Have you ever been presented with a large box which, upon opening, is stuffed with packing peanuts, and, upon digging down, down, through handfuls of the wasteful nuggets, you finally uncover a small and insignificant bauble? That is what I think of when I hear the word “like.”
“Like” has its uses. As a verb it means “to enjoy, be fond of, or have an inclination to,” as in “I like ice cream.” That’s not a problem.
“Like” can also be used as an adjective meaning “similar to,” as in “He has red hair like his brother.” A simile is a figure of speech defined as a comparison using the words “like” or “as.” P. G. Wodehouse was a master of this: “[The butler] had a voice like a good, sound burgundy made audible.” A “likeness” is a synonym for a portrait. This, too, presents no difficulty.
It crosses the line when it is used to mean “for example,” for it does not mean that. When you say, “Some teachers like Michael Ortiz have a master’s degree,” what you mean is “Some teachers, for example, Michael Ortiz, have a master’s degree.” “Like,” in that context, doesn’t make sense; you’re not expressing a similarity; you’re giving an example. Granted, most people would understand what you mean in the first sentence, but the distinction is worth keeping. We use words to think, and precision in our use of words cultivates a precision in thought.
So, if you’re wondering if your “like” is correct, just ask: Could I substitute “similar to”? If so, you can use like. If you’re giving an example, then use “such as.” So much for the grammar.
The real consternation, and, frankly, annoyance, comes in with what I call the “lazy like,” the “exculpatory like,” and the “subterfuge like.” In these instances, we use “like” as a crutch to get our meaning to hobble across the finish line, as make-up to hide our pimples, or as a cloak to cover our intentions.
The “lazy like” happens when, like, I’m, like, not certain, what I’m, like, trying to say, so I, like, just put in “like” to fill up the cracks in my, like, lazy thinking. It’s verbal styrofoam. Sometimes it’s just a nervous habit that makes the sentence ridiculous, as when the student asks, “May I, like, go to the bathroom?” “Let me know how you do that,” I respond.
Often, though, the speaker uses it as stuffing with the expectation that the listener will decipher his meaning, as when the student says, “I don’t, like, get how, like, you did that.” The speaker often fails even to use words and substitutes sound effects: “Mr. Greving was, like, ‘Arrrrgh,’ and we were, like, ‘Whoa,’ and then he was, like, ‘Errr,’ and we were, like, ‘Ooooo.’”
While entertaining at times, it is more often frustrating. Notice that in the examples above the speaker is putting the burden of intelligibility on the listener, which is the opposite of where it should be. It is the speaker’s duty to express himself as clearly as possible so that the listener knows exactly what he means. When the speaker peppers his sentence with “like,” the situation is similar to when we are speaking to someone who doesn’t know English and we think that if we just speak loudly and slowly enough, he’ll understand. It doesn’t work that way.
It may be, as it can be with students asking questions, that the listener (the teacher) must help the speaker (the student) define his terms and clarify his thoughts. Indeed, that is much of teaching. But to the extent that the speaker is just being lazy, spouting something without having thought it through, then I consider it an act of charity to be ruthless in weeding out the “like.”
In the fourth quarter last year, I imposed a “like tax” on my sixth graders. For every improper use of the word “like,” they had to pay ten cents. (All proceeds went to buy doughnuts for the class at the end of the year, and I had to contribute on the rare occasion I was culpable.) It was humorous at first. Students had no idea how many times they were padding their sentences with the word. What I found fascinating and edifying, though, as the fines mounted, was how articulate the boys could be when pressed. At the beginning of the quarter, a boy would raise his hand and ask, “I don’t, like, get, like, how you, like, diagrammed that.” Thirty cents, please. (And I haven’t a clue as to what you’re asking.) By the end of the quarter, the same scenario would go quite differently. The boy called upon would shut his eyes and say, “I … don’t understand … why … you put … the word ‘boy’ … on the … bottom line.” Now we’re getting somewhere. You could almost feel the wheels turning in his mind as he forced himself to figure out just what he wanted to say. The act of forcing him not to be lazy with his speech made him more precise with his thoughts. At times, he could answer his own (now clarified) question.
This brings me to the “exculpatory like.” Here we use “like” as though it were an added fact that diminished our guilt. It is often accompanied by “sort of” or “kind of” as two other witnesses to provide an alibi. To the simple question, “Did you do your homework?”, I’ll get the response, “I didn’t, kind of, like, finish it.” In other words, no. (I picture the same boy twenty years from now on trial for murder and saying in the witness box, “I, kind of, like, stabbed him.”) Whenever I hear someone use “like” in response to a “yes or no” question, I get suspicious.
Close kin to this is the “subterfuge like.” It’s used as a peremptory strike, often with the word “just,” to get away with something. It’s a red flag that something is afoot. When you ask your son, “Where are you off to tonight, Edgar?” and he responds, “We’re, like, just going to get something to eat,” beware! Follow up. “Is that all?” “Well, then there’s, like, a party at Savannah’s.” “Will her parents be there?” “I, like, think so.” “Let’s talk about this.” The “like” is often a nervous twitch concealing the rest of the story.
All this may be humorous, and yet I wonder if the issue doesn’t go deeper. We have become lazy in our speech because we have become lazy in our thinking. We live in such an artificial world now. Technology blurs the line between reality and “virtual reality,” between intelligence and “artificial intelligence.” Emojis and acronyms are supposed to do our thinking for us. We “google” for answers to everything, even moral questions. I’m sure I’m not alone in getting an email or text to which I can only respond, “What are you trying to say?” I think this simulation—or dissimulation—has crept into our speech with the proliferation of “like.” Don’t tell me what something is “like”; tell me what it is.
The speed of modern communication adds to this. It is more reflexive than reflective [see last week’s thoughts on emails versus texts], and so our thoughts become more reflexive than reflective. The one feeds upon the other, and we can’t keep up. When forced to speak, we stuff our sentences with “like” because we’re just not used to thinking.
It’s a hard habit to break because thinking is a hard thing to do. I know; I’ve tried it. To pause and to consider, “What do I mean?” can be frustrating. It can also be illuminating. We may realize how faulty our thinking is; how unjust or proud we can be. We may realize we’re only trying to get attention and that silence would be better. We may have to face the fact we were trying to get away with something or shift the burden.
Many monitor their “likes” on social media. I suggest we track them in our speech. We would talk less and communicate more.