Q/) (silent and motionless) Dónde está tu boca? (‘Where is your mouth?’ /S/) ¡Aquí! (‘Here!’ /S/) (covering his mouth with both hands) (FN 757: 15-3-95) Lola: Luchito: Lola: Luchito: Lola: Luchito:

The primary goal of speech events such as these is the instruction (and eventual acquisition) of Quichua. The content, as the parents themselves outlined earlier, is frequently simple, concrete vocabulary. In addition to attempts to instruct their children, some adults in the community make efforts to practice the language amongst or between themselves. The primary goal of such exchanges is not the purposeful instruction detailed earlier, nor is it interpersonal communication, but rather, intentional practice. As one woman explained, she and her husband use Quichua occasionally, ‘con el fin de practicar nosotros, para rescatar el idioma, para no olvidar’ (‘with the goal of practicing ourselves, in order to rescue the language, to not forget’ /S/) (T17a). However, as is the case with the parents’ attempts to purposefully instruct the language, such events are sporadic and, in most homes, infrequent. Children’s exposure to Quichua in the home While the previous discussion demonstrates how Quichua is used for a limited number of specific purposes, these examples also point to the fact that the language has lost nearly all of its communicative functions in the home. For example, the use of Quichua by parents to keep secrets from children underlines the lack of regular use of Quichua with the youngest generation, as well as their low levels of Quichua competency. Furthermore, while Quichua is taught purposefully to children on occasion, this instruction is limited primarily to the names of objects and a few basic commands, practiced several times a week at most. It is also critical to note that children are not expected to meaningfully interact in the language and rarely is ‘whole’ or natural Quichua directed at them as part of this

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instruction. If we accept Brandt’s (1988: 323) argument that in order for language acquisition to occur, ‘children must be in a situation where they are exposed to large amounts of constant speech in the target language, a significant amount of this language must be addressed to them . . . [and] they must also respond and interact in the language with others about things they wish to communicate,’ there seems little hope that Lagunas children will acquire Quichua in the home as children given the conditions outlined here. This situation, where parents habitually speak the dominant or majority language to their children and formally instruct the indigenous language, is by no means limited to Lagunas. For instance, the Chilcotin of British Columbia, though themselves fluent in both English and Chilcotin, view their own children as ‘native speakers of English who must be “taught” Chilcotin’ (Pye, 1992: 77). Like the Quichua instruction of Lagunas parents, the Chilcotin parents’ teaching ‘targets a few Chilcotin words (numbers, colors, and a few basic nouns) for imitation’ (p. 77). While well intended, this sort of intentional familial instruction often has the effect of ‘reducing input in the language even further so that a child is forced to say nouns which refer to body parts, kin terms, with perhaps a few greetings and politeness forms’ (Brandt, 1988: 323). As Brandt and Ayoungman (1989: 45) note, while home-based language revitalization can occur, it often does not because family members ‘teach’ their children ‘Indian’ by giving them isolated words . . . rather than simply talking to them all the time in the language and using the normal strategies of talking to children, asking them questions, telling them what to say in natural functional situations . . . or expanding their productions. These attempts to ‘teach’ the language formally in the home are problematic because the ‘grammar of any natural language is complex and the rules of the language not consciously known, so that efforts to teach at this level are doomed to failure’ (Brandt, 1988: 323). Yet despite the limited amounts of Quichua use in the home and the small chance of such use resulting in significant language acquisition, the patterns of language use in the homes do reveal the desire of adults to use and promote the language. A further point worth noting is that children seem to be influenced by their parents’ positive attitudes towards the language. For instance, even the youngest members of the community are often aware of the perceived cultural importance of Quichua for Saraguros. As we turn to examine language use in the community, we further see how the desire to recapture what is viewed as the true language of Lagunas is

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manifest in the use of Quichua for expression and assertion of ethnic identity.

Marked Language Use in the Community Spanish is the principal language of the Lagunas community. However, Quichua is used in similar ways in the wider community as it is in the home among family members. For instance, Quichua is the language for talk with and amongst the oldest, Quichua dominant members outside, as well as inside the home. And within the wider community, Quichua is used by members for secrets, for humor and on occasion, for instruction or practice in a similar way as it is in the home among family members. Both in the home and in the community, such uses of Quichua are ‘unmarked’ in Lagunas. They are ‘unmarked’ in that they do not attempt to alter the established relationship between or among interlocutors (MyersScotton, 1983; 1993). For instance, as previously detailed, when parents discuss a future outing in front of their children, they use Quichua for a practical, immediate, and identifiable purpose: in order that the youngest members of the family do not understand. There is, however, one way Quichua is used in Lagunas which is in fact ‘marked.’ Following MyersScotton’s (1983; 1993) analysis of Swahili-English code-switching in Kenya, the uses now described are marked in that they signal that the speaker, by overtly attempting to identify with a particular ethnic group, is challenging or negotiating his or her relationship with the interlocutor(s). This manner of Quichua usage can best be understood as an overt and conscious expression of Saraguro ethnic identity. For most interactions in Lagunas, Spanish is the unmarked code, the exception being the situations previously described (where Quichua is unmarked for use with elders, for humor, for secrets, and for intentional instruction and practice). However, Lagunas speakers, under what Myers-Scotton has termed the ‘multiple-identities maxim,’ on occasion do opt for the marked code, which in Lagunas is Quichua. In doing so, members show off their linguistic ‘wares’ and speak Quichua in order to emphasize their ethnic identification or allegiance (Myers-Scotton, 1983: 126). In Lagunas, the employment of Quichua in this marked manner serves to emphasize the authenticity and veracity of interlocutors’ indigenous identity. Generally, such marked use of Quichua does not take place among family members in the home. This is not surprising given the essentially public and symbolic nature of this type of language use (Myers-Scotton, 1983). However, such marked language use does occur within Lagunas

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homes when guests are present, as is the case in the next two examples. Although these events took place in a private home, they are most accurately considered instances of community language use since the conversations are among community members rather than family members. The primary goal of speech events such as these is the expression and assertion of ethnic identity. As the following vignettes demonstrate, there is often some aspect of the scene which acts as an impetus for such expression. Neighbors Lauro and Rosa Delia and I are sitting in the kitchen of Miguel and Rosa’s house. We are talking about the history of the active schools in the region and the attempts to promote Quichua in the community. Lauro is lamenting that few younger parents use Quichua in Saraguro and those that do sometimes speak chaupi lengua (‘half’ /Q/ ‘language’ /S/), mixing Spanish and Quichua. With this he pours me a half glass of alcohol and says, ‘sírvase no más’ (‘help yourself to your drink’ /S/). He then pauses, smiles, and says, ‘upiapay’ (‘drink please’ /Q/). (FN 60: 16-10-94) Lauro and Rosa Delia are both education professionals and Quichua advocates within the community of Lagunas. They are both competent Quichua speakers; yet, like most Lagunas members, they are more comfortable with, and typically use, Spanish. In this example, Lauro seems to realize the hypocrisy in lamenting the lack of Quichua in the community and yet not using it himself. Perhaps out of the desire to rectify this situation and to assert his own allegiance and dedication to Quichua, he switches to Quichua. The goal of expressing and establishing indigenous ethnicity is also salient in the interaction below between Miguel and his classmates from a teacher professionalization course. Miguel’s classmates arrive. ‘¿Se puede?’ (‘May I?’ /S/), they ask several times while standing just outside the house. ‘Venga, venga no más’ (‘Come in, come right in’ /S/), says Miguel, encouraging them to pass through the door. They pause momentarily, and then switch to Quichua to greet one another. Alli chishi mashicuna. (‘Good afternoon friends.’ /Q/) Alli chishi. Alli chishi. (‘Good afternoon.’ ‘Good afternoon.’ /Q/) Miguel: Alli chishi. ¿Imashinalla? (‘Good afternoon. How are you?’ /Q/) Classmate: Bueno, parece que . . . (Well, it seems that . . . /S/) (FN 822: 3-4-95) Miguel: Classmates:

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Much of the course sponsored by the Directorate emphasized the value and importance of bilingualism. Miguel and his classmates, possibly influenced by the course, seem to be expressing not only their linguistic skills and indigenous identity, but also their commitment to the course’s proQuichua agenda. It is worth noting, however, that Quichua use is limited to the formulaic or ritualistic portion of the interaction while Spanish is employed for the more linguistically complex and content-oriented aspects. The goal of these speech events was the expression and assertion of ethnic identity. Obviously, both of these functions (the offering of the drink; the greeting) could have been performed in Spanish. There was no communicative need to use Quichua, either for one of the reasons discussed earlier or because the speaker or hearer was Quichua dominant. As Myers-Scotton’s (1983; 1993) model predicts, members used Quichua in the attempt to actively assert or even promote their indigenous identity. Lagunas residents explained their purposeful usage of Quichua in a similar manner. Para que se note que no pertenecemos a los mestizos, ni a los blancos, ni a los gringos. (‘So people notice that we don’t belong to the mestizos, nor to the whites, nor to the gringos.’ /S/) (T4a/b) Sería como corriente común – por eso, estamos luchando rescatar, recuperar, rescatar. (‘It would be [like becoming] like everyone else – this is why we are fighting to rescue, to regain, to rescue.’ /S/) (T6a) Así, pues, no queremos perder el costumbre que tienen mis abuelos, de antes. (‘Like this, well, we don’t want to lose the custom of our ancestors.’ /S/) (T5a) While not able or not willing to use Quichua in everyday conversation, community members, especially the younger and more politicized, assert and affirm their indigenous identity by using the language in short, and often conventionalized interactions. This marked language use is more common in the wider community, where members are more likely to negotiate relationships with different members and actively assert their ethnicity. As in these two vignettes which follow, aspects of the scene or setting often come into play in these cases.

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A group of parents are working in a small minga to prepare the school garden for planting. After several hours work, lunch is served. Rosa Delia tells the president of the parents’ association that the soup is ready and asks him to call everyone over to eat lunch. He begins in Spanish, ‘por favor venga a comer . . . ’(‘please come and eat…’ /S/), and then pauses and says, ‘en quichua este . . . tucuicuna jinticuna . . . shamuy mincungapaj’ (‘in Quichua, um’ /S/ ‘every person come to eat’ /Q/). (FN 338: 12-11-94) Mingas, or community work parties, date back to at least Incan times and are a significant source of labor in the community, as well as socially important events. Members are aware that blancos do not organize themselves in this manner, and there is pride in the maintenance of this custom. Furthermore, as is discussed in Chapter 5, the community school of Lagunas is recognized as dedicated to Quichua language revitalization. In this vignette, the president was likely under pressure to use Quichua, in part because of the traditional setting of the minga, but also perhaps because as president he needed to highlight his own, and possibly the parents’ indigenous Saraguro ethnicity. In a similar vein, in the next vignette, the school president from the previous academic year also attempts to promote and assert his or the community’s Quichua linguistic identity. An hour after the appointed time, it seemed that most of the parents who were going to come to the first meeting of the Asociación de Padres de Familia (‘Parents’ Association’ /S/) of the Inti Raimi school had arrived. Rosa Delia, the director of the school, opens the meeting and welcomes the parents, thanks them for coming, and apologizes for the late beginning, promising to fine the tardy and absent parents. She then introduces Aurelio, who served as president of the association during the previous academic year. He begins in a formal tone and in Quichua, ‘Alli tuta tucui mashicuna, taitacuna, mamacuna. Chaimanta tuta nucanchic rimanchic . . . ’ (‘Good evening to every friend, fathers, mothers. Hence tonight we speak . . . ’ /Q/). He continues for a several minutes in Quichua. Everyone appears a little surprised and people look around the room, checking the reactions of others. He pauses and then switches to Spanish, ‘Desde años hemos hablado como padres de familia de hablar quichua en los reuniones . . . pero no ponemos en práctica’ (‘For years we have spoken as parents of speaking Quichua in the meeting . . . but we have not put this in practice’ /S/). He continues to discuss the importance of using and teaching Quichua in the homes and then

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switches back to Quichua, asking if they should elect new officials of the association. (There is some concern that because only slightly over half of the parents are in attendance [15 of 23], whatever election decisions are made might be later disputed.) He pauses, waiting for a response to his proposal to hold the elections tonight. When no one responds he switches to Spanish and repeats the question. (FN 251, 257, 258: 3-11-94) As previous explained, Spanish is the unmarked choice for public interactions in Lagunas. Yet perhaps because one of Aurelio’s goals is to raise the ethno-linguistic consciousness of the other members, Quichua is used here. Interestingly, at a later point in the meeting, Aurelio switches codes and speaks to a parent individually in an ‘unmarked’ manner, that is, in Spanish. When Segundo, a teacher from last year, comes to sit at the front of the room to explain why he will not be teaching in the coming academic year, he displaces several women. Aurelio says quietly to one of them ‘venga por acá Mamita’ (‘come over here Ma’am’ /S/). (FN 261: 3-11-94) To speak in Quichua directly to someone who might not understand probably would be considered rude. No longer ‘on stage’ nor attempting to make his point, perhaps out of politeness, efficiency, or possibly habit, Aurelio switches to the ‘unmarked’ language of communication, Spanish. Finally, as we shall see in the next example, another aspect which sets apart these acts is that often neither the speakers nor the listeners have a full command of the language. Language use on such occasions diverges from the most communicatively economical system – the one in which both the speaker(s) and listener(s) are competent – to another less efficient, but symbolically more potent code. The sports competition series among communities was about to begin its elaborate inaugural ceremony at the Lagunas community center. Before the games started, a madrina (‘godmother’ /S/) of the competitions was elected and the teams filed in wearing their uniforms; the last carried a torch which was lit above one of the goals. Then, the director of the sports activities, a tall young man and former president of the community, begins the ceremony with a short speech in Unified Quichua. He pauses and hesitates awkwardly, obviously speaking his second language. The children look around absently, not seeming to understand. (FN 821: 2-4-95)

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Again, part of what marks these speech events is that what is said is at times not understandable to the listeners, nor fluently produced by the speakers. As is the case with the Quichua ‘speeches’ made by the Sara Ñuesta contestants discussed at the beginning of Chapter 1, the central message is not the content of the act or event, but rather the channel in which it is delivered. The final point of interest concerning these instances of marked Quichua usage is that speakers typically employ Unified Quichua, a variety which is distinct from that used by native Quichua speakers of the region.

‘Authentic Quichua’ and Unified Quichua As noted at the beginning of the chapter, many Lagunas adults did not live in Quichua-speaking homes as children. As a result, most young adults have had only limited and sporadic exposure to the Quichua spoken by the community elders, often referred to as Quichua auténtico (‘authentic Quichua’ /S/). The young adults who do speak Quichua in Lagunas tend to use a national variety of Quichua, known as Quichua Unificado (/S/) or Unified Quichua. Unified Quichua is the official or national variety which was adopted in 1980 at a meeting of Quichua speakers from different regions of Ecuador. (See Chapter 2 for further discussion.) While there are disparities between the local and national varieties on various levels, perhaps the most noticeable variations concern the lexicon (see Table 3.2). There are numerous ‘new’ words in Unified Quichua which are foreign to speakers of the local Saraguro variety, ‘authentic Quichua.’ Many of these are neologisms created to replace Spanish loan words. For example, while the ‘authentic Quichua’ word for car is the Spanish loan word, carro, the Unified Quichua word for car is antahua, which literally translates as ‘metal animal.’ ‘Antahua’ was created from the Quichua words, ‘anta’ (‘metal’) and ‘huihua’ (‘animal’). In other cases, the ‘new’ lexical items in Unified Quichua are words that were adopted from Quichua varieties from different regions in the country, but are foreign and often meaningless to Saraguro speakers of ‘authentic Quichua.’ Unified Quichua also employs grammatical features that ‘authentic Quichua’ does not. For instance, the morpheme -ta, an obligatory object marker in Unified Quichua, is not used regularly in the local variety. Lastly, the varieties also differ phonologically. Speakers of Unified Quichua tend to pronounce the words as they are written in Unified Quichua (using Spanish pronunciation rules), thus differing from the Quichua of the community elders. For example, the word for bread, tanta, is pronounced by unified speakers as [tæntæ] and ‘authentic’ speakers as [tændæ]; sinca,

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Table 3.2 Examples of variation between Unified and ‘authentic’ Quichua varieties Level of linguistic Unified analysis Quichua

‘Authentic Quichua’

English Translation

Phonetic

tanta

tanda

bread

sinca

singa

nose

wacra

wagra

bull or cow

rinri

ringra

ear

lulun

ruru

egg

-ta

-ta (0)

obligatory object marker in Quichua

-ita (0)

-ita

Spanish diminutive

Morphological

Lexical

antahua

carro

car

ruca

dedu

finger

mama-llacta

Ecuador/estado

Ecuador/state

quillcana pirca

pizarrón

chalk board

minga

llancai/minga

communal work party

sarawina

casarse

to marry

atallpa

huallpa

chicken

yupaichani

Dioslepagui

thank you/may God thank you

nose, is realized by unified speakers as [sIncæ] and ‘authentic’ speakers as [sIngæ] (Fauchois, 1988: 59–60). When Quichua was unified, planners, perhaps foreseeing the possibility of conflict between the national and local varieties, stressed that spoken Quichua could (and should) continue to vary by region (CONAIE, 1990). However, because the children and young adults studying Unified Quichua in Lagunas and other Saraguro communities have not mastered the lexical particularities nor the phonological or grammatical systems of the local variety, they tend to not only learn to read, but to speak Unified Quichua. Thus, learners of Quichua as a second language in Lagunas tend to acquire a variety which is distinct from that used by their grandparents and great-grandparents. Paradoxically, ‘authentic Quichua’ is considerably influenced by

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Spanish at the lexical, phonological, syntactic, and morphological levels, while Unified Quichua is relatively ‘pure’ and free from Spanish influence. Speakers of Unified Quichua are usually careful not to mix codes, as this is viewed negatively by the young and better educated. And while media lengua (‘half or mixed language’ /S/) is not nearly as common as in the central Andean region of the country (Muysken, 1988), borrowing from Spanish into Quichua or code-switching between the two tends to be referred to pejoratively as speaking chaupi lengua (‘half’ /Q/ ‘language’ /S/). As might be expected, the existence of two varieties of Quichua in the community has resulted in perceived or real communicative gaps, as well occasional choques or ‘clashes’ (/S/) between some of the older and younger community members. Speakers of ‘authentic Quichua’ show reluctance to converse with the younger speakers of Unified Quichua. Members report that their parents or, more commonly, their grandparents refuse to speak in Quichua with them: ‘Mi abuela no quiere conversar. Dice que no le gusta’ (‘My grandmother doesn’t want to converse. She says she doesn’t like [Unified Quichua]’) (T7b). The grandmother, according to the young Lagunas woman, most strongly resents the lexical substitutions in Unified Quichua, many of which she claims are incomprehensible to her. While Table 3.2 above illustrates that some real linguistic differences between the two varieties do exist, what is also of interest, and perhaps equal importance, are the perceived differences between the two varieties. While the younger members are speaking Quichua as a second language rather than as natives, the main point of contention is that they are learning to use the Unified rather than the ‘authentic’ variety. As Dorian (1994) has found in her work with a Scottish Gaelic dialect, speakers of a threatened language often show a tendency to accentuate the differences between their variety and another, sometimes resulting in controversy over which is the ‘purer’ version of the language. Similarly, many Lagunas members tend to stress the differences between the two varieties of Quichua. Los mayores usan castellano y quichua; mezclan bastante. Dicen ‘chayta presta.’ Ahora estamos dando cuenta que no está bien. Yo estoy aprendiendo quichua unificado, no quichua de los mayores. (‘The elders use Spanish and Quichua; they mix them considerably. They say, ‘lend’ /S/ ‘this’ /Q/. ‘Now we are realizing that it’s not good [to do this]. I have learned the Unified Quichua, not the Quichua of the elders.’ /S/) (T5b) Hay tres comunidades que hablan quichua [auténtico]. Hay ese choque con los que hablan quichua unificado.

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(‘There are three communities that speak [authentic] Quichua. There is this clash with those that speak Unified Quichua.’ /S/) (T6a) Hay diferencia entre los mayores y los jóvenes en tanto la gramática y palabras. (‘There is a difference between the elders and the youths in the grammar and in the words.’ /S/) (T4a/b) Hay bastante diferencia entre jóvenes y viejos. (‘There is considerable difference between the young and the old.’ /S/) (T5a) Los mayores hablan mezclados. (‘The elders speak mixing languages.’ /S/) (T7b) Los de colegio tienen una estructura; los mayores hablan sin su buena estructura. (‘Those from high school have a structure [to their Quichua]; the elders speak without a good structure.’ /S/) (T8a) As is clear from these quotes, although the linguistic differences between the varieties are not great, many members perceive a sharp distinction between the two. It is worth reiterating that this situation is by no means unique. In Lagunas, as in other ‘beleaguered speech communities where there is competition from and heavy pressure in favor of some language of wider currency, it often seems also to be the case that tolerance of dialect differentiation in the threatened language is low’ (Dorian, 1987: 60). While the existence of multiple varieties of a language in a community is not uncommon, the Lagunas situation is potentially problematic because functional distribution of the language varieties is not developing. Rather than resulting in a diglossic situation where, for instance, Unified Quichua is used for literary or formal purposes while the local variety of Quichua is used for informal, everyday communication, the introduction of Unified Quichua has accentuated generational and educational differences within the community. Furthermore, the presence of the new, ‘pure’ and modern variety of Quichua seems to have contributed to the development of negative attitudes regarding the older variety, as well as to the cultivation of a group of ‘purists’ who are critical of aspects of Quichua auténtico, most notably the predominance of Spanish loan words. Furthermore, in Saraguro, as in many other endangered language situations, the norms invoked seem not to be those of the majority of the local speakers, but rather of a small group of highly educated individuals (Dorian, 1994; Jones, 1998b). In Saraguro, the most vociferous critics of

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Quichua auténtico (and advocates of Quichua Unificado) tend to be a few well-educated members, often individuals who have studied Quichua formally in universities in Cuenca or Quito. While a minority in Lagunas, there is evidence that the conservative and puristic attitudes of even a few members can have significant and negative consequences for language revitalization efforts (Dorian, 1994). For instance, Hill and Hill, in their study of shift from Mexicano to Spanish, found that purism worked against the maintenance of Mexicano language. In this context, ‘since Mexicano is considered to be of little economic utility, many people question the instrumental value of the language. Purism, which deprecates all modern usage, inspires speakers to question the moral and aesthetic value of Mexicano as well’ (Hill and Hill, 1986; Dorian, 1994: 486). Like Mexicano, Quichua is perceived to have limited economic value in the region. The puristic attitudes expressed by Quichua Unificado speakers and advocates have the potential to undermine the sentimental appreciation for Quichua auténtico, and furthermore, deter users, who are potentially valuable sources of input for the younger generation, from speaking at all. In this vein, Dorian (1994: 481) warns that ‘a common challenge for language revitalization and language revival is to limit the restrictive role which puristic attitudes are likely to play in the communities in question, or to channel such attitudes into forms which are useful rather than harmful’. Lastly, the critical attitudes towards Quichua auténtico seem especially unwarranted in light of the sociolinguistic research on the relationship between linguistic convergence and language shift. While it is commonly thought that defense of the language corpus implies language maintenance or even revitalization, there is no strong empirical connection between the two. In other words, there is little evidence that linguistic conservatism is a condition for, nor a predictor of language maintenance (Woolard, 1989). Rather, it seems ‘that linguistic acculturation may in fact represent adaptation for survival’ (p. 365). Thus, promotion of the ‘purist’ form of the language corpus and rejection of the ‘tainting’ influence of the majority language, does not serve to ‘rescue’ the status of the language in any way. Indeed, it may well be that linguistic adaptation and corpus change are essential to successful language revitalization. Language maintenance and revitalization, then, might in part depend upon the willingness of speakers to accept new functions and new forms of the language.

Language and Ethnicity in Lagunas Lagunas adults strongly and uniformly identify as Saraguro indígenas and believe that it is important to continue being indigenous. Few

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Saraguros have opted to transculturate to mestizo or white identity – despite the fact that such identity shifts are accepted and even encouraged by whites in the region (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984). As the comments of community members suggest, Lagunas residents value and wish to maintain their identity as Saraguro indígenas. Hemos nacido así; tenemos que morir así. (‘We were born like this; we have to die like this.’ /S/) (T6b) El costumbre de nosotros ha sido así; hemos nacido así. (‘Our custom has been like this; we were born like this.’ /S/) (T8a) Somos indígenas porque somos nacidos indígenas. (‘We are indigenous because we are born indigenous.’ /S/) (T19b) Bueno, creo que todos los pueblos tienen su raíz y seguir siendo es importante. (‘Well, I think that all people have their roots and to continue being [true to them] is important.’ /S/) (T17b) Tenemos que seguir. Hemos venido así. Tenemos que seguir. (‘We have to continue. We came like this. We have to continue.’ /S/) (T17a) Para mí, yo creo que es importante. Me siento orgullosa ser indígena hasta que el Dios me quite la vida. (‘For me, I think that it is important [to continue being indigenous]. I feel proud to be indigenous for as long as God gives me life.’ /S/) (T15a) Nacimos indígena. Tenemos que morir indígena. (‘We were born indigenous. We have to die indigenous.’ /S/) (T8b) Thus, among many of Lagunas, there exists a strong sense that they have a responsibility to maintain and transmit what they perceive to be their traditional heritage and ethnic identity. However, for many Saraguros, exactly what this indigenous identity consists of and how it is marked is no longer obvious. As Saraguros have moved into non-traditional occupations and adapted to new social and economic contexts, many aspects of their lives have changed. Especially in communities such as Lagunas, where so many members now interact intensively with non-indigenous society, how much an individual can adopt nontraditional clothing, customs, and habits and still remain indigenous is far from clear. As a result, ‘some Saraguros have entered the post-modern world in which consciousness of the fuzzy, changing boundaries of ethnic identity

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has become a preoccupation’ (J. Belote & L. Belote, 1997: 4). Indeed, deciding who and what is indigenous is no longer an easy task. For instance: Is it appropriate to dance to the music of a ‘disco-mobil’ or taped international Latin music at a Saraguro wedding or a non-religious community fiesta? If music is part of ethnic identity, how much can traditional forms, techniques and instruments be modified, in part to make it more appealing to outsiders, without destroying its ‘ethnic’ character? Can a Saraguro be a Protestant (as a number now are) and still maintain a strong ethnic identity? Can one withdraw from the networks of mutual, reciprocal obligation? Can one establish a permanent home and profession in a city and not lose one’s ethnicity? Does identity depend on conflict with another group, or is contrast enough? Can a man wear long pants or a woman pants or unpleated skirts and be a Saraguro? Can either maintain their hair in other than a long single braid? Or is identity more internal than external? . . . (J. Belote & L. Belote, 1997: 4) As Lagunas members have altered their traditional lifestyles piece by piece, the question of how many adaptive changes an individual can make and remain indigenous from the perspective of his or her fellow group members emerges as an important one. Instrumental in answering this question is an understanding of the defining characteristics of an indigenous person, from the perspectives of group members themselves, an issue addressed in the following section. Conceptions of ethnic identity in Lagunas In structured interviews and informal discussions with Lagunas community members concerning the defining traits of Saraguro indígenas, three essential characteristics emerged: (1) clothing, (2) language, and (3) participation in indigenous cultural life. Yet while members identify these as critical to the maintenance of the boundary between themselves and non-Saraguros, it important to note that the realization of these ‘cultural features that signal the boundary’ can change over time (Barth, 1969: 14). How members define themselves, as well as how these boundaries have changed over the years are discussed in the pages which follow. Clothing

For Lagunas members, as for all Saraguros, clothing is a critical component of what Linda Belote (1978) has described as the Saraguro ‘identity kit.’ Indeed, Lagunas members most frequently cited the style of dress and hair of an individual as the most important identifier of indigenous ethnicity.

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La vestimenta más se distingue. (‘The clothing distinguishes one the most.’ /S/) (T15a) La vestimenta, el pelo se defina. (‘The clothing, the hair defines one.’ /S/) (T17a) Ropa típica es importante. (‘Traditional [indigenous] clothing is important.’ /S/) (T8b) La ropa, sólo de ropa – el vestido de nosotros es así y no cambiamos. (‘The clothing, only the clothing – our dress is like this and we don’t change.’ /S/) (T6b) While ‘traditional’ clothing was named as the most critical component of ethnicity, the clothing itself has changed over the years. Saraguros, and perhaps Lagunas members in particular, have continually adapted and modified their apparel in accordance with the availability and cost of items, as well as the styles of the time. Older men, for instance, continue to wear home-spun wool trousers; most men, however, wear similar, but cheaper, mass-produced trousers of synthetic material. Similarly, women in Lagunas still opt for long, dark, pleated skirts. Nevertheless, for everyday wear, the majority of women choose factory-made, polyester versions over the heavier and more labor-intensive styles used by their grandmothers. As James Belote (1984) has suggested, some of the shifts in clothing were likely adaptive responses to changing environmental and occupational situations; others were the result of a decline in the production of homemade goods accompanied by the increased availability of relatively inexpensive commercial alternatives. Furthermore, ‘some changes were related to the desire of the Saraguros to become more acceptable in the eyes of the national society, while they at the same time, retain a strong, easily identifiable, ethnic identity’ (J. Belote, 1984: 60). For example, by the mid1990s, for everyday wear, most Saraguros had exchanged their traditional, wide-brimmed hats of pressed and hardened wool for more modern ones of soft felt. In contrast to the old-style hat, which is heavy and relatively uncomfortable, the new-style hat is light and functional. However, while the new hat is modern and in step with western styles, it continues to serve as a clear marker of indigenous identity. ‘Traditional’ organization

The second component of indigenous ethnicity commonly mentioned by members is the maintenance of and participation in the ‘traditional’ indigenous customs and organization.

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Costumbres sociales, organizativas . . . aptitud por relaciones con comunidades . . . vivir en comunidades organizadas . . . (‘Social, organizational customs, aptitude for relations with communities . . . living in organized communities . . . ’ /S/) (T4a/b) Tenemos nuestra forma de vida, la organización como las mingas, las fiestas. (‘We have our own form of life, organizations like the mingas, the parties.’ /S/) (T14b) Although ‘independent in many ways, the nuclear family [traditionally has been] embedded in obligation networks of bilaterally traced kindred, ritual kin, neighbors and friends, with whom a wide variety of mutual assistance was shared’ (J. Belote & L. Belote, 1997: 2). These obligation networks include reciprocal relationships of mutual assistance between parents and godparents (compadrazgo /S/), and a community-wide system for hosting ritual fiestas. The social network also includes a formal community-level government (el cabildo /S/), which organizes regular mingas for community work projects, as well as non-religious parties and sports activities. While these systems are recognized as indigenous forms of organization, the level and intensity of participation varies widely by family and individual. Indeed, largely because of this, attendance at many community meetings and mingas is closely monitored. Community leaders, with an eye on the management of both human and financial resources, regularly fine individuals or families in Lagunas for absence. Knowledge of Quichua

In addition to clothing and participation in indigenous organization systems, most of Lagunas conceptualizes knowledge of Quichua as a third defining characteristic of a Saraguro indígena. Despite the fact that so few in Lagunas speak Quichua, many members stated that they believed that it was not possible to be indígena without knowledge of the language. As one woman explained, ‘Creo que no. Es igual. Un español no puede ser español sin hablar el idioma español pienso’ (‘I don’t think so. It’s the same. A Spaniard can’t be Spanish without speaking the Spanish language I think.’ /S/) (T17b). At the surface level, this emphasis on Quichua is a curious fact. Although many of Lagunas are not competent in the language themselves, nearly all feel it to be a critical component of ethnic identity. Thus, Lagunas residents place themselves in the awkward position of self-identifying as indigenous Saraguros, and believing Quichua to be an essential component of their ethnic identity, yet not speaking the language themselves.

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A further and related point is that despite the limited use of Quichua in the community, Lagunas residents believe that something important, and even crucial, would be altered if members shifted completely to Spanish. Indeed, many Lagunas members feel that if Quichua were to disappear ‘all would be lost’ and that their identity as indigenous people would be profoundly changed or simply eliminated. Ya serían mestizos prácticamente. Se quedarían en nada; se acabarían los indígenas. (‘They already would practically be mestizos. They would be left with nothing; the indigenous people would end.’ /S/) (T5b) Seríamos como corriente común. (‘We would be like everyone else.’ /S/) (T6a) Así terminaría. Sería que no somos saraguros. (‘Like that it would end. It would be that we weren’t Saraguros.’ /S/) (T7a) Como indígenas, perderíamos todo. Sólo vamos a tener el vestimenta, nada más. (‘As indigenous people, we would lose everything. We are going to only have the clothing, nothing more.’ /S/) (T7b) Sin idioma sería como no hubiera indígenas; no hay nada. (‘Without language it would be as if there weren’t indigenous people; there isn’t anything.’ /S/) (T8b) Se acabaría – dejamos de ser indígena. (‘It would end – we stop being indigenous.’ /S/) (T14b) Vamos a perder todo. No solamente el idioma; vamos a perder toda la concepción que tenemos como etnia. (‘We are going to lose everything. Not only the language; we are going to lose the entire conception that we have as an ethnicity.’ /S/) (T17b) Thus, for many Lagunas members, disappearance of Quichua is tantamount to ‘losing everything.’ As demonstrated earlier, this is the case despite the fact that Quichua, to a great degree, has already lost most of its communicative roles within the community. However, this situation is not unique to Lagunas. As will be discussed in the next section, as language is often an emblem of ethnicity, it frequently continues to be perceived as essential to ethnic identity long after it has ceased to be actively used by the group (Fishman, 1985).

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Language as an emblem of ethnicity The apparent contradiction in Lagunas concerning the perceived necessity of Quichua for ethnic identity maintenance yet dearth of actual use can best be understood in light of the fact that for several decades prior to the study, Lagunas members have participated actively and successfully outside of their communities in the wider, non-indigenous society. As noted at the beginning of the chapter, many heads of household work in town in positions and professions that traditionally have long been occupied exclusively by blancos. Not unrelated to this is the fact that in other communities which are more remotely located such as Tambopamba, residents tend to define a Saraguro indígena as one who primarily engages in agricultural work. For them, their identity as Saraguros is largely defined in a contrastive dialectic with town whites based on occupation: blancos are shopkeepers and manual laborers in town; indígenas are farmers and herders. Because many Lagunas members are no longer engaged in full-time agricultural work, and instead tend to devote their days to wage-earning pursuits or academic studies, work as agriculturalists can no longer identify them as indigenous Saraguros. Indeed, on a day-to-day basis, the lives of many Lagunas members differ little from those of the town whites. Lagunas Saraguros increasingly spend their days in offices, on public transport, in school rooms, and shopping and socializing in town. Thus, as a result of the scholastic and professional integration of Lagunas into nonindigenous society, some of the more potent indices of ethnicity, such as principal reliance upon work with the land and animals, no longer exist for Lagunas members. In slightly different terms, as the lines between indigenous and nonindigenous have blurred for Lagunas members, language is evoked as a ‘hard’ feature and emblem of ethnicity. As Giles (1979) has suggested, in situations where boundary breakdown is occurring, certain internally or ‘emically’ defined ‘hard’ features, such as language or race, might be emphasized. In other words, as Lagunas members have struggled to define themselves as indigenous in the face of so many changes in their community, language has emerged as a critical component of ethnicity. Lagunas members’ actions and attitudes are understood more clearly when framed within Smolicz’s (1981; 1992) theory of ‘core values’. Core values can be considered the ‘heart land of a group’s culture’ (Smolicz, 1992: 279). In other words, they are the ‘identifying values that are symbolic of the group and its membership’ (p. 279). The critical aspect of Smolicz’s theory is that ‘cultural groups differ in the extent to which they emphasize

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their native tongues as core values’ (p. 280). While some groups do not view their language as essential to ethnic identity, for others, language is consistently stressed ‘as the principal carrier of their culture and relied upon . . . as the main defence mechanism against assimilation’ (p. 280). The latter seems to accurately depict the case of Lagunas members, who give great importance to Quichua and tend to conceive the language not as a medium of communication, ‘but as a symbol of ethnic identity’ and even at times as a ‘defining value which acts as a prerequisite for “authentic” group membership’ (p. 280). Socioeconomic changes and ethnicity As Lagunas members increasingly have engaged in what have long been non-indigenous activities (e.g. international travel, higher education, professional careers), obfuscating the divisions between indigenous and non-indigenous activities, lifestyles, and professions, maintenance of Saraguro identity, and as an extension of this, the Quichua language increasingly have become the focus of attention for many members. In other words, as Lagunas members’ daily lives have been filled by a swelling number of tasks and activities which lie outside of the arena of traditional, indigenous activities, members concomitantly have focused on and attended to the maintenance of that identity in other ways. Consideration of socioeconomic factors is important for understanding the relationship between these two tendencies. As previously discussed, Lagunas members are relatively socioeconomically secure. Not unconnected to this fact, they are also ‘far enough away’ from Quichua to find it desirable. As Dorian (1993: 567–7) explains: The generation who do not transmit an ethnic language are usually actively in search of a social betterment that they believe they can only achieve by abandoning, among other identifying behaviors, a stigmatizing language. The first generation secure as to social position is often also the first generation to yearn after the lost language, which by their time is no longer regarded as particularly stigmatizing. Some of these descendants see an ethnolinguistic heritage which eluded them and react to their loss, sadly or even resentfully. Lagunas adults were among the first Saraguros to shift to Spanish and away from Quichua. They were also among the first to enjoy educational and professional success in what were then, exclusively blanco arenas. Over time, as the position of Spanish – as well as the social and economic position of the community – has grown secure, Quichua has lost much of its stigma in Lagunas. Members have become, in both a linguistic and socioeconomic

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sense, ‘far enough away’ from the language, and the rural, low-status identity with which it was once associated to find Quichua desirable, and, as will be discussed later, even fashionable. In some respects, it is not surprising that Lagunas members are among the most ardent and vocal promoters of language revitalization initiatives, and that the community is one of the few where parents attempt to actively teach and develop the language. Investigations in other regions of the world likewise have found that socially and economically secure individuals are more likely to be supportive of and participate in language revitalization efforts (e.g. Benton, 1986; Dorian, 1987). Similarly, while not without exception (e.g. the subjects of Maguire’s [1991] study of Irish language revitalization are described as socially and economically mixed), other scholars have noted that the proponents of revitalization movements are often ‘middle-class’ (Bentahila & Davies, 1993; Jones, 1998b). Furthermore, anthropological work within Saraguro has indicated that less socially and economically secure individuals are more likely to adopt the clothing, values, and customs of the town blancos, or in the Belotes’ words, are more likely to ‘transculturate’ to white identity (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984). Extrapolating from this work, it seems that those Saraguros who are most economically secure are likely to be the ones who work to maintain and even revitalize indigenous cultures and customs. Thus, as Lagunas members have gained a level of social and economic success, they have also focused on maintaining and revitalizing Quichua language and culture. Language revitalization efforts, including measures to teach the language in the school, are relatively well established in the community. Correspondingly, Lagunas residents perceive interest in indigenous Saraguro culture and ethnicity to be on the rise. Piensan ahora ir recuperando todo. (‘Now they plan to go on recuperating everything.’ /S/) (T4a/b) Están cambiando . . . más interés, más antes no sabían poner el sombrero. Ahora de moda, como ropa de lana. (‘They are changing . . . more interest, before they didn’t usually wear a hat. Now it’s in style, like the wool clothing.’ /S/) (T14a) Ahora están dando cuenta. Más antes cortaron el pelo. (‘Now they are realizing. Before they cut their hair.’ /S/) (T15a) Ahora hay más interés en todito lo indígena. (‘Now there is more interest in everything that is indigenous.’ /S/) (T5a)

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Furthermore, focusing on language in particular, most Lagunas members seem to believe that interest in Quichua is growing in the community, and that attitudes towards the language have become more favorable in recent years. Hay más interés en el quichua. (‘There is more interest in Quichua.’ /S/) (T5a) Con AEBIS hemos estado intentando revalorizar esa situación. (‘With AEBIS we have been trying to revitalize this situation.’)1 (T4a/b) Recién, en los últimos diez años, hay más interés. (‘Recently, in the last ten years, there is more interest.’ /S/) (T5b) ¡Claro! En los últimos dos o tres años hay más interés. (‘Of course! In the last two or three years there is more interest.’ /S/) (T7a) ¡Sí, claro! ¡Más interés! Ahorita estamos queriendo aprender más el quichua. (‘Yes of course! More interest! Right now we are wanting to learn more Quichua.’ /S/) (T8b) Thus, although many residents are rightly concerned about the status of Quichua, there is also optimism that the situation is improving, and that interest in maintaining both indigenous language and ethnicity is growing. Despite the decreasing number of native speakers of Quichua each year, parents’ sense of optimism is, in some ways, understandable. While children of the community are not exposed to large amounts of Quichua, most parents do on occasion use the language at home, either amongst themselves for joking, practicing or speaking with elders, or with their children for direct instruction. Furthermore, perhaps more than ever in recent memory, Quichua is used, at least symbolically, at many formal occasions within the community, for example, at the opening and closing ceremonies of schools, meetings, and sports events. As we shall see in the following chapter, these patterns of language use stand in sharp contrast to those of other Saraguro communities such as Tambopamba.

Conclusion In this chapter I have discussed why and how Lagunas came to be one of the first Saraguro communities to shift from Quichua dominance to Spanish dominance, and outlined how this shift coincided with social and economic changes in the region. As a result of these developments, Spanish

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is presently the main language of the home and community, with only a limited number of elder members having full competence in the Quichua language. Using Hymes’ framework for analysis of speech acts and events, I demonstrated how Quichua is used in several unmarked ways in Lagunas, depending upon the participants (P), the content (A), the tone (K), and the goal (E), for talk between elders, for secrets, for humor, as well as for instruction and practice. I also described how Quichua is used for the overt expression of ethnic identity. Such usage is marked in that members are overtly attempting to express and establish their ethnicity through use of Quichua. These uses of Quichua are often recognizable not only because the speakers employ Unified Quichua, rather than the local variety (‘authentic Quichua’), but also because they deviate from the most communicatively efficient code (Spanish), in favor of a symbolically more potent one. Lastly, this chapter also discussed how members conceptualize their own ethnic identity as Saraguros, and the role that Quichua plays in its formation. I argued that despite Quichua’s limited communicative uses in Lagunas, the language plays a critical role in marking ethnic identity for members. The importance of language in maintaining ethnic identity can be understood in light of the recent economic and social integration of the community into what have long been non-indigenous arenas. Thus, as the traditional markers of ethnic identity have evaporated, language has become the principal and primary emblem of Saraguro identity for Lagunas members. Note 1. As mentioned in Chapter 2, AEBIS is the Asociación de Educadores Bilingües Interculturales de Saraguro (‘Association of Bilingual Intercultural Educators of Saraguro’ /S/), a FIIS-affiliated group of teachers.

Chapter 4

Language Use and Ethnic Identity in Tambopamba Tambopamba ay ay ay Huashaladito ay ay ay (‘Tambopamba ay ay ay Far behind the mountain ay ay ay’) (Lyrics from ‘Saragurito,’ a folk song that outlines some of the widely held characteristics of different Saraguro communities.)

From any direction, the approach to Tambopamba is difficult. From the Amazonic lowlands, known as the oriente, it is a strenuous upward climb; from the Pan American highway and the town of Saraguro it is a windy, uphill trek through and then above the communities of Ñamarín and Tuncarta. And from Lagunas, taking the most direct route entails hiking up and over the mountain ridge of Huilimón (see Figure 2.1). Neither the distance nor the difficulty of the terrain, however, is insurmountable – after all, many Tambopamba members make the trek into the town of Saraguro each Sunday, and some even more frequently. Yet the relative remoteness of the community seems to have been an important factor in the pace and nature of Tambopamba’s development, as well as the community’s reputation and identity in the region. As the song lyrics suggest, and Tambopamba members are quick to point out, ‘somos lejos’ (‘we are far away’ /S/). While the length and difficulty of the trek to Tambopamba has long isolated the community, this is no longer true. Indeed, these days, Tambopamba looks and sounds like a place where aspects of two cultural systems, one indigenous and one mestizo, have come together; and perhaps more than any other community in the parish of Saraguro, it is a place where quintessential expressions of those two systems are readily apparent. The most obvious indicator of change is the variation in clothing between the older and younger generations. The older men and women of the community, for example, still wear homespun, wool trousers and 108

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ponchos, impossible to find for sale in the Saraguro market. These elders typically do not wear shoes, and protect their heads from the sun and the wind with large, wide-brimmed hats made of hardened wool. The contrast between their appearance and that of the young men of Tambopamba is particularly stark. For instance, some teens and young adults of the community prefer long, western-style jeans and track-suit bottoms, often paired with English lettered t-shirts or sweatshirts, American-style baseball caps, and athletic shoes. The visible activities and material possessions of the older and younger men also vary dramatically. The elder generation take their animals out to pasture several times a day, and often spend what time remains working their small plots of land. Some members of the younger generation, in contrast, spend their days listening to music on boom boxes and working on their motorcycles. Furthermore, while the homes of some of the elder members are without electricity, the younger generation is accustomed not just to light, but to radio and television, and is familiar with the characters and story lines of the most popular Spanish-language television novelas (‘soap operas’ /S/). Such differences are suggestive of the significant shifts that have occurred in the community in recent decades, some of which are discussed in the pages which follow. The purpose of this chapter is to describe and analyze language use and language attitudes in Tambopamba. The chapter is divided into three sections. The first considers the shift towards Spanish in the community and the current language competencies of members. The second section describes how Quichua is used by Tambopamba members in the home and wider community. The third section outlines members’ attitudes towards language and ethnic identity both for themselves and for their children. Throughout the description which follows, readers will note two important differences between Lagunas and Tambopamba: first, there is a greater amount of ‘natural’ or ‘everyday’ Quichua use in Tambopamba; and, second, in contrast to Lagunas, Quichua is not valued so much as a symbolic resource, but rather as a basic communicative tool.

Language Competencies and Language Shift Tambopamba is a bilingual community; both Spanish and Quichua are employed in public and private discourse. Tambopamba is also a community in the midst of a rapid transition from Quichua monolingualism to Spanish monolingualism. Assessments of language competence across the community indicate that each generation is less competent in Quichua than the one before it, a tell-tale sign of language shift (Brenzinger et al., 1991).

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Furthermore, the Quichua of Tambopamba adults is undergoing many of the linguistic transformations that ‘dying’ languages typically do, such as a loss of morphological complexity (Hill, 1983); a high number of loan words and vocabulary attrition (Grinevald Craig, 1992; Miller, 1971; Dorian, 1978: 591); and a predominance of simple sentence constructions (Dressler, 1988). Each of these is evident in the following typical example of Tambopamba Quichua. Several women and I are joking and teasing each other while baking at María’s house. María comments that, ‘Mana pueden burlar paimanda. Paica entiende.’ (‘You can’t make fun of her. She understands.’ /Q/S/) (892: 18-4-95) The influence of Spanish on María’s Quichua is profound. All of the verbs in her statement are borrowed from Spanish: poder (‘to be able’), burlar (‘to make fun of’), and entender (‘to understand’). In addition, the morphosyntactic features of her language also show signs of deterioration: for instance, she has dropped one of the two components of the obligatory negation system (-chu). The omission of obligatory morphological items, especially for object marking, as well as heavy borrowing of Spanish lexical items, are common features of Tambopamba Quichua. Spanish has clearly influenced the Quichua of the community adults; however, examination of language competencies reveals that among younger generations, Spanish has not influenced, but rather, nearly replaced Quichua. Language competencies Language competencies in Tambopamba vary by age, with each generation speaking less of the traditional community language than the one before it. Children (0–15)

Children in Tambopamba are Spanish dominant, but not entirely Spanish monolingual. Although many have limited Quichua production capabilities, most are bi-aural or receptive bilinguals, with strong listening comprehension skills in both languages. Thus, while few children can hold up their end of even a simple conversation in Quichua, many can list single words and basic commands and understand some spoken Quichua. As one mother describes the language competence of her own children, ‘no es la lengua una para ellos, pero sí entienden’ (‘it’s not their first language, but, yes, they understand’ /S/) (T13b).

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Sixteen to thirty

The young adults of the community (16–30) are also Spanish dominant. Most of this age group readily notes that Spanish is the language they speak best. Like the youngest members, they are bi-aural, often with even higher degrees of Quichua comprehension skills. Although generally not fluent or entirely comfortable using Quichua, many have some speaking abilities. As 19-year-old Mariana comments on her own language skills, and as is typical for someone of her age, ‘algunas palabras puedo hablar un poquito, y comprendo’ (‘I can speak some words a little bit, and I understand’ /S/) (T12a). Thirty-one to forty-five

Almost all slightly older adults (31–45) are fully bilingual. All interviewees in this age group reported speaking both languages equally well. This age group comprises the ‘transitional’ or ‘bridge’ generation from Quichua to Spanish. They not only mediate much of the intergenerational communication in the community, but also seem to have been crucial in the spread of Spanish throughout Tambopamba. This group of slightly older adults was likely the first generation to speak primarily or exclusively Spanish in their homes with their children. Members of this age group uniformly report speaking Quichua ‘up’ to the older members in the community, and speaking Spanish ‘down’ to the younger members. Forty-six and older

The ‘middle aged’ (46–60) and older adults (61 and older) are Quichua dominant. Except for a few rare exceptions, these adults were raised in Quichua-speaking homes and acquired Quichua as their first language. Many members of this age group have learned Spanish as adults, achieving varying degrees of competence. While some are fluent or nearly fluent Spanish speakers, many know a limited amount of Spanish. Table 4.1 provides an overview of the language competencies of members by age group and highlights some of the important social and economic changes in the region in the last decades. These events, and their interaction with language use patterns are discussed below. Language shift in the community As suggested at the opening of the chapter, the location of Tambopamba is critical to understanding the social and economic dynamics of the community as well as its present sociolinguistic situation. The community lies an hour’s strenuous walk from the Pan American highway and two or three hours from the town of Saraguro. Prior to 1994, for much of the year, it was difficult if not impossible for four-wheel vehicles to traverse the

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Table 4.1 Language competencies of Tambopamba members by age group Language skills of age cohort (at time of study)

Age in 1995

1985

1975

1965

1955

1945

Spanish dominant; strong Quichua aural skills

0–15

0–5

–

–

–

–

Spanish dominant; biaural; some Quichua oral skills

16–30

6–20

0–10

–

–

–

Quichua and Spanish bilingual

31–45

21–35

11–25

0–15

0–5

–

Quichua dominant; some Spanish competence

46–60

36–50

26–40

16–30

6–20

1–10

Quichua dominant; limited Spanish skills

61 and older

51–65

41–55

31–45

21–35

11–25

Important events in and around Tambopamba

Quichuaas-asecondlanguage instruction begins.

Bilingual, intercultural education begins in the community.

Residents start to attend school in significant numbers; oil-boom.

Cyclical migration pattern to the oriente well established.

Construction of Pan American highway; increased economic activity of the region.

narrow, windy, and treacherous road into the community. Although it is impossible to be certain of the importance of different factors that might have contributed to language shift, nevertheless, it seems reasonable to argue that for many years, the distance and the difficult terrain served as a physical barrier shielding the community from Spanish speakers and the Spanish language. Furthermore, while Tambopamba’s distance from Saraguro has likely

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served to ‘protect’ the community from Spanish to some extent, its location adjacent to the Quichua-speaking community of Oñacapac has provided a constant source of Quichua input. Oñacapac is one of the three Saraguro communities where Quichua is still spoken regularly by even the younger generations. In addition, not only are the communities of Oñacapac and Tambopamba adjacent, but residents of Oñacapac must pass through much of Tambopamba on their way to and from both the town of Saraguro and the Pan-American highway. The proximity of Oñacapac and the relationships between the two communities seem to bolster Quichua exposure and usage in Tambopamba. As Oñacapac residents make their way to and from town, they often stop at one of the small stores in Tambopamba for a snack or small purchase, a rest, or perhaps a visit. In the following interaction between two children, a girl from Tambopamba and a boy from Oñacapac, provides an example of how such exchanges between children take place and demonstrates the exposure to Quichua provided by this regular contact. María, her fifth grade daughter, Lourdes, and I are sitting on the porch in front of their house and store, making bead necklaces. A boy, roughly ten years of age, approaches. Oñacapac boy: Chicle tiyanchu? (‘Is there’ /Q/ ‘gum’ /S/?) Lourdes: Sí (‘Yes’ /S/) Oñacapac boy: Ranti (‘Sell’ /Q/) (FN 370: 21-11-94) In addition to the regular Oñacapac ‘traffic,’ some residents of Tambopamba have friends or family in Oñacapac. Contact with these members seems to be, to a greater or lesser extent, a source of Quichua input and a force for its maintenance. Yet while the proximity to Oñacapac and the distance from Saraguro protected Quichua use and delayed access to Spanish (especially in comparison to communities such as Lagunas), another aspect of Tambopamba’s geography seems to have worked against maintenance of Quichua. Tambopamba lies to the east of Saraguro and is relatively close to the lower altitude wetlands known as the oriente. More than a century ago, Tambopamba members, along with other Saraguros, began to engage in a pattern of cyclical migration to the oriente, extending their ‘cattle raising activities to the lowland forests of the Yacuambi River valley, across the mountains to the east of the Saraguro region’ (J. Belote, 1984: 215). By the 1950s, hundreds of indigenous families from the parish of Saraguro, including many from Tambopamba, ‘were engaged in the occupation, clearing, and management of Yacuambi valley land’ (p. 216). The president

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of Tambopamba, Carlos Alberto Minga Ambuludi, estimated that by the mid 1990s, roughly 50% of the community, ‘se van y vuelven’ (‘come and go’ /S/) from the oriente (T21b). Many of Tambopamba agree that ‘la gente dejaron de hablar Quichua por acá desde cuando se fueron allá’ (‘people stopped speaking Quichua around here since [the time] when they went there’ /S/) (T25a). There are good reasons to believe that Tambopamba members might be correct in their claim. In the oriente, Saraguros have contact with both the lowland Shuar, as well as non-indigenous Ecuadorians who have migrated to the region. In communication with both groups, Spanish serves as the lingua franca. In his study of language shift in Papua New Guinea, Kulick (1992) found that cyclical economic migration was initially responsible for bringing the outside language into the community he studied. Furthermore, it is plausible that migration had an even stronger impact on language use among Tambopamba members than in the Papua New Guinea case because, unlike the latter where only men left the community, in Tambopamba, entire families migrated. This meant that women and older children, the primary care-takers and sources of language input for younger children, were exposed to and eventually learned Spanish along with community men. While this pattern of migration seems important, education, in contrast, likely played a less critical role in language shift. This is in part because few students were enrolled in town schools in the 1960s and 1970s, but also because Tambopamba was one of the later Saraguro communities to have its own school. The Huayna Capac school of Tambopamba, according to the director, Jose A. Tene, was only constructed in 1984 or 1985. Before that time, although a few students made the daily trek into town schools, the need for labor in both Tambopamba and in the oriente, in combination with the perceived irrelevance of schooling, resulted in low levels of formal education. The community president estimated that in 1994 most adults of Tambopamba had only two or three years of primary education, a figure corroborated by self-reports of community members. Despite the relatively protected position of Tambopamba, contact with Spanish-speakers in town and in the oriente eventually provided the opportunity to acquire Spanish. While the opportunities for Tambopamba members to learn the language were somewhat different from those of Lagunas members, the incentives for doing so were much the same. For example, residents of Tambopamba remember well the verbal abuse and ridicule by Saraguro whites for speaking Quichua. Members also recall episodes where their lack of Spanish competence allowed them to be swindled. Not surprisingly, after decades of such interactions, knowledge of

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Quichua and lack of competence in Spanish collectively came to be viewed as onerous. As detailed later, this view seems to have changed little over the years. Language attitudes For most of Tambopamba, the link between Spanish on the one hand and social, economic, and educational success on the other is a strong one. While Quichua is valued in the community for specific functions, for many, as is apparent in the next example, Quichua is viewed as incompatible with certain pursuits. Outside the store near the center of Tambopamba a slightly drunk man approaches and begins a conversation with me and my Tambopamba companion. He tells us repeatedly that he has three children – all of whom are bachilleres (‘high school graduates’) and one of whom is studying at a university in Cuenca. When I ask if the children know or speak Quichua, he laughs at what seems to him to be a ridiculous question and answers that no, of course they don’t, they ‘tienen grados’ (‘have degrees’ /S/). (FN: 516: 20-12-94) For this man, as for many in the community, the notion that a Quichua speaker could achieve a high level of academic success is far-fetched, and even laughable. Given this fact it is not surprising that the majority of Tambopamba parents feel that Spanish is ‘más importante’ (‘more important’ /S/) for their children than Quichua. While parents stress that Quichua is beautiful and valued for certain functions, it is also clear that for most Tambopamba parents, Spanish competence is equated with social and economic success and mobility. Perhaps related to this strong association between Spanish and success is the fact that although Tambopamba parents often state that they want their children to learn Quichua, in fact they tend to speak only Spanish with them. The complexities of this situation are apparent in this vignette. María, several other women, and I making brownies and carrot cake (my recipes) and bread (María’s recipe) in María’s kitchen. After joking and playing around in Quichua, one of the mothers brings up the topic (in Spanish) of how unfortunate and embarrassing it is that the children do not speak more Quichua. The other mothers concur and go on to relate anecdotes revealing how little their children can say in Quichua. However, all evening as the children moved in and out of the kitchen, all comments were addressed to them were in Spanish. (FN 892: 18-4-95)

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Unlike most Lagunas parents, many Tambopamba adults are sufficiently competent in Quichua to speak it more or less naturally with their own children. However, the vast majority choose not to do so. In the previous example, we see that despite the fact that the mothers here are fluent Quichua speakers who have repeatedly expressed the desire for their children to learn Quichua, they opt not to speak Quichua with their children. As is clear in the description of language use in the home and community which follows, this is nearly uniformly the case in Tambopamba.

Language Use in the Home and Community In most Tambopamba contexts, Spanish is the principal language of communication. Observations indicate that Spanish dominates communication in the home, and nearly all members are quick to report that Spanish is the language ‘que se usa con más frecuencia en la casa’ (‘that one uses most frequently in the home’ /S/). Outside the home, Spanish is also the dominant language in most contexts. For instance, Spanish is the language of the Catholic service at the small community church (FN 523: 2-12-94) and of catechism classes (FN 390: 22-11-94). Spanish is the language used at a range of public meetings, including regular community meetings run by the community president (FN 424: 4-12-94), parent–teacher meetings at the Huayna Capac school (FN 743: 22-2-95), and emergency meetings concerning water and electricity shortages or war preparations (FN 648: 30-195; FN 667: 8-2-95). In addition, Spanish is the language of community sporting events, including football and volleyball games played in front of the school (FN 523: 20-12-94; FN 391: 22-11-94). Yet although Spanish is the language most frequently used in the homes and wider community of Tambopamba, Quichua is also present. The selection of Quichua is a function of several characteristics of the speech situation. Returning again to Hymes’ SPEAKING mnemonic and framework for analyzing speech presented in Chapter 1, the selection of Quichua as the channel or ‘instrument’ (I) of communication in Tambopamba is influenced by four aspects of the speech situations: the ‘participants’ (P), the content or the ‘act’ (A), the tone and manner or ‘key’ (K), and the ‘setting’ or ‘scene’ (S) of the speech act or event. This holds true both in the home as well as in the wider community. However, it should be stressed that while the age of the participants, and the particular nature of the speech content, tone or key, and setting each increase the likelihood that Quichua is selected, no aspect alone determines Quichua usage. Although in actuality each of these elements typically co-occur and interact, for the sake of clarity, each component is now addressed separately.

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Participant age Quichua is used most regularly with and between the community’s older residents. Quite simply, the older the participant, the more likely it is that Quichua is used in speech produced by, and directed at that person. When one or more elderly, Quichua-dominant participant is present, Quichua is the appropriate and usually selected channel for addressing them. Residents explicitly recognize this to be the case. Cuando vienen los mayorcitos usamos quichua. (‘When the elders come we use Quichua.’ /S/) (T24a) Sólo con mayorcitos se usa. (‘Only with elders does one use [Quichua].’ /S/) (T25b) Entre mayores que traiga quichua se habla. (‘Between elders that bring Quichua one speaks [Quichua].’ /S/) (T10a) En el momento estar con los mayores, se usa más. (‘When one is with elders, one uses [Quichua] more.’ /S/) (T10b) Con la gente mayor hablo. (‘With elderly people I speak [Quichua].’ /S/) (T13b) The importance of the age of participants in determining language choice is also apparent simply by examining everyday speech events as they are realized across age groups. It is customary in all Saraguro communities to greet, question, and sometimes chat with each community member who crosses one’s path. Typically, interlocutors say ‘good morning’ (or ‘good afternoon’ or ‘good evening’) and often ask two questions: ‘Where are you going?’ and ‘Where are you coming from?’ In Tambopamba, if the conversation is between two middle-aged or older participants, or between one elder and one younger adult, Quichua is used. If the participants are both younger adults, Spanish tends to be the language of choice. A similar pattern is found inside homes, where elders speak and are spoken to in Quichua, the youth in Spanish. The description María gives of her own home is typical: ‘mezclando en quichua y en castellano – mayores en quichua, con los niños en castellano’ (‘mixing Quichua and Castilian – elders in Quichua, with the children in Castilian’ /S/) (T12b). This pattern of interaction is illustrated in the following vignette. Miguel’s father is visiting. He enters the kitchen where Miguel’s wife, Lola, and I are cooking. The children are already eating at a long cement table. He stands silent for a moment watching them. Lola addresses the children in Spanish, telling the youngest child that there

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is no more food, ‘ya no hay más’ (‘there isn’t any more’ /S/). She then turns to her father-in-law and comments to him, ‘achca micunata micun’ (‘they eat a lot of food’ /Q/). (FN 714: 15-2-95) For the duration of his visit, the father was addressed by Miguel and Lola primarily in Quichua; only the children spoke Spanish to him. The first ‘rule’ for Quichua use in Tambopamba is quite simple then. If one or more of the participants is past his or her mid-forties, it is appropriate and expected for Quichua to be the primary channel of communication. And more generally, the older one of the participants is, the more likely for Quichua to be selected. This ‘rule’ is similar to that of Lagunas; however, it differs in that it applies to one generation younger in Tambopamba (46 and older) than in Lagunas (61 and older). An important implication of this pattern is that children of the community regularly hear Quichua around them. Indeed, parents noted that as a result of the Quichua dominance of their elders, children are exposed to Quichua during the course of daily family life. Los abuelos de repente hablan con ellos así, en inga.1 (‘The elders sometimes speak with them in Quichua.’ /S/) (T11a) Con mi suegra oye. (‘With my mother-in-law [she] hears [Quichua].’ /S/) (T11b) Abuelos hablan al wawa en quichua. (‘The grandparents speak to the baby in Quichua.’ /S/) (T12a) Con los abuelos oyen el quichua pero no entienden. (‘With the grandparents they hear Quichua but they don’t understand.’ /S/) (T12b) Mi mamá saluda en quichua. Les habla en quichua. Entienden todo un poquito pero no pueden hablar. (‘My mother greets in Quichua. She speaks to them in Quichua. They understand everything a bit, but they can’t speak.’ /S/) (T13a) Mi mamá, papá, y abuelos hablan, pero no entienden. (‘My mother, father, and grandparents speak [Quichua], but [the children] don’t understand.’) (T13b) Los abuelos de los niños hablan un poco. (‘The grandparents of the children speak [in Quichua] a little.’) (T20b) Con los abuelos. Soy como traductora. (‘With the grandparents. I am like a translator.’ /S/) (T23b)

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Thus, while the children are not intentionally instructed Quichua by their parents (as is the case in Lagunas), many hear Quichua around them or are spoken to in Quichua by older generations. However, it is important to stress – as these parents have – that while children are regularly addressed in Quichua, they are not expected to understand completely and furthermore are not obliged to reply in Quichua. Speech content Quichua is also associated with personal or intimate content of the speech event. For instance, during service encounters in the community, the official part of the conversation between adults often occurs in Spanish (e.g. requesting items, stating prices) and the personal part in Quichua, as is the case in the following example from a Tambopamba storefront. A woman in her forties approaches María’s store. María: Alli chishi (‘good afternoon’ /Q/) Woman: Alli chishi. ¿Imashinalla? (‘Good afternoon. How are you?’ /Q/). A ver, una media libra de azúcar y cuatro pancitos. (‘Let’s see, a half pound of sugar and four rolls.’ /S/) (María disappears into the store and returns a moment later with a small bag of granulated sugar and home baked rolls.) María:

Ya, novecientos. (‘All right. Nine hundred [sucres].’ /S/).2 Imata rura canpac hijo? ¿Caipichu? (‘What is your son doing? Is he here?’ /Q/)

Woman: Mana caipichu. Paica Yacuambipi. (‘He’s not here. He’s in Yacuambi.’ /Q/) (FN 487: 15-12-94) As we see here, ‘official’ talk surrounding purchases is conducted in Spanish; when the conversation turns to a more personal topic, the interlocutors switch to Quichua. As would be expected given the points previously outlined concerning the age of interlocutors, this practice is more common among older generations than the young. Quichua for intentional humor Not unrelated to the link between intimate, personal conversation and Quichua use is a close association between Quichua and humor. When the tone or manner of the speech event is humorous, Quichua is frequently the

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selected channel. Almost all interviewees agreed that Quichua was the preferred language for humorous remarks. As one member reported, Quichua is used ‘más por decir una broma, un chiste’ (‘more for kidding around, saying a joke’ /S/) (T20b). When asked why this was so, she and many others simply explained that things were ‘más chistoso’ (‘funnier’ /S/) in Quichua than in Spanish. The following vignette illustrates this point. Early in the evening at Delfina and Luis’s house, Delfina, Luis, several of their older children, and I are in the small kitchen. We are making humitas (‘sweet corn cakes cooked in the corn husks’ /S/), the first stage of which entails removing the ripe kernels of corn from the cob. This was difficult for me to do and I was smashing the kernels rather than popping them off in whole pieces the way Delfina and her eldest son were doing with ease. Amused at my clumsy fingers, Delfina said to her husband, ‘mana ishcan puede, piru jarita mashca’ (‘she can’t do it, but she is looking for a man’ /Q/). This caused all of us, even her usually taciturn teenage son, to laugh. (FN 883: 13-4-95) Delfina did not choose to make her comment in Quichua so that I could not understand her – she knew I would. Rather she chose Quichua because it is the language of jokes. The selection of Quichua also perhaps defused a potentially insulting comment; by making her remark in Quichua rather than Spanish it was clear that she meant it to be taken lightheartedly. Thus, in Tambopamba, as has been found to be the case in other Andean communities (cf. Hornberger, 1988), Quichua is not only the language most likely to get a laugh, it also signals that the comment is intended to be a joke. The following example from a parent–teacher meeting as the Huayna Capac community school suggests that this is the case outside of the home as well. The parents and teachers of the Huayna Capac school are planning a celebration for the second of March, founding day of Saraguro. The teachers are asking that someone come to the school to cook in the kitchen that day so that there will be food for the party. All of the parents are silent, perhaps not wanting to take on this difficult and time-consuming job. One middle-aged man says loudly several times, ‘Mama Juana ruran’ (‘Mama Juana does’ /Q/). This causes much laughter among both teachers and parents. (FN 745: 22-2-95) Although Quichua is often used for private conversations between parents at parent-teacher meetings, Spanish is employed by both teachers and parents for comments directed at the entire group (King, 1999b). During

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the entire parent–teacher meeting, this joking remark was the only exception to this pattern. In the previous vignette, the man offered the name of a woman who was not present. Since one would not normally volunteer another member – and particularly one who was not present, and because the comment was made in Quichua, his comment was not taken as a serious suggestion, but rather as a joke. Such uses of Quichua are quite common in Tambopamba. Furthermore, because many Tambopamba members are competent speakers of Quichua, they are able to use the language for humor to a greater extent and in more linguistically complex ways than in communities such as Lagunas, where most members are Spanish dominant. Quichua in traditional settings The final variable which impacts Quichua selection in Tambopamba is the setting of the speech event. In two particular settings, fiestas and mingas, Quichua tends to be more frequently chosen than in any others. Indeed, much or all of the talk at such events occurs in Quichua. This is likely at least in part due to the fact that there are often disproportionately high numbers of older members present at these events, and the conversation is frequently of an intimate or humorous sort. However, the predominance of Quichua is also related to the particular setting. As the president of the community explained, ‘en una fiesta, en una minga se usa más’ (‘in a party, in a minga one uses [Quichua] more’ /S/) (T21b). The reasons for this pattern are likely connected to the fact that both of these settings are perceived to be ‘traditional’ indigenous ones. The minga is an important event for practical reasons, serving as a central source of labor, but also for symbolic purposes, as a form of collaboration specific to indigenous peoples. Similarly, although indigenous parties or fiestas have undergone dramatic changes in recent years, they fundamentally remain the same shared community event. For example, although it is now popular to have a discomóvol (‘mobile disco truck’ /S/) come to play tapes of nationally popular Spanish language songs, the entire community is still invited, elders, adults, and children all dance together, and chicha (‘sweet corn beer’ /Q/) and trago (‘home brewed hard alcohol’ /S/) are freely offered and shared. Thus, fiestas are still understood as indigenous, community parties and there is recognition that Quichua is and should be spoken. In the words of community members: ‘Allí se debe hablar quichua.’ (‘There [at a party] one should speak Quichua.’ /S/) (T12b); ‘Se usa el quichua más en una fiesta.’ (‘One uses Quichua more at a party.’ /S/) (FN 373: 21-11-94). As noted at the beginning of the section, it is impossible to determine the

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precise rules or the exact configuration of variables under which Quichua definitely will (or will not) be used. However, it is clear that Quichua use is associated with specific characteristics of the situation: elder participants, humorous key, personal or intimate content, and two traditional settings. Although these factors influence language choice, none is sufficient to alone determine language use. What I have outlined here, then, are the general characteristics of domains in which Quichua is likely to be used. Domains consist of ‘constellations of factors such as location, topic, and participants’ which represent language boundaries (Fasold, 1992: 183). In her study of language maintenance and bilingual education in highland Peru, Hornberger (1988), through examination of community-wide patterns of language use, determined the existence of three domains: aillu, non-aillu, and comunidad. These three domains differ in terms of the role-relationships between interlocutors, the participants, and the setting, with each domain clearly associated with one or more language. In Tambopamba, however, such clearly delineated domains do not exist. There is no ‘Quichua only’ domain, for example, in the home, between family members for personal or intimate talk. Although it is highly likely that there might have been ‘protected’ Quichua-only domains in the past, it is unclear precisely what they were, as well as when and how they disappeared. What is clear, however, is that Spanish has ‘leaked’ (or more accurately, ‘flooded’) into seemingly every language domain. Presently, only what might be the traces of former domains are left. As such, there is no diglossia, or no situation wherein language varieties in the community are ‘functionally differentiated’ in their distribution (Fishman, 1972: 92). Fishman would argue that a community like Tambopamba, in which there is bilingualism without diglossia, is linguistically unstable and in a transitional state. Thus, following his argument, if current trends continue unabated, it seems likely that within a few decades Tambopamba will be a Spanish-speaking, monolingual community. Authentic Quichua Chapter 3 described Unified Quichua and ‘authentic Quichua’ and discussed their uses in Lagunas. Before closing this section it should be noted that this distinction is not a relevant one in Tambopamba; nearly all residents speak what Lagunas members refer to as Quichua auténtico (‘authentic Quichua’ /S/). However, for the most part, Tambopamba residents do not employ these terms, and correspondingly, do not perceive there to be significant differences in the Quichua used by different generations within the community.

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Igual hablamos. (‘We speak the same.’ /S/) (T9a) Igual hablan todos. (‘Everyone speaks the same.’ /S/) (T10a) Toditos hablan igual. (‘All speak the same.’ /S/) (T11a) Igual, no hay diferencia. (‘The same, there is no difference.’ /S/) (T23b) Nevertheless, while members tend not to distinguish between the Quichua of older and younger Tambopamba residents, they are aware of how the Quichua of Tambopamba compares with that of other communities. For example, many members are quick to note that the Quichua they speak is not as complex or pure as the Quichua of neighboring Oñacapac, nor as formal and academic as the Quichua of Lagunas. As one particularly observant member summed up the situation: Hay diferencia. Comparándonos con los de Oñacapac, mezclamos. Pero hablamos. Ya no hablan bien en Lagunas. Ellos están siguiendo cursos. Hablan quichua unificado. (‘There is a difference. Comparing ourselves with those of Oñacapac we mix [Spanish and Quichua]. But we speak. Now they don’t speak [Quichua] well in Lagunas. They are taking courses. They speak Unified Quichua.’ /S/) (T13b)

Language Attitudes and Conceptions of Ethnic Identity In the third and final section of the chapter, I analyze how language use patterns in the community relate to and can be explained by members’ language attitudes and conceptions of ethnic identity. More precisely, in the pages that follow, I discuss how and why it is that Quichua is used infrequently among members and inconsistently with children, despite the fact that most members believe that Saraguro language and ethnicity ‘es importante – como somos así. Eso hay que ser.’ (‘is important – as we are like this. This is what one must be.’ /S/) (T23b). Ethnic identity valued Like Saraguro indígenas from Lagunas, Tambopamba members value their ethnic identity and feel that it is important to maintain indigenous Saraguro culture.

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Hay que tener bien el sentimiento de Atahualpa; tenemos que ser así. (One has to strongly have the sentiment of Atahualpa; we have to be like this.’ /S/)3 (T10b) Tengo que ser siendo como soy. (‘I have to be, being who I am.’ /S/) (T13b) Somos indígenas. No podemos cambiar. Me parece importante seguir siendo indígena. (‘We are indigenous. We cannot change. It seems important to me to continue being indigenous.’ /S/) (T20b) Lo importante es mantener nuestra cultura. (‘The important thing is to maintain our culture.’ /S/) (T23b) Tenemos que continuar. Es importante no ser mestizo. (‘We have to continue. It is important not to be mestizo.’ /S/) (T24a) Hay que morir así; cuando nos vamos, llevamos la ropa. (‘One has to die like this; when we go, we take our [indigenous] clothing with us.’ /S/) (T11a) Not unlike Lagunas members, for some of Tambopamba, the reasons for valuing indigenous identity are related to the desire to respect the heritage transmitted to them by their ancestors. Es importante – siendo de padres indígenas. (‘It is important – being from indigenous parents.’ /S/) (T9b) Sí es bueno; nuestros bisabuelos nacido indígenas. No tenemos que cambiar de ropa. (‘It is good; our great grandparents [were] born indigenous. We have to not change our clothing.’ /S/) (T10a) Porque nuestros antepasados han sido así y tenemos que conservar las mismas calidades. (‘Because our ancestors have been like this and we have to conserve the same qualities.’ /S/) (T25a) For others, the reasons for striving to maintain Saraguro ethnicity seem to be more closely linked to aesthetic appreciation of indigenous dress and appearance. Es bonita la ropa de nuestros abuelos. El vestido de blancos es feo. (‘The clothing of our grandparents is pretty. The dress of the whites is ugly.’ /S/) (T11b)

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Ropa indígena es bonito; se pone anacu, aretes . . . los blancos no son así. (‘Indigenous clothing is pretty; one wears a skirt, earrings . . . the whites aren’t like this.’ /S/) (T12b) Yet while most Tambopamba residents feel that it would be undesirable for members to leave their ethnic identity behind, this is not universally the case. For instance, Rosa Angelina, my neighbor in Tambopamba, on more than one occasion noted that ‘no es tan importante nuestra manera de vivir’ (‘it’s not so important our way of living’ /S/) (T9a). Rosa Angelina also sharply differs from her fellow community members in that she hopes that her children will leave their indigenous identity behind as they mature: ‘Mejor si cambian. Yo sí quiero.’ (‘Better if they change [to mestizos]. Yes, I want [that].’ /S/) (T9a). Rosa Angelina is distinguished from most other Tambopamba members not only by her openly negative attitudes towards Saraguro ethnicity, but also by her position in the community. With two children, no husband, no cattle, no land and no source of income, she is among the poorest of Tambopamba. Her aspirations for her children can be understood in terms of anthropological findings in the region which indicate that Saraguros who are most likely to ‘transculturate,’ or shift ethnic identity membership from one group to another, are from the ‘lower socioeconomic levels of their ethnic group of birth’ (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984: 30). Given that Rosa Angelina holds a marginalized, low-status position both in her own community and indigenous Saraguro society, it is perhaps not surprising that she views positively the possibility of acculturation to a group which, at least in the wider Ecuadorian context, holds a higher status. As the Belotes (1984: 42) explain, ‘with dim prospects for an acceptable future within the realm of indígena life,’ transculturation to white identity allows indigenous individuals (or their children) to at least enjoy the benefits of belonging to the socially prestigious group. In contrast to Rosa Angelina, most Tambopamba parents maintain that they want their children to remain indigenous. For the majority, their children’s transculturation to white identity would be a painful, and even tragic event. Sería mal si cambia. (‘It would be bad if she changes.’ /S/) (T9b) No me sentiría bien. Mal. (‘It would not seem good to me. Bad.’ /S/) (T10a) No sé . . . pero triste me parece cambiada.

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(‘I don’t know . . . but it seems sad to me [if she were] changed.’ /S/) (T10b) Me sentiría muy mal, triste, feo. Un indígena . . . ya es de otro. (‘I would feel very bad, sad, ugly. An indigenous person . . . now is of another [group].’ /S/) (T11b) Sería algo grave. No puedo decir no, si quieren. Pero debe dar valor a nuestros propios valores. Yo, realmente mal. (‘It would be something serious. I can’t say no if they want [to change]. But they should value our own values. I [would feel] really bad.’ /S/) (T20b) Como fuimos nosotros, así mismo tienen que ser. ¡Yo no les dejaría cambiar nadita! (‘How we were, just like that, they have to be. I would not let them change anything!’ /S/) (T25a) Most parents, then, want their children to remain indigenous and view their own traditions as important and worth treasuring. However, as will be clear from the discussion that follows, the qualities which identify a person as indigenous are not uniform across all Saraguro communities, and in fact differ significantly from Tambopamba to Lagunas. Components of ethnic identity As Barth (1969: 15) pointed out more than three decades ago, ‘ethnic groups are not merely or necessarily based on the occupation of exclusive territories,’ but rather are maintained by ‘continual expression and validation’ of that identity. Aspects of such expression can be said to form the ‘boundaries’ of an ethnic group or the ‘ways of signaling membership and exclusion’. In interviews and observations in Tambopamba, three main characteristics emerged as important in defining a person as indigenous: (1) the use of indigenous clothing; (2) work with the land and animals; and (3) knowledge of Quichua or lack of fluency in Spanish. Each of these aspects of Tambopamba indigenous identity is now discussed separately. Clothing

As detailed in the previous chapter, clothing plays a critical role in defining who is and who is not indigenous. In the 1970s, Linda Belote (1978: 25) reported that ‘the boundary between Indian and white dress and hairstyle is clear-cut and inviolate: the immediate response of Indians when asked the difference between Indians and whites is “the clothing”’. Two decades later (at least among Tambopamba and Lagunas residents),

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indigenous dress and apparel remain the most obvious and most frequently mentioned trait of an indigenous person. Tambopamba members are quick to point out that clothing is an important distinction. La ropa. (‘Clothing.’ /S/) ( T9a; T9b; T11a) Vestimenta. (‘Dress.’ /S/) (T13a; T13b; T23b; T10b) Por la ropa. Ellos cargan mucha ropa. (‘By the clothing. [The whites] wear lots of clothing.’ /S/) (T20b) Vestimenta. No hay tanta diferencia – más vestimenta. (‘Clothing. There is not so much difference [between indigenous and white people] – more the clothing.’ /S/) (T24a) While clothing is critical for marking individuals as indigenous, as discussed at the opening of the chapter, the styles and types of clothing in the community are changing rapidly. Unlike communities such as Lagunas, where the younger and more fashion-conscious members elect modern variations of indigenous styles (e.g. use of synthetic material for ‘traditional’ indigenous garments), many of the youth, and especially young men of Tambopamba are choosing non-indigenous, western-style clothing, including baseball caps and long trousers. Such adaptations tend to be viewed critically by many middle-aged and older community members. For example, upon seeing teens and young adults in western clothing, older members often commented that they were ridiculously and pretentiously dressed up, or in their words, ‘disfrazados como se fueron laichos’ (‘disguised as if they were whites’ /S/).4 Indeed, residents of all ages mentioned that it was ugly or even painful for them to see indígenas dressed in non-indigenous clothing. Un fallazo! Feísimo! Me da vergüenza. No me parece bien. (‘A disaster! Very ugly! It makes me embarrassed. It doesn’t seem good to me.’ /S/) (T13a) Pero es feo; no es bonito. (‘But it is ugly; it’s not pretty.’ /S/) (T12b) Es doloroso cuando vienen con gorro. Para me, ni un mestizo, ni un indígena, un disfrazo. No me va a entender. No sé qué piensan. (‘It is painful when they come with a cap. For me [they’re] not a mestizo, not an Indian, a disguise. I am not ever going to understand. I don’t know what they think.’ /S/) (T23b)

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Yet while indigenous clothing is an important marker of indigenous identity, and indeed, use of western clothing items is widely viewed negatively, it is important to note that most members also believe that community members do not stop being indigenous even after altering their outward appearance in this way. No hay cómo cambiar – ropa sí, pero siguen siendo indígena. (‘There is no way to change – clothing yes, but they continue being indigenous.’ /S/) (T10b) Cambian de ropa, pero siguen siendo indígenas. (‘They change clothing, but they continue being indigenous.’ /S/) (T12b; T13a; T13b) Creen que son cambiados, pero no son. Son iguales. (‘They think they are changed, but they aren’t. They are the same.’ /S/) (T24a) Se pone esa ropa. Creen que son otros, pero son indígenas. Siguen lo mismo. (‘They put on this clothing. They think that they are someone else, but they are indigenous. They continue being the same.’ /S/) (T25a) Ya son cambiados de ropa. Siguen siendo indígenas, ya no pueden cambiar. Son permanentes – hasta la muerte. (‘They are different only in terms of clothing. They continue being indigenous, they can’t change. They are permanently [indigenous] – until death.’ /S/) (T25b) The importance of clothing and the concomitant permanency of indigenous identity is compatible with other anthropological work amongst Saraguros. According to L. Belote (1978), changing or transculturating from indigenous to white identity entails not just adopting the clothing of town whites, but also the lifestyles and social habits of that group. Responses of community members seem to corroborate this finding. While nearly all mentioned clothing as an obvious and overt signal of ethnic identity, most feel that changes in appearance (such as cutting one’s hair or wearing long pants and a baseball cap) display more or less style, ‘taste’ or pride in one’s ethnic identity, but fundamentally do not alter ethnic identity. Agricultural lifestyle and occupation

A less mutable and perhaps more significant aspect of indigenous Saraguro identity for Tambopamba residents concerns lifestyle and

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occupational choices. While clothing is important, the manner in which Saraguros traditionally have worked and sustained themselves also emerged as a critical feature of indigenous identity for Tambopamba residents. Many view the ability and willingness to work with animals and with the land as a critical component of their Saraguro ethnic identity. Los blancos trabajan en otras cosas – los indígenas en agricultura, con animales. Los blancos no. Caminando van los indígenas, los blancos en carro. (‘The whites work in other things – the indigenous people in agriculture with animals. The whites no. The indigenous people go walking, the whites by car.’ /S/) (T12a) Trabajamos en el campo. Más trabajamos así, con animales. (‘We work in the countryside. We work more like this with animals.’ /S/) (T12b) Vivimos en otras formas. Nosotros trabajamos en el campo; ellos juegan en la cancha. No se sienten que tienen mucho que hacer. (‘We work in other forms. We work in the countryside; they play in the field. They don’t feel like they have much they have to do.’ /S/) (T13b) Nosotros trabajamos en la tierra; ellos siempre quieren estar limpio. (‘We work with the land; [the whites] always want to be clean.’ /S/) (T25a) Linda Belote (1978) argues that the Saraguros’ agricultural-based identity has arisen out of an oppositional dialectic with the whites of the Saraguro town. Town whites tend to hold manual labor in low regard and instead prefer to see themselves as shop-keepers and bureaucrats, jobs which many Saraguros do not consider as constituting ‘real work.’ The relationship between identity and manual labor is illustrated well by an example recounted by L. Belote (1978). She describes how a young indigenous man who had spent some time outside of Saraguro returned home with little interest in or stamina for manual labor. When the young man left a minga after a few short hours of work, many Saraguros noted that he was ‘no longer “really” an Indian, but “a white in Indian’s clothing – all talk and no work”’ (p. 104). Similarly, in the minds of many of Tambopamba, while town whites prefer work which is not physically demanding and does not involve getting dirty, Tambopamba residents are willing and able to do difficult work for long hours in the countryside. For Tambopamba resi-

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dents, this distinction is an important part of their ethnic identity as Saraguros. Proficiency in Quichua and Spanish

A final factor which members note as a significant difference between themselves and non-members is proficiency in Quichua and Spanish. As the following quotes from Tambopamba members suggest, residents are conscious of several characteristics of their speech which differentiate themselves from town whites. First, Tambopamba members note that not everyone from the community speaks Spanish, and furthermore, among those that do, some are less than fully proficient users of the language. Por su manera de hablar – ellos de repente correcto. No hablamos bien como ellos. (‘By their way of speaking – they [whites] sometimes [speak] correctly. We don’t speak well like them.’ /S/) (T10b) Creen que ellos hablan más castellano. Los mayores no entienden. (‘They think that they speak more Castilian. The elders do not understand [Spanish].’ /S/) (T11b) Saben hablar un poco más – nosotros medio mezclado. (‘They know how to speak a little more – we [speak] somewhat mixed.’ /S/) (T9a) Members tend to feel that those of Tambopamba speak Spanish less fluently or less correctly than town residents. Correspondingly, as will be discussed later, many members are insecure about their own Spanish skills and quick to note their desire for their children to learn to speak ‘good Spanish.’ The second, perhaps more obvious difference between Tambopamba members and town whites which was noted by residents is that, unlike town whites, much of the community knows and uses Quichua. Hablamos quichua nosotros. (‘We speak Quichua.’ /S/) (T13a) Los laichos no hablan el quichua. (‘The whites don’t speak Quichua.’ /S/) (T11b) El dialecto que hablamos nos define. (‘The dialect that we speak defines us.’ /S/) (T23b) While members point out that their levels of proficiency in Spanish and

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Quichua differentiate them from town whites, members do not seem to view these differences as necessarily essential to their indigenous identity. As Urciuoli (1995: 533) observes in her review of the literature on language and borders, ‘in many instances language and group identity are not isomorphic and people do not always see language shift as vitiating their cultural identity.’ In other words, being Saraguro yet not speaking Quichua is not particularly problematic for Tambopamba members. For them, Quichua is not a critical marker of identity. Support for the claim that language is not particularly emblematic of ethnic identity in Tambopamba is found in the data which suggest that most members do not see the loss of Quichua as necessarily tragic. Recall that Lagunas residents feared that ‘all would be lost’ if Quichua were to die out in the community (Chapter 3). In contrast, many Tambopamba members seemed to believe that nothing in the community would change if Quichua were to disappear entirely. Igual será. Porque ya están dejando hablar quichua. (‘It will be the same. Because they are already beginning to stop speaking Quichua.’ /S/) (T9a) Igualito. (‘Just the same.’ /S/) (T9b) Sería igual. (‘It would be the same.’ /S/) (T11b) Ya tiene que ser igual. (‘It has to be the same.’ /S/) (T12b) No creo que va cambiar nada. (‘I don’t think that it is going to change.’ /S/) (T25a) At the beginning of this section it was stressed that Tambopamba members value their ethnic identity both for themselves and for their children. Yet these quotes directly above suggest that Quichua could disappear from the community, and for many members, little would change; ethnic identity would remain intact. This fact suggests that despite members’ comments which note the differences in language use between themselves and town whites, knowledge and use of Quichua is not a critical component of ethnic identity. Furthermore, as the following comments indicate, there are Tambopamba members who believe that it is possible and appropriate for Saraguros to be indigenous without speaking Quichua.

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Sí, puede ser que sea indígena sin hablar el idioma. (‘Yes, it can be that one is indigenous without speaking the language.’ /S/) (T9b) Claro, soy indígena, pero no sé hablar el quichua. (‘Of course, I am indigenous, but I don’t know how to speak Quichua.’ /S/) (T25a) Sí, ya somos acostumbrados así, hablar castellano. (‘Yes, already we are already used to being like this, to speak Castellano.’ /S/) (T25b) Thus, while knowledge of Quichua differentiates members from town whites, Quichua appears not be an essential component of ethnic identity. This analysis is further supported by data from the community which suggest that Quichua is not esteemed for sentimental or symbolic reasons (as is the case in Lagunas), but rather as a language for communication among members. Kelman’s work (1971) suggests that groups and individuals tend to value their language for either sentimental or instrumental reasons. Sentimental reasons for valuing a language are related to its beauty, the connection it provides with the past, and its potency as a cultural symbol. Instrumental reasons, in contrast, are derived from the language’s usefulness in communicating or in providing access to social or material goods. As discussed later, practical reasons for valuing Quichua are paramount in Tambopamba. However, this is not to say that sentimental reasons do not also come into play. For instance, despite the higher prestige of Spanish, many members feel that Quichua is more beautiful than Spanish and value Quichua for cultural and sentimental reasons. Porque los anteabuelos han sabido hablar quichua, entonces para no hacer desaparecer este costumbre así siguimos hablando. (‘Because our ancestors have known how to speak Quichua, so in order to not make this custom disappear, we continue speaking like this.’ /S/) (T12b) Es importante; es nuestro propio de los pueblos indígenas. (‘It is important; it is our own, of the indigenous peoples.’ /S/) (T20b) Yet despite this sentimental and aesthetic appreciation of Quichua, the language is more widely valued for instrumental reasons, namely for communicating with other community members.

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Hablamos así; es nuestro idioma para hablar. (‘We speak like this; it’s our language for talking.’ /S/) (T11a) Es el medio de comunicación; para comunicar, y, por allí, es necesario. (‘It’s the medium of communication; in order to communicate, and for this it’s necessary.’ /S/) (T13b) Claro, para poderme comunicar con los demás que hablan. (‘Of course, in order to be able to communicate with the others that speak.’ /S/) (T20b) Members specifically note the instrumental value of the language for communicating with older adult members. Para hablar con los mayores, así que no comprenden, para que entiendan, para contestar cuando vengan. (‘In order to talk with the elders, as they don’t understand [Spanish], in order that they understand, to respond when they come.’ /S/) (T25b) Para los mayores, para comunicarse. (‘For the elders, to communicate oneself.’ /S/) (T10b) Additionally, Quichua is also valued instrumentally as a ‘secret’ language spoken in the company of whites. Quichua, para hablar entre gente blanca. (‘Quichua, in order to speak in the midst of white people.’ /S/) (T10a) Para que los laichos no van a entender – el quichua. (‘In order that the whites are not going to understand – Quichua.’ /S/) (T12a) Quichua is considered instrumentally valuable, then, for talking and communicating, especially with other indigenous persons, with older community members, and in the company of whites. In addition, Quichua is also valued by some younger community members for instrumental reasons related to occupational opportunity. For example, one young community member was denied a full-time position as a bilingual teacher because she failed to pass the Quichua competency exam (FN 364: 21-1194). In addition to teaching positions, jobs with development agencies, a primary source of salaried employment for Saraguros, often require or give preference to applicants who are bilingual. Thus, while Tambopamba members discussed both the sentimental and

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instrumental importance of Quichua, mentioned first and stressed most by members, however, is the instrumental value of Quichua. This trend stands in sharp contrast to the opinions of Lagunas members, who view Quichua as an important marker of identity and treat the language as an emblem of ethnicity. The reasons for and implications of these important differences between the two communities are now considered. Language, ethnicity, and identity The variation in language use and language attitudes across Saraguro communities is best understood in light of the fact that in Tambopamba, because members’ status as Saraguros is clearly marked by their rural lifestyles and agricultural work, Quichua language maintenance is not seen to be as critical to ethnic maintenance. As noted in Chapter 2, most Tambopamba residents are still engaged exclusively in traditional agriculture as their primary occupation. This fact is an important part of their indigenous identity. Members define indigenous persons as those, who like themselves, work in the countryside with animals, do not mind getting dirty or traveling long distances on foot. Because indigenous identity is clearly defined by rural lifestyles, there is little need for Quichua to take on the role of a primary ethnicity marker. While the academically and professionally successful members of Lagunas emphasize the role of Quichua in differentiating themselves from town whites, Tambopamba members, in contrast, seem not to feel that their identity as Saraguro indígenas depends upon maintenance of the language. For Tambopamba residents, as has been found to be the case for both Moroccan and Berber Jews, ‘language shift seems to be readily accepted and not regretted in the community concerned, probably because it is not felt to affect identity, which is secure before and after the shift’ (Bentahila & Davies, 1992: 209–10). Furthermore, as also seems to be true for Tambopamba members, among both of the Moroccan groups, ‘the attitude to the abandoned language seems to be highly pragmatic; the languages are considered not as symbols, but simply as tools to be maintained just as long as they are needed’ (p. 210). Thus, despite the generally privileged position of language as a marker of ethnic identity, it is also true that ‘the linguistic code is just one among the numerous markers of identity that can pick out a social group or subgroup, alongside clothing styles, mannerisms, beliefs, ritual practices, and so forth’ (Urban, 1991: 325). To return to Smolicz’s (1992) notion of ‘core values’ discussed in Chapter 3, Tambopamba members can be understood as a group which is not language-centered, that is, for them, the maintenance of Saraguro ethnic identity is not dependant on the

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preservation of their heritage language. Language, thus, is not a core value in Tambopamba. Language and social/economic position These different conceptions of ethnic identity and of the relationships between language and culture in Tambopamba and Lagunas are likely related to the social and economic positions of the communities. Most Tambopamba members are involved principally in agricultural work, with few members participating and even fewer succeeding in non-indigenous contexts. Many parents are eager for their children to obtain salaried professional and semi-professional positions in the fields of education and health-care. Although in previous decades there were few educational and professional opportunities for indígenas, Tambopamba members are aware of the fact that it is now possible for Saraguros to occupy professional and wage-earning positions. Furthermore, Tambopamba parents recognize the importance of formal education for success in these domains and are eager for their children to do well in school. Given that success in school and any professional position demands fluency in Spanish, it is understandable that many parents are also anxious for their children to acquire the language. Indeed, the majority of Tambopamba parents feel that Spanish is ‘más importante’ (‘more important’ /S/) for their children than Quichua. Furthermore, for many Tambopamba members, Spanish is strongly linked with economic and educational success and Quichua fluency is still stigmatizing. Thus, Tambopamba members remain insecure about their Spanish language skills, and are eager to develop their Spanish competence and transmit what they see to be the language of economic success to their children. Given members’ relatively low and insecure socioeconomic position and belief that their indigenous ethnic identity is clearly marked by their rural lifestyle and occupation, it makes sense that they are not preoccupied with symbolically marking this identity. In fact, the majority of community members interviewed were quick to note that there seems to be less interest in, and less overt expression of indigenous identity in the community. Los jóvenes sólo quieren cambiar de ropa. (‘The youths only want to change [to white] clothing.’ /S/) (T9b) Están cambiando la ropa. Hay menos interés. (‘They are changing clothing. There is less interest.’ /S/)(T10b)

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Ahorita menos interés, cortando el pelo y cambiando de ropa. (‘Right now less interest, [they’re] cutting their hair and changing their clothing.’ /S/) (T25b) La joventud ya está perdiendo todo desde hace quince años. (‘The youth has been losing everything since fifteen years ago.’ /S/) (T13b) Estos días, unos creen que son laichos. (‘These days, some think that they are whites.’ /S/) (T25a) Most members, then, seemed to think that the youth were choosing to adopt blanco clothing, music, and material goods (e.g. bicycles, televisions, boom boxes). A similar trend emerged concerning changes in attitudes towards the Quichua language in recent years. Many interviewees also noted that interest and concern for the language had declined. Hay menos interés, casi ya no. (‘There is less interest, almost nothing now.’ /S/) (T9a) Cada año menos interés. Ya van a dejar el quichua. (‘Each year there is less interest. They are about to leave Quichua.’ /S/) (T25a) Hay los que no quieren saber nada de quichua. Hay menos interés en quichua. (‘There are those that don’t want to know anything of Quichua. There is less interest in Quichua.’ /S/) (T25b) As members perceive their identity to be clearly marked by their rural lifestyles, little energy and attention is directed at maintaining a sharp boundary between themselves and the town whites. The ethnic identity of Tambopamba, from the members’ perspective, is not threatened and not a source of great concern. Rather, the focus of Tambopamba residents’ attention is in improving their Spanish language skills as well as their social and economic position. This analysis is compatible with other research on the relationship between language attitudes, language use, and social class. Lambert and Taylor (1996: 496), for instance, in an entirely different context find that working-class Cuban American mothers ‘have oriented their children toward a “subtractive” form of bilingualism and biculturalism, a type of trade-off wherein greater emphasis is placed on English than Spanish skill development’ (1996: 496). The working-class parents in Lambert and Taylor’s (1996) sample ‘have not made it as well, and they realize that their

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children will more likely have to compete with other working-class Americans which gives them the impetus to become American as rapidly as possible’ (p. 498). In contrast, middle-class Cuban American ‘mothers are oriented towards an “additive” form of bilingualism/biculturalism for their children, a form that trades nothing off, but instead protects the heritage culture at the same time as the Americanization takes place’ (p. 496). In rough comparison then, Tambopamba parents, like the working-class Cuban American mothers studied by Lambert and Taylor (1996), tend to stress Spanish language development and school success. Lagunas parents, in contrast, in some ways parallel the middle-class Cuban American mothers, who are secure in their socioeconomic positions, and feel that they can ‘afford’ for their children to invest in development of the heritage language and culture.

Conclusion These cultural, attitudinal, and socioeconomic differences between Lagunas and Tambopamba members are intimately connected to language use patterns in the two communities. In Tambopamba we have seen that Quichua is used for practical purposes, but not for symbolic ones; Quichua is not valued nor employed as an emblem of ethnic identity. Rather, the language is used in everyday situations for communication with elders, for humorous and intimate communication, and at times in certain traditional settings. Looking ahead, the value placed on practical uses of Quichua in Tambopamba does not seem to bode well for the future of the language. For if members give importance to Quichua primarily for communicating with other members, as the numbers of speakers diminish over the years, the needs and opportunities to use the language will also decrease, thus leaving the strong possibility that the language will eventually fall into disuse. Moreover, if members continue to mark their ethnic identity by nonlinguistic means, it is unlikely that the language will be stressed for the community’s children. Furthermore, a related and significant fact is that Quichua instruction presently does not occur at home in Tambopamba. Rather, parents hope that the language will be taught and acquired at school. How this does and does not happen is the topic of the following chapter. Notes 1. The term ‘Inga’ or ‘Inca’ is sometimes used as a synonym for Quichua, especially by older Saraguros.

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2. The Ecuadorian currency is the sucre. The 1994–95 exchange rate fluctuated around 2000 sucres to one US dollar. 3. Prior to the Spanish conquest, Atahualpa was the Incan ruler of the region that is now Ecuador. He was captured, held for ransom, and then killed by the Spanish. Atahualpa’s memory is especially important to Saraguros, many of whom believe their traditional black clothing is a remnant of the mourning of his death. 4. Laicho is a derogatory term used by Saraguros to refer to a white from the town of Saraguro.

Chapter 5

Quichua Instruction and the Community Schools Like nearly all Saraguro communities, Lagunas and Tambopamba each have their own state-sponsored, elementary school. Although these primary schools are part of the country’s national education system, since 1989 they have been under the administrative control of the regional bilingual intercultural education directorate. Largely because of this, the vast majority of the teachers in the schools are indigenous Saraguros, and to varying degrees, the curricula and organization of these schools are oriented around Saraguro life and culture. While the Directorate is responsible for staff development and teacher placement, the day-to-day operations tend to be left to the director and teachers of each of the community schools. In both Lagunas and Tambopamba, the schools’ staff, with the support of their respective communities, have set the revitalization of Quichua and its instruction as a second language as a goal. For teachers in both communities, this aim is closely connected to their concerns about the cultural future of the Saraguros. As a teacher at the Lagunas school, Inti Raimi, explained: La cultura nuestra está quedando por los suelos. Siempre estamos preocupados que nuestra cultura se va a perder . . . a los jóvenes no les importa nada, a los niños tampoco y justamente ellos tienen que estar más interesados. Ellos son el futuro. (‘Our culture is being left behind. We are always worried that our culture is going to be lost . . . the young do not give it a great amount of importance, neither do the children and it is precisely them who must be the most interested. They are the future.’ /S/) (T16b). In a similar vein, a teacher from the Tambopamba school of Huayna Capac noted that el objetivo es volver nuevamente a tener nuestra idioma y no perder lo que fue nuestra . . . y, en todo caso, no queremos que nuestra cultura indígena desaparezca, por lo menos en la comunicación. (‘The 139

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objective is to return to our language and not to lose what was ours . . . and in any case, we don’t want our indigenous culture to disappear, at least in communicative form.’ /S/) (T22b) As is suggested by these quotations, for the staff at both the Inti Raimi and Huayna Capac schools, the instruction of Quichua is linked with the ultimate goal of returning Quichua to a spoken language within the communities. In the words of one Lagunas teacher, el objeto mismo es que renacer, hacer que nuestro idioma, que el quichua, que todos hablan, a muy largo plazo, volvamos hablar. (‘The objective itself is to renew, to make that our language, that Quichua, is what everyone speaks, in the long term that we return to speaking.’ /S/) (T16b) Likewise, the director of the Tambopamba school emphasized the importance of eventually using the language outside the school: A lo largo plazo, alcanzar este…que nuestros niños salgan, aprendan hablar el quichua y esperamos también que el quichua sea practicado desde el hogar (‘In the long term, that these children come out knowing Quichua and we also hope that Quichua is practiced at home.’ /S/) (T24b) In accordance with this aim, teachers at both the Inti Raimi school of Lagunas and the Huayna Capac school of Tambopamba tended to stress the importance of developing Quichua speaking and listening skills. This was particularly true of Inti Raimi teachers. [La meta es] que por lo menos tengan este gusto, de saber que el quichua es nuestra, y empezar hablar cosas simples. ([The goal is] ‘that at least they take a liking to the language, know that Quichua is ours, and begin to speak basic things.’ /S/) (T18b/19a) Primeramente, que aprendan entender, luego contestar y conversar con diálogos. (‘In the first place, that they learn to understand, later to respond and converse with dialogues.’ /S/) (T18a) In terms of favored instructional approaches in the schools, Lagunas teachers described their methods of instructing Quichua as based on the initial development of speaking and conversational skills. Tiene que ser la parte oral. Ante de ese, tiene que ser la parte social, luego ir hablando poco a poco.

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(‘There has to be the oral part, before that, there has to be the social part, then begin speaking little by little.’ /S/) (T18b/19a) Sería práctica: escuchar y hablar, escuchar y hablar. (‘[The method] would be to practice: listen and speak, listen and speak.’ /S/) (T16a) Para comenzar, vocabulario, entonces con vocabulario, luego oraciones, luego acostumbrando hablar un poco más. (‘To begin, vocabulary, then vocabulary, then sentences, then later, getting accustomed to speaking a little more.’ /S/) (T15b) Likewise, Tambopamba teachers discussed in similar terms their ideas concerning the instruction of the language, and stressed the importance of beginning with the basics and then moving on to more complex linguistic constructions. Mi metodología es partir de lo fácil a lo difícil, hablando palabras a oraciones. (‘My methodology is to go from the easy to the difficult, speaking words to sentences.’ /S/) (T22b) Mi manera es con diálogo, juego, luego frases, vocabulario, vocales. (‘My way is with dialogues, games, later with sentences, vocabulary, and vowels.’ /S/) (T24b) Yo he tratado hacer lo más concreto – las cosas, como la mesa, las sillas. (‘I have tried to do the most concrete – things, like table, chairs.’ /S/) (T27a) For the teaching staffs of both the Huayna Capac school of Tambopamba and the Inti Raimi school of Lagunas, the instruction of Quichua in the school and language revitalization within the community are important goals. During the year of the study, teachers spoke passionately and frequently about these objectives, emphasizing the development of speaking and listening skills, and viewing conversational ability in the language as both primary and ultimate aim. However, as the following discussion of Quichua teaching and learning reveals, for different reasons, in neither school were the practices which might have allowed for the attainment of these goals in place. In both schools, despite major differences in school organization, pedagogical philosophy, and student knowledge of Quichua, the instruction of Quichua as a second language was remarkably similar, and indeed, remarkably far from meeting the pedagogical aims stated by the teachers.

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School Organization, Philosophy, and History While the goals and approaches concerning the instruction of Quichua seem to be similar, the organization, pedagogical philosophy, and practice of the schools of Tambopamba and Lagunas are studies in contrast. Although both schools are under the administrative supervision of the regional Directorate, the decisions made by the schools’ staffs and their communities have taken them in different directions over the last decade. The following discussion provides an overview of the organization of teaching and learning in each of the two schools. This background is essential for understanding Quichua instruction within the two contexts. The Inti Raimi school of Lagunas The Inti Raimi school building, constructed in the late 1950s with the aid of an international rural development program, is attractive and well equipped. However, on closer inspection, it is also clear that the facility is in need of repair; the roof leaks continuously during the rainy season and the floors and steps are crumbling in some areas. Yet despite the physical deterioration, the building overflows with activity and color. Every inch of available wall space is covered with educational posters, maps, and examples of student work. The walls which once divided classrooms have been knocked down to make one large area where most of the academic work takes place. Within this room, bright orange tables are grouped together not by grades, but into four academic content areas: (1) ‘math,’ (2) ‘grammar and languages,’ (3) ‘social sciences,’ and (4) ‘natural sciences.’ Adjacent to the large academic room there is a small office for teachers, and two smaller rooms which alternatively serve as an area for small group work or art work. Beside the main building is a separate facility, a large, sunny classroom that was designed as a science laboratory, but which remained closed for most of the year I was there due to a shortage of both supplies and teaching staff. There are also three mud houses on the school grounds, two of which are play areas and one which serves as the kitchen and dining area for the teachers. In addition, behind the school there are three outhouses and a large grassy playing area; and in front of the school, on the other side of the community road, is the school garden. During the 1994–95 academic year, this space was completely occupied by approximately 50 students, ranging in age from 5 to 12. All of the children attending the school, except for two, were indigenous, and nearly all were from the Lagunas community. The orange tables in the academic room were usually fully occupied by students working with learning materials, and often encircled by a standing ring of children who were either

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watching the students at work or waiting for table space. The other rooms were almost never empty, perhaps filled with students working in small academic groups with a teacher, or possibly with students painting, dancing, or playing marbles amongst themselves. The unusual appearance and organizational style of Inti Raimi is not the result of disciplinary neglect on part of the teachers, as some Saraguros believe. Rather, it is a function of the school’s pedagogical philosophy and particular methodology. Inti Raimi school is one of the three escuelas activas, (‘active schools’ /S/) located in the Saraguro parish. These schools were formed in the mid 1980s by a group of indigenous teachers in response to what they perceived to be the inadequate and often detrimental teaching methodologies of the Hispanic schools. The teachers believed the methodology of the schools was lacking in two respects: (1) the schools were unconcerned with the individual, intellectual, and emotional needs of the students; and (2) the school failed to support or, in the opinion of some, actively undermined Saraguro culture and language. With financial and technical assistance from an international organization, but also through use of their own personal funds, this group of teachers established active schools in three Saraguro communities: Ñamarín, Illincho, and Lagunas. Similar in some ways to Montessori schools, the active schools’ pedagogical philosophy and practices are based on the theory that children learn best through ‘hands-on’ self-directed manipulation of pedagogical materials. The environment of the escuelas activas, like that of Montessori schools (Meyer, 1975), is one where children are provided with both the freedom and structure to work independently with a wide variety of materials in heterogeneously mixed groups. Furthermore, the active schools also resemble Montessori schools in that the teacher generally serves as an observer or supporter of the children’s activities, rather than the immediate organizer or director of student work (Lillard, 1972; Meyer, 1975). As the teachers of the activa schools stress, priority is placed on giving students both liberty in organizing their activities and responsibility for their academic development (T16b; T18b/19a). All three of the active schools in Saraguro have been the object of scrutiny and criticism. Some Lagunas parents have little faith in the active system and send their children to primary schools in the town of Saraguro. It is not hard to see why the active schools are criticized for lacking order and discipline. Casual observation of the school would lead one to believe that students do what they like, when they like, and how they like with little direction or discipline. In the minds of many local critics, academic learning is impossible amidst the apparent chaos of the school. This perception is due in part to the loose organization of the school day.

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During my year of observation at Inti Raimi, the school doors opened around 7:30 each morning. Students entered the building as they arrived; there were no bells or whistles, and students were not required to line up outside before passing inside as is frequently the case in Ecuadorian schools. The hours between 7:30 and 10:00 were designated as time for children to work on academic tasks. Around 10:00 breakfast was served. The remaining portion of the school day, from 10:15 until 12:30, was occupied by a variety of activities such as free or organized play; artistic and practical work groups; outings to the river to bathe and swim; or garden work. The perception that children did not seriously engage in academic work was further bolstered by the organization of learning at Inti Raimi. Student work occurred within one of two general ‘participant structures’ or ‘way(s) of organizing interaction’ (Philips, 1983: 119; 1993): ‘individual work’ and ‘group work.’ By far the more common of the two, and indeed, for much of the year the only way of organizing academic activity was within the ‘individual work’ structure. ‘Individual work’

Within this structure, students worked more or less independently on self-selected activities with only periodic support from the teacher. Students independently manipulated a variety of commercial or community-made learning materials. These materials were composed of three basic kinds: (1) matching card activities, (2) board and card games, and (3) books and booklets. Matching card activities composed part of the materials in all four subject areas. Card sets, stored together in labeled envelopes, might consist of question cards and answer cards to be matched, or word cards and category cards to be organized. For instance, one of the many matching sets of the social science area consisted of cards with names of the largest lakes and oceans of the world and two cards with category headings, ‘lakes’ and ‘oceans.’ The students’ task was to categorize the bodies of water as either lakes or oceans, consulting with a map when necessary, and often copying the two lists upon completion. Each of the content areas also contained board and card games which could be played among two or more children. In the math area, for example, there were board games such as chess, which was popular with the older boys, and a counting game with dice and moveable pieces, which was favored by younger children still learning their numbers. All of the content areas also contained several card games. Books and booklets were used in each of the four areas in a variety of ways. In the math area, photocopied booklets of math problems were the

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principal source of academic work. In the social and natural sciences, short texts on a particular topic were often accompanied by a set of questions. Students read a section of the text or booklet and then sometimes answered related questions in their notebooks. More frequently, students randomly copied portions of the text into their own notebooks. To the casual observer, ‘individual work’ with these materials would have looked rather chaotic and much like play time. However, while students’ activities were generally self-selected, self-monitored, and selfmotivated, they were also disciplined and somewhat systematic. Older children were required to work in all four of the content areas each day, and younger children were required to work in two (math and grammar/languages). And although within these parameters students were free to select their activities and decide upon the amount of time to dedicate to each, most children usually did meet this basic daily requirement. However, this freedom to select and monitor activities had implications both for students’ work and time management. For example, students often spent considerable time choosing the day’s learning activities. While the materials were divided by content areas, there was little organization of the materials within each area, for example, by difficulty or sub-topic. Because most materials were not ordered, numbered, or grouped in any easily discernable manner within each area (the exception being the some of the math booklets), even a student who was familiar with all of the materials might spend as much as ten or fifteen minutes looking for a particular one. On other occasions, students completed whichever activity they picked up first. Moreover, whether carefully or randomly selected, students frequently attempted to complete materials which were inappropriate for them. For instance, students opted for materials which were clearly too easy for them (FN 105: 20-10-94; FN 533: 4-1-95), or repeated an exercise various times consecutively, presumably with the goal of meeting their daily academic requirement quickly (FN 303: 8-11-94; FN 767: 17-3-95). And on other occasions, students unknowingly selected materials which were overly difficult for them and which they were unable to complete or at times even understand (FN 302: 8-11-94; FN 544: 4-1-95). Some of these inefficiencies might have been avoided by better organizing the learning materials; encouraging students to regularly record the materials which they had completed; and perhaps most importantly, providing explicit direction to students in the selection of their learning materials (cf. Reyes, 1995). Occasionally within the individual work structure there was a clear progression in the learning activities of the students. For example, student

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work in the math area tended to progress developmentally from one day’s activities to the next, largely due to the use of numbered booklets in that area. More often, however, especially in the natural and social sciences, there was no continuity in the learning activities completed from one day to the next, and students did not seem to develop or build on particular skills over time. Rather, each activity comprised a single learning unit. This was partly the result of the teachers’ belief that students learn best when they can select what is interesting to them, but it was also was a function of the learning materials, many of which were not linked thematically (e.g. by subject or topic) nor developmentally (e.g. from basic to advanced skill levels). Students carefully self-monitored the activities they had yet to complete to meet the requirement of working in all of the different academic areas each day. Some students self-monitored their activities to an extreme degree and seemed to be almost constantly calculating how many areas they had yet to complete. Many students were motivated to finish work in all areas quickly so that they could join the football game visible from the school’s large back windows. Indeed, it was common to overhear students make comments to themselves or to other students regarding how many areas they had left to complete: ‘Sólo me falta dos áreas.’ (‘I only have two areas left.’ /S/) (FN 99: 20-10-94); ‘¡Acabado las cuatro áreas!’ (‘Finished the four areas!’ /S/) (FN 612: 20-1-95). The amount of interaction between teachers and students varied widely during ‘individual work’ time. In some instances, students selected and completed tasks independently; in other cases, teachers aided students in the selection of the material and provided continuous support and instruction for the completion of the task. Most interactions during ‘individual work’ time, however, seemed to fall somewhere in between these two extremes, such as in the following example. Miguelito, a second year student, brings a counting board, a jar of colored counting seeds and sticks, and a math booklet labeled ‘Yupana 4’ (‘Addition 4’ /Q/) to an open table in the math area. He walks away and returns a moment later with his backpack. Sitting down at the chair, he unzips his pack and takes out a notebook and pencil and then places the pack on the floor next to him. Opening his notebook to a fresh page, he writes down the title of the booklet and then copies down the first problem, ‘10 + 4 = ’. On the counting board he lays down a stick, equivalent to ten, and places four seeds into grooves on the board, counting as he goes. He writes ‘14’ after the equal sign in his notebook and then copies down the following problem, ‘10 + 8 = ’. As

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he is counting and laying out the seeds for this problem Ana walks by and noticing that Miguelito has recently completed the same exercise, she encourages him to select something else which is ‘más adelante’ (‘more advanced’ /S/). Miguelito quickly gets up and selects another booklet, ‘Anchuchina 4’ (‘Subtraction 4’ /Q/). He writes down the title on a new page of his notebook. Flipping through the pages and looking puzzled he calls to Ana, who is seated at another table. After examining the book for a moment she explains to him, ‘tienes que empezar por acá’ (‘you have to begin here’ /S/). The cover of the handmade booklet has been stapled on upside-down so he must begin from what appears to be the back of the booklet. ‘Veinte minus cuatro’ (’20 – 4’ /S/), he states as he writes this down in his notebook. Using the same sticks and seeds, he places a stick of ten and ten seeds onto the board. Then he counts out four seeds as he takes them off the board. And finally, he tentatively counts out what remains on the board. He calls out to Ana who is still sitting at another table with two girls. A few minutes later when she comes over, Miguelito asks her, ‘Oye Anita, ¿cómo se hace esto? ¿Éste vale diez?’ (‘Hey Ana, how do you do this? Does this equal ten?’ /S/), indicating the stick. Ana assures him that it does. He counts what remains on his board again and satisfied, he writes down, ‘16,’ before going on to the next problem. (FN 139: 24-10-94) Although Miguelito selected his activity independently, Ana provided guidance concerning the appropriate level of difficulty and initial comprehension of the task. While Miguelito was basically able to complete the task independently, Ana also provided support and encouragement which helped him to continue. As is apparent in this example, teachers guided students in the selection of the type of activity, as well as in the comprehension of academic work. On other occasions, students needed near constant assistance and instruction to complete an activity. Wilson, a student in his fifth year at the school, is matching two sets of cards; on one set there are hand-drawn pictures and on the other there are Quichua vocabulary words which correspond to the pictures. There are a total of sixteen cards to make eight word-picture matches. Wilson has matched three sets correctly together, but has not made any progress in the last ten minutes, instead staring out the window at the children playing in the field. Rosa Delia, the school director, comes and sits besides him and one by one explains and gives translations and

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example sentences for the vocabulary words. He matches the words to the pictures as they go along. (FN 290: 7-11-94) Wilson appeared unable (or perhaps unmotivated or unwilling) to complete the activity on his own and thus received content instruction and support from Rosa. When completing individual work, then, students received a variety of types and amounts of assistance from teachers, who guided them not only in the selection of an appropriate activity, but provided assistance, encouragement, and direction for its completion. ‘Group work’

Turning now to the second participant structure, ‘group work’ took place less frequently and only under two conditions at Inti Raimi. The first was known as grupos artísticos or grupos de trabajo práctico (‘artistic groups’ or ‘practical work groups’ /S/). Throughout the school year, the time after breakfast was devoted to practical and artistic work one day a week. During this 90 minute period students could participate in one of four or five teacher-led groups, such as art, music, story telling, crafts, or physical education. The second condition under which the ‘group work’ participant structure occurred was known as grupos de estudio (‘study groups’ /S/). During the last third of the school year, for several days each week, students were organized into groups by age. For the younger children, it was hoped that this organization would ensure that they were given access to the materials and to the teachers, both of which were frequently usurped by the older children. For the older children, the goal was to begin to prepare them for the transition to secondary schools in town the following year (FN 617: 201-95). ‘Group work’ of both the artistic and academic type involved a teacherled, ‘traditional’ class format. The following vignette, which depicts a study group for children in their final year at the school, is typical of interaction within the ‘group work’ structure. The sixth year students are already seated with notebooks and papers in front of them when the teacher, Ana, comes into the room. Ana states as she enters that class will begin with student readings of newspaper articles and that Mónica will begin. She instructs Mónica to read loudly. Mónica, however, reads in a quiet voice and is difficult to hear. She is frequently interrupted by Ana for pronunciation corrections. The other children seem to continue their own work and pay little attention to her. When Mónica finishes, Ana tells her to write down in her notebook the proper nouns, verbs, and adjectives in the article.

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Another student begins a newspaper article about the president’s success in obtaining international aid to fight poverty in the country. He reads a little bit more loudly; students continue to read their own articles or complete other work and few pay attention. Students read each of their articles in turn and then begin the task of identifying the parts of speech. Ana remains seated; students approach her frequently throughout the class for help with the grammar portion of the exercise. (FN 827: 3-4-95) As is common within the ‘group work’ structure, here we see that Ana chose the task and the framework for its completion. She called on students to display academic knowledge or abilities, and evaluated and critiqued student performance. Clearly, ‘group work’ differs sharply from the approach to teaching and learning within the ‘individual structure’ previously described. It is important to stress, however, that only a small fraction of students’ time at Inti Raimi was spent working in these organized groups. Furthermore, as is clear in the discussion which follows, only a portion of the school day was devoted to any type of academic work at all. Time management

In an attempt to ascertain how individual student time was distributed during the school day at Inti Raimi, the activities of six, randomly chosen students were monitored for four days each. Of the six, three were girls and three were boys; two were in their first year, two in their third year, and two in their final year at Inti Raimi. Observations indicated that during the course of the school day, student activities consisted of four general types: (1) academic work (individual or group); (2) extra-academic work (including free and organized play, breakfast time, student meetings, and art work); (3) ‘lost’ time (time spent waiting/looking for materials or desk space and time lost due to teacher meetings or student tardiness or absenteeism); and (4) ‘other’ (time spent cleaning the school, attending medical check-ups, or engaged in administrative tasks such as taking roll). Compilations of the six student observations – a total of 120 hours of observation – indicate that 27% of school time was devoted to academic tasks. As Table 5.1 indicates, a roughly equal amount of time, 25%, was ‘lost’ primarily due to teacher or student tardiness and absenteeism. Forty-one percent of the school day was spent on extra-academic activities, the largest chunk of which was unsupervised free play, and 7% of the school day was dedicated to other administrative activities.

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Table 5.1 Time allocation at Inti Raimi Category divisions

Total time allocation (minutes)

Percentage

Academic

1944

27

Extra-academic

2952

41

‘Lost’ time

1800

25

Other

504

7

Total

7200

100

Thus, while teachers designated at least 2.5 hours of the school day (7:30 to 10:00) or 50% of school time to academic work, students in fact engaged in academic activities for only roughly one-quarter of the day. Students, then, given the freedom to select and monitor their own academic activities, did in fact usually work in the required areas each day, but tended to spend only a small part of their total school time doing so. As will be detailed later in the chapter, Quichua language learning comprised only one small part of this academic work. Turning now to the second context, although the organization of teaching and learning at Huayna Capac school varied dramatically, certain characteristics, such as the limited amount of time spent on academic tasks, were common across both schools. The Huayna Capac school of Tambopamba The Huayna Capac school lies high at the end of the reddish dirt road which passes through the center of the community of Tambopamba. The school stands next to the community meeting building and small Catholic chapel. In front of the school is a dirt area which is just large enough to play indor (/S/), a smaller-scale version of European football. From the back of the school, there is a good view eastward towards the oriente, the warmer lowlands which lie a hard day’s walk away and where many of Tambopamba raise cattle for some or all of the year. Huayna Capac is a bi-level school with one large room, perhaps designed as a multi-purpose room or meeting area, and five small classrooms. For most of the year I was there, the fifth and sixth grades shared the large room and the lower grades each occupied a classroom. One of the classrooms served as the teachers’ office and lounge. While the building was in good repair, the walls were bare and the only school materials in the classrooms were the chalk board and the student desks and tables. About 60 children attended Huayna Capac during the 1994–95 school year; the number of students fluctuated weekly because there were always

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some who were in the oriente. The Huayna Capac school is divided into six grades; the lower grades are larger in number and divided about equally by sex. With each passing academic year, however, as girls begin to assume greater responsibility at home, grades become progressively smaller and numerically more male dominated. So for example, during the 1994–95 academic year, the first grade class consisted of 11 girls and 10 boys; the sixth grade class was composed of only six boys. During my year of observation, all of the students and teachers were indigenous, the exception being a white teacher who taught the class of sixth grade boys. The director and two of the teachers were long-time residents of Tambopamba. Two of the indigenous teachers lived in communities closer to town; they and the blanco teacher, who lived in the town, commuted daily by motorcycle.1 The Tambopamba school was supposed to be staffed by six teachers, one of whom was also the director of the school, with each teaching one grade. For much of the year, however, the school was short one staff member. This was because just prior to the start of the academic year, a teacher was granted a transfer by the Dirección to a school closer to her home. A replacement was not sent to the school until mid-December, leaving the fourth grade unattended for several months. The following month, the teacher of third grade, the only female teacher at the school, was awarded a job at the Dirección preparing materials for adult literacy classes. As the staff was informed by the Dirección that a (second) replacement would not be sent until the following academic year, the third grade and fourth grades were then united into one larger class that was taught by the newest staff member. The school of Tambopamba was at different times both a PEBI school and an escuela activa.2 PEBI withdrew during its first year of implementation when it became clear that the students were not Quichua dominant, and thus not an appropriate population for the project’s bilingual approach. As the director of the school, Jose A. Tene, described it, ‘PEBI entró, fracasó. Querían entrar con quichua directamente’ (‘PEBI entered and failed. They wanted to begin with Quichua directly’ /S/) (T24b). Implementation of the activa program was also unsuccessful in Tambopamba. Parents and teachers who remember the program report that it was always viewed critically by community members and was abandoned the same year it began. According to one parent and former teacher of the community, the parents believed that under the active system, ‘los niños sólo pasan jugando’ (‘the children only spend time playing’ /S/) (FN 400: 24-11-94). The materials, however, remained in the teachers’ office and were occasionally used by the lower grades for teacher-directed class work. During my year of observation, the school day began at Huayna Capac

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around 7:30 a.m. when the whistle was blown by one of the staff members. Students were sometimes called to line up before entering the building; although because both teachers and students were frequently tardy, this was often not done. Students and teachers were usually in their classrooms by 8:00 and remained there until recess, which lasted from 10:00 to 11:00. The remaining hour and a half, from 11:00 until 12:30, was usually spent in the classrooms as well. Each teacher independently determined the objectives, curricula, and activities of his class. Nonetheless, there were strong similarities across classes in terms of preferred instructional activities and methodologies. In the three classes observed intensively and systematically (first, second, and fifth grades), as well in the other three grades which were observed occasionally, four defining qualities emerged. At each grade level, the classes were characterized by an emphasis on (1) the use of state text books, (2) learning through individual units, (3) copying and handwriting, and (4) what is perhaps best classified as ‘busy work.’ Use of text books

At the beginning of the year, each student is issued a text book and workbook from the nationally published series. The set of six texts, each corresponding to a grade level, are oriented towards the rural population of Ecuador, with sketches and content material based on life in the mountain, coastal, and jungle regions. The texts incorporate math, reading, social and natural science content into a series of dense learning units. During my observations at the school, teachers did not use the books to guide the class thematically, nor did they complete an entire unit chronologically; however, teachers did rely heavily on the books for individual activities. Students were generally expected to be able to complete the text-book readings and workbook activities. The texts gave the teachers some sense of what skills children should master at each grade level. Teachers noted, for example, that a student was atrasado (‘behind’ /S/) or complained that students had not been well taught by their previous teacher if they had difficulty with their text and workbooks. Beyond the text, there was no explicit curriculum for each year. Teachers selected each day’s activities from the text as they viewed appropriate, and the text served as the primary reference material and the basis for most reading and academic work. Learning through individual units

As noted earlier, almost all teaching activities were presented as individual units. As the following vignette exemplifies, since activities were chosen individually each day, there was rarely a link from one day’s activities to the next.

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Abel begins a lesson for the fifth and sixth graders. On the board he writes: ‘Conjunto es la reunión o colección de personas, animales, o cosas.’ (‘The aggregate is the assembly or collection of people, animals, or things.’ /S/) He gives several examples, holding up chalk and pencils. He then writes several more definitions on the board. ‘conjunto vacío: el que carece de elementos conjunto unitario: el que tiene un sólo elemento conjunto finito: el cual tiene principio y tiene fin (aeiou) conjunto infinito: aquél que tiene principio y no tiene fin (las estrellas)’ (‘empty aggregate: that which lacks elements sólo aggregate: that which has only one element finite aggregate: that which has a beginning and end (aeiou) infinite aggregate: that which has a beginning and no end (the stars)’ /S/) The students want to copy this down into their notebooks, but it is time to go. Abel tells them not to worry and erases the board. (FN 386: 22-1194) This passage, taken from the sixth-grade text book, was not referred to in subsequent lessons, and to my knowledge, not mentioned for the remainder of the year. There were a few exceptions to the practice of teaching in individual content units. For example, Miguel, the second-grade teacher, methodically went through the numbers from zero to 200, reviewing ten each day; he also carefully presented the letters of the alphabet, one each day. In each lesson he reminded students what they had already worked on and what they would do the following day. Copying and handwriting

An important activity for students was copying and writing in their notebooks. Younger grades devoted many hours of class time to handwriting practice, copying letters and words over and over and often filling dozens of pages of their notebooks. Older grades copied information into their notebooks from the dictionary, the black board, their texts, and teacher dictations. At times, the copying served to reinforce a lesson that had been given that day. More often the copying served as the lesson itself.

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Rafael writes five Spanish words beginning with ‘s’ on the board. He tells students to copy the words into their notebooks. They do so for the next hour, row after row, in some cases filling three or four pages of their notebooks. (FN 684: 13-2-95) Miguel tells students to open up their text books and copy the passage entitled, ‘¿Cómo es mi parroquia?’ (‘What is my parish like?’ /S/). The students spend the remainder of class time (about thirty minutes) doing so. (FN 898: 24-4-95) Penmanship was highly stressed and greatly valued. Both students and teachers took a keen interest that letters be well formed and that copying be precise. The meaning of what had been copied, in contrast, was of less importance. Cosme, the sixth grade teacher, is also in charge of the fourth grade class today. He enters the room and writes several Spanish words on the board. He tells the students to look up the words and copy the definitions into their notebooks. He leaves and returns half an hour later. Students are told to neatly and quietly copy five more words of their choice from their dictionaries. Those who are having difficulty locating the words on the board are told to select different words to copy. (FN 421: 25-11-94) The definition or proper usage of these words was not an issue. Indeed, students looked at me blankly when mid-way through this lesson, I asked them what one of the simpler words meant. Clearly I had missed the point; penmanship and precise copying, not vocabulary learning, were the goals of the exercise. Similarly, Hornberger (1988) notes that copying and handwriting were common activities in highland Peruvian schools, and points out that often ‘the nature of the copying is such that pupils can copy into their notebooks without understanding what they are copying’ (p. 200). Thus, students ‘can look and feel busy yet no learning is going on since there is no understanding’ (p. 200). It is worth noting, however, that students often seemed to enjoy and even prefer copying exercises. Frequently after teacher-directed board work, students would ask expectantly, ‘¿Copio?’ (‘Should I copy?’ /S/), and at times appear disappointed or frustrated if copying was not part of the lesson plan. Furthermore, during board work or teacher lectures, students regularly were told not to copy down what was on the board, as many would begin doing so on their own.

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‘Busy work’

In addition to frequent copying and hand writing exercise, all students engaged in what can best be described as ‘busy work.’ Teachers commonly assigned tasks in which the primary pedagogical pedagogical value seemed to be that they demanded patience and concentration. These two vignettes provide typical examples of these sorts of activities. Abel enters the room and tells the fifth grade class, ‘Vamos a escribir los números hasta tres mil.’ (‘We are going to write the numbers up to 3000.’ /S/). This statement is greeted with a student chorus of ‘no podemos’ (‘we can’t’ /S/). One student questions if they should do it ‘diez a diez’ (‘by tens’ /S/); ‘Sí’ (‘Yes’ /S/), Abel tells him, as he leaves the room. When Avel returns to check on the students about thirty minutes later, several announce that they have finished. He tells them then to continue up to 5000 and leaves the room again. (FN 361: 16-1194) Cosme enters the sixth grade class room and tells the students to pay attention. He says that they are to write the (proper) names of thirty people (‘treinta nombres de personas’ /S/) into their notebooks. (FN 735: 21-2-95) Although in both of these cases students comprehended what they were writing, neither of these activities facilitate content learning nor the development of academic skills. In addition, both of these activities had already been completed that same year by the same students. However, students usually did not appear bored or frustrated by these activities, but rather, for the most part, happy to have a task which they could confidently and competently complete. Another common activity which occupied a significant amount of time at Huayna Capac was cutting and pasting. In all grade levels, but especially in the younger ones, considerable time was devoted to cutting up papers (e.g. newspapers, old text books, posters) and gluing them back together or into notebooks. Most Monday mornings (from 7:30 until 10:00) in the second-grade room, for example, were devoted to cutting and pasting activities. Again, little importance was given to the content of what was being cut up or how the material was pasted together; rather, emphasis was on the techniques involved (e.g. cutting neatly, gluing the pieces down smoothly). The focus on form and technique over meaning and comprehension is hardly unique to the schools of Saraguro, or even Ecuador. As Luykx (1999: 173), commenting on the pervasiveness of similar pedagogical techniques

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in Bolivian schools and in one Bolivian teacher-training institute observes, often the focus is on the ‘the exact manner in which information [is] to be copied, rather than its meaning’. These sorts of pedagogical activities probably were relied upon in part because the school was chronically understaffed. As previously mentioned, the school lacked one teacher for much of the year. In addition, absenteeism was common among staff, and most days at least one teacher was absent. A variety of reasons prevented teachers from attending regularly, including personal or family illness, transportation difficulties, personal business, and administrative or political meetings. The shortage of staff often resulted in one teacher attending to two or sometimes three classes at a time. Under such conditions, students were frequently assigned a task and then left alone to complete it while the teacher instructed the other classes with which he was charged. Academic work at Huayna Capac, then, largely consisted of teacherselected, individual learning units, often based upon the national texts. Class work frequently emphasized copying and penmanship and often consisted of what might be classified as ‘busy work.’ In addition to these basic characteristics, it is also important to understand that only a portion of the school day was devoted to ‘academic’ tasks of any variety. Time allocation

Observations of class activities of three grade levels (first, second, and fifth) for four days each (for a total of 60 observed hours) reveal how school time was spent at Huayna Capac.3 For coding and analysis, any time allotted for students to engage in academic tasks of any sort was categorized as academic time; this included both time devoted to direct teaching and student desk work. Academic time, then, does not mean that all students were ‘on task,’ but rather that the teacher had designated that period as an academic one, either by assigning an activity or by teaching the class directly. Non-academic time included recess, teacher-supervised outdoor play, and outings to the river or other destinations. In addition, classes were regularly suspended for other unplanned (and non-academic) reasons. For example, one day a health worker came to the school at mid-morning to give rabies shots to dogs in the community (FN 458: 13-12-94). Children were sent home to retrieve their dogs and the rest of the school day was spent vaccinating the animals. On another occasion, a national car race was passing through Saraguro via the Pan American highway (FN 392: 23-1194). The entire school body walked for about an hour to arrive at a high curve in the road to the town of Saraguro where we had a view of the

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Table 5.2 Time allocation at Huayna Capac Category divisions

Total time allocation (minutes)

Percentage

Academic

1261

35

Extra-academic

1048

29

‘Lost’ time

1158

32

Other

133

4

Total

3600

100

passing race cars. On another day, a dump truck brought dirt to the community to reinforce the road for the upcoming rainy season; classes were suspended for the day so students and staff could watch the workers dump and spread the dirt around the school area (FN 440: 6-12-94). While school time spent on such activities was classified as nonacademic, ‘lost time’ was time that students spent waiting for teachers who were either absent, tardy, or otherwise occupied, or for students who were late, causing the delay of class. ‘Other’ activities included cleaning the school and administrative tasks such as having homework checked by the teacher and taking attendance. As indicated in Table 5.2, observations and analysis reveal that roughly equal amounts of time were devoted to academic (35%) and extraacademic tasks (29%). An equivalent percentage of time was ‘lost’ (32%); only 4% was spent on other remaining activities. Thus, on average, roughly 1 hour and 45 minutes of the 5-hour school day was devoted to academic activities of any sort. This distribution of time is hardly unique to Saraguro schools. For instance, Hornberger’s (1987) study of school time in a highland Peruvian school (which used slightly different methods and categories of analysis) found that only 6% of the school day was devoted to academic learning – which she categorized as time when the teacher was actively teaching the class or students were copying from the board into their notebooks. Furthermore, Hornberger (1987: 211) suggests that it may well be the case that ‘a relatively small proportion of school time is spent on task in many U.S. schools’ as well. Comparing the Inti Raimi and Huayna Capac schools, it is clear that while they differ dramatically in terms of organization, teaching philosophy, and instructional approaches, they are not without common features. First, at least during the 1994–95 academic year, both schools tended to stress lesson form over lesson content. For example, at Inti Raimi,

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students successfully met their daily academic requirement by completing work in the four areas. However, because the activities were self-selected and self-monitored, students could choose work which was far below their academic level or repeat the same activity multiple times, thus meeting the form of their daily academic obligations, but acquiring little in terms of content knowledge. Similarly, at the Huayna Capac school, students could look and feel busy while engaged in their copying and ‘busy’ work, but in fact, because much of this was meaningless for them, only a small amount of learning was taking place. Furthermore, as is clear from the tabulations of time allocation, only a fraction of the school day, between one-quarter and one-third, was devoted to academic activities at both schools. In addtion, of the time allocated for academic activities, only a portion of this was dedicated to the instruction of Quichua as a second language. As detailed in the two sections which follow, while the quantity (and from some perspectives, quality) of the Quichua lessons were limited, this was practically the only opportunity for students to acquire the language at school.

Quichua Instruction Many of the features which characterize the teaching and learning of regular subject areas at the Inti Raimi and Huayna Capac schools hold true for the instruction of Quichua as a second language as well. Although there are obvious differences between the two schools in terms of their approaches and methods for instructing Quichua, they also hold much in common. As is clear in the discussion that follows, despite the stated aims of teachers discussed at the start of the chapter, Quichua instruction in both schools tended not to focus on the development of communicative skills. Quichua instruction and learning activities at the Inti Raimi school Much of the Quichua instruction at Inti Raimi occurred within the first ‘independent’ participant structure. Like ‘individual’ academic work in other subject areas, Quichua academic work was self-selected, self-monitored, and self-motivated, with teachers providing periodic guidance and assistance. The instructional activities focusing on Quichua consisted of four types: (1) independent grammar and vocabulary work with learning materials; (2) copying and completing teacher-directed exercises from the black board; (3) conversational practice with teachers; and (4) learning and practicing of songs and poems.

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Grammar and vocabulary learning materials

The primary Quichua learning activity at Inti Raimi was the individual completion of self-selected learning materials which focused on vocabulary. Most of these materials required students to copy word lists from booklets into their notebooks, or as in the following example, to either match Quichua vocabulary cards with pictures or with the Spanish translation. Angelo, age 8, has laid out a set of matching cards on the table. (On some of the cards are printed Quichua words, on others, corresponding Quichua pictures.) He has matched about half of the twenty picture cards to Quichua word cards. These include: muchicu (‘hat’ /Q/), huancar (‘stick’ /Q/), uchu (‘red pepper’ /Q/), nina (‘flame’ /Q/), sara-yura (‘white corn’ /Q/), shila (‘jug’ /Q/), maqui (‘hand’ /Q/), and yahuati (‘turtle’ /Q/). Several of these are mismatched. Aurelio, a teacher who is standing up watching several boys work at tables in the area, asks out loud, ‘A ver, ¿qué será yahuati?’ (‘Let’s see, what would be’ /S/ ‘turtle’ /Q/?’). Another student answers, ‘tortuga’ (‘turtle’ /S/). Angelo overhears this exchange and begins to correct his mismatched cards. (FN 922: 8-5-95) Activities with other Quichua learning materials consisted of cutting and pasting color squares into notebooks and labeling the colors in Quichua; or cutting out pictures and labels from old Quichua workbooks and pasting them into notebooks.4 While some of these individual activities demanded or facilitated spoken interaction between students and teachers, many required little knowledge and no spoken use of Quichua at all. For example, a popular Quichua exercise entailed matching Quichua vocabulary cards with the same Quichua word on a grid board. The entire exercise could be completed silently, independently, and with no knowledge of the meaning of any of the Quichua words. In addition to these sorts of exercises, there were also several more complicated – and less frequently selected – independent learning materials which required students to produce Quichua vocabulary, recognize specific grammar forms, or comprehend whole questions and answers. For example, one such activity provided students with an incomplete noun phrase and then required them to supply either an adjective or noun of their own. In the grammar and languages area, several girls are doing grammar work in Quichua; Ana, a teacher, is sitting nearby. Marta is copying down incomplete two-word phrases from a booklet. When she

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finishes, she shows Ana, who tells her that this is not all of them; she needs to copy them all down. Ana tells them, ‘Este año vamos a aprender mucho quichua. Algunos niños están olvidándose.’ (‘This year we are going to learn a lot of Quichua. Some children are forgetting.’ /Q/). Ana encourages them saying ‘sumac shuticuna, bonitos nombres’ (‘pretty names’ /Q/, ‘pretty names’ /S/). Marta is now ready to complete the noun phrases. The first one, ‘______ cuitsa’ (‘_____ girl’ /Q/), is easy for her. She fills in the blank with the adjective, ‘sumac’ (‘pretty’ /Q/). The next, ‘_____ misi’ (‘____ cat’ /Q/), is more difficult and she appeals to Ana for help, saying ‘no puedo’ (‘I can’t’ /S/). Ana tentatively suggests, ‘uchila?’ (‘small?’ /Q/). Marta begins to write and then stops and says, ‘No puedo’(‘I can’t’ /S/) again. Ana tells her that it is how it sounds, ‘uch-il-a.’ Marta says the word slowly to herself and then writes it in her notebook. (FN 86: 19-10-94) Teacher-directed exercises

The second type of Quichua instructional activity consisted of copying and completing teacher-created exercises from the black board. Teachers would often write a small set of Quichua vocabulary words, such as the numbers, colors, or parts of the body, on the black board. Students copied the information into their notebooks in order to complete that day’s academic work in the ‘grammar and languages’ area. Written on the blackboard in grammar area are the numbers in Quichua: ‘1 shuc, 2 ishcai, 3 quimsa, 4 chuscu, 5 pichca, 6 sucta, 7 canchis, 8 pusac, 9 iscun, 10 chunca.’ Throughout the morning, about a dozen students, one by one, copy the numbers from the board into their notebooks. (FN 573: 9-1-95) On other occasions, teacher-created board work was accompanied by direct instruction. Aurelio, in particular, frequently instructed those who chose to sit in the grammar area. Aurelio has written ‘Jatun Yuyaicuna’ (‘Advanced Learning’ /Q/), on the black board. He is standing near the board and there are four older children seated at the tables. Aurelio writes on the board, ‘Can llacta shutita charin?’ (‘Does your place have a name?’ /Q/). The students remain silent and look at him blankly. ‘Ari, shutita charinmi’ (‘Yes, it has a name’ /Q/), he says, answering his own question and writing this on the board as well. The students do nothing and continue to stare at him and the words. Aurelio asks them, ‘¿Cómo será?’ (‘What would it be?’ /S/), and then tells them that the question asks, ‘¿Será, tu lugar

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tiene nombre?’ (‘It would be, does your place have a name?’ /S/). The students nod and copy both the question and the response down along with their Spanish translations. When they finish he writes, ‘Can llactapi huasicuna tiyan?’ (‘Are there houses in your place?’ /Q/). A student asks out loud, ‘¿Otra pregunta?’ (‘Another question?’ /Q/). Aurelio responds, ‘Sí, ¿en tu lugar existen casas? ¿Cómo se contesta?’ (‘Yes, are there houses in your place? How does one answer? /S/). A boy responds loudly and slowly, seeming to think about each word, ‘Ari huasicuna tiyan’ (‘Yes there are houses’ /Q/). Another student asks, ‘¿Cómo ponemos en castellano?’ (‘How do we put that in Spanish?’ /S/). Aurelio tells them again, ‘¿En tu lugar existen casas?’ Pointing at the suffix ‘pi’ (‘in’ /Q/), on the board he explains that ‘pi quiere decir en’ (‘in’ /Q/ ‘means in’ /S/). (FN 607: 1-20-95) Direct practice with teachers

The third, less frequent type of Quichua instructional activity at Inti Raimi involved direct practice with teachers. This practice often consisted of attempts by teachers to use Quichua outside of the grammar and languages areas. Asunción is sitting with three younger children in the social science area. She asks them ‘Ima shuti cangui?’ (‘What’s your name?’ /Q/). As they state their names one by one, Asunción responds, ‘ari’ (‘yes’ /Q/) to each girl. The girls have just finished copying down the names of communities in the canton of Saraguro. She points westward and asks them, ‘shuc?’ (‘that one?’ /Q/). When they don’t respond, she reprimands them with a smile asking, ‘Ya no sabes?’ (‘Already you don’t know?’ /S/). They go through the closer communities again. After each correct response Asunción says ‘ari’ (‘yes’ /Q/) and each wrong response, ‘mana’ (‘no’ /Q/). For the distant, more difficult to remember communities she gives them hints: ‘Uno se queda más atrás . . . se empieza con o’ (one that lies further back . . . it begins with o’ /S/). ‘Oñacapac!’ exclaims one of the girls. ‘Ari’ (‘yes’ /Q/), says Asunción. (FN 189: 27-10-94) On other occasions, teachers engaged students in Quichua listening practice in small groups. Rosa Angelita, one of the newer teachers, is outside with the second year students. She is telling them to do things like touch the flag pole or find a stick in Quichua. When I sit down with them the girls are standing around Rosa Angelita waiting for instruction. She tells them

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to ‘Shuc rumita shitaray’ (‘Toss one rock’ /Q/). The girls pause and look at each other. Rosa Angelita points to some stones and motions. The girls quickly toss one or two rocks a few feet. Some requests are easier to grasp than others. For example, all of the girls understand ‘bring grass’. (Perhaps because children are frequently responsible for collecting grass for their families’ guinea pigs, this is a command they might have heard outside of school.) However, when Rosa Angelita holds open her hand and says to bring ‘chaimanda achca sisacuna’ (‘many flowers from there’ /Q/). Several of the girls look at each other and say ‘cinco’ (‘five’ /S/), mistaking her open hands for a signal of five. Rosa Angelita corrects the misunderstanding by saying the command again and gesturing dramatically. With this, the girls bring her wild flowers from a nearby grassy knoll. After a moment Rosa Angelita repeats ‘achca, achca’ (‘enough, enough’ /Q/), as the girls continue to pile more and more wild flowers at her feet. (FN 828: 3-4-95) Songs and singing

The fourth and final Quichua learning activity involved the instruction and practice of Quichua songs. Early in the school year, for instance, students learned a simple song. On the board in grammar and languages a teacher has written: ‘Quipayanqui, yahuati, quipayanqui quipayanqui, quipayanqui quipayanqui, yahuati, quipayanqui.’ (‘You are late, turtle, you are late you are late, you are late you are late, turtle, you are late.’ /Q/) Students are asked to copy it down as their work for that area. They do so without understanding or questioning. (FN 177: 26-10-94) The next day, while playing games after breakfast, Rosa joins us outside and says we are going to learn a Quichua song. She explains, ‘somos indígenas – tenemos que aprender quichua’ (‘we are indigenous – we have to learn Quichua’ /S/). She also says that she will be giving a prize in January to those that speak the best Quichua. Rosa goes through the Quichua song that was written on the board the day before. She translates it for them line by line. The children learn it quickly and we sing it loudly and clearly half a dozen times with Aurelio playing guitar. (FN 196: 27-10-94)

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For the rest of the school year, students delighted in singing this song to their classmates who arrived after 7:30 in the morning. Students also learned to sing the national anthem in Quichua, and throughout the year, students listened to or learned the Quichua lyrics to folk songs, and in some instances learned to dance or play an instrument to them as well. To sum up, the Quichua instructional activities at Inti Raimi were comprised of four sorts of activities: (1) independent grammar and vocabulary work with learning materials; (2) copying and completing teacherdirected exercises from the black board; (3) conversational practice with teachers; and (4) the learning and practicing of songs and poems. In considering the language skills potentially developed by these activities, it seems important to note that the majority of Quichua activities required only passive interaction with the language. For example, many activities called only for copying Quichua texts or single words into notebooks, or matching Quichua words with the identical Quichua words. Others required isolated reading from either the bulletin board or chalkboard. Still others asked students to listen to stories or verbal commands. While not without value, these activities did not encourage students to produce the language in written or spoken form, and did not move students towards the stated goal of becoming active users of the language. Furthermore, teachers tended not to use these activities as the starting point for more meaningful interactions, for example by encouraging students to combine new adjectives with already mastered nouns, or by creating games where students used the recently acquired vocabulary in classroom games or activities. Rather, these passive or receptive activities were often the beginning and end of the Quichua lessons. The second point concerning Quichua language skills is that despite the teachers’ stress on aural and oral language development and conversation skills, the majority of Quichua activities were based on reading and writing the language. As described earlier, the bulk of the activities required students to translate written Quichua and Spanish or to write Quichua labels for picture items. Students, for instance, were usually not encouraged to actively use the language themselves in spoken form, or even to learn to accurately pronounce the written vocabulary items. Thus, while students only spent a small amount of time working with Quichua, much of this was devoted to learning to write and spell, rather than speak and use the language. Lastly, on a more positive note, it should be also be pointed out that many, although not all of the Quichua lessons incorporated some amount of indigenous-oriented content. For instance, in the previous examples we saw that learning activities focused on folk songs, common community

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objects, and the names of Saraguro communities. As will be clear in the following discussion, some of these features, both positive and negative, were also characteristic of Quichua instruction in Tambopamba. Quichua instruction at Huayna Capac Quichua lessons at Huayna Capac were defined by many of the same qualities as the other (non-Quichua) lessons provided at the school. For example, like most non-Quichua lessons, each Quichua class typically was presented as an independent unit in which both teachers and students placed an emphasis on copying, as well as on some sort of ‘busy work.’ Furthermore, in both Quichua and non-Quichua lessons at Huayna Capac, there was little or no attempt to build on prior lessons or to connect the material with already acquired skills and knowledge. Below, Quichua instruction at Huayna Capac is analyzed in terms of organization, content, and the language skills involved. Lesson organization

The Quichua lessons in the Tambopamba school were organized in one of three formats. In the first pattern, the teacher quizzed students orally on vocabulary or short phrases in Quichua. Students were expected to indicate that they understood, either by complying with a command or indicating the object mentioned, or alternatively, by translating from one language into another as is the case in the following vignette. The school director and fifth grade teacher, Abel, is outside with the third and fourth grade students. He has told them to stand in two lines. In this formation, he quizzes them as a group on parts of the body in Quichua. He does this by calling out a name of a body part in Quichua; the students indicate that part of the body by wiggling it. They respond uniformly and without hesitation. Upon finishing this he pauses, giving the students a moment to calm down, and then tells them, ‘hemos aprendido hasta diez’ (‘we have learned up to ten’ /S/). To review, he calls out numbers out of order in Spanish and they translate them one by one into Quichua. They also know these perfectly well. He pauses for a moment to explain that the pronunciation and writing of ‘chunca’ (‘ten’ /Q/) differ. He writes out the word in the ground with a stick to illustrate that the number is pronounced in one way but spelled another. He announces that ‘vamos a llegar hasta veinte’ (‘we are going to go up to twenty’ /S/). He starts to review them but the students already know these as well and they enjoy saying the words before he does. He ends the lesson by patting each on the head as each child counts one number up to twenty. (FN 357: 16-11-94)

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While in the first type of lesson the teachers provided students with the vocabulary to be learned or reviewed, within the second type of lesson, students were asked to volunteer words or phrases in Quichua. In some cases, the teacher limited the category, for example, by asking for words that begin with a certain letter, but more frequently, as in the following vignette, students were encouraged to call out whatever Quichua word they could think of. Abel enters the room and the fifth grade students become a little quieter. On the board he writes, ‘shimicuna’ (‘words’ /Q/). He asks them what it means. When no one responds he tells them that ‘shimicuna’ is Quichua for vocabulary. He asks if they have learned their numbers yet; they respond that they have. He asks them what Quichua vocabulary words they know and the students begin calling out words. Rosa: Abel: Several students: Lourdes: Abel: Abel: Vicente: Several students: Several students: Student: Several students: Student: Students: Student: Students: Student: Students:

muchicu (‘hat’ /Q/) ¿Qué quiere decir? (‘What does it mean?’ /S/) sombrero (‘hat’ /S/) Ya aprendimos. (‘We learned [that] already.’ /S/) No les hice copiar. (‘I didn’t make you copy it.’ /S/) Muchicu apamuichic. (‘Bring the hat’ /Q/) (giving an example sentence based on Rosa’s word) antahua (‘car’ /Q/) carro (‘car’ /S/) facilito (‘very easy’ /S/) ushuta (‘shoe’ /Q/) zapatos (‘shoes’ /S/) ñan (‘road’ /Q/) camino (‘road’ /S/) urcu (‘hill’ /Q/) loma (‘hill’ /S/) inti (‘sun’ /Q/) sol (‘sun’ /S/)

The students continue calling out words and translating them on their own. Other than the first sentence with ‘hat,’ constructed by Abel, there are no attempts to use these words in conjunction with the other words,

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to form phrases or sentences with them. As the students call out the words, Abel writes them on the black board. Upon finishing, there are about twenty words on the board. Abel points out that words like ‘wacra’ (‘bull’ or ‘cow’ /Q/) are written with ‘c’ although they are pronounced with ‘g’: ‘con ‘c’ se escribe, pero con ‘g’ se pronuncia’ (‘you write it with ‘c,’ but you pronounce it with ‘g.’’ /S/). He tells them they should copy these down into their notebooks. They spend the next twenty class minutes carefully doing so. (FN 870: 4-11-95) In the third lesson type, which is exemplified in the following, the teacher presents the words, usually by writing them on the board, to be learned and copied by students. As the second graders get settled after recess, their teacher, Miguel, tells the students, ‘Vamos a dibujar un muñequito y poner los nombres en quichua – sólo de palitos’ (‘we are going to draw a little doll and put the names in Quichua – only a stick doll’ /S/). He then draws a doll on the black board and labels the body parts. He notes that ‘ricra’ (‘ear’ /Q/) is tricky: ‘Se escribe con ‘c,’ pero se pronuncia con ‘g.’’ (‘You write it with ‘c,’ but you pronounce it with ‘g.’’ /S/). He tells them to copy the figure and for the next fifty minutes circulates around the room, assisting and correcting student work. For a final review Miguel asks two students to go to the board and read the names of the body parts to the class. (FN 451: 7-12-94) It is important to note that the organization of Quichua lessons generally allowed for little direct instruction or meaningful student practice of Quichua. For example, in no instance were students taught grammar, not even the basic forms needed for the construction of a plural. Furthermore, in no lesson were students assisted in forming original sentences or noun phrases. And contrary to the teachers’ stated methodological intentions, students were never encouraged (or required) to perform role plays or dialogues. As is evident in the discussion which follows, these features of Quichua lesson organization are closely linked to lesson content. Lesson content

Lesson content at Huayna Capac was strikingly similar both over time and across grade levels. Teachers tended to heavily favor certain topics, such as parts of the body and numbers. As indicated by Table 5.3, more than half of the Quichua lessons observed at Huayna Capac were devoted to basic vocabulary work (common animals and objects in the community) or parts of the body, generated either by the teacher or volunteered by students. Indeed, of the 21 formal Quichua lessons observed over the year,

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Table 5.3 Quichua lesson topics at Huayna Capac Topic of QSL instruction

Number of times observed

Basic vocabulary

5

Parts of body

4

Numbers

4

Greetings

1

Poem

1

Game Metalanguage

1 a

Advanced vocabulary Alphabet Total

2 1 1 21

a

‘Metalanguage’ means that the lesson was about some social, cultural, or historical aspect of Quichua.

13 consisted of vocabulary relating to parts of the body, numbers, or basic lexicon concerning everyday objects in the community. Furthermore, while the content of the Quichua lessons most frequently consisted of basic vocabulary, the vocabulary items for each lesson varied little across grades and over the academic year. Since there was no set curriculum and because each lesson was presented as an individual learning unit, there was no expansion or increase in difficulty of the vocabulary words of lessons over time, as might have been accomplished, for example, by moving from the names of the animals, to how they look, what they eat, and what they contribute to the community. This repetition of vocabulary items over the year and across grades is illustrated by Table 5.4, which lists the vocabulary words covered in classes taught by the third and fifth grade teachers at the same time point in the school year. Examination of the lists reveals that not only is there little development or progression across years, but that there is an overlap of roughly 50%. Thus, the content of Quichua lessons at Huayna Capac varied little over time, as students and teachers practiced speaking, translating, and writing many of the same basic words not only from week to week, but also from year to year. Quichua skills

Lastly, the skills demanded from and developed by these activities were also remarkably similar across lessons and grades. I have discussed how Quichua lessons consisted of teachers quizzing students on single words or

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Table 5.4 Vocabulary items by grade Basic vocabulary from Grade 3 (FN 414: 24-11-94)

Basic vocabulary from Grade 5 (FN 417: 24-11-94)

antahua (‘car’)

antahua (‘car’)

apio (‘horse’)

apio (‘horse’) atalpa (‘chicken’)

caspi (‘stick’)

caspi (‘stick’)

chaqui (‘foot’)

jari wacra (‘bull’)

lulun (‘egg’)

lulun (‘egg’)

huasi (‘house’)

maqui (‘hand’)

muchicu (‘hat’)

muchicu (‘hat’)

rumi (‘rock’)

rumi (‘rock’)

shilla (‘fingernail’)

sara (‘corn’) sisa (‘flower’)

unia (‘sheep’)

uma (‘head’)

wacra (‘cow’ or ‘bull’)

wacra (‘cow’ or ‘bull’) huarmi wacra (‘cow’) yacu (‘water’)

short commands; students volunteering words; or teachers presenting a list of words to be worked with, typically by writing them on the board to be copied by students. These activities required that students use their aural comprehension skills, and perhaps, to a limited degree, their oral production capabilities, and that students write or copy in Quichua. As such, individual lexical items might be learned, or more likely given their repetitive nature, reinforced in their spoken or written form. Furthermore, students learned or became aware of the Unified Quichua version of the ‘authentic Quichua’ words which they already knew. However, the Quichua lessons at Huayna Capac did not demand that students use the language in any communicatively realistic way, nor did the lessons push students to develop conversational skills. For instance, students were never encouraged or expected to produce more than one or two words in the language. And many of the lessons involved simply listening to and recognizing the teachers’ Quichua vocabulary lists. Overall, lessons at Huayna Capac, much like those at the Lagunas school, tended to focus on receptive rather than productive language skills. Thus, the skill which Tambopamba students had already acquired at

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home – listening comprehension – was the primary one developed at school. Furthermore the content of school lessons rarely extended beyond the knowledge students already had mastered, such as simple commands and basic vocabulary items. Teachers seemed to be aware of the linguistic needs of the students; as one teacher noted, students ‘ya saben un poco, falta perfeccionar no más.’ (‘they already know some [Quichua], it just needs to be perfected.’ /S/) (T27a). Yet, as is clear from the previous description, teachers’ attempts to expand students’ competence, to have students begin to actually speak the language, and to move towards ‘perfection,’ were in fact, few and far between.

Student and Teacher Use of Quichua As previously noted, at both schools, Quichua instruction consisted of only a portion of the students’ academic work time, which was at best only a third of the school day. It is also important to note that other than the following exceptions, Spanish was used almost exclusively in the schools. Thus, while Quichua language lessons were limited in quantity, and in many respects, quality, these lessons provided nearly the only opportunities for children to learn the language at school. Language use in the Inti Raimi school At Inti Raimi, Spanish was used for nearly all communication and was employed regularly for both teacher–student and student–student interactions. As the vignettes and direct quotations in Table 5.5 illustrate, Spanish was used exclusively by students for talk directed at school staff concerning academic tasks (see Example 1), as well as spontaneous, nonacademic talk directed at staff (Example 2). Spanish was also used by students with other students for talk concerning academic work and school organization (Example 3), as well as non-academic topics (Example 4). Inti Raimi teachers, likewise, used Spanish when addressing students. Teachers employed Spanish for directives concerning individual and group activities (Examples 5 and 6). Teachers used Spanish for instructional questions and statements with students (Examples 7 and 8). And teachers employed Spanish for spontaneous, conversational comments with students (Example 9). Spanish, then, was by far the most common language of the school and the language used regularly between and among students and teachers. There were, however, three types of situations in which Quichua was employed at the Inti Raimi school, each of which are now outlined.

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Table 5.5 Examples of language use at Inti Raimi Example No.

Description

1

Marta approaches Aurelio in the kitchen. Holding up a picture card she asks, ‘¿Cómo se dice en quichua?’ (‘How do you say in Quichua?’ /S/). (FN 155: 24-10-94)

2

While teachers are having a meeting in the office, a student steps into the doorway asks Asunción to ‘presta una tijeras’ (‘Lend me scissors’ /S/). Asunción corrects him and says, ‘presta unas tijeras’ (‘Lend me scissors’ /S/). (FN 64: 17-10-94)

3

Marta takes a book from the math area to the grammar and languages area, reprimanding a younger child, ‘no se puede pasar los materiales a otra’ (‘You can’t move materials to another’ /S/). (FN 74: 17-10-94)

4

The boys are outside in the field playing soccer. They periodically yell to each other. ‘¡Gol!’ (‘Goal!’ /S/), ‘¡Aquicito!’ (‘Here!’ /S/), ‘¡Duro! ¡Duro! ¡Acá!’ (‘Hard! Hard! Here!’ /S/), ‘¡Para mí!’ (‘For me!’ /S/). (FN 800: 28-3-95)

5

Ana asks several children if they have worked in the grammar and languages area yet. She reminds them, ‘hay que trabajar’ (‘everyone has to work’ /S/). (FN 81: 17-10-94)

6

Rosa Delia enters the main room where many students are working. She says in a voice loud enough for children in all of the areas to hear, ‘El lunes no hemos hablado sobre el salido. ¿Cómo les parece si salimos deshierbar la huerta y después cuando cansamos vamos al río bañarnos?’ (‘We didn’t speak Monday about the outing. How does it seem if we do some weeding in the garden, and then when we get tired we go to the river to bathe?’ /S/). (FN 539: 4-1-95)

7

Silvia asks Aurelio to review her work. He begins with the cards she has grouped together as adjectives. He tells her, ‘“pequeña” está bien’ (‘“small” is fine’ /S/), but goes on to correct her, ‘“mío” no es adjetivo’ (‘“mine” is not an adjective’ /S/). (FN 141: 24-10-94)

8

Asunción, helping a student complete a card set, asks the student, ‘En las noches parece arriba – ¿qué será?’ (‘At night it appears above – what would it be?’ /S/). ‘La luna’ (‘the moon’ /S/), answers the girl. (FN 312: 9-11-94)

9

The water tube has broken in front of the school, creating a deep hole filled with water and blocking the water supply for the much of the community. Manuel, an older student, is in the hole throwing out large rocks, first fishing them out with his feet. Rosa Delia, the school director, stands watching his work and wonders out loud, ‘¿Pero por qué será así?’ (‘But why would it be like this?’ /S/). (FN 567: 9-1-95)

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Quichua for communication among teachers

Teachers used Spanish for most regular exchanges with students; they also used it for most of their interactions with other teachers. Teachers stated that they attempted to use Quichua in order to interest students in the language and to model language use, but in fact they did so irregularly and infrequently. However, teachers did use Quichua in two specific situations, both of which mirror the language use patterns of the community described in Chapter 3. First, teachers occasionally used Quichua amongst themselves in the presence of students for ‘secret’ communication regarding a particular student or sensitive topic. And second, teachers used Quichua in the company of older parents or grandparents of students. Thus, while Quichua was not entirely absent from teachers’ speech at Inti Raimi, Quichua was restricted to these particular situations, none of which directly involved the students. Quichua for announcements and greetings

The second occasion in which Quichua was regularly used in the Inti Raimi school was for greetings, good-byes, and time announcements. Students and teachers frequently greeted each other with alli puncha (‘good morning’ /Q/) and bid farewell for the day with caiyacaman (‘until tomorrow’ /Q/). In addition, teachers would often make simple, one word announcements to class in Quichua, such as micunapacha (‘time to eat’ /Q/), mingapacha (‘communal work time’ /Q/), or huasimanpacha (‘time to go home’ /Q/). Public displays of Quichua by students

The third type of use of Quichua at Inti Raimi occurred exclusively among students. These tended to be attempts to ‘show off’ for their fellow classmates. As the following example illustrates, such uses of Quichua by students often were intended to be funny as well. Just before school is out for the day, as many students are hanging around outside waiting to leave, a boy who is standing with several of his friends asks me if I can sing in Quichua (an unfortunately common request given my inability to carry a tune). At that moment, one of the boys who is clowning around by the flag pole pulls himself up several feet and begins to sing in a funny and melodramatic way, ‘ishcai huarmi, shuc jari, ishcai huarmi, shuc ñan’ (‘two women, one man, two women, one road’ /Q/). He has translated a popular Mexican song and soap opera theme, ‘Dos mujeres’ (‘Two women’ /S/), into Quichua. All of us find this amusing and laugh for several minutes at the absurdity of his song and singing. (FN 80: 17-10-94) In this vignette and in the examples which follow, we see how students

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tended to use Quichua to play, to ‘show off,’ and also possibly to practice Quichua words they had recently learned. Atahualpa, finishing his math work, says loudly but to no one in particular, ‘ishcai falta’ (‘two’ /Q/ [areas] ‘left’ /S/). (FN 149: 24-10-94) When a group of girls finishes playing a card matching game, they count out their numbers of matches in Quichua. The winner announces proudly and with a big smile, ‘chunca quimsa yo tengo’ (‘thirteen’ /Q/ ‘I have’ /S/). (FN 596: 13-1-95) Several girls ask Marta, ‘¿ya está acabando?’ (‘are you finishing yet?’ /S/). Marta responds with a smile, ‘ari!’ (‘yes!’ /Q/). (FN 614: 20-1-95) It is important to note that these were unusual instances of language use. Students were aware that they were using language in a different way and often seemed to be hoping for a response from their peers; after such ‘performances’ students often looked around for a reaction from fellow students. Moreover, in no instance did students perform such humorous or ‘show-off’ language acts with a teacher present. To sum up language use at the Inti Raimi school then, with the notable exceptions of occasional Quichua language use among teachers, formulaic announcements and greetings, and ‘show off’ or humorous Quichua use by students, Spanish dominated every domain of interaction. While the language use patterns described here do not bode particularly well for Quichua acquisition by Inti Raimi students, they do mirror the language use patterns of Lagunas adults. Recall from Chapter 3 that Lagunas community adults use Spanish almost exclusively, but employ Quichua for secret communication, for talk with elders, for humor, and most interestingly, for public displays of ethnic identity. This ‘marked language use’ by community members was explained as an attempt to assert an indigenous Saraguro identity which, in part due to the community’s economic and social integration into non-indigenous society, is no longer clearly defined. Such public displays of Quichua require an awareness of one’s ethnic identity, and perhaps at the same time, a certain distance from it. Similarly, the uses of Quichua by the Inti Raimi students suggest not only that they are conscious of the language’s special status in the community, but that they, like their parents, are using the language for complex purposes which extend beyond basic communication. Language use in the Huayna Capac school Spanish was also the language most commonly employed in the Huayna Capac school; as illustrated by the examples in Table 5.6, Spanish

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was used almost exclusively for talk between students (Examples 1 and 2). And outside of Quichua lessons, students used Spanish exclusively for communication with teachers (Examples 3, 4, and 5). Likewise, teachers used Spanish when addressing students individually (Examples 6 and 7), as well as when addressing students as a group concerning academic and non-academic issues (Examples 8 and 9). Lastly, teachers used only Spanish for talk between and amongst themselves concerning both school and non-school issues (Examples 10 and 11). Although Spanish was employed by students and staff overwhelmingly more than Quichua, it was not used exclusively. The two contexts in which Quichua was frequently employed are now described. Formulaic use of Quichua

Teachers and students used Quichua at times for routine, formulaic interactions, most frequently for greetings and good-byes. For example, early in the school day, as children greeted and shook hands with other children, it was common to hear a chorus of alli puncha (‘good morning’ /Q/). Students were also encouraged, especially in the younger grades, to thank teachers in Quichua by saying yupaichani (/Q/). In addition, teachers also occasionally used Quichua to complete bureaucratic tasks, such as taking role. Rafael’s first grade, early in the morning: Rafael: ¿Cuántos faltan total? (‘How many are absent in all?’ /S/) Students: Seis. Angel, Lida, Aurelio, Pepe . . . (‘Six. Angel, Lida, Aurelio, Pepe . . . ’ /S/) Rafael: Lida, Jaime, ¿quien más? (‘Lida, Jaime, who else?’ /S/) Student: Si no sabe nosotros? (‘If we don’t know?’ /S/) Rafael: Los dos Angel falta, un Jaime, un Lida.. (‘The two Angels are absent, one Jaime, one Lida . . . ’ /S/) (making a joke) Rafael: A ver, ¿qué vamos a decir? (‘Let’s see, what are we going to say?’ /S/) Students: Caipi (‘Here’ /Q/) Rafael: Manuel Student: No caipichu (‘Not here’ /Q/) Rafael: Mana caipichu (‘Not here’ /Q/)a

a

The student is corrected here for using elements of both Quichua and Spanish negation systems.

(FN 676: 13-2-95)

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Table 5.6 Examples of language use at Huayna Capac Example Description No. 1

2

3

4

5 6

7

8

9

10

11

During physical education class students divide into teams and play soccer. All comments are in Spanish as students argue about how the students should be divided into teams. One student tells another younger boy, ‘Ya somos muchos.’ (‘We’re already a lot.’ /S/). (FN 359: 16-11-94) As some of the children are still outside playing, Rafael, the secondgrade teacher, enters the classroom. A girl runs out to inform her classmates, ‘Está tomando lista ya.’ (‘He’s taking roll already.’ /S/). (FN 484: 15-12-94) Mariana tells the students to copy the proper nouns from the text into their notebooks. Juanita walks to the front of the room and tells Mariana quietly, ‘No tengo lápiz.’ (‘I don’t have a pencil.’ /S/). (FN 443: 7-12-94) Wilson, who has quickly finished his work, asks Rafael to be excused: ‘Dame permisito . . . Dame permisito a mí.’ (‘Give permission . . . Give me permission.’ /S/). (FN 682: 13-2-95) A student who has completed her work quickly tells Miguel, ‘Ya lo terminé.’ (‘I already finished it.’ /S/). (FN 496: 16-12-94) Rafael tells a student who is cutting out shapes, ‘Tienes que cortar bonito – no para que se vea cómo han comido las ratas.’ (‘You have to cut nicely – not so it looks like rats have eaten it.’ /S/). (FN 696: 6-295) Lourdes finishes the class exercise before the other students. She tells Abel, ‘Ya está.’ (‘Finished already.’ /S/). He tells her, ‘Ya, entonces espera hasta que termina los demás.’ (‘OK, then wait until the others have finished.’ /S/). (FN 859: 11-4-95) Miguel is collecting math materials and attempting to get the children’s attention. ‘Ahora me van a atender para que me contestan. Vamos a trabajar con los números desde diez hasta diecinueve.’ (‘Now you are going to pay attention so that you can answer me. We’re going to work with the numbers from ten to nineteen.’ /S/). (FN 394: 23-11-94) At about ten before eight in the morning most of the children are playing outside; Rafael blows the whistle and says, ‘Pasamos, pasen no más, pasen adentro.’ (‘Let’s go, come in, come inside.’ /S/). (FN 464: 14-12-94) Several days after the border war with Peru has broken out, the staff is in the office discussing whether class should be held. One teacher argues, ‘Tenemos que defender nuestras familias y los niños tienen que estar en casa.’ (‘We have to defend our families and the children have to be at home.’ /S/). (FN 660: 6-2-95) To toast the arrival of the new teacher, the director pours a shot of alcohol and tells him to ‘Sírvase no más.’ (‘Go ahead and drink.’ /S/). (FN 474: 24-12-94)

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Spontaneous uses of Quichua

The second common use of Quichua in the school took place among students, typically during brief and often emotional interactions. While the boys are outside playing soccer, one of them excitedly yells, ‘Shamuy!’ (‘Come here!’ /Q/) to another player who has the ball. (FN 454: 13-12-94) Playing an elaborate tag game, the students make a circle, holding hands, with Marcos standing in the middle. They sing a song back and forth with Marcos singing the refrain. At the end of the song he yells ‘Ña!’ (‘Now!’ /Q/) and begins to chase them. (FN 433: 5-12-94) The girls are practicing their dances for the Christmas party. At one point one of the dancers, seeming slightly frustrated, commands the other to step closer to her, saying ‘Shamuy. Shamuy.’ (‘Come here. Come here.’ /Q/). (FN 512: 20-12-94) Several children are blowing up balloons for carnival. One girl is blowing a yellow balloon beyond its capacity. Her nearby friend squeals excitedly, ‘Achca! Achca!’ (‘Enough! Enough!’ /Q/). (FN 703: 14-2-95) Several boys are fighting in Spanish over a pencil found on the floor. At one point, a boy loudly says, ‘mana’ (‘no!’ /Q/) and leaves the room in a huff. (FN 687: 13-2-95) Each of these situations was, in one way or another, highly emotional for the speaker. Such uses of Quichua can be understood as momentary ‘slips’ into the language perhaps heard at home but only rarely used at school. The students were not consciously attempting to flaunt their Quichua language knowledge as tended to be the case among the Inti Raimi students. Indeed, it is doubtful that students were even conscious of such ‘slips.’ And unlike at Inti Raimi, Tambopamba students did not expect, nor did they receive, affirmation from their peers for using Quichua. Thus, while teachers – and in different ways, students – used Quichua at both schools, Quichua by no means could be considered a regular channel for communication in either context. These patterns of Quichua use among students at both schools are not surprising given the exposure to Quichua outside of school and the levels of competence that students bring with them to school, the final topic of this chapter.

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Student Knowledge and Learning of Quichua The final section of this chapter describes students’ knowledge of Quichua and analyzes the development of their Quichua language skills in terms of both their exposure to the language in the home and community and the instruction provided at school. Inti Raimi students As is clear from the data presented in Chapter 3, Inti Raimi students’ exposure to Quichua outside of school is minimal and consequently, their knowledge of Quichua is limited. As Asunción, a long-time teacher in Lagunas, lamented, ‘No es fácil. Los padres no colaboran. Sí, dicen que quieren, pero no pueden. Los que pueden, no quieren.’ (‘It’s not easy. Parents don’t collaborate. They say that they want [to support Quichua], but they can’t. Those that can, don’t want to.’) (T16a). Indeed, there was abundant evidence that students’ competence in Quichua was limited. Mariela gets out the weather cards and sits at a table with another girl in the natural science area. One set of cards contains questions about the weather in Spanish; on another set there are correct matching answers. Marta has joined us. The answer to one of the questions is ‘sol’ (‘sun’ /S/). I ask them if they know how to say sun in Quichua. The three of them all immediately answer, ‘inti’ (‘sun’ /Q/). I ask them if they know how to say ‘wind,’ ‘rain,’ and ‘flower’ in Quichua. They tell me they don’t know any of them. (FN 73: 17-10-94) As a group of third and fourth year girls enter the school I greet them saying, ‘allí puncha mashicuna’ (‘good morning friends’ /Q/). They parrot my greeting and respond to me by saying, ‘allí puncha mashicuna’ (‘good morning friends’ /Q/). (FN 190: 26-10-94) The suffix -cuna is a pluralizer, parallel to the s in English. The girls apparently were unaware of the difference between mashicuna (‘friends’ /Q/) and mashi (‘friend’ /Q/). In the prior vignette we see that neither the younger nor the older student was able to translate basic Quichua terms. As the following examples suggest, observations of students’ academic work also indicated low levels of Quichua knowledge. In the math area, Asunción is explaining how to complete an exercise to Alva. She tells her she needs to group the numbers as either ‘jatun’ (‘big’ /Q/) or ‘uchila’ (‘small’ /Q/). Alva gives her a blank look. Asunción demonstrates with her hands, holding them far apart for big

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and close together for little. With this, Alva seems to comprehend the task and goes back to work. (FN 566: 5-1-95) Enrique, a fourth year student, is matching Quichua words on a gridded board which contains the same Quichua words. He says the names out loud to himself while working. As he is finishing up, I ask him some of the words. ‘Yanta?’ (‘firewood’ /Q/), I ask him. ‘No sé’ (‘I don’t know’ /S/), he tells me. ‘Uchila?’ (‘little’ /Q/) I ask him. ‘No sé’ (‘I don’t know’ /S/), he says. ‘Allcu, ¿qué será?’ (‘Dog’ /Q/), ‘what would that be?’ /S/), I question. ‘No sé’ (‘I don’t know’ /S/) he says as he places the last card on the board, finishing the exercise. (FN 288: 711-94) Although these academic activities called for students to translate, which is a special skill in itself, they nevertheless indicate unfamiliarity with even basic vocabulary. Such demonstrations were common. Furthermore, when Inti Raimi students did in fact know a Quichua term they were eager to demonstrate this knowledge to me and to others, suggesting that students were not feigning ignorance of Quichua as has been reported to be common elsewhere in the Andes (e.g. Coronel-Molina, 1998; Hornberger, 1988). In addition, students openly assessed their own language skills as low. When encouraged to work on a Quichua activity, students would often shrug and say, ‘no puedo’ (‘I can’t’ /S/) or ‘no entiendo’ (‘I don’t understand’ /S/). Lastly, teachers also noted that many children arrived to school with limited knowledge of the language. Les hace difícil para entender. Hay niños que vienen de casas donde hay una abuelita que habla quichua, entonces tiene más facilidad captar. Ellos son los que más captan. Hay otros que no captan. (‘It is difficult for them to understand. There are children that come from houses where there is a grandmother that speaks Quichua and so they have an easier time following. They are the ones who follow the best. There are others who don’t understand.’ /S/) (T18a) Muchos de los niños entienden pero hablan poco. (‘Many of the children understand but speak little.’ /S/) (T18b/19a) As Rosa Delia points out immediately above (T18b/19a), students frequently exhibited an ability to comprehend Quichua which was greater than their capacity or willingness to produce the language. Teachers generally agreed that students demonstrated considerable difficulty speaking. Lo más difícil es hablar el quichua. (‘The most difficult is to speak Quichua.’ /S/) (T16b)

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La pronunciación es más difícil. Aunque saben el nombre de algunas cosas, no pueden pronunciar. Por la vergüenza no quieren decir…tapen y sean tímidos. Para ellos es como una burla. (‘The pronunciation is most difficult. Although they know the name of some things, they can’t pronounce [them]. Out of embarrassment, they don’t want to speak [it]…they are quiet and shy. For them it is like a joke or taunt.’ /S/) (T15b) Overall then, Lagunas students did seem to have some – although clearly very limited – experience with the language, either through home or school exposure. Yet, at the same time, many understood very little of the language and few were willing or able to speak more than a few simple words of Quichua. Huayna Capac students Observations of student–teacher interactions at Huayna Capac demonstrated that in contrast to Inti Raimi students, Tambopamba students comprehended many Quichua words, statements, and commands with ease. Miguel begins by asking his second grade class in Spanish if they have spoken in Quichua before; they answer that yes, they have. He says that some understand better than others. He begins the lesson by giving simple commands: Shayarichi (‘Stand up’ /Q/) Tiyarichi (‘Sit down’ /Q/) Muchicuta japichi (‘Touch your hat’ /Q/) Sincata japichi (‘Touch your nose’ /Q/) Ñauhita japichi (‘Touch your eye’ /Q/) Shimita japichi (‘Touch your mouth’ /Q/) Rinrita japichi (‘Touch your ear’ /Q/) Acchata japichi (‘Touch your hair’ /Q/) Wicsata japichi (‘Touch your stomach’ /Q/) Siquita japichi (‘Touch your butt’ /Q/) The students comply with all of the commands without hesitation, and the final command leaves the students laughing heartily. (FN 448: 7-1294) Furthermore, while displaying strong listening and comprehension skills, many students were capable of recalling numerous individual vocabulary words.

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Mariana elicits Quichua vocabulary words from the students. Many of them call out words quickly, seeming happy to display their knowledge. She writes the Quichua words and the Spanish translations on the board. unia – borrego (‘sheep’) apiu – caballo (‘horse’) rura – huevo (‘egg’) antahua – carro (‘car’) urcu – cerro (‘hill’) huacra – vaca (‘cow’ or ‘bull’) huasi – casa (‘house’) (The child actually said huasipi, which means ‘in the house.’) yanta – leña (‘wood’) rumi – piedra (‘stone’) caspi – palo (‘stick’) chaqui – pie (‘foot’) shillu – uña (‘finger or toe nail’)5 muchicu – sombrero (‘hat’) Mariana then asks them how to say some Spanish verbs in Quichua. She calls out the words in Spanish (‘correr,’ ‘jugar,’ ‘reir’) and students respond with the corresponding Quichua verb: ‘callpana,’ ‘pugllana,’ ‘asina’ (‘to run,’ ‘to play,’ ‘to laugh’). (FN 415: 24-11-94) Thus, many students’ knowledge of Quichua was quite high when it came to listening and to the production of basic words for the objects that surrounded them and for common activities. Nevertheless, students demonstrated considerable difficulty speaking more than one or two words in Quichua. Many students would not or could not speak Quichua at even a beginning level conversationally. Teachers were also quick to note that students were reluctant to say more than single words. Los jóvenes entienden, pero no hablan. (‘The youthes understand but do not speak.’ /S/) (T22b) Aquí en la escuela, saben mucho. Por temor no quieren hablar. (‘Here in the school, [the students] know a lot. Out of fear they don’t want to talk.’ /S/) (T24b) Lo difícil para ellos era hablar así continuamente. Así, poco duro, porque no hablan diariamente el idioma.

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(‘The difficult part for them is to speak continuously like this. [It is] a bit difficult because they do not speak the language daily.’ /S/) (T20b) Thus, Tambopamba students came to school with relatively high levels of Quichua listening comprehension and limited, but not negligible, speaking skills. These skills clearly reflect the language use patterns in the home and community where children frequently hear the language, and are sometimes addressed in Quichua but are rarely encouraged or required to speak it themselves. As we have seen in this chapter, at school the pattern was largely the same. The language skills developed at home tended to be reinforced, rather than significantly expanded upon. Because of the repetitive nature of the content of the lessons, students’ knowledge and skills were not significantly developed and did not move much beyond what they knew prior to beginning school. Effective instruction begins with what students know. However, it must also move them beyond that point. It seems especially unfortunate that this did not seem to be happening in Tambopamba, where students already had a firm grounding in the language and could likely have acquired Quichua much more quickly and easily than children from other, more Spanish-dominant communities, such as Lagunas.

Conclusion As this discussion has made clear, despite major philosophical and pedagogical differences between Inti Raimi and Huayna Capac, the instruction of Quichua as a second language at both schools shared many common features. This chapter concludes by summarizing the defining characteristics of the goals, curricula, and learning practices surrounding Quichua use and instruction at the two schools. Turning first to the Lagunas school, in accordance with the pedagogical philosophy of Inti Raimi, teachers attempted to create a learning environment in which student activities were self-directed, self-motivated, and self-monitored. The goals concerning Quichua instruction were embedded within the broader aim of Saraguro cultural and linguistic revitalization in the community and generally emphasized the importance of developing listening, speaking and conversational skills. Yet at Inti Raimi, the language for communication among and between students and staff was Spanish. While Quichua was employed for limited and specific functions (such as greetings and time announcements), it was only occasionally used by teachers, and rarely used by students. And despite the stated goals which focused on listening and speaking

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comprehension, the majority of all instructional activities targeted reading, writing, and translation skills. The Huayna Capac school of Tambopamba, despite its indigenous name and largely indigenous staff, in many ways continued to follow conventional models of instruction. Both Quichua lessons and regular classes at the school largely consisted of teacher-led, individual learning units, often based upon work from the national text and frequently emphasizing copying and ‘busy work.’ Although children came to school with some knowledge of Quichua, they generally were not encouraged nor required to expand on these language skills. Indeed, the content and skills developed in each lesson remained remarkably constant over time. Students engaged in the same types of activities which taught similar if not identical content year after year. Thus, although children arrived at school with considerable knowledge of Quichua, these skills were not capitalized or expanded upon. It is important to note that many of these less than ideal characteristics seem to be shared by other school-based language revitalization programs and recently have been the topic of discussion by experts in the United States and elsewhere. For example, Steven Greymorning (1999: 11), a teacher of Arapaho, comments of the Arapaho language classes in his school district: it was quite clear that they were one dimensional, focusing almost exclusively on numbers, colors, and a variety of vocabulary words including food items and animals. And, although students from grade two to six could recite a translation of the Pledge of Allegiance, these students did not have any comprehension of what they were actually saying. Likewise, Krauss (1998a: 15) observes of Native language teaching programs that quite often we see the bilingual Native language teacher of parental or grandparental generation, trained and teaching in school her or his ancestral language in the classroom, writing it with chalk on a blackboard, teaching colors, numbers, names of animals, maybe even verbs or sentence structure, to children who receive an hour a week or an hour a day of the language in that way, for a few years on and off. Saraguros are thus far from alone in their tendency to rely on ‘traditional’ language teaching methods, many of which seem to not be compatible with

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their language revitalization goals of promoting the language as a spoken tongue in the community. However, despite these apparently common pitfalls and limitations in the instruction of Quichua as a second language, indirectly, the schools likely did promote Quichua acquisition and support revitalization of the language in multiple, and perhaps unnoticed ways. First, as discussed in Chapter 3, the introduction of schooling into the communities seemed to be a factor in the shift towards Spanish. However, the school appears to have been important not because the linguistic knowledge acquired at school was substantial, but rather, because parents, especially those of Lagunas, soon became aware that their children would be punished and disadvantaged for not speaking Spanish at school. Thus, the Spanish-only schools provided an (additional) incentive to use Spanish rather than Quichua at home. Conversely, it is feasible that the same processes may be at work with Quichua. The schools, by promoting the idea that Quichua knowledge is necessary for academic success, might motivate parents, at least to some degree, to use the language at home. There are some signs that this line of reasoning is already developing. For instance, parents sometimes commented that the high school subject which caused great difficulty for their children was Quichua. Furthermore, one reason that parents occasionally noted for wanting to teach and use Quichua at home was the fact that their children had faced academic difficulties for not knowing it at school. (Of course, we must also recognize that there is the alternative possibility that other parents will consider themselves to be linguistically ‘off the hook,’ that is no longer responsible for transmission of the language as Cole [1975] found to be the case among Alsatian-speaking parents in Alsace, France.) Second, the use of the language in the school might increase the status of the language, in particular promoting recognition of the language as a logical grammatical system capable of expressing abstract and academic ideas (Hornberger & King, 1996). Use of a threatened language in an official setting such as the school has the potential to dispel the pervasive notions that indigenous languages are inferior and inadequate. It is possible that one of the causes of students’ reluctance to use Quichua (especially at Tambopamba) might be their internalized sense of the low status of language; use of Quichua in a high status and official domain might work towards undoing this association. Third, as Teresa McCarty (1998: 28) has argued, ‘while school-based action alone will not “save” threatened indigenous languages, schools and their personnel must be prominent in efforts to maintain and revitalize those languages’. She maintains that:

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to dismiss schools as insignificant underrates the destructive effects on indigenous languages of past schooling and of current educational practices that neglect those languages; ignores the singular social, economic, and political importance of schools in many American Indian communities; and tosses aside the enormous language-maintenance resources produced by school-based native-language programs (p. 28). While McCarty’s focus is on Native American communities of the US, her argument is applicable here as well: the Saraguro schools are clearly an important foothold in the attempt to maintain Quichua in Saraguro. As McCarty (1998: 28) notes, in the US and elsewhere, school resources ‘both human and material, have been successfully applied to the reclamation of indigenous language rights – that is, to the creation of an institutional infrastructure capable of challenging linguistic assimilation’. Lastly, it should not be overlooked that at both schools some real learning was taking place. Quichua instruction and activities presented students with new words or perhaps reinforced those heard outside of school. Conversational greetings and simple vocabulary were acquired and used by children at both schools. Students learned to read and write, at least minimally in Quichua, and also learned that Quichua could be written, read, and taught academically. And perhaps most importantly, at both schools, but especially at Inti Raimi, students learned that Quichua is a rich and beautiful language which at one time was the community’s sole means of communication, and which continues to be an important aspect of Saraguro ethnic identity. Notes 1. While most of the teachers at Inti Raimi were female, nearly all at Huayna Capac were male. The gender difference might be explained as the result of two factors. First, as discussed in Chapter 4, Tambopamba is relatively remote and not accessible by bus. Non-resident teachers seemed to find the daily commute only possible by motorcycle, something, to my knowledge, only possessed by men. Second, the most highly qualified professional males in Tambopamba were primary teachers, working in the local school. In Lagunas, in contrast, many of the professional men had jobs of higher status or salary than a primary school teaching position, thus leaving the teaching positions open for qualified community women. 2. See Chapter 2 for further discussion of PEBI in Ecuador; see Hornberger (1988) for a discussion of PEBI in Peru. 3. While the same behavior categories were used for coding time allocation at Inti Raimi and Huayna Capac, observations focused at the class level at Huayna Capac, rather than the student level, as was done at Inti Raimi.

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4. The books were often unused texts and workbooks from the Proyecto de Educación Bilingüe Intercultural (‘Bilingual Intercultural Education Project’ /S/) which operated for a short time in the 1980s at Inti Raimi, as well as Huayna Capac. 5. Rura and shillu are ‘authentic Quichua’; the Unified Quichua versions are lulun and sillu. Mariana has transcribed what the children have pronounced in ‘authentic Quichua.’

Chapter 6

Prospects and Processes Revisited The previous three chapters described patterns of language competence and use in two Saraguro communities, and connected these patterns to the socioeconomic changes in the region, as well as to community members’ conceptions of indigenous ethnic identity. This discussion highlighted the practices of both the family and the school in instructing Quichua, and analyzed the language skills which might be acquired through these efforts. The goal of the present and final chapter is to explore further both the prospects and processes of Quichua language revitalization in Saraguro. In the first section, the prospects for the return of Quichua to a primary channel of communication in the home and the community are discussed. The following section addresses the cultural and socioeconomic processes of language revitalization and considers how these dynamics compare with those of language loss and language death. Next, language revitalization is analyzed from a language planning perspective. The final sections of the chapter review some of the more important findings of secondlanguage-acquisition research, and in light of these findings, provide specific suggestions for the successful development and implementation of language revitalization programs in Saraguro and beyond.

Language Revitalization Prospects The prospects of Quichua acquisition and language revitalization differ for Lagunas and Tambopamba. For neither community, however, is the prognosis encouraging (King, 1999a). For members of both of these two communities, as for most Saraguros, Quichua remains on the periphery of their daily lives. The Quichua which does exist in the community is restricted to a small number of functions and specific situations. As outlined in Chapters 3 and 4, Quichua tends to be limited to use with and among elders, for occasional humorous and personal interactions, for explicit instruction and practice, for marking ethnic identity, and by some parents, for secret communication in the company of children. As Brandt (1988) has argued, there is substantial evidence that in order for children to acquire language, they must be in a situation where they are 185

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exposed to large amounts of speech in that language, a significant portion of this language must be addressed to them, and they must also be allowed, encouraged, and expected to interact in the language with others. If we accept Brandt’s argument, the possibility of childhood acquisition of Quichua among Saraguros seems dim. However, there are cases that suggest that in certain communities, the heritage language might be acquired at an older age. One example is that of the Tornedalians of northern Sweden, who speak a variety of Finnish known as Meänkieli (Huss, 1999). Children in these communities hear Meänkieli spoken around them as children, but tend to only begin speaking it as adolescents and teens. As Meänkieli is the exclusive language of elk hunting and other outdoor sports, male adolescents who wish to participate in these domains with older male Tornedalians are forced to use and learn Meänkieli. Thus, although the language is not a regular channel of communication in the home for children, it is preserved, practiced, and acquired in the domain of hunting and outdoor sports, at least by men and boys (Leena Huss, personal communication, 16 February 1999). A similar situation has been reported among the Finnish Gypsies (Vuorela & Borin, 1998). Within this speech community, learning Romani is perceived to require conscious effort, and is viewed as an important aspect of development into a Gypsy adult. At the age of 16, Gypsy girls begin to regularly wear Gypsy dresses and begin to speak Romani. Thus, in many cases, young Gypsies do not have a strong command of Romani before reaching the age of 20, but will continue to learn the language as long as they continue to live as Gypsies (Vuorela & Borin, 1998: Huss, 1999). Both of these situations are unlike the Saraguro case in important ways. Indeed, in the two Saraguro communities studied here, Quichua holds a much weaker position. Not only is the language used irregularly in the homes with children, but there is no protected or special domain for its use, as is the case with the Tornedalians of Sweden. Furthermore, there does not seem to be a dramatic increase in Quichua acquisition in the teenage years, nor a mechanism (i.e. an active community of adult users) to support such acquisition, as is true of the Finnish Gypsies. Given the extreme societal pressure to use Spanish and the dearth of Quichua use inside and outside of Saraguro homes, there is real cause for concern regarding the possibilities of Quichua acquisition by young Saraguros. In Lagunas, children receive periodic instruction in Quichua, but are surrounded by only a small amount of natural interaction in the language. Moreover, while some Lagunas children are taught Quichua directly by their parents, instruction is limited primarily to object names and a few

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basic commands. Rarely is ‘whole’ or natural Quichua used in communication with them. Homes where a few members habitually speak Quichua, such as those in Tambopamba, are also unlikely to successfully transmit the language. Although it is commonly held that language acquisition occurs simply by exposing children to the language, this alone appears to be insufficient for the development of substantial capacities in the language. As suggested earlier, it is also important for children to interact in the language in meaningful contexts. Pye (1992), for example, found that Chilcotin children, though regularly surrounded by their grandparents’ use of the ancestral language, were able to successfully ‘block out’ the language. These Chilcotin children seemed to know no more Chilcotin than children who were not regularly exposed to the language. Similarly, children in Tambopamba, although exposed to ‘authentic’ language, are not expected to interact in Quichua, and consequently they are not likely to benefit linguistically from this exposure in the long term. In sum, Lagunas children hear relatively little Quichua in the home; what they do hear, although perhaps directed at them, is generally in the form of isolated lexical items and artificial practice. In contrast, Tambopamba children are exposed to a greater amount of natural language in the home, but little of it is directed at them and they are not expected to respond in Quichua. These patterns are mirrored in the wider communities of Lagunas and Tambopamba. Thus, given their present home and community environments, it appears likely that Saraguro children in both communities will grow into essentially monolingual adults. Language revitalization, at least as it is currently practiced in Saraguro homes and communities, is unlikely to result in the return of Quichua to an everyday, unmarked language of the community. As is frequently the case in contexts of language shift (cf. Cole, 1975; Fishman, 1991; Pyöli, 1998), many Saraguro families tend to place their hope for transmission of Quichua on the community schools. However, the Saraguro data suggest that transmission also fails to take place in this arena. Although the two schools studied here differ significantly in their organization, pedagogical approaches, and methods, Quichua instruction at both schools seems too limited to allow for development of competence beyond a very basic level. At least during the 1994–95 academic year, the amount of Quichua was restricted to a few short lessons and activities each week; the functions of Quichua largely were limited to translating and copying; and the content of Quichua instruction was restricted to basic vocabulary items and formulaic phrases. Furthermore, there were few authentic or naturalistic uses of language in the school, as teachers infrequently communicated with the children in Quichua. Thus, given the

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limited quantity and quality of Quichua instruction in the schools, there seems to be little chance that children will develop basic competence in the language through school exposure alone. Yet despite the fact that Quichua language revitalization in Saraguro appears unlikely to result in reinstatement of the language as the principal means of communication in the home and the community, in many respects, it has been a valuable and worthwhile exercise. For example, as noted in the previous chapter, through the limited instruction of Quichua at school, students become aware of the important status of Quichua among Saraguros. Furthermore, students learn to write and read a small amount in the language, and perhaps more importantly, learn that Quichua is a language which can be written, read, and used academically. These are small, but not unimportant achievements. We will further consider the value of ‘unsuccessful’ efforts later in this chapter. As has been stressed here, language revitalization – at least as practiced during the period of this investigation – seems unlikely to return Quichua to the language regularly spoken by most community members. However, as was suggested in Chapter 1, the fates of languages are notoriously difficult to predict. For instance, in the late 1960s and early 1970s experts in New Zealand reported that ‘the number of children learning Maori was so drastically reduced that the prospects for its future were dim’ (Grenoble & Whaley, 1998b: 50). Indeed, by the late 1960s, it was widely accepted that ‘Maori had ceased to be the primary language of socialization for most Maori families’ (Benton, 1991; Spolsky, 1995: 181). However, over the last three decades there has been an explosion of interest in Maori. The position of the language is much stronger than experts ever predicted, as evidenced, for instance, by the more than 13,000 children enrolled in over 710 total Maori immersion programs (Karetu, 1994; Grenoble & Whaley, 1998b). Far from being obsolete, presently, ‘about 12% of younger [Maori] children are on the way to a command of Maori’ (Spolsky, 1995: 182–3). Furthermore, as Huss has noted (personal communication, 29 January 1999), there are also ethical reasons for not presenting predictions as absolute certainties. Huss points out that speakers of threatened languages of the Arctic North deeply resent the predictions of academic linguists about the supposed fate of their tongues. She observes that discussion of the unhealthy status of a language may have one of two effects. On the one hand, dire predictions concerning the sustainability of threatened languages might shock and motivate speakers to re-examine language practices and language priorities. However, on the other hand, it is possible that such predictions become self-fulfilling prophecies which confirm

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speakers’ sense that the language is of little use, and therefore hasten the decline of the language. Given this latter possibility, it should be stressed the assessments made here as part of the description and analysis of language use and instructional practices are based on observations over one particular year. Thus, it is possible, even probable, that these patterns have changed considerably in the last five years. While it does seem that language revitalization as practiced during the period of study is unlikely to result in the return of the language to an everyday means of communication for most members, it is also possible that the language situation and language practices will change in the future (or indeed, might already have changed). Thus, I hope that this discussion of the prospects of language revitalization will not be taken a fatalistic prediction of the language’s future, but rather will serve as an instigator for the (re)examination of language revitalization practices in Saraguro and elsewhere.

Language Revitalization Processes While evaluation of the prospects of Saraguro language revitalization efforts is implicit throughout the description and analysis of language use patterns and language teaching, one of the primary aims of this book is to analyze the cultural and socioeconomic, as well as the linguistic processes that correspond with positive, societal-level language shift. With this goal in mind, the following sections recap some of the key findings described in Chapters 3, 4, and 5, highlighting these processes and contrasting them with those of language obsolescence. Cultural and attitudinal processes As stressed in Chapters 3 and 4, although there are differing language competencies and practices in Lagunas and Tambopamba, adults in both communities not only value Quichua and are concerned with its maintenance, but also value their Saraguro indigenous ethnic identity. Parents from both communities believe that to not transmit this identity to their children would be tragic. As one Lagunas parent noted, if her children left their indigenous identity behind, it would be ‘muy mal – no quiero que cambien. Con todo su herencia indígena, nunca van a cambiar’ (‘very bad – I don’t want them to change. With all of their indigenous heritage, they are never going to change.’ /S/) (T15a). Similar sentiments were articulated by Tambopamba members: ‘Tenemos que continuar. Es importante no ser mestizo.’ (‘We have to continue. It is important not to be mestizo.’ /S/) (T24a).

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Not unconnected to these pro-indigenous attitudes is the fact that unlike many indigenous groups in the world, the Saraguro population is not immediately threatened by large-scale transculturation to mestizo or white identity (L. Belote & J. Belote, 1984). As detailed in Chapters 3 and 4, maintenance of indigenous ethnicity throughout Saraguro is maintained and clearly signaled through distinctive dress and hairstyle. Yet at the same time, in both communities, dress is not the only important aspect of ethnic identity. Furthermore, critical to understanding the process of language revitalization among Saraguros is the fact that the components of Saraguro indigenous identity are not identical in Lagunas and Tambopamba. In Lagunas, Quichua plays an important role in marking ethnic identity and is viewed by most as critical to its maintenance. Recall that many members stated that disappearance of Quichua would be tantamount to ‘losing everything.’ This is the case despite the fact that the language is used relatively infrequently and, to a great degree, has already lost most of its communicative roles within the community. Of course, such a situation is not unique to Saraguro. Jane Hill (1983), for instance, has suggested that during the final stages of language loss, the threatened language often takes on greater symbolic importance. Similarly, Fishman (1985) has noted that because language is a powerful sign of ethnicity, a group might view its native language as critical to ethnic identity long after it has ceased to be used by group members on a regular basis. The importance of Quichua as a marker of ethnicity – despite its infrequent use in community life – is likely related to the active and successful participation of Lagunas members in what, until recent decades, have largely been non-indigenous arenas, namely secondary and tertiary education, semi-professional and professional occupations. In Lagunas, as the longstanding distinctions between the indigenous and non-indigenous have faded, language has been evoked as a ‘hard’ feature of Saraguro identity and as an emblem of ethnicity. Quichua is thus no longer valued so much for its referential power, but rather as an indexical sign of ethnic membership. In Tambopamba, in contrast, because members’ status as Saraguros remains clearly marked by their rural lifestyles and agricultural work, language is not seen to be as critical to ethnic maintenance. Most Tambopamba residents are still engaged in agro-pastoral work as their primary occupation. This fact is an important part of their indigenous identity. Recall that for Tambopamba members the defining characteristics of indigenous persons were that they worked in the countryside with animals; did not mind getting dirty; and regularly traveled long distances by foot. Thus, because indigenous identity is defined by rural lifestyles,

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there is less of a need for the Quichua language to take on the role of a primary ethnicity marker in Tambopamba. As Urban (1991) reminds us, language is only one of many possible markers of ethnic identity. For Lagunas members, Quichua plays an important role in ethnic identity maintenance. For Tambopamba members, there is no need for Quichua to take on this role; the boundary between indigenous and non-indigenous sectors remains clearly delineated through their heavy engagement in traditional agricultural practices. Following DeVos’ (1975: 17) argument that ‘the ethnic identity of a group of people consists of their subjective symbolic or emblematic use of any aspect of culture, in order to differentiate themselves from other groups,’ the language attitudes and practices of Lagunas and Tambopamba can be understood as the result of having selected different aspects of their respective cultures for this purpose. However, in Saraguro as elsewhere, this process is not unproblematic: the shift and (re)delineation of boundaries of ethnic identity are often sources of tension and anxiety. Hill (1993), in her discussion of how political and economic subordination results in language change, draws from studies of three endangered language groups: the Dyirbal of Queensland, Australia; Mexicano (Nahuatl) speakers of central Mexico; and the Wasco of the Warm Springs Indian Reservation in the northwest United States. In all three speech communities, as in Saraguro, ‘deep anxiety’ exists about ‘how to construct some kind of identity where a community is seen as “different”’ (Hill, 1993: 81–2). Hill furthermore notes that that in each of the three communities, ‘there is reason to be anxious about boundaries’ (p. 82). Like the groups Hill describes, members of the communities of Lagunas and Tambopamba also have good reason to be anxious about ethnic identity. For Lagunas members, anxiety stems from concern over maintenance of a separate and clearly defined indigenous identity. As previously discussed, this uneasiness is largely the result of increasing social and economic integration into mestizo or white society: as Lagunas members’ participation in non-indigenous occupational and educational endeavors has grown, the traditional markers of ethnicity (e.g. agro-pastoralist subsistence, isolated rural residence, Quichua dominance) concomitantly have evaporated. Despite these significant changes – or perhaps because of them, Lagunas members are eager to maintain their Saraguro ethnicity, and anxious to mark themselves as indigenous. For Lagunas members, Quichua has emerged as a primary marker of the boundary between indigenous and non-indigenous identity. However, this reliance on language is a double-edged sword for the

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community. On the one hand, Lagunas members’ use of Quichua allows for a handy and semiotically powerful ‘symbolic resource’ for ethnic identity maintenance (Bourdieu, 1977; Urciuoli, 1995: 534). Yet on the other hand, given the community’s lack of competence in Quichua, this reliance on language is also the source of anxiety (King, in press). As noted in Chapter 3, many Lagunas members are keenly aware of the contradictions inherent in fact that they define an indigenous person as one who speaks Quichua, and furthermore classify themselves as indigenous Saraguros, yet are for the most part Spanish monolinguals. The ethnic identity of Tambopamba members, in contrast, remains more clearly defined and sharply delineated. This distinction in part is created through a contrast with town whites, who are widely viewed as business people and bureaucrats, and thus ‘above’ agricultural labor. Anxiety for the Tambopamba residents, then, does not stem from their declining proficiency in Quichua, nor from the weakening of the traditional boundaries between members and non-members. Rather, Tambopamba members are in a precarious and anxiety-provoking position due to their low status in relation not only to non-indigenous persons, but also to other indigenous Saraguro communities. There is a subtle, yet widely recognized hierarchy among Saraguro communities in which proximity to the town of Saraguro corresponds with relatively high social and economic status. Thus, not only are Tambopamba residents members of a group which is subordinated and stigmatized within a regional and national context (i.e. relative to the mestizo or Hispanic majority), but in addition, among their particular minority group, they also occupy a relatively low status position. Given their subordinated, low-status standing, it is not surprising that some teenagers and young adults in Tambopamba have moved towards the wholesale abandonment of Saraguro ethnic identity. This is most evident in the attitudes and behaviors of young men in Tambopamba. Recall from Chapters 3 and 4 that among the youth of Lagunas, the preferred, ‘cool’ or ‘hip’ dress and music is that which is perceived of as ‘traditional’ or indigenous, albeit in modified form. The youth of Tambopamba, in contrast, tend to opt for mestizo, white, or European music, clothing, and even lifestyles. The preferences of Tambopamba youth should not be dismissed as the temporary and routine fads of teenagers since the decisions made by these young adults (for example, to sell their animals in order to purchase motorcycles, televisions, or boom-boxes), effectively preclude an agro-pastoral livelihood in the future. Within the frame of their ‘double’ subordination, members’ explicit statements concerning their commitment to Quichua ethnic identity seem

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remarkable. At the same time, awareness of the pressure to leave this identity behind allows for greater understanding of the reluctance of parents to use Quichua regularly at home. Recall that unlike Lagunas parents, many Tambopamba adults of child-bearing or child-rearing age are competent, if not fluent, speakers of (authentic) Quichua. However, as discussed in Chapter 4, despite their substantial linguistic abilities, many – perhaps for reasons related to their insecure social position – opt to use only Spanish with their children. Thus, in both Lagunas and Tambopamba, as in Hill’s three endangered language communities, boundaries and identities that were apparently at one time relatively unselfconscious and taken for granted have become the focus of anxiety and concern. This anxiety translates into an anxiety about the forms of talk that come to ‘stand for’ the fragile identity. (Hill, 1993: 83) In Lagunas, anxiety is most obviously manifest in the phatic, marked use of Quichua for assertion of ethnic identity. In Tambopamba, uneasiness lies not in the concern over how ethnic identity is marked, but rather in the low status of indigenous identity and trend towards wholesale abandonment of it by some community members. As Hill (1993) notes, anxiety of a variety of sorts can often result in the construction of new lines of division within communities. Among Saraguros, these lines of division correspond to social-economic distinctions within the region, and are related to what might be considered the socioeconomic processes of language revitalization. Socioeconomic processes The attitudes of Tambopamba and Lagunas members toward Quichua and toward Saraguro ethnic identity cannot be disentangled from the social and economic changes which have taken place in the region and which have impacted the communities unevenly. As discussed in Chapter 2, all Saraguros have experienced ethnically and linguistically based discrimination. In the past, Quichua monolingualism not only resulted in ridicule and insult by whites for using what was often referred to as the language of animals, but also put individuals at a grave disadvantage in business and legal transactions (J. Belote, 1984). As noted in Chapter 3, the location of Lagunas, adjacent to the Pan America highway and near the town of Saraguro, allowed for frequent contact with whites. This intense contact not only exposed members to many of the disadvantages of using Quichua, but also provided sufficient access and incentive for acquisition of Spanish. For Lagunas members, who

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have had access to Spanish for many decades, Spanish fluency is widespread, and even taken for granted. As the position of Spanish has become secure, Quichua, in turn, has lost much of its stigma. In fact, this is so much the case that for most of Lagunas, knowledge of Quichua connotes high status and a progressive political orientation. Many young adults who know Quichua have learned it through high school or university study; younger speakers of Quichua are thus the most highly educated and professionally successful of the community. While the parents and grandparents of these young adults abandoned Quichua in order to ‘get ahead,’ many Lagunas adults are now relatively socioeconomically secure and ‘far enough away’ from Quichua and the rural low-status identity with which it was once associated to find Quichua desirable. Tambopamba adults, in contrast, do not have the same generational distance from Quichua and have yet to achieve an equivalent level of success in the non-indigenous world. For Tambopamba members, Quichua is still stigmatizing; for them, Quichua fluency is associated with being rural, uneducated, and low status. Although Quichua is valued for conversing within the community, many Tambopamba members remain insecure about their Spanish language skills, eager to develop their Spanish competence, and furthermore to transmit what they see to be the language of economic success to their children. In Tambopamba, it is Quichua, not Spanish, which is taken for granted. Returning again to the tensions which are common within communities in the midst of language shift, Hill (1993: 84) argues that anxiety over ethnic identity frequently leads to ‘the construction of local lines of cleavage’. The major channel by which such lines of cleavage are created or reinforced is through a process which she labels, ‘solidarity coding.’ To illustrate her argument, Hill describes the division in Mexicano (Nahuatl) towns between traditional cultivators, who spoke relatively unhispanicized Nahuatl, and wage-earning manual laborers, who tended to speak Spanish as well as reduced forms of Nahuatl. In the context of the shift from Nahuatl to Spanish, the manual laborers functioned as ‘talk police,’ whose attitudes ‘heighten linguistic self-consciousness in the communities’ (Hill, 1993: 84). In Saraguro communities, the ‘policing’ of language, while less dramatic and confrontational than that of the Nahuatl communities, takes place along two lines: first, between more and less educated Saraguros, and second, between older and younger Saraguros. The dynamics surrounding these two overlapping lines of tension are addressed here together. As noted in Chapter 4, economically and professionally successful Saraguros, who tend to reside in communities close to town such as Lagunas, are more likely to speak Unified Quichua. Indeed, most of the

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younger Quichua speakers in Lagunas have purposefully learned the language through individual study or formal schooling; hence they have acquired the unified variety. In contrast, less educated, more remotely situated Saraguros, who reside in communities such as Tambopamba, are likely to know and use ‘authentic Quichua.’ Friction exists over which communities (or individuals) speak the true and proper Quichua. For instance, the highly educated Lagunas members tend to view codeswitching and Spanish borrowings into Quichua negatively, and strive to speak ‘pure’ Quichua, avoiding the supposedly inferior variety spoken by elders and those from more distant Saraguro communities. Moreover, Lagunas members are quick to comment that the less-educated communities further away from town do not speak ‘good’ Quichua. A second, although not entirely distinct ‘line of cleavage’ is that which has been created between the younger and older generations. While members of the younger generation tend to be critical both of the ‘contaminated’ or impure Quichua of the elders and of the lack of regular usage among their own generations, older generations express their discontent with the use of Unified Quichua, claiming it is difficult to comprehend, and thus exclusionary. For example, some younger adults in Lagunas report that their parents and grandparents refuse to speak with them because they can not make sense of the new words in Unified Quichua. Concomitantly, younger members criticize the Quichua of the elders and believe it is not a good model for themselves or their children to follow. As discussed in Chapter 3, as language revitalization programs have developed in Saraguro over the last decade, two distinct varieties of Quichua have emerged, raising the thorny issue of authenticity. The Quichua-as-asecond-language pedagogical materials and instructional programs promote the nationally standardized variety of Quichua, Unified Quichua. This stands in contrast to what is commonly referred to as Quichua auténtico, spoken by older residents of Lagunas and many of Tambopamba. Because the children and young adults studying and learning Unified Quichua have not mastered the phonological system nor lexical particularities of the local variety, these young Saraguros not only learn to read, but to speak Unified Quichua. While mutually intelligible to most, there are alternatively clashes and gaps in communication between the older and younger Quichua speakers in the community, especially in Lagunas. Of course, the designation of ‘authentic’ to a particular language variety is, in nearly all cases, an arbitrary one (Hornberger & King, 1999). This is clear when we examine how the term has been applied to Quichua varieties in Saraguro. ‘Authentic Quichua’ contains many Spanish loan words and has lost part of its morphological structure. While Unified Quichua is in

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fact linguistically more ‘pure,’ in that it is less influenced by Spanish, it is perceived as new and inauthentic by many Saraguros. And although ‘authentic Quichua’ is the variety learned and used naturally in the home and community by many Saraguros, it is perceived as corrupted by Spanish, and hence inauthentic by its critics. Thus, the claim of authenticity ‘seems of little descriptive use, but rather works to establish a (fruitless) oppositional discourse wherein promotion of one language variety (and by association, its speakers) as genuine, and pure, implicitly degrades another as inauthentic’ (Hornberger & King, 1998: 405). The Saraguro case also suggests that this supposedly linguistic tension, in fact has little to do with the specific form of the language itself, but rather is a manifestation of wider, non-linguistic disparities and tensions in the community. Such friction concerning appropriate language form and use is hardly unique to Saraguro. As Dorian (1994) notes, tension between those who choose to cling to what is perceived to be the traditional or ‘authentic’ form of the language, and those who opt for the modern and simplified version of the language for practical purposes and everyday use is an all too common pitfall in language revitalization contexts. The Saraguro case is slightly unusual, however, in that it is the younger generation, rather than the elders who are critical of the influence of the majority or national language on the heritage tongue and seek to reinstate a ‘pure’ form of the language. Often, the reverse is true. For example, among Tiwi speakers, who live on the Melville and Bathurst Islands off the north coast of Australia, it is the older members rather than the younger generation who seek to maintain or reinstate the complicated grammatical forms (Lee, 1987, 1988; Dorian, 1994). The Saraguro case thus seems to contribute further evidence to support Dorian’s observation that while tension over what constitutes conservation of the authentic form is often problematic in language revitalization initiatives, how ‘authentic’ and ‘conservatism’ are defined varies widely from group to group. As Dorian (1994: 485) observes, it seems to a case of ‘to each his own form of conservatism’.

Language Obsolescence and Language Revitalization As the previous discussion suggests, the process of language revitalization, like that of language loss, entails shifts in both language corpus and language status. Examination of how these ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ processes of language change compare, however, suggests that in some respects, the shifts accompanying revitalization differ fundamentally from those of language obsolescence. These differences are in part due to the planned and organized nature of language revitalization, in contrast to the

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often unplanned and unconscious nature of language obsolescence, a distinction reminiscent to that made by Ferguson (1968) in his discussion of the differences between the study of language change – which often happens naturally, without conscious intervention, and language planning – which involves initiative, organization, and often, institutional planning. While this is an important distinction, it is also a critical point that language revitalization initiatives, at least at the level of language status, are not simply ‘undoing’ the process of language loss, but rather are fundamentally altering patterns of language use (King, 1999b). To fully grasp this distinction, it is necessary to briefly consider the language status and corpus changes which accompany language obsolescence. Turning first to issues of language status or function, evidence from a range of contexts suggests that language obsolescence is characterized by a reduction in the number of possible domains of use of the language (Dorian, 1999). Often, these domains of use contract in such a manner that the threatened language first ceases to be used in public, formal contexts, and then later withdraws from use in home and familial domains. For instance, Garzon (1992), drawing from data from indigenous communities of Mesoamerica, finds that typically the language withdraws first from public spheres and later from use in the home and among family. Similarly, Rhodes (1992: 88) also concludes that ‘among the last functions to go . . . is the function of the language of the home’. Often, this pattern can be traced ‘through the evolution of the patterns of language use in specific families, ones in which parents and older siblings speak an ethnic language while younger siblings suddenly do not acquire it’ (Grinevald Craig, 1997: 259). Comparing the steps of language loss and death with those of language revitalization, it is clear that they differ markedly. Most importantly, language revitalization does not seem to entail the reconstruction of former language use patterns domain by domain, whereby the last domain to be lost, that of the home and family, is the first to be reinstated. Rather, the nature of revitalization efforts seems to be that the first domains in which the language comes into (re)use are the public and formal ones. For example, we saw that within the community of Lagunas, many of the attempts to rejuvenate use of the language took place in public spheres, such as community meetings, sports tournaments, mingas, and festivals such as the Sara Ñuesta pageant discussed in Chapter 1. In some respects, the fact that ‘unmarked’ private use of Quichua is infrequent is not surprising; as Hill (1993: 85) has observed, ‘contexts of intimacy’ may be resistant or fundamentally opposed to ‘semiotic tendencies’ which would facilitate symbolic use of the language. Turning to the language corpus, there may be quite a different

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relationship between language death and language revitalization at this level. While language revitalization typically does not return the language to prior patterns of use in former domains, it frequently does entail, to a greater or lesser extent, efforts to undo the linguistic results of intensive interaction with the contact language. In other words, to a much greater extent, at the corpus level, language revitalization often consists of attempts to return the linguistic system to what is perceived to be its healthier former state. Language death has been characterized as ‘a set of linguistic phenomena including attrition of form through rule loss and simplification until productivity is lost’ (Hill, 1993: 68). Linguists and sociolinguists have documented that the corpus of a threatened language typically is characterized by high numbers of grammatical and lexical morphemes from the contact language (Garzon, 1992); erosion of the honorific and referential markers on verbs and nouns (Hill, 1983); vocabulary attrition (Grinevald Craig, 1992; Mithun, 1989); loss of morphological and syntactic complexity (Dorian, 1978; Schmidt, 1985); and reduction in number of styles in use (Dressler, 1991; Dressler & Wodak-Leodolter, 1977). Partly in reaction to the (real or perceived) deterioration of the language, but also due to the need or desire to develop written materials in the threatened language, revitalization often entails efforts to develop a standard variety which is untainted by the the contact language. This variety tends to differ from the local variety along at least two dimensions. First, the standard variety typically has a fuller, more complex grammatical system. Second, the unified or standard variety generally contains a number of ‘new’ lexical items which appear foreign and meaningless to local speakers. Previously we saw that these characteristics of Unified Quichua were problematic in Saraguro. It is noteworthy that these two types of differences between the community and standardized variety have also surfaced in threatened language communities elsewhere. For instance, modern Irish consisted of three main dialects when the spelling and grammar were standardized in the 1950s (de Fréine, 1996). Irish revitalization planners sought to establish one unified, standardized variety of Irish in order to fascilitate the promotion of the language and the development of both Irish literacy and modern literature. Although compromise between the three dialects was essential for the development of the standard, and was politically perhaps the only feasible option, the result was less than satisfactory. The final product was viewed by many as inauthentic and artificial (Dorian, 1994). Indeed, the artificiality of unified Irish, or what has come to be known as Gaeilge B’l’Ath’ (Dublin Irish), has resulted in its (reported) rejection by some Irish speakers on the grounds

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that it is a stilted, unnatural form of the language (Hindley, 1990; Dorian, 1994). For many speakers, Dublin Irish is perceived as overly complex grammatically, yet lexically and idiomatically impoverished. In other words, Gaeilge B’l’Ath’ is viewed as lacking many of the words and expressions which are a familiar and intimate part of the use of the language in daily, community life; concomitantly, it contains numerous grammatical items which seem strange and unfamiliar to local speakers (Dorian, 1994). For better or worse then, language revitalization, at least in terms of the grammatical and lexical corpus of the language, does involve attempts to undo the impact of language contact. It is important to stress, however, that these attempts to reconstruct the language typically occur at the national or regional, rather than the community level. Because of this, the reconstruction of the language (through the expulsion and replacement of loan words from the contact language, for example) does not necessarily re-create the language which was once spoken in the community. Thus, corpus planning efforts may well bring an additional hybridized or ‘purified’ version of the language into the community which has never existed in the region and which might or might not be accepted by its members.

Language Planning and Language Revitalization The study of language revitalization falls within at least two distinct disciplines. On the one hand, as the discussion of cultural, sociolinguistic, and socioeconomic processes above suggests, language revitalization is part of the anthropological and sociolinguistic study of language shift. On the other hand, language revitalization is a possible goal or aim of language planning, and thus squarely falls within the confines of that field as well. While much of this chapter has focused on the former conception of language revitalization, the remainder of this section addresses the latter. Language revitalization, as I defined it in Chapter 1, is the attempt to add new linguistic forms or social functions to an embattled minority language with the aim of increasing its uses or users. Thus, as formulated here, language revitalization efforts might involve each of the three types of language planning: status planning (about language uses), corpus planning (about the language system), and acquisition planning (about language users). At the same time, as elaborated below, language revitalization initiatives might encompass both policy planning and cultivation planning approaches. These two language planning approaches (policy and cultivation) and three language planning types (status, acquisition, and corpus) are perhaps best understood within Hornberger’s (1994) integrative framework of

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Table 6.1 Hornberger’s (1994) integrative framework of language planning goals Policy Planning (on form) Goals

Cultivation Planning (on function) Goals

Status planning (about uses of language)

Standardization status Officialization Nationalization Proscription

Revival Maintenance Interlingual communication International Intranational Spread

Acquisition planning (about users of language)

Group Education/School Literature Religion Mass Media Work

Reacquisition Maintenance Foreign language/ Second language Shift

Corpus planning (about language)

Standardization Corpus Auxiliary code Graphization

Modernization Lexical Stylistic Renovation Purification Reform Stylistic simplification Terminological unification

Approaches Types

language planning goals (see Table 6.1). Hornberger (1994: 79) stresses that while the parameters of the framework are formed by the matrix of language planning types and approaches, it is the language planning goals which ‘identify the range of choices available within those parameters’. Turning first to language planning approaches, Hornberger, drawing on Neustúpny’s (1974) early distinction, notes that policy planning tends to focus on ‘matters of society and nation, at the macroscopic level, emphasizing the distribution of languages/literacies, and mainly [is] concerned with standard language’ (p. 79). As discussed in Chapter 2, Quichua planners worked to achieve numerous policy planning goals at the national level. For example, Quichua was officially standardized by indigenous leaders in 1981, a clear instance of corpus planning at the policy level. An example of status planning at the policy level was the officialization of Quichua and other indigenous languages in predominantly indigenous zones, accomplished through Article 27 of the 1979 constitution. Cultivation planning, in contrast, is ‘seen as attending to matters of

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language, at the microscopic level, emphasizing ways of speaking/writing and their distribution, and [is] mainly concerned with literary usage’ (Hornberger, 1994: 79). These decisions are often made at the community level. Numerous cultivation planning goals remain to be set concerning Quichua in the Saraguro communities. For instance, a community concerned with the revitalization of Quichua might set an acquisition, cultivation planning goal of instructing Quichua as a second language within the community school with the aim of increasing the opportunities and the incentives to learn the language. Language revitalization, as suggested by these examples, potentially involves multiple language planning goals, types, and approaches. Indeed, any of the 30 language planning goals in Table 6.1 might be adopted or addressed as part of a language revitalization effort. However, examination of Hornberger’s (1994) framework (Table 6.1) indicates that ‘revitalization’ is not included as a language planning goal in any of the six quadrants. This is likely because for many years, the term ‘revival’ encompassed all the variations of positive, societal-level language shift (e.g. language renewal, language regenesis, reversing language shift). As discussed in Chapter 1, the topic of threatened languages and language revitalization has only in recent years begun to receive significant academic attention and with it, terminological distinction. However, if revitalization were to be included in Hornberger’s framework, it would fall into the upper-right corner quadrant, as a type of status planning and a cultivation approach, between the goals of ‘revival’ and ‘maintenance’ (Hornberger, personal communication, 7 August 1996). Similarly, Fishman (1992: 285) also classifies reversing language shift as constituting ‘that corner of the total field of status planning’. While language revitalization best fits in the upper right-hand corner of Hornberger’s language planning framework, careful study of the framework also suggests that this quadrant is in some ways distinct from the other five: each of the goals within this quadrant potentially act as ‘superordinate’ goals, outside of the framework, which influence or determine the goals of other approaches and types of planning. I have previously provided examples which suggest that the goal of Quichua revitalization might act as a ‘superordinate’ goal, determining the corpus/ policy goals (e.g. the standardization of Quichua in 1981); status/policy goals (e.g. the officialization of Quichua in 1979); and acquisition/cultivation goals (e.g. the instruction of Quichua as a second language in the schools). In the same manner, ‘revival,’ ‘maintenance,’ ‘interlingual communication,’ and ‘spread’ might act as ‘superordinate’ goals which determine the

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goals in other areas of the framework. The ‘superordinate’ goal of language maintenance, for instance, might impact status/policy planning goals concerning the language’s officialization in certain regions; acquisition/cultivation planning goals regarding the language’s maintenance and use in education; and corpus/policy planning goals concerning the language’s standardization. Similarly, the goal of interlingual communication, could also act as a ‘superordinate’ goal determining the goals of the other five quadrants. For example, the ‘superordinate’ goal of promoting Esperanto as a language of ‘interlingual communication’ would dictate goals such as the acquisition/cultivation planning goal of ‘foreign language/second language acquisition’; the ongoing corpus/cultivation goal of ‘lexical modernization’ which aims to develop terms for new concepts; and the status/policy goal of ‘officialization’ of the language for interlingual communication. An additional distinctive trait of these ‘superordinate’ status/cultivation goals is that each could be re-defined as being concerned with both the users and users of the language, as well as its functions and forms (as I have done for language revitalization). For instance, language maintenance could well be defined as the attempt to maintain the forms and functions of a language, with the ultimate aim of maintaining its uses and users. Another example, spread, might refer to the attempt to impart the language’s functions and forms to new users for new uses of a language. Such a distinction among language planning goals is not entirely new. Marshall (1994), for instance, similarly singles out language revival or revitalization, language maintenance, and language spread as ‘language planning reinforcement efforts,’ implying the ‘superordinate’ status of these goals. Thus, the goals of ‘revival,’ ‘maintenance,’ ‘interlingual communication,’ ‘spread,’ as well as ‘revitalization’ might serve in many, if not all, cases as broader, ‘superordinate’ goals, which in some ways stand outside of the framework, determining the goals in the other five quadrants within the framework. This distinction brings into focus the fact that language revitalization potentially encompasses a number of distinct language planning types and approaches, as well as a wide range of specific language planning goals. This point is significant as we turn to the analysis of revitalization efforts in Saraguro from a language planning perspective. Saraguro language revitalization from a language planning perspective Given that language revitalization is clearly a type of language planning, language planning theories for assessing and evaluating efforts should prove applicable and useful. However, as was suggested in

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Chapter 1, language revitalization efforts in Saraguro – and possibly elsewhere – do not easily lend themselves to traditional language planning analysis. Part of the reason behind this ‘lack of fit’ between language revitalization efforts in Saraguro and language planning frameworks is that despite extensive talk of the desire to revitalize Quichua among Saraguro teachers, administrators, parents, and political leaders, there are no explicit agendas for language revitalization, and little agreement upon priorities or goals for doing so. Thus, while many individual Saraguros frequently discuss the need for language revitalization, and attempt to do so individually in both public and private contexts, there are no widely known goals or agendas concerning how this might come about through collective action. In addition, language revitalization efforts in Saraguro are particularly difficult to analyze due to the group’s unusual position relative to other indigenous groups in Ecuador. While language shift away from Quichua is underway among many indigenous groups in the country, the Saraguros stand apart in the extent to which this shift has already progressed. Haboud (1996), in her national survey of language use among indigenous persons in the Ecuadorian highlands, for instance, finds that the province of Loja (where the Saraguros are the only indigenous group) ranked among the top two in terms of the amount of Spanish language use in the household, at the community level, at mingas, and at general assemblies. Indeed, the only highland province where more Spanish was reportedly used among indigenous persons was in the capital region of Pinchincha. Thus, relative to nearly all other Andean communities in Ecuador, shift towards Spanish among Saraguros has progressed the furthest. One result of this difference in language use relative to other indigenous groups in the country is that policy initiatives and programs which originate at the national level in Ecuador are often not appropriate to the Saraguro context. A clear instance of this was the Bilingual Intercultural Education Project (PEBI) in Saraguro. The project, which was characterized by a Quichua language maintenance approach, began with instruction in what was presumed to be the native language of the students, Quichua, with Spanish to be taught as a second language. However, in Saraguro, where students arrive at school already Spanish dominant or Spanish monolingual, such an approach soon was deemed inappropriate by both the teachers and PEBI officials, rejected by the community, and consequently, the project was forced to withdraw. Along the same lines, the national indigenous organization, CONAIE, emphasizes the importance of bilingual education, yet their discussion has long been oriented towards non-Spanish-speaking indigenous children (CONAIE, 1998). Clearly, these children have different linguistic needs

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from Saraguro children, and their communities likely have distinct agendas. The point here is that while the Saraguros are not unconnected to national events, their language and education goals are in some ways out of sync with them. CONAIE recognizes the embattled sociolinguistic position of many groups; their official literature states that ‘the rich diversity of indigenous cultures in Ecuador is rapidly disappearing. CONAIE actively promotes indigenous language and culture so that they may survive’ (1998: 3). Yet thus far, the revitalization of Quichua, or any other indigenous language of Ecuador, has not been an explicit part of CONAIE’s official agenda. This lack of official, regional and national-level attention partly explains why most (implicitly top-down) language planning theories are ill-suited for framing language revitalization in Saraguro. A prime example of how such frameworks (do not) fit is found in Haugen’s (1983) classic model of language planning, which consists of four stages: (1) language selection – which focuses on the development of language policy; (2) codification – which focuses on the development of a formal linguistic system and literary norms; (3) implementation – which aims to put into place the policies and practices needed to support the new policy; and (4) elaboration – which focuses on the ongoing functional development of the language. When we consider Haugen’s framework in light of the Saraguro case, it is apparent that although Stage 2, language codification, has been reached with respect to the establishment of Unified Quichua, none of the other three stages has been addressed with respect to language revitalization at the national level. Even at the local or regional level, none of the four can be considered to be underway. For instance, while regional political leaders discuss the need for Quichua to be spoken and learned in the community, this hardly can be considered to constitute a language policy which might be implemented (Stage 3) and elaborated (Stage 4). Thus, rather than conceptually framing language revitalization policies and programs, Haugen’s model illuminates what is not happening, at least in traditional language planning terms, in Ecuador in general and Saraguro in particular. Perhaps with cases such as this in mind, Fettes (1997) has recently suggested that language revitalization efforts simply can not be understood in terms of traditional linguistics and language planning frameworks. In his view,

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the modern notion of languages as homogenous, stable ‘things’ that are taught, learned, and used – a concept deeply embedded in the grammar of Western languages and in linguistic theory – is fatal to the goal of revitalizing indigenous languages. (Fettes, 1997: 302) Fettes argues that the challenge of language revitalization can only be understood and eventually met by abandoning the notion that language is an abstract entity. For Fettes (and others), language must be viewed as interwoven with every aspect of community life. Thus, ‘a theory of language renewal must begin with the speakers, with people “doing language” together in meaningful ways and work out from there’ (p. 303– 4). Furthermore, Fettes (2000) questions whether that ‘sense of the sacred [is] compatible with contemporary approaches to second language teaching, or indeed with the modern tradition of language planning as a whole’. A key point of Fettes’ argument is that traditional language planning theories, because they stem from western linguistics and concepts of language, are not appropriate for framing language revitalization efforts, and for that reason, add little to our understanding of them. Yet while Haugen’s traditional framework provides only limited insight, Cooper’s (1989: 98) accounting scheme for language planning activities is perhaps more applicable to the Saraguro case. This is at least in part because Cooper’s framework does not emphasize top-down decisionmaking as Haugen’s model does, but rather tends to focus on ‘on-theground’ or grassroots activities. Condensed here, Cooper’s scheme consists of eight components, phrased as eight sub-questions: (i) What actors, (ii) attempt to influence what behaviors, (iii) of which people, (iv) for what ends, (v) under what conditions, (vi) by what means, (vii) through what decision making process, (viii) with what effect? Each of these components is now considered individually, to the extent possible, for the Saraguro case. · What actors: There is not one central group of individuals responsible for language revitalization planning in Saraguro. Rather, discussion and activity originate with community leaders, regional political leaders, regional educational administrators, community school directors and teachers, as well as individual members of different communities. · What behaviors: Just as there is not one source of language planning activity, neither is there one singular language planning goal or activity. For example, while regional educational administrators and

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·

·

·

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school directors discuss plans to teach Quichua as a second language in the school, teachers encourage parents to use the language at home, and political leaders emphasize the importance of speaking a Quichua that is ‘pure’ and untainted by Spanish. Thus, language revitalization initiatives focus on altering language practices at home, at school, but also in the wider community. Of which people: Although not explicitly formulated, much of the rhetoric surrounding language revitalization tends to be directed at young adults, who are perceived as in control of the language socialization and language acquisition patterns of the young. For example, school teachers and political leaders in both communities decry the lack of use of the language among the younger generations and exhort parents to use Quichua with their children at home. For what ends: Cooper (1989) distinguishes between goals which are overt (language-related behaviors) and latent (non-language-related behaviors). Among Saraguros, the principal goal seems to be to revitalize Quichua as a spoken language in the communities. While this is clearly a language-related goal, this aim is also embedded in other non-language-related goals, namely the revitalization and maintenance of Saraguro culture. As is clear from the quotes at the start of Chapter 5, in the minds of language and education professionals, these two aims are inseparable. Under which conditions: An overview of the characteristics of the Saraguro language revitalization context was presented in Chapter 2. Perhaps the most salient of these conditions concerns the dramatic changes in national-level politics in recent years and the concomitant increased political ‘space’ and power for indigenous political groups. A second and related set of changes concerns the recently gained local and indigenous control of the educational system of Saraguro. Together, these changes have given Saraguros the power to establish their own language and education goals and determine how they are implemented. By what means: There are multiple means or mechanisms through which Quichua language revitalization takes place in Saraguro. The most obvious of these is through the instructional programs in the school, the focus of Chapter 5. At community and school meetings, political leaders and teachers also encourage parents to use the language at home. Professional development programs run by the regional Directorate offer courses in Quichua for teachers-in-training. Other public figures and private persons attempt to influence

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language use patterns in the home and community by setting an example and using the language to the extent possible in public domains. Still others, especially those in Lagunas, attempt to instruct the language explicitly to their children, and practice it to the extent possible amongst themselves. · Through which decision-making process: As discussed earlier, there are few specific language planning goals or priorities about how language revitalization efforts should evolve. Correspondingly, there is relatively little in the way of formal decision-making processes. For example, the school directors recall discussing the instruction of Quichua with parents at formal school meetings in the years prior to the establishment of the school programs to teach the language. Both the Tambopamba and Lagunas teachers report that the proposed incorporation of Quichua into the school curriculum was positively received by the parents, but there was reportedly little discussion or decision-making concerning how, when, or how much instruction would take place. · With what effect: The effects of these diffuse efforts are difficult to assess. In one respect, revitalization efforts have led to the establishment of a small number of loosely organized school programs to teach the language; regular symbolic use of the language by some community members; increased awareness of the language situation; and some real learning by both adults and children. While from one perspective, one might consider these to be results of prior small and varied attempts, from a different perspective, they are initiatives in their own right. The on-the-ground and inter-personal nature of language revitalization efforts in Saraguro makes it difficult to disentangle the results or ‘effects’ from the efforts themselves. For example, when a community official makes a short, symbolic speech at a meeting in Quichua, is that the result of prior discussions, activities, or courses, or rather an attempt to influence language use patterns and to revitalize Quichua? Similarly, if a mother plays a game with her child in Quichua, is this the result of the promotion of the language by the teachers, or rather, an effort to instruct the language to her children and revitalize Quichua language use in the home? At least in Saraguro, then, the ‘effects’ of language revitalization seem inseparable from the efforts themselves. Language revitalization initiatives in Saraguro clearly have not taken a linear path from a central planning body ‘downwards,’ but rather, have originated from multiple sources and at various levels simultaneously. For example, at formal and public levels, Saraguro community leaders attempt

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to use the language at community political, cultural, and athletic events, and community teachers instruct the language at school. Simultaneously, at the level of the home and family, some parents attempt to learn and teach the language, or opt to use the language for phatic communication. Thus, to borrow Fishman’s (1990) terminology, revitalization efforts are taking place on both the ‘weak’ and ‘strong’ side of diglossia. In other words, efforts in Saraguro have focused both on reinstating the language in home, family, and community domains, but have also pushed the language into new and non-traditional arenas, such as the school and public meetings. In this respect, Saraguro revitalization efforts mirror those taking place across the Andes (Hornberger & King, in press). In our discussion of efforts to reverse Quichua/Quechua language shift in the Andean regions of Peru, Bolivia and Ecuador, Hornberger and I stress that language revitalization activities, to a greater or lesser extent, are taking place at each of Fishman’s proposed eight stages. These stages, and the framework and theory in which they are embedded are now addressed. RLS as one possible language revitalization goal Fishman’s (1990: 17) reversing language shift (RLS) theory is meant to provide a ‘greater societal perspective for negotiating the difficult priorities that an RLS effort inevitably involves’ (p. 16). The central component of the theory is a multi-stage ‘analysis of and prescription for’ RLS. Thus, the stages serve as both a theory ‘to provide greater societal perspective for negotiating the difficult priorities that any RLS effort inevitably entails’ (p. 17), and a means for assessing the ‘intergenerational continuity and maintenance prospects of a language network or community’ (Fishman, 1991: 87). Fishman’s theory consists of eight stages of RLS, which are divided into two periods: those before and those after diglossia has been achieved (see Table 6.2). At the first and weakest stages, the goals and efforts are aimed at achieving a diglossic situation within the community, that is, a situation wherein the languages are functionally distributed (typically with the traditional language used primarily in the intimate home and community settings and the majority language in wider, regional contexts). These stages consist of reconstructing, promoting, and teaching the language in the home and community arenas. In Fishman’s (1991: 401) formulation, usually, although not necessarily, subsequent to the attainment of diglossia, efforts focus on the ‘strong side’ of diglossia, ‘in search of increased power-sharing’. These ‘strong-side’ efforts attempt to extend the language to uses beyond intimate settings, bringing it into local, regional, and national work spheres, the mass media, and governmental services, including the public schools. The hierarchical presentation of the stages is

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Table 6.2 Fishman’s (1991) Stages of Reversing Language Shift (read from bottom up) 1.

Education, work sphere, mass media and governmental operations at higher and nationwide levels.

2.

Local/regional mass media and governmental services.

3.

The local/regional (i.e. non-neighborhood) work sphere, both among Xmen and among Ymen.a

4b. Public schools for Xish children, offering some instruction via Xish, but substantially under Yish curricular and staffing control. 4a. Schools in lieu of compulsory education and substantially under Xish curricular and staffing control. II.

RLS to transcend diglossia, subsequent of its attainment

5.

Schools for literacy acquisition, for the old and for the young, and not in lieu of compulsory education.

6.

The intergenerational and demographically concentrated home-family neighborhood: the basis of mother tongue transmission.

7.

Cultural interaction in Xish primarily involving the community-based older generation.

8.

Reconstructing Xish and adult acquisition XSL. I.

RLS to attain diglossia (assuming prior ideological clarification)

a

Within Fishman’s RLS framework, X represents the minority or threatened language, and Y the dominant or majority language.

meant to emphasize the indispensable nature of the lower order stages, and in particular, the critical nature of stage six. It is also, however, important to note that the stages are non-linear, and it is possible, and often beneficial, to engage simultaneously in both ‘strong’ and ‘weak’ efforts. While any RLS effort involves initiatives at each of the eight stages, the essential and primary goal of reversing language shift (RLS) is to reinstate intergenerational transmission of a particular language-in-culture pattern (Fishman, 1991). Throughout his discussion, Fishman (1990: 18) stresses that ‘when all is said and done, any and all seriously intended RLS effort must still stand the acid test of fostering demonstrable transmissibility across the intergenerational link’. Anything less that this, in Fishman’s (1991: 399) view, is merely ‘biding time’. In certain cases, reinstatement of home–family transmission of the heritage language might the ultimate aim of language revitalization efforts as well; however, it is not the only possible aim. Recall that language revitalization is defined here as the attempt to add new linguistic forms or functions to a threatened language with the aim of increasing its uses or users. A

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critical difference between RLS and language revitalization lies in the fact that unlike RLS, language revitalization is not singularly focused on reinstating inter-generational transmission. The scope and aim of language revitalization, by definition, is broader. I do not mean to suggest that Fishman’s definition is in any way ‘narrow,’ only that the aim of RLS is highly focused and distinct: to return the language to the primary tongue of home–family–child socialization. For some communities, re-establishing the language as the primary mother tongue might be neither feasible nor desirable. For instance, an endangered language group could decide that their traditional or ‘native’ language should remain an important second tongue, used primarily in specific ritual cultural functions; or the group might decide that familiarity with and limited competence in the ancestral language is sufficient for marking ethnic identity, and thus both an adequate and realistic goal. Too frequently, planners and academics assume that successful language revitalization is defined by achievement of native-like competence and exclusive mother-tongue transmission. Such an emphasis dooms most efforts to failure before they get underway. A key difference between language revitalization and RLS efforts, then, is that language revitalization efforts which have different objectives or do not meet the aim of intergenerational transmission are not necessarily the failures that Fishman (1991) suggests. In a similar vein, Margolin (1998: 78–9) has argued that ‘any focus on restoring the minority language as a viable medium of everyday communication necessarily abandons the many minority communities that no longer have the human resources to build the language back up in this way’. Margolin stresses that the ‘all or nothing’ attitude embodied in the singular focus on reinstating mother-tongue transmission means, at least for many communities, that ‘that “nothing” is infinitely more probable than “all”’ (p. 80). Although the particular language revitalization goals might vary from community to community, it is essential that each group, realistically and carefully, consider and define what these goals should be. In some respects, this consideration parallels Fishman’s ‘ideological clarification,’ which he suggests is an essential first step or precursor to RLS. While Fishman (1990: 17) conceptualizes this stage as consisting of ‘consciousness heightening and reformation’, Dauenhauer and Dauenhauer (1998: 63) suggest more directly that this stage entails answering the question: ‘Do we really want to preserve [the endangered language]?’. The Dauenhauers note that for the Tlingit, Haida and Tsimshian language groups of Alaska, it is at this basic level that ‘a broad gap and disparity have developed between verbally expressed goals on the one hand (generally advocating language

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and cultural preservation) and unstated but deeply felt emotions and anxieties on the other (generally advocating or contributing to abandonment)’ (p. 62). Thus, in answering the question of whether revitalization the language is a desirable goal, ‘while it is generally politically and emotionally correct to proclaim resoundingly, “Yes!” the underlying and lingering fears, anxieties, and insecurities over traditional language and culture suggest that the answer may really be, “No”’ (p. 63). Furthermore, the Dauenhauers note that they ‘often find that those who vote “Yes” to “save the language and culture” expect someone else to “save” it for others, with no personal effort, commitment, or involvement of the voter’ (p. 63). The Dauenhauers’ analysis suggests that ideological clarification is extremely complicated, and perhaps better considered an ongoing process rather than a final-end product. An additional implication is that returning the language to its prior position as the exclusive tongue of the home might be neither a preferred nor feasible goal for a particular group. The ‘vote’ then is more complicated than simply ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and is perhaps better phrased as ‘How do we want our language to be taught, learned, and used?’ in the present as well as in the future. This question also highlights the fact that language revitalization entails using the language in new ways, for new uses, by new users, aspects of language revitalization which are frequently overlooked. Addressing these important shifts, Bentahila and Davies (1993: 355) make a critical distinction between two possible language revitalization aims: the process of restoration, which attempts to return ‘the language to a previously more healthy state and the process of transformation, which seeks to forge new roles for the language.’ Often, the dream of language revitalization advocates and planners is one of restoring the threatened language to its former functional positions in the community. However, as Bentahila and Davies (1993: 371) note, ‘the chances of returning a declining language to its old domains in a restored speech community are very slim, so that if the term revival [or revitalization] is interpreted in this sense, the whole enterprise may be dismissed as impractical and unrealistic’. Not only is it very difficult to restore the language’s functions and forms, uses and users to what they were in the past, but doing so without the use of other institutions and the use of the language in other domains is all but impossible; thus, the process of revitalizing the language almost always entails using the language in new ways among new users. Once it is recognized that returning to the sociolinguistic situation of the past is an unfeasible goal, new and transformative ways of maintaining and revitalizing the language can be considered. The results might include the establishment of what is, in effect, a new variety of the language, used in

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new contexts, and adopted by a new type of speaker. The language might ‘no longer serve as the widely used medium of communication among the type of people with whom it was originally associated, but instead acquire new functions for another group, and be assigned roles it could never have assumed in its heyday’ (Bentahila & Davies, 1993: 371). Thus, although reversing language shift and restoring the language to the point where all community members have a native-like competence might be nearly impossible in many situations, this does not mean that the language cannot be revitalized and saved from extinction, with a ‘transformed’ configuration of uses and users, forms and functions, a distinct but an altogether worthy goal in and of itself. The value of ‘unsuccessful’ language revitalization initiatives As Dorian (1987) correctly points out, language revitalization efforts which are not deemed successful in that they do not reinstate mothertongue transmission of the threatened language are far from worthless. She argues that there are at least four ‘possible reasons for undertaking efforts of this kind, sometimes in the face of almost certain failure’ (p. 63). First among these is that ‘one of the commonest reasons for failure – negative attitudes internalized by the speakers of potential speakers themselves – is in itself a serious reason for attempting to promote the language’ (p. 63). As discussed in Chapter 4, there are many middle-age Saraguro adults, especially in Tambopamba, who continue to associate Quichua with low levels of education and low status. (Recall the Tambopamba man who laughed at the seemingly ridiculous notion that his high school-educated children could speak Quichua.) In contrast, among the younger generations, and especially those in Lagunas, members tend to be well aware of the virtues and values of Quichua, and can quickly list attributes of the language such as the suitability of Quichua for computer programming and the language’s historical link to the noble Incas. While these attitudinal differences are in part due to the distinct economic, social, and cultural trajectories of the two communities, they are probably also linked to the fact that revitalization efforts are better established in Lagunas. In a similar vein, Norwegian social anthropologist, Thomas Hylland Ericksen (1991) argues that language revitalization efforts are critically important for many minorities in that they mark ‘the end of a long history of discrimination and stigmatization and the beginning of a new and positive identity’ (in Huss, 1999: 15). As Huss explains, for revitalization efforts to gain momentum, the minority language community has to discover or develop a basis for an enhanced self-

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esteem through an in-group revalorization of the very cultural traits, for instance the community language, that were previously despised and ridiculed by both in-group members and outsiders. (1999: 15) A second and related benefit of language revitalization efforts, Dorian (1987: 64) notes, ‘is the fact that they nearly always carry with them, if only because of the need for appropriate instruction materials, some emphasis on traditional lifeways and some transmission of ethnic history’. This is likewise the case in Saraguro, where Quichua instruction has tended to focus on, and concomitantly affirm, indigenous community and home practices such as tending to animals, cooking indigenous foods, and so forth. In both schools, the instruction of Quichua often incorporated topics and vocabulary words related to indigenous community practices. A third potential benefit from language revitalization efforts is economic. As Spolsky (1978: 357) notes, ‘one of the most important economic effects of a bilingual education program is in its potential for immediate benefit to the local community’ (in Dorian, 1987: 64); this benefit typically takes the form of employment as teachers, teachers’ aides, or administrators. In Saraguro, the emphasis on Quichua instruction and bilingual education at the regional Loja Directorate has meant that preference for teaching positions has tended to be given to individuals who have some knowledge of Quichua. While the practice of giving preference to Quichua speakers does not increase the total number of positions available, nor does it provide an economic boost to the region as Spolsky argues is the case for some Native American groups in the US, the preferential system does create economic incentives for acquisition of the language among Saraguros. Indeed, many Saraguros are quick to point out that Quichua is important for obtaining teaching positions in the region, and furthermore believe that teaching positions are also available in the US for Quichua speakers. This belief not only creates an incentive for teachers but also for students, who are routinely told of the positions and possibilities for speakers of the language. A fourth and final benefit, which is not entirely unrelated to the previous three, concerns the overall ‘cultural climate’ of the community (Dorian, 1987: 65). In describing the legacy of more than 60 years of Irish revitalization attempts, Dorian notes both the quantity and quality of scholarly, academic, and pedagogical materials, including books, radio, and television broadcasts pertaining to the Irish language, laws, pre-Christian religion, and so on. While Dorian is quick to note that while ‘not all Irish, adults or children, are especially interested in their Celtic heritage, the point is,

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however, that if they should be, there are no obstacles’ whatsoever to learning about it (p. 65). This also holds true for the Saraguros. With the increase in interest in Quichua language and its revitalization there is also a small, but growing collection of publications and materials on Saraguro culture and history. For example, in 1994, a group of Saraguros published, Los Saraguros. Fiesta y ritualidad, a volume of articles which describes traditional rituals of Saraguro communities, edited by the Belotes. More recently in 1998, Zoila Zhingre, former president of the Saraguro political organization, CIOIS, published an article on Saraguro indigenous organization in a volume of works by female indigenous leaders. Numerous other studies have been undertaken by Saraguro students enrolled in university courses in Ecuadorian cities or professionalization programs offered at the regional educational Directorate. Saraguros also have an electronic presence on the world wide web (see J. Belote & L. Belote, 1999). While of course all of these developments are not directly attributable to language revitalization efforts, they are an important part of the changing cultural climate in the region.

Language Revitalization and Second Language Acquisition As has been stressed in the previous pages, societal-level, cultural and socioeconomic processes are important for understanding language revitalization. However, there are also micro-level, interactional factors of acquiring a second language which are critical to take into account. In the following, I review some of the most recent and basic findings of secondlanguage-acquisition research. These findings are crucial to consider in determining what is necessary for second language acquisition to take place, and hence, for most language revitalization efforts to be successful. Then, in light of these findings, as well as my own understanding of language revitalization in general and the Saraguro situation in particular, I make nine suggestions for the successful development and implementation of language revitalization programs. While the concern with language teaching and learning is an ancient one – for instance, Latin-as-second-language texts date back to the Roman Empire (Nancy Dorian, personal communication, 29 May 1999), the field of second language acquisition, with its roots in the disciplines of both psychology and education, is relatively new. Many of the major studies date back only to the 1970s and 1980s. While much remains to be investigated, most researchers in the field concur on the several basic points outlined in the next sections.

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Younger learners have an advantage One of the longest standing claims in the field of language acquisition is Lenneberg’s (1967) hypothesis that there is a ‘critical period’ for language learning. According to the hypothesis, the end of the critical period, which Lenneberg sets at around puberty, is marked by a severe loss in language acquisition capacities. The validity of Lenneberg’s claim has been addressed in hundreds of research studies in the areas of both first and second language acquisition. Although still debated, in the opinion of some experts, there is a growing body of evidence that ‘the claim that puberty, or the mid-teens, represents a relatively well defined, maturationally determined critical period terminus for language acquisition has not been convincingly supported by second language studies’ (Harly & Wang, 1997: 37; emphasis added).1 While there seems to be no specific age after which native-like competency in the second language is universally unachievable, there is a substantial evidence which suggests that increasing age of onset of the second language is related to diminished ultimate attainment. In other words, across a wide range of language features (e.g. phonology, morphology, syntax), learners who begin at a younger age tend to do better in terms of final level of attainment (Johnson, 1992; Johnson & Newport, 1989; Oyama, 1978). However, it is also important to distinguish ultimate level of attainment from rate of acquisition (Krashen et al., 1979). While children seem to do better in terms of long-term achievement in the second language, adults and older learners initially tend to be faster learners. As Harley and Wang summarize (1997: 28), rate-of-acquisition studies, holding time and exposure to the second language as constant, have shown that adults and adolescents generally make faster initial progress than children and older children faster progress than younger children, particularly in acquiring morphosyntactic and lexical aspects of the language (emphasis added). Yet while in formal learning settings, adults initially acquire the target language more quickly, their advantage tends to disappear after a only a few months (Larsen-Freeman & Long, 1991). And ‘irrespective of whether native-speaker proficiency is achieved, children are more likely than adults to reach higher levels of attainment in both pronunciation and grammar’ (Ellis, 1994: 492). Furthermore, while most of the studies have been concerned with acquisition in formal, instructional settings, there is some evidence that the advantage of children is even greater in naturalistic envi-

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ronments. This might be because formal learning settings do not provide the amount of exposure to the language necessary for the age advantage to emerge (Singleton, 1989). Large amounts of the language exposure are needed Before children produce simple words in their first language, at between 12 and 18 months of age (O’Grady et al., 1997), they have been exposed to an average of five hours a day of language over a period of 18 months, together some 2700 hours of language (Brandt & Ayoungman, 1989). And over the next three years, as their language competence develops slowly, they are almost constantly surrounded by meaningful language, relating to their needs, real objects, and people around them. It should not be surprising, then, that full proficiency in a second language seems to develop only after significant exposure over a period of months and years, not days and weeks. In other words, exposure to the target language just one or two hours a week over several years (as is the case with many foreign language programs in the United States and elsewhere) is insufficient (Greymorning, 1997). Experience from the Hawaiian immersion programs, which teach Hawaiian to English-dominant Native Hawaiians, suggests that children begin to exhibit an age appropriate level of fluency in Hawaiian after 600 to 700 language contact hours (Greymorning, 1997). In other words, under optimal conditions, based on an estimated four hours of instruction and communication in the language daily, five days a week, students will likely require at least 35 weeks, or roughly one academic year to approach fluency in the language. Other research is less optimistic, and suggests that even more time may be necessary. For instance, studies which have examined the development of academic competence in a second language indicate that students often reach the national norms in mathematics and language arts (which tends to be measured in terms of spelling, punctuation, and simple grammar points) in as little as two years (Collier, 1989). However, students take from four to seven years to reach national norms on standardized tests in reading, social studies, and science. Thus, the development of ‘thinking skills’ in the second language tends to require not one or two years, but rather three to four times that amount (1989: 526). The language needs to be at least partially comprehensible Simply being exposed to ‘native speaker–native speaker’ talk is insufficient for language acquisition to occur. This holds true across studies of acquisition of both first and second languages, for both adults and children,

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and among normal and abnormal populations (Long, 1981, 1983; LarsenFreeman & Long, 1991). If children or adults do not have access to language which is at least partially comprehensible to them, they do not acquire the target language at all or only acquire a ‘very limited stock of lexical items and formulaic utterances’ (Larsen-Freeman & Long, 1991: 142). While the precise role of comprehension, what constitutes comprehensible input, and how language comprehension can be facilitated has been extensively debated (e.g. Corder, 1967; Long, 1985; Pica et al., 1987), there is a general consensus that ‘comprehension is a major contributor to L2 learning’ (Pica, 1994a: 55). In other words, simply being exposed to the language does not induce language acquisition. Rather, ‘all cases of successful first and second language acquisition are characterized by the availability of comprehensible (not necessarily linguistically modified) input’ (LarsenFreeman & Long, 1991: 142; emphasis theirs). Learners must engage in meaningful interaction in the target language While comprehensible input seems to be important, there is evidence that alone it is insufficient to ensure mastery of the target language (Swain, 1985). In addition to benefiting from language which is comprehensible, successful language learners seem to need to engage in meaningful interaction in the target language. As Long has suggested, negotiation for meaning, and especially negotiation work that triggers interactional adjustments by the native speaker or more competent interlocutor, facilitates acquisition because it connects input, internal learner capacities, particularly selective attention, and output in productive ways. (Long, 1996: 451–452; emphasis his) The process of production and modification through interaction seems to be an important component of language acquisition. The negotiation which occurs during social interaction is thought to facilitate learner comprehension, access to lexical form and meaning, and production of modified output (Pica, 1994b). This claim is partly supported by work which has found that learners, in interactions with non-native speakers, modify their output and produce somewhat more grammatical utterances when asked for clarification or confirmation (Pica, 1988; Ellis, 1994). While it is important not to simplistically equate modified output with learning, Pica’s work does indicate that interaction may be a key component of second language learning. Furthermore, this line of research suggests that ‘teaching a language should be an interactive process between teachers and students and among the students themselves’ (Pica, 1994a: 56).

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Before concluding this section, it seems important to distinguish between optimal and essential second language acquisition conditions. This chapter has included discussion of examples from the anthropological and sociolinguistic research literature which suggests that such interaction is not crucial for children. Research among the Tornedalians of Sweden and the Gypsies of Finland, for instance, indicates that members of these communities eventually become fluent speakers of Meänkieli and Romani respectively, despite the fact that they are not expected to engage in meaningful interaction in the language as children. It should be noted that while these two examples suggest that the findings from the field of second language acquisition might not describe the conditions necessary for language acquisition to occur, at the same time, neither do they negate the evidence that they are the optimal conditions for second language acquisition. In summary, second language learners tend to be most successful when they have opportunities to be exposed to comprehensible language and to engage in meaningful negotiation in the target language. Furthermore, under any conditions, the process of second language is likely to be a long one, and ultimately most successful if begun at a relatively young age. Having reviewed the conditions and factors which have been found to characterize successful second language acquisition, we can now consider how these findings might translate into sound, well-formulated language revitalization initiatives.

Suggestions for Language Revitalization in Saraguro and Beyond In addition to providing greater understanding of the processes of language revitalization, an important aim of the present investigation is to contribute information which might assist communities attempting to revitalize their threatened native or traditional languages. I hope that through description and analysis of two communities in the early stages of Quichua revitalization I have provided some insights into the difficult and complex nature of this process. Simultaneously, in investigating and writing about the communities of Tambopamba and Lagunas, and in studying other reported language revitalization cases over the course of the last six years, I have developed my own ideas of what may be important for successful language revitalization. Based on my review of language revitalization literature, findings from the Saraguro case, and the second language acquisition research findings discussed here, in the following I present a

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framework for community action, and outline nine specific suggestions for language revitalization planning. These suggestions, however, should not be taken as a program for direct implementation or even a recommendation for policy. It is essential that each community work to determine its own language policy. It cannot be over-stressed that the community language planning and language revitalization goals, as well as how the community will work towards meeting them, must be arrived at and implemented internally. As was emphasized at the 1995 ‘Endangered Languages’ symposium, the decisions about the maintenance of a language and programs towards that end, ‘must stem from within the speech community itself’ (Grenoble & Whaley, 1996: 213). Highlighting the importance of local control and community agreement, Brandt and Ayoungman (1989) outline a course of action for communities faced with the potential loss of their ancestral tongue which consists of seven stages: (1) introduction, (2) preplanning and research, (3) needs assessment, (4) policy formulation and goal-setting, (5) implementation, (6) evaluation, and (7) re-planning. Ideally, at the introductory stage (1), a few committed individuals concerned about the ancestral language recruit others and disseminate information concerning the need for action. At the preplanning and research stage (2), the core group collects and analyzes information on the present language situation, such as number of speakers and attitudes towards the endangered language, and disseminates this information in an accessible format. At the needs assessment stage (3), the resources and objectives of the community are considered by the core group. Once the language situation is understood and the general goals have been set, at the policy formulation and goal setting stage (4), ‘a feasible concrete plan should be developed [by the core group] and adopted by the highest authorities’ (Brandt and Ayoungman, 1989: 60). After receiving input from as many sources as possible, the plan is implemented (5). During the evaluation stage (6), the core group and community as a whole consider how well the plan is working to meet community goals. The last stage, ‘the replanning-spiraling stage’ (7), is an ongoing one which allows for constant adjustment, recruitment, ‘tinkering, replanning, and spiraling’ back to other stages as necessary (p. 62). These guidelines provide a useful, basic framework for community action. The guidelines are especially laudable in that they emphasize the importance of involving as many people as possible at each stage of the revitalization effort, as well as the need for community control and community-internal leadership. Of course, each community would need to adjust the guidelines so that they fit its own unique organizational characteristics. For example, in Saraguro, all indigenous communities have an

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elected political leadership, known as the cabildo (‘council’ /S/), which consists of a community president, vice president, treasurer, and secretary. The regular community meetings of the cabildo might be an ideal starting point for language revitalization planning and organization. At these meetings, a few members concerned about the loss of Quichua (in both communities such individuals exist) might give a talk about the community language situation, invite a discussion, and encourage interested individuals to join their committee or core group. This core group would then attempt to recruit other members, assess needs and goals, and develop a plan for action, reporting back to and receiving feedback from the larger group at each community-wide meeting. Collective talk and communication are critical. However, at the same time, planners and activists would do well to heed the warning that while talking about ‘“what to do” to rescue endangered languages is important,’ it alone will not reverse language shift (McCarty et al., 1997: 101). Experts exhort individuals to continue planning and organizing, but also to ‘begin using the language now – at home, in the community, and everywhere’ (McCarty et al., 1997: 101). As Richard Littlebear (1999: 1) observed in an address given to an indigenous language symposium in the US, ‘if we all just spoke our language to our young people, we would have no need for indigenous language curricula or for conferences such as this one to save our languages’. Within Brandt and Ayoungman’s (1989) general planning framework, the following are specific suggestions for community language revitalization. Of course, each community would set its own language policy objectives. As previously discussed in this chapter, some communities might opt to set less ambitious goals regarding their ancestral or native language and for example, might decide to focus collectively on the documentation or archival of the language, or its preservation in specific ritual or ceremonial contexts. Other communities might decide to commit themselves to and invest in restoring their native language to a prominent functional position in the community. The following suggestions, however, assume that the goal of the community is for the younger generation to attain native-like competence in the ancestral language, as well as in the language of wider communication. In Saraguro, this would mean the development of native-like proficiency in both Quichua and Spanish by the young. 1. Exposure to and acquisition of the language should start at a young age As discussed in the previous section on second-language-acquisition research, early exposure to the target language plays an important role in

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determining the ultimate level of proficiency. Ideally, young children would be exposed to large amounts of comprehensible input in the target language at home. However, given that children do not regularly engage in meaningful interaction in the tradition language at home in most language revitalization situations (for if they did the language would probably not be threatened), it may be necessary – at least initially – for language exposure and instruction to begin outside of the home. If fluency among the youngest generation is the goal, given that the language is not used regularly at home, initiating instruction in high school might be too late. One way of accomplishing this is to establish preschools and daycare centers which also serve as language socialization centers. Presently in Lagunas, and up until recently in Tambopamba, each community has maintained a joint preschool and day care center where, for a minimal fee, parents can leave their children each weekday morning. The center in Lagunas is staffed by six madres communitarias (‘community mothers’ /S/) with varying degrees of competence in Quichua. Spanish is the primary language at the Lagunas center, with Quichua occasionally instructed and used in limited contexts. Based on the Maori language nests model in New Zealand (Benton, 1986; Nicholson & Garland, 1991), each community day care center could be converted into a runa shimi cusha (‘Quichua language nest’ /Q/), in which community children would be exposed to 20 hours of Quichua a week. If adopted, the communities would need to employ fully bilingual staff and train them in language immersion techniques. Day care programs similar to the Maori ‘language nests’ successfully have been established by Navajo in Flagstaff, Arizona and by Native Hawaiians in Hawai’i (McLean, 1997). An important aspect of the centers would be the participation of older adults. Given that many of the Quichua linguistic resources of both communities are vested with older members, it is critical that they be involved. (Planners should note, however, the importance of elders ‘having specific information on what is expected of them so they can contribute productively’ [Ayoungman, 1995: 184].) Involvement of the elders in the Quichua ‘nests’ has the advantage of possibly exposing children to ‘authentic’ home-like Quichua language patterns (as opposed to pedagogical ones). Furthermore, while madres communitarias are more likely to use ‘Unified Quichua,’ elders bring ‘authentic Quichua’ to the language center, thus exposing the children to both varieties of Quichua, a situation which might eventually help to close the real and perceived gaps between the two varieties.

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2. ‘Extreme’ or ‘fanatical’ immersion measures are often needed Revitalization of the threatened language and development of individual competencies in it takes serious effort and commitment on the part of the teachers, parents, and students; so much so that some measures appear to be extreme or even fanatical. However, because each threatened language has been, and continues to be, overwhelmed by the cultural, economic, and demographic forces of the dominant language, seemingly extreme measures are necessary. As Fishman (1991) has noted, language revitalization planners and activists often appear to be fanatical; yet given the difficulty of the project, such fanaticism is necessary for success. One such extreme, but also crucial recommendation for the Quichua revitalization effort is the establishment of Quichua language immersion programs in the primary schools. Like the French language immersion programs in Canada (Lambert & Tucker, 1972), in these schools, Quichua would be used both formally as the medium of content instruction, and informally as the language of conversation and extra-academic activities. Such programs have been shown to be ‘vastly superior to more traditional models of second language teaching’ while concomitantly being equally successful at transmitting content area (Wolfson, 1989: 243; Price, 1985; Jones, 1998a). Success of the immersion programs can be explained in light of the second-language-acquisition research findings discussed earlier. Immersion programs in elementary school (1) begin with young learners, (2) expose them to large amounts of the target language over several years, (3) provide them with comprehensible input, and (4) demand that learners engage in meaningful interaction in the target language. A well-functioning immersion program in Saraguro would ensure that instruction and most or all school communication takes place in Quichua. Thus, as recommended by a group of Native American education experts, language teaching and learning would be ‘interactive and grounded in the real experience of the children at school, at home, and in the community’ (Anonymous, 1997: 116). One such effort is the Navajo Immersion program which has been in operation since the late 1980s at Fort Defiance Elementary School in Arizona. As Lettie Nave (1997: 161), a teacher for two decades at the school, explains, ‘the students are “immersed” in Navajo at school, particularly in the first two years of the program. In kindergarten, Navajo is the language of instruction and of communication. The students learn Navajo by hearing it and using it in academic and social communication’. Thus, as is true of the immersion programs of the Cree in Quebec, the Hualapai in Arizona, the Maori in New Zealand, and the Punana Leo in

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Hawai’i, ‘language is learned as a by product’ of cultural interaction and instruction (Stiles, 1997: 256). Unlike ‘submersion programs’ in which children are placed in academic classes in a new language with no extra support, immersion programs are carefully planned, provide extra-linguistic support in order to aid comprehension, and allow students to use their first language when necessary (Wolfson, 1989). For Saraguro students, Spanish for content instruction and academic language development could be introduced in the upper elementary grades in order to prepare students to enter the Spanish-language high school in town. 3. Efforts need to reach adults in multiple and diverse ways Due to the fact that adults will likely exhibit a range of competencies in the threatened language, as well as varying interests and amounts of enthusiasm for the language, efforts to impart the language to adults will need to take multiple and diverse forms. For example, for some, introductory language instruction in grammar and vocabulary might prove useful; others might benefit from planned opportunities to practice using the language conversationally in a supportive environment. Still others might prefer to work in small language-learning teams. While initially basic Quichua language classes may prove necessary (especially in Lagunas), they should not be the only nor primary form of language development. Language classes tend to over-emphasize grammar and formal aspects of the language. As Richard Littlebear, an Alaskan Native and language expert has noted, ‘it makes no sense to have students who can name colors, body parts, and the like in isolation, but who cannot participant in conversations, give simple directions, tell a story, take part in a drama, carry out instructions, and the like’ (Anonymous, 1997: 114). At the initial stages of language learning, one method which has experienced success within some Native American language communities is Total Physical Response (TPR) (Asher, 1977; Cantoni, 1999). This method focuses acquisition of new vocabulary through listening, and encourages spoken interaction over writing. An extension of TPR is TPR Storytelling, which utilizes ‘the vocabulary taught in the earlier stage by incorporating it into stories that the learners hear, watch, act out, retell, revise, read, write, and rewrite’ (Cantoni, 1999: 54). Both of these methods are well suited to language revitalization programs in that they are ‘examples of language teaching as an interactive learner-centered process that guides students in understanding and applying information and in conveying messages to others’ (p. 55).

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In addition, regular adult group activities that are already in place could become language activities in which Quichua is used in meaningful ways and acquired through discussion of content. For example, most communities have a club de madres (‘mothers’ club’ /S/), where women gather to share information concerning topics such as cooking, gardening, nutrition, and crafts. These activities (immediately or progressively) could be conducted in Quichua. Such activities provide meaningful opportunities to use the language in authentic contexts and have the advantage of already being established and well attended. Native American language activists have found that such language classes and activities are a source of joy in the community, especially for older members: ‘first, they have found a place where they can strengthen the fellowship of community members;’ and second, the classes provide an opportunity to practice and learn their mother tongue (Linn et al., 1998: 69). Still others might benefit from smaller, more intimate working groups. One such model is the Master–Apprentice Language Learning Program adopted and administered by Advocates for Indigenous California Language Survival (AICLS). Within this model, ‘speakers of California Indian languages, paired with younger members of the tribes who want to learn their language of heritage, are given training in a unique system of common-sense immersion-style language teaching and learning with the goal of making the apprentice fluent’ (Hinton, 1997; 1998b: 89). There are presently teams working with fifteen different Californian indigenous languages around the state. Hinton (1998b: 89) reports that ‘the program has been quite successful, producing a number of young fluent speakers, as well as functioning to implement increased usage of the languages by the native speakers’. While requiring substantial time, dedication, and commitment on the part of the team members, this model might also be appropriate for some Saraguros. 4. Flexibility and coordination are critical aspects of planning and implementation Although the need for flexibility and coordination could well be applied to nearly any project, it is perhaps especially crucial for groups involved in language revitalization efforts. Most groups initiating language revitalization projects are doing so for the first time. And as McCarty and Watahomigie (1999: 11) stress, ‘each language community is unique; what works for one may not be transferable to another’. It is therefore critical that members adjust their approaches if they are not effectively achieving the established community goals. In addition, given the limited resources of such endeavors, for efforts which involve more than one class, school, or

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community, coordination between them, allowing for the sharing of ideas, information, and materials, is extremely important. Considering Quichua revitalization at a regional level, the role of the Dirección might be to coordinate efforts among the schools. For example, schools could share instructional curricula and materials, rather than each designing them originally. Additionally, the Dirección could be responsible for providing in-service training, for example, in sheltered immersion techniques, and for coordinating teacher workshops where teachers can share ideas and experiences. Furthermore, the Dirección might consider establishing a Quichua ‘magnet’ school, or a regional school which takes students from many different communities. This school could be based on the language immersion model and staffed by bilingual professionals. Since it is likely that not all communities will immediately be in favor of adopting an immersion program, a magnet school would allow students from Quichua-oriented households from different communities to attend school together. Parents who live in communities which have not adopted Quichua-immersion primary schools might elect to send their children to the magnet school, which could also serve as a model school for teacher training. 5. Different varieties should be explicitly addressed As Dorian (1994) has suggested, and as has also been made clear in the previous chapters, the existence of two or more varieties of the threatened language can significantly complicate the language revitalization process. Puristic attitudes and conflicts over which dialect is truly ‘authentic’ inhibit both old and new speakers of the ancestral language and potentially polarize communities. From the outset, this possible pitfall needs to be recognized and discussed openly so that it may be addressed in each stage of planning. In Saraguro, both the real linguistic differences and the attitudes surrounding the acquisition and use of the two varieties are potentially problematic. At each step, care should be taken to openly address concerns, both linguistic and attitudinal. For instance, planners should consider discussing openly the negative impact of criticizing or ridiculing members when they speak or make errors in using either variety of Quichua. While jokes are typically not meant to be hurtful to the individual, they may well hinder use of the language and hamper revitalization efforts (McCarty et al., 1997). As Littlebear (1999: 3) stresses, ‘we must inform our own elders and our fluent speakers that they must be more accepting of those people who are just now learning our languages. We must sensitize our elders and fluent speakers to the needs of potential speakers of our languages’.

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At the goal-setting stage, members of the core group, as well as all community members, might consider which variety they consider suitable for different purposes (e.g. formal instruction, cultural interactions). Although there is likely to be disagreement at points, the core group of planners needs to work to prevent the community, as well as themselves, from dividing into opposing ‘sides,’ but rather to work towards the larger goal of building consensus. Perhaps one way of doing so is to stress that both varieties are valid and valuable and to frame the discussion as a community choice regarding the most efficient or suitable distribution of the varieties. For example, Quichua Unificado holds the pedagogical advantage of being the variety already used for written texts and the variety spoken by many younger Saraguro bilingual school teachers. Quichua auténtico, as the language of the elders, on the other hand, might be the variety with which young children (especially in communities like Tambopamba) are more familiar and the language used by elders in the home and family domains. While initially this issue may be controversial, as members become more familiar with the many similarities between the varieties, much of the tension surrounding them should dissipate. 6. Planners need to stress that revitalization is a long process While intensive efforts will likely reap some results which are immediately visible, restoring the threatened tongue to the point where individual competencies in Quichua are equal to that in the national language will undoubtedly be a long, and likely continuous process. Neither planners nor community members should be lulled into believing that short-term programs or even longer duration projects of several years are capable of restoring or maintaining the language. In Saraguro, core planners and community members might do well to conceptualize attainment of their goal of native-like fluency in Quichua for the younger generation not in terms of months, but rather over the course of years or even decades. Given the assumed goal of cultivating native speakers of the language, a realistic (although still very ambitious) longterm plan would be for today’s children to adequately develop their Quichua skills over the coming years so that they may transmit the language from infancy to their children, thereby restoring inter-generational continuity. This is clearly a multi-decade project, and needs to be conceptualized as such. However, as Spolsky (1995: 180) reminds us, arriving at this all important point, ‘where individual learners feel confident enough to rely on the new language’, and in particular, to use it with their children, is a difficult last step; even among the Maori of New Zealand, where language

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revitalization efforts are well established and often deemed successful, ‘the important breakthrough into vernacular fluency followed by whakapapa (normal intergenerational transmission) is still a challenge’ (p. 198). 7. It is critical to involve as many people as possible As stressed by Brandt and Ayoungman (1989), it is important to involve as many community members as possible at all stages of the language revitalization process. Not only does doing so help insure that there will be substantial agreement on the course of action and as a result, a greater degree of success in implementation, but also that the movement will have a wider base of support and larger cadre of future leaders and educators. The importance of a committed body of support cannot be overstressed; as McCarty and Watahomigie (1999: 11) observe, ‘personal and local group commitment are the crucial foundation’ for successful community language planning efforts. In Lagunas and Tambopamba planners ideally would concentrate not only on establishing goals and implementing programs but also on the recruitment of other potential core members. This could be done at community meetings, but would perhaps be most effective on a personal level, for example, through informal conversations with neighbors and friends. Such recruitment would also lend to greater understanding of the importance of potentially controversial initiatives, such as the immersion program described earlier. Moreover, it is critical that community members come to view the language revitalization goals, programs, and projects as their own rather than the agenda of ‘others’ (even if these ‘others’ are themselves community members). Or as Lucille Watahomigie, a long-time Native American language activist and educator has stressed, the parents, community, students, and community leaders must ‘own’ the educational efforts in order for them to be successful (Anonymous, 1997: 113). Participation in one or more aspects of the process will assist members in achieving this sense of ownership. Furthermore, given that the process of language revitalization is a lengthy one, it is critical that the initial Saraguro core planners motivate younger community members and cultivate leaders for the future years. 8. Parents must use the threatened language with their children Fishman (1991: 399) views the transmission of the ancestral language in the home as the mother tongue as the crux of reversing language shift. In his words, ‘if this stage [of mother tongue transmission] is not satisfied, all else can amount to little more than biding time’. While other community institutions can provide important assistance for the language, ultimately,

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only its transmission at home will guarantee that the language will become anyone’s mother tongue. If the goal of the community is for the young to become fluent speakers of the ancestral language, parental transmission is essential. In order for this to occur, adults of child-bearing age must have the linguistic resources to transmit the language, as well as the incentive and community support to do so. However, it should also be kept in mind that often, the same parents who express positive opinions about their native language and speak strongly of the importance of maintaining and revitalizing it, do not use the language regularly or even sporadically with their own children. This is true of many Saraguro community members. As discussed earlier, the gap between parents’ stated preferences and actual practice might be based on unexpressed, but perhaps deeply ingrained language attitudes. For many years Spanish has been associated with economic and social success, while simultaneously Quichua has been stigmatized and stigmatizing to its speakers. Despite the pervasiveness of pro-indigenous, pro-Quichua public discourse, it is possible that language attitudes instilled long ago remain entrenched and continue to impact individual language choices (King, in press). It is important that revitalization programs attempt to close this gap between stated language preference and actual language practice. One way of doing so might be to engage in promotional/educational work with parents about the importance of using the language at home and transmitting positive value about the language to their children. This might best take place informally, but informative talks and discussions about language usage and transmission are also essential. A series of community meetings could discuss the role of language in the community, language learning myths, and how first and second language learning takes place in the home. If the goal is the development of native-like speakers, the importance of habitually and naturally speaking the language with the children should be stressed for today’s parents, but also as a constant theme for future parents. 9. Planners and advocates should attempt to ‘attack’ from all directions So far I have outlined suggestions for a multi-pronged approach to language revitalization. While each community will set its own language planning goals and means of achieving them, planners should be wary of relying solely upon one institution or even one group of individuals. As Fishman (1991: 379) has noted, among language revitalization efforts, there exists a ‘widespread tendency to seek out and depend upon one-factor

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solutions to a very involved, multi-variate problem’. Planners would do well to develop a range of programs, which rely upon a variety of individuals and institutions. Ideally, Quichua language exposure and acquisition would concomitantly take place in the home, in the school, and in a variety of other community settings. Thus, in homes where there is not a sufficiently competent Quichua speaker, children would still have the possibility of acquiring the language at a young age at school. Moreover, children who become competent in Quichua could potentially serve as socializing agents for less competent friends, younger siblings, and cousins (since often they are the secondary or even primary care-takers). Eventually, if the goal is the development of native-like fluency in the threatened language, as discussed earlier, it is important for parents to transmit the language at home as the primary language. However, in order to get to the point where adults of child-bearing age are highly competent or fluent speakers, and are willing and able to use the language with their children, a range of diverse programs must be implemented.

Conclusion In the preceding chapters I have sought to enrich our understanding of the processes of language revitalization, as well as some of the practical and theoretical issues which it involves. While there are numerous, complex aspects of revitalizing and maintaining an endangered tongue, the future of any language, to a large extent, is in the hands (and mouths) of the speakers themselves. They are the ones who must set their language goals and objectives, who must design and implement the programs and projects to meet them, and ultimately, who determine the success of the process. As Krauss (1992b in Crawford, 1997: 64) has written, ‘you cannot from the outside inculcate into people the will to revive or maintain their languages. This has to come from them, from themselves’. Thus, if language revitalization efforts ‘are to succeed, they must be led by indigenous institutions, organizations, and activists’ (Crawford, 1997: 64). However, this fact does not mean that outsiders or non-speakers of the threatened language have no role to play; on the contrary, they are of critical importance. For it is the wider society which largely determines whether indigenous languages will be valued or stigmatized, whether they will be an economic asset or a liability, and hence, to a great extent, whether the threatened language’s roles and functions will expand or contract. As O’Huallachain (1977) and Benton (1986) have argued convincingly, the fate of a threatened language depends to a large degree on what actions are

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taken by majority language speakers and the country as a whole. Hornberger (1988: 236) draws a similar conclusion, arguing that indigenous language education would be accepted by Quechua speakers in Peru if members could be convinced by ‘real and visible signs in their national society’ that speaking an indigenous language was not an obstacle to mobility, meaning an ‘increasing range of roles and domains for Quechua and Spanish . . . where Quechua speakers’ low status would be counterbalanced by opportunities for social mobility and advancement regardless of language spoken’. Saraguros have the potential to do much to revitalize their language, and maintenance of their tongue depends largely on their initiatives and efforts. Yet, at the same time, if there are not new opportunities to use the language in wider domains, if the language is not valued as a viable means of communication, and if the national stigma of the language does not continue to lessen, it seems that Quichua revitalization efforts, no matter how intense, creative, and well-planned, will face great difficulties in increasing the number of users or uses of the language. Lastly, it should be emphasized and reiterated in closing that however improbable and far-fetched ‘success’ in revitalizing a language (by expanding its uses and users, forms and functions) or reversing language shift (by reinstating it as the tongue which is intergenerationally transmitted) might be, such efforts are often, in other ways, ameliorative and beneficial. The mere act of organizing and implementing a language revitalization program can favorably alter attitudes within both local and national arenas. Language revitalization programs, similar to many bilingual education initiatives, often serve as political statements of – and testament to – the group’s determination and ability to organize around a collective goal, and their right to self-regulate the pace and type of change within the community. Moreover, revitalization efforts can also benefit the speakers of the threatened language and their descendants in less tangible ways. As Joshua Fishman (1997: 197) notes in a personal discussion of the work of language activists in his own family, ‘as one who is the child of two language activists and the father and grandfather of language activists, I am sure that the lives of four generations have been enriched and even ennobled by the struggle’. In a similar vein, as a linguist involved with a project to revitalize an Australian aboriginal language, Adnyamathanha, has eloquently summarized: It was not the success in reviving the language – although in some ways [the program] did that. It was success in reviving something far deeper

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than the language itself – that sense of worth in being Adnyamathanha, and in having something unique and infinitely worth hanging onto. (Tunbridge, 1987; in Schmidt, 1990: 106) For Tunbridge, reviving the language was not so much about the process of ‘reversing language shift’ as it was about reversing the process of the loss of identity, ‘the loss of meaning, the loss of community worth’ (p. 3–4). Efforts to revitalize a threatened language can play a critical role in fostering positive attitudes concerning the group’s ethnic identity and in cultivating collective self-esteem. Furthermore, by bringing the language forward into new domains of use, among new types of users, language revitalization efforts can raise the status and lessen the stigma of the ethnic tongue within its community of (potential) speakers. In the final analysis, who is to say that these additional benefits of revitalization efforts are not as significant and valuable as the linguistic changes which might (or might not) occur in the community? Note 1. There are, however, exceptions to this. For instance, studies have found children to be quicker learners than adults at the level of phonology (Cochrane, 1989; Cochrane & Sachs, 1979; Tahta et al., 1981) and vocabulary (Yamada et al., 1980), and as quick as adults in the acquisition of morpho-syntax (Slavoff & Johnson, 1995).

Appendices Appendix 1: Monthly Schedule of Research Activities Month

Research activity

July and August 1993 Initial contacts with educational and political leaders established; preliminary investigation of site June 1994

Re-establish contacts

July 1994

Visit various Saraguro communities

September 1994

Establish residence in Lagunas; investigate second possible research site

October 1994

Reside and observe in Lagunas school and community

November 1994

Reside and observe in Tambopamba school and community

December 1994

Reside and observe in Tambopamba and Lagunas school and community

January 1995

Reside and observe in Lagunas school and community; conduct Lagunas parent interviews

February 1995

Reside and observe in Tambopamba school and community; conduct Tambopamba parent interviews

March 1995

Reside and observe in Lagunas school and community; conduct Lagunas parent and teacher interviews

April 1995

Reside and observe in Tambopamba school and community; conduct Tambopamba parent and teacher interviews

May 1995

Reside and observe in Lagunas school and community; conduct Lagunas parent and teacher interviews

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Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Appendices

Appendices

233

Appendix 2: Log of Audio-taped Interviews Tape 1a (11-1-94): Tape 1b (11-19-94):

Tape 2 (a+b) (11-19-94): Tape 3a (12-9-94): Tape 4 (a+b) (1-8-95): Tape 5a (1-13-95): Tape 5b (1-16-95): Tape 6a (1-21-95): Tape 6b (1-21-95): Tape 7a (1-23-95): Tape 7b (1-25-95): Tape 8a (1-28-95): Tape 8b (2-4-95): Tape 9a (2-7-95): Tape 9b (2-7-95): Tape 10a (2-13-95): Tape 10b (2-13-95): Tape 11a (2-13-95): Tape 11b (2-14-95): Tape 12a (2-14-95): Tape 12b (2-14-95): Tape 13a (2-15-95): Tape 13b (2-15-95): Tape 14a (2-18-95):

Rosa Delia Quishpe (Lagunas school director and teacher/Lagunas parent) Miguel Angel Vacacela Quishpe and school staff (Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja supervisor and school staff) (group interview) Angel Vacacela (Ex-director of town parochial school) Miguel Contento (Director of Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja) Jose Miguel Quishpe Vacacela (Lagunas parent) Rosa Elena Cango (Lagunas parent) María Rosa Alegria Guaman (Lagunas parent) Manuel Asunción Quizhpe Quizhpe (Lagunas parent) María Josefina Vaca (Lagunas parent) Rosa Vacacela Gonzalez (Lagunas parent) María Rosita Morocho (Lagunas parent) María Angel Saca (Lagunas parent) María Angelita Lopez Quishpe (Lagunas parent) Rosa Angelina Sigcho (Tambopamba parent) Rosa Asunción Sarango (Tambopamba parent) Carmen Balvina Apata y Morocho (Tambopamba parent) Rosa María Zapata Morocho (Tambopamba parent) Carmen Angelita Gonzalez Sigcho (Tambopamba parent) María Delfina Gonzalez Sigcho (Tambopamba parent) Marianita de Jesus Gonzalez (Tambopamba parent) María Delfina Quishpe (Tambopamba parent) Dolores Cartuche Andrade (Tambopamba parent) Jose Miguel Sarango Tene (Tambopambo parent) Rosita Cartuche Quishpe (Lagunas parent)

234

Tape 14b (2-17-95): Tape 15a (3-31-95): Tape 15b (4-3-95): Tape 16a (4-3-95): Tape 16b (4-5-95): Tape 17a (4-5-95): Tape 17b (4-5-95): Tape 18a (4-6-95): Tape 18b+19a (4-6-95): Tape 19b (4-8-95): Tape 20a (4-10-95): Tape 20b (4-10-95): Tape 21a (10-4-95): Tape 21b (11-4-95): Tape 22a + 23a (4-15-95): Tape 22b (4-13-95): Tape 23b (4-16-95): Tape 24a (4-16-95): Tape 24b (4-17-95): Tape 25a (4-17-95): Tape 25b (4-18-95): Tape 26a (4-19-95): Tape 26b (4-20-95): Tape 27a (4-24-95): Tape 27b (4-29-95): Tape 28a (5-1-95):

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects

Rosa Natividad Sigcho Andrade (Lagunas parent) Rosa Sigcho Andrade (Lagunas parent) Rosa Angelita Chalan Medina (Lagunas teacher) María Asunción Quishpe (Lagunas teacher) Ana Maria Quishpe Macas (Lagunas teacher) Rosa Maria Sarango Guaman (Lagunas parent) Angel Baudilio Chalan Wauman (Lagunas parent) Luis Auerelio Chalan Quishpe (Lagunas teacher) Rosa Delia Quizhpe Macas (Lagunas school director and teacher/Lagunas parent) María Rosa Sarango (Lagunas parent) Miguel Contento (Director of Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja) Mariana de Jesus Paqui (Tambopamba teacher and parent) (two interviews) Fernando Sarango (President of CIOIS) Carlos Alberto Minga Ambuludi (President of the Tambopamba community) Miguel Angel Vacacela Quishpe (Director of supervision of Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja) Jose Miguel Sarango Tene (Tambopamba teacher) Luis Antonio Sarango Tene (Tambopamba parent) Manuel Rosalina Gonzalez (Tambopamba parent) Jose A. Tene (Tambopamba teacher and director of the Huayna Capac school) Carmen Balvina Guaman Gonzalez (Tambopamba parent) Rosa María Minga Morocho (Tambopamba parent) Cosme Efran Chalan Guaman (Tambopamba teacher) Samuel Ortega (President of the Lagunas community) Angel Rafael Cango Medina (Tambopamba teacher) Fernando Sarango (President of the CIOIS) Bolivio Chalan (President of the FIIS)

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Appendix 3: Interview Guides Directorate officials and education administrators General

1. 2. 3. 4.

Can you explain what intercultural bilingual education means? What are the goals and objectives of the Directorate? What are the biggest differences between the Hispanic and indigenous Directorates? How do you describe the relationship between the schools, the teachers, and the Directorate?

Quichua as a second language

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

Describe the linguistic situation of the Saraguros. What are the goals of the Directorate specifically concerning the instruction of Quichua? What type of support does the Directorate give for the instruction of Quichua? Does the national Directorate provide support for the instruction of Quichua in Saraguro? In what form? What incentives are there for teachers to become bilingual? What changes will the new model bring? Will the new model have anything to do with the instruction of Quichua? What type of support is there for Quichua in the homes and communities? Is it sufficient? Are there programs which address this? There are some who say that Quichua is part of the home, of the family. So why teach it in the school? What do you think?

Parents Basic information

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Name Community Names of members of the family School(s) of child Occupation(s) of parents of the family Ages of members of the family Religion Political affiliation (FIIS/CIOIS/independent)

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Support for Quichua in the home and community

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

What language do you use most frequently in the home? What language does one hear most outside of the home but inside of the community? Do your children hear Quichua being spoken in the home? Do they speak it in the home? With whom? Why? How frequently? Is there anyone who practices Quichua with your children in the community? Who? Why? How frequently? Is there anyone who tries to teach Quichua to your children? Who? How? When is it necessary to speak Quichua in the community? When is it necessary to speak Spanish in the community? Do you speak Quichua with your children? When? Why/Why not?

Linguistic competencies

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

What language do you speak best? Which language did you learn first? How did you learn to speak Spanish? How did you learn to speak Quichua? Do feel that you speak Quichua well? Do feel that you speak Spanish well? When you were a child what language did your parents speak? between themselves? With you? Why? Was there someone in your house that spoke Quichua when you were a child? Who? Did they speak Spanish too or just Quichua?

Language attitudes

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

What purpose(s) does Quichua serve? What purpose(s) does Spanish serve? Which is more important? More useful? More beautiful? Which is better for conversing? For joking? For describing things? Which do you prefer your children to speak? Why? Which is more important for them? Why?

Ethnicity attitudes

1. 2. 3. 4.

What are the characteristics of an indigenous person? What are the basic qualities of indigenous persons? How do you define an indigenous person? a Quichua? a Saraguro? Is it possible that someone can change identities in order to stop being indigenous? How does one do so?

Appendices

5. 6. 7.

237

How would you feel if your child stopped being indigenous? Why? What differences are there between Saraguros and the town whites? Is it important to continue being indigenous? Why?

Quichua and school attitudes

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Do they teach Quichua in the Inti Raimi/Huayna Capac school? Why do they teach it? Do you agree with the teachers? Does it seem to be a good idea? Should they do it? What is the reason for teaching it? In your opinion, does the instruction of Quichua seem different from that of other subjects? How?

Other

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

What would happen if everyone here stopped speaking Quichua? Does it seem possible? Do you think that it will happen one day? Is it possible to be indigenous without speaking an indigenous language? How? Is it possible to speak Quichua without being indigenous? Is it necessary in order to be Saraguro to speak Quichua? Are there different varieties of Quichua here? Since when did they stop speaking Quichua so much around here? Have attitudes towards Quichua changed in recent years? How? Have attitudes towards being indigenous changed in recent years? How?

Teachers Basic information

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Name Place of residence Time at present school Time at previous school(s) Education title Place of study

General

1. 2.

How do you define bilingual intercultural education? What does it mean? In general, how do you define the goals and objectives of the school?

238

3. 4. 5.

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects

What are the most notable differences between the indigenous schools and traditional education? What are the most important changes that you have seen in indigenous education in recent years? How do you see the relationship between the school and the Directorate?

Quichua as a second language

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Since when did you begin to teach Quichua in the school? What are the goals and objectives in teaching Quichua? How would you describe or define your methodology for the instruction of Quichua? In a very general manner, can you describe your experiences in teaching Quichua? What difficulties have you had? What successes have you had? Does the instruction of Quichua seem different from the instruction of other materials? What support do you receive for the instruction of Quichua from the Directorate?

Community and family

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Do the children show interest in learning Quichua? Are the parents in agreement with the instruction of Quichua? Have you seen changes in the community concerning the use of Quichua? concerning indigenous ethnicity and identity? What type of support is there in the community for Quichua? What type of support is lacking? What does it mean that the school is a pilot or model school for the new model? What relation does this have with the instruction of Quichua as a second language?

Community/political leaders 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

How many Saraguros are there? How many people live in Tambopamba/Lagunas? How do Saraguros in Lagunas/Tambopamba support themselves? In general, what level of education do adults in the community have? Can you describe the linguistic situation?

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6. Here in Lagunas/Tambopamba, do they speak more or less Quichua than in other communities? 7. In what occasion do you use Quichua most in the community? 8. Do you think that the people give importance to the maintenance of Quichua? 9. Have you spoken as a community/organization about how to rescue or maintain Quichua? 10. What do you think will happen? 11. What changes have you noted in the use of Quichua in recent years? 12. Have you noted changes in the level of interest in indigenous (Saraguro) identity? Is there more or less interest? 13. What support does your organization offer?

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Indices Index of topics absenteeism 149, 156 acquisition planning 22, 23, 199, 200 active schools 143 AEBIS 106, 107 Alaska 7, 210 Alsatian 182 Amazon 35, 37, 50 Arapaho 181 Arctic North 17, 188 Asociación de Educadores Bilingües Interculturales de Saraguro 54 Asociación de Padres de Familia 91 Association of Bilingual Intercultural Educators of Saraguro 54 Atahualpa 124, 138 Australia 191, 196 Austria 18 authentic Quichua 93, 94, 95, 122, 168, 184, 195, 221 Aymara 14 bilingual education 41, 42, 43, 76, 213, 230 Bilingual Intercultural Education Project 184, 203 blancos del campo 49 Bolivia 8, 45, 208 books 144, 152 busy work 155, 164, 181 California Indian languages 6 Canada 222 Catholic University 41 cattle 50, 55, 56, 72, 78, 113, 125, 150 Chilcotin 87, 187 CIOIS 53, 54, 56, 214 clothing 49, 70, 99, 105, 108, 124, 125, 126, 135, 192 code-switching 195 coding 61 Committee on Endangered Languages and their Preservation 10 communicative situations 29

compadrazgo 101 CONAIE 33, 35, 36, 38, 53, 57, 203, 204 Confederación de Nacionalidades Indígenas del Ecuador 33 Coordinadora Interprovincial de Organizaciones Indígenas Saraguros 53 copying 144, 153, 154, 160, 163, 181 core values 103, 104, 134 corpus planning 22, 199, 200 country whites 49 Cree 222 critical period 215 Cuban American 136, 137 cultivation 199, 200 diglossia 16, 122, 208, 209 DINEIB 42, 56 DINEIIB 42, 43 Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja 54 Dirección Nacional de Educación Indígena Intercultural Bilingüe 42 Dirección Nacional de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe 42 Directorate 54, 90 domains 122, 211 Dyirbal 13, 191 elders 75, 79, 83, 117, 118, 130, 133, 185 Endangered Language Fund 10, 11 escuela activa 143, 151 ethnicity 81, 88, 103, 104, 105, 190, 191 ethnography of communication 27, 57 farming 50 Federación Interprovincial de Indígenas Saraguros 53 Federación Shuar 37, 38, 39 fiestas 59, 121 FIIS 53, 54, 55, 56, 66, 67 Finland 218 Finnish 186

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Indices Foundation for Endangered Languages 10, 11 France 182 French 222 Fundación Runacunapac Yachana Huasi 40 Gaelic 13, 19, 85, 95 German 18 GIDS 16 girls 151 Graded Intergenerational Dislocation Scale 15 grammar and languages 142, 160, 162 group work 148, 149 handwriting 153 harassment 72, 73 Hawai’i 223 Hawaiian 216, 221 high school 51, 115, 182, 194, 223 Hualapai 222 humor 83, 119, 172 Hungarian 18 hunting 186 ideological clarification 210, 211 Illincho 143 immersion programs 222 Incas 48 Indian Education Research Center 41 indigenismo 37 indigenous languages 7 Institute for the Preservation of the Original Languages of the Americas 11 Inter-American Development Bank 35 Intercultural Bilingual Education Project 43 Interprovincial Coordinator of Indigenous Saraguro Organizations 53 Interprovincial Federation of Indigenous Saraguros 53 interviewees 60 Irish 21, 105, 198, 199, 213 Karelian 6 Kenya 88 language death 4, 198 language loss 4 language maintenance 3, 97, 202 language obsolescence 4, 197 language planning 21, 199, 202, 203, 204 language revitalization 4, 23, 24, 25, 202 language shift 12 language shift reversal 25 language vitality 23

255 Latin 214 linguistic conservatism 97 Linguistic Society of America 10 Loja Indigenous Directorate of Intercultural Bilingual Education 54 Maori 188, 221, 222, 226 Master–Apprentice Language Learning Program 6, 224 math 142, 144, 145, 146, 152, 176 Meänkieli 186, 218 media lengua 95 Mesoamerica 197 mestizo 34, 39, 49, 68, 90, 98, 102, 124, 125, 127, 192 Mexicano 97, 191, 194 Mexico 191 migration 14, 15 minga 58, 65, 69, 91, 121, 129, 197, 203 Ministry of Education 35 mitmacuna 48 Model of Bilingual Intercultural Education 44 Montessori schools 143 multiple-identities maxim 88 Nahuatl 13, 191, 194 Ñamarín 143 National Directorate of Bilingual Indigenous Intercultural Education 42 National Directorate of Bilingual Intercultural Education 42 natural sciences 142, 176 Navajo 221, 222 New Zealand 188, 221, 226 Norway 22 oil 51, 76, 112 Oñacapac 113, 123, 161 oriente 45, 50, 56, 113, 114 Otavalos 52 Pan American highway 72, 76 Papua New Guinea 15, 19, 114 participant observation 58 participant structure 144, 148 PEBI 44, 56, 151, 183, 203 penmanship 154 Peru 8, 14, 45, 122, 157, 183, 208, 230 policy planning 199, 200 Proyecto de Educación Bilingüe Intercultural 43, 184 Quechua 7, 14, 45, 208, 230 Quichua auténtico 93, 96, 97, 122, 195, 226

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Quichua instruction 158 Quichua Unificado 41, 42, 93, 97, 123, 226 record-keeping 61 regression hypothesis 13 research methods 57 reversing language shift 24, 208, 209, 230 revitalization 210 roles and relationships 61 Romani 186, 218 Saraguro town 49 secondary school 51 Sekani 15 Shuar 38, 40 sierra 34 social sciences 142 socioeconomic factors 104 South America’s indigenous languages 7 SPEAKING 30, 83, 116 speech community 28 status planning 22, 199, 200

submersion programs 223 sucre 138 Swahili 88 Sweden 186, 218 Taiap 19 teaching positions 54 Terralingua 10, 11 time allocation 156 time management 145, 149 Tiwi 196 Tok Pisin 15, 20 Tornedalians 186, 218 Total Physical Response 223 Unified Quichua 41, 92, 93, 94, 95, 122, 123, 168, 184, 194, 195, 198, 204, 221 United States and Canada 7 Warm Springs Indian Reservation 191 Wasco 191 Wintu 6

Index of authors cited Adelaar 7, 14 Adnyamathanha 230 Albó 71 Andean 14 Asher 223 Ayoungman 221 Baker 14 Barth 99, 126 Becker 36, 37 Belote, J. 72, 75, 100, 113, 193 Belote, J. & Belote, L. 45, 48, 51, 99, 101, 214 Belote, L. 49, 71, 72, 99, 126, 128, 129 Belote, L. & Belote, J. 50, 52, 72, 98, 105, 125, 190 Benítez & Garcés 35 Bentahila & Davies 27, 105, 134, 211, 212 Benton 5, 105, 188, 221, 229 Bourdieu 192 Brandt 87, 185, 186 Brandt & Ayoungman 5, 22, 87, 216, 219, 220, 227 Brenzinger & Dimmendaal 4 Brenzinger et al. 75, 109 Caiza 40 Cantoni 223 Casagrande 52 Chuquin 37

Cochrane 231 Cochrane & Sachs 231 Cole 182, 187 Collier 216 CONAIE 35, 38, 42, 94, 203, 204 Cooper 21, 23, 27, 205, 206 Corder 217 Coronel-Molina 177 Cotacachi 40 Crawford 229 Dauenhauer & Dauenhauer 210, 211 de Fréine 198 De Vos 79 Delgado-Gaitan xi DeVos 191 DINEIB 37, 44, 68 DINEIIB 43 Dirección Indígena de Educación Intercultural Bilingüe de Loja 78 Dorian 4, 12, 13, 14, 18, 25, 85, 95, 96, 104, 105, 110, 196, 197, 198, 199, 212, 213, 214, 225 Dressler 110, 198 Dressler & Wodak-Leodolter 198 Edwards 16, 21 Ellis 215, 217 Ellis and mac a’Ghobhainn 5

Indices Erickson 57 Esteva-Fabregat 68 Fasold 4, 12, 14, 15, 71, 122 Ferguson 22, 197 Fettes 204, 205 Fishman 5, 14, 15, 24, 25, 102, 122, 187, 190, 201, 208, 209, 210, 222, 227, 228, 230 Gal 15, 17, 18, 71 Garzon 197, 198 Giles 103 Grenoble & Whaley 15, 188, 219 Greymorning 181, 216 Grinevald Craig 13, 110, 197, 198 Haboud 8, 33, 39, 203 Hale 8 Harly & Wang 215 Haugen 22, 26, 204 Hill 13, 110, 190, 191, 193, 194, 197, 198 Hill & Hill 97 Hindley 199 Hinton 6, 224 Hornberger 22, 23, 39, 43, 120, 122, 154, 157, 177, 183, 199, 200, 201, 230 Hornberger & King 182, 195, 196, 208 Huss 17, 186, 188, 212 Hylland 212 Hyltenstam & Stroud 3, 16 Hymes 28, 29, 30, 57, 82, 83, 84, 116 Institute Nacional de Estadistica y Censos 49 Johnson 215 Johnson & Newport 215 Jones 96, 105, 222 Kaplan & Baldauf 12, 21, 22 Karetu 188 Kelman 36, 132 Kloss 22 Krashen 215 Krauss 7, 9, 10, 181, 229 Kroeber 4 Kulick 15, 18, 19, 114 Labov 28 Lambert & Taylor 136, 137 Lambert & Tucker 222 Lanoue 15 Larsen-Freeman & Long 215, 217 Leap 25 Lee 196

257 Lenneberg 215 Lillard 143 Linn 224 Littlebear 220, 225 Long 217 Luykx 155 Macnamara 5 Maguire 21 Margolin 210 Marshall 3, 25, 202 McCarty 182, 183 McCarty & Watahomigie 224, 227 McCarty et al. 22, 220, 225 Meyer 143 Miller 110 Ministerio de Educación y Cultura 42 Mithun 198 Montaluisa 41 Moya 36, 37 Muysken 95 Myers-Scotton 88, 90 Nahir 3 Nave 222 Neustúpny 200 Nicholson & Garland 221 O’Grady et al. 216 O’Huallachain 229 Ogburn 48 Ogburn & Bravo 48 Otto 25 Oyama 215 Paulston 24 Paulston et al. 25 PEBI 37, 44 Philips 144 Pica 217 Pica et al. 217 Pound 9 Price 222 Puwáinchir Wajárai 38, 40 Pye 87, 187 Pyöli 6, 187 Reyes 145 Rhodes 197 Rubin & Jernudd 21 Sarango Macas 51 Saville-Troike 27, 28, 29, 57 Schmidt 198, 231

258 Selverston 41 Shuar 38 Siegel 84 Singleton 216 Slavoff & Johnson 231 Smolicz 103, 134 Spolsky 3, 23, 25, 188, 213, 226 Stavenhagen 38 Stewart 23 Stølen 84 Swain 217

Language Revitalization Processes and Prospects Urciuoli 131, 192 Volinsky 49, 52 von Gleich 8, 35, 38, 42, 43 Vuorela & Borin 186 Watahomigie 227 Wolfson 222, 223 Woolard 97 Wurm 9 Yamada et al. 231

Tunbridge 231 Urban 2, 134, 191

Zepeda & Hill 9 Zhingre 53, 55, 78, 214