It has been over twenty years now since I immigrated to the United States.
However, a part of me was always an American, long before I ever set foot on
this soil.
I thought that my excitement about this country would vanish at some
point after I had gotten used to living here. However, 20-plus years later, it has
not. The biggest reason for my continuing excitement is the one profound
difference between the country where I was born and raised and the United
States: exclusion versus inclusion.
When I was growing up in Germany, the exclusion of “people like
me”—individuals with immigrant parents—was the norm. (Unfortunately, not much
has changed in that regard since.) The “natives” of the country generally
referred to us bluntly as the “Ausländer” (foreigners) or (the children of) “Gastarbeiter”
(guest workers). They hoped—and openly communicated to us—that one day we would
“go back where we came from.” Most of us, however, never did because, among
other reasons, we didn’t know where to “go back” to. We were born in Germany
and had grown up there. Over time, the labels that were used for us changed. However,
one thing remained the same—the certainty that we would never be a part of the German
society, no matter what we accomplished, how much education we had, how we
identified ourselves, or what contributions we made.
Until I immigrated to the USA, I could not properly articulate how my
experiences in Germany affected me and why. This is because, despite Germany’s
own awareness of its troubling history, and the country’s highly educated
society, diversity knowledge is (to-date) very limited there. The country doesn’t
even have a basic language to communicate many concepts related to the marginalization
and exclusion of arbitrary groups. A term or concept such as “inclusion,” for
example, only became known there after Germany passed its anti-discrimination
laws in 2006. Until recently, the term was used in reference to individuals
with disabilities only, because inclusion efforts based on ethnicity, race, or religion
have been highly controversial and sensitive topics in Germany.
It was in Kalamazoo, Michigan, while attending Western Michigan
University, where I was first introduced to the language of marginalization and
exclusion of arbitrary groups. What was most surprising to me was the amount of
research data, knowledge, and scholarly work that is available in this arena in
the USA. Credit for building this foundation and knowledge, naturally, goes to
the countless African American scholars, civil rights leaders, and their
allies. Thanks to them, I could better understand the dynamics of my
experiences in Germany. I soon started to study the subject in-depth, conduct
research, and write papers about the topic. The Kalamazoo community was
integral to my growth and learning in this regard. It offered me a lot of
opportunities to learn, get involved, volunteer and become a contributing
member of my community. Kalamazoo was the first place where I truly felt at
home.
After finishing my studies in Michigan, I moved to Washington, DC. In
Washington D.C. I worked on a biological defense program at Georgetown
University. My work involved reviewing hundreds of articles in several
languages and compiling critical information into succinct reports that
consisted of a few short paragraphs. Since our work involved extensive writing,
we received a lot of training in this arena. Our primary instructor was a
colleague who was very passionate about the English language and clear and
concise writing. She taught us how to write reports using short sentences but
did not sacrifice crucial information that our clients needed. We learned the
value of plain language and the ability to communicate exactly what we wanted, concisely
and transparently. One of the most challenging—and rewarding—aspects of this
writing style was deleting redundant words and phrases from our reports. I
became extremely fond of this style and only realized years later the deeper reasons
behind it.
In Germany, we learned to strive for exclusivity in our society and
culture—I also saw this idea reflected in our writing. You may have read or
seen German-language pieces where a sentence can go over many lines— complex sentences
that are extremely difficult to follow. Being exclusive in our writing was
something that particularly the well-educated individuals among us strived for.
–We didn’t know any better…
Around the same time when I was working at Georgetown University,
President Obama passed the Plain
Language Act (2010). When I researched the Act, it quickly dawned on me
that The Plain Language Act is much more than “just another act.” It is a
deeply meaningful representation of what I know and love about the United
States.
Plain language, first of all, is a good business practice. It is a win-win
situation for the writer as well as the reader. Leaving out redundant words and
constructing easy-to-understand sentences saves time and money. However, there is much more to the Plain Language Act than that. Plain
language is also about access and inclusion. Plain language is accessible to
more people because it is easier to understand and it lessens the chance for
misunderstandings and the need for clarifications.
Access and inclusion—both are critical to our government agencies because
our government must represent American values and be accessible to the people it
serves. Plain language is one way to support diversity and a government that
values access and inclusion.
