Feeling Language: A GLP’s Struggle Against the Tyranny of Structure
The world of language instruction has long been dominated by a single, rigid framework: one designed for Analytical Language Processors (ALPs). This approach, grounded in breaking down language into its smallest parts—morphemes, phonemes, and syntax—has become the standard by which literacy and language mastery are judged. However, this system marginalises a significant group of learners: Gestalt Language Processors (GLPs). Unlike their ALP counterparts, GLPs engage with language holistically, processing meaning through intuitive, sensory-rich experiences. For GLPs, language is an emotional and contextual whole, not a puzzle to be meticulously dissected.
As an autistic GLP, my own journey through education was one of non-recognition. I was labeled as broken, my way of processing language pathologised (the Level 2 portion of my ASD diagnosis), and I was pushed into speech and occupational therapy as though my intuitive engagement with language was a deficit to be fixed. Yet, fictional languages—like Carroll’s playful word inventions or Tolkien’s whimsical terms—are celebrated for their creativity, while real-life linguistic diversity is dismissed.
Today’s article explores the stark contrast between the legitimacy granted to fictional languages and the marginalisation of GLPs. It argues that the ALP-dominated framework is a form of colonialism in language instruction, pushing GLPs to the margins. The emotional toll of preparing for tests that deny our existence, and the creative strategies GLPs develop to survive, reveal not just an educational failure but a missed opportunity to embrace diverse, intuitive ways of processing language.
GLPs vs. ALPs: A Divergence in Linguistic Focus
As I return to school whilst working on my next book, Decolonising Language Education: Reframing English Language Development for Multilingual and Neurodiverse Learners, I find myself reflecting on the stark contrast between how different types of language processors are accommodated—or, more accurately, ignored—in the current educational system. The academic world overwhelmingly caters to ALPs, who thrive in environments that break language down into minute, isolated components like morphemes, phonemes, and syntax. For ALPs, language is an orderly structure, best understood through detailed analysis and strict adherence to rules.
My experience as a GLP could not be more different. I, like many others, engage with language holistically, intuitively feeling my way through meaning rather than dissecting language into its smallest parts. Whilst ALPs are comfortable with the structured, rule-based nature of language instruction, GLPs process language in a much more fluid, interconnected way. Morphology—the study of word structure—feels irrelevant to how I make sense of language. To me, meaning arises from the overall context, the pattern of communication, and the emotional and sensory cues embedded in language. Breaking words down into tiny components seems to strip away the richness of how language is experienced in real life.
Yet, the academic system overwhelmingly values the ALP approach. Morphological rules and technical language elements dominate the curriculum, creating a rigid environment where language is something to be mastered through correct usage and detailed analysis. ALPs often engage in debates over the “right” way to use morphemes, grammar, or other language structures, which leads to an academic culture that fosters argumentation over creativity. This approach to language, while beneficial for some, leaves no room for alternative ways of engaging with or experiencing language.
The experience of GLPs is particularly marginalised in this system. Our holistic way of processing language is dismissed or seen as an obstacle rather than a strength. In an ALP-dominated environment, deviations from the standard language structures are blocked in favor of a narrow interpretation of linguistic correctness. There’s no room for the intuitive, sensory-rich way that GLPs engage with words and meaning. What results is a system that fails to recognize or support the unique strengths of GLPs, pushing us to the margins and labeling us as deficient.
This divergence in focus—between the detail-oriented, rule-bound approach of ALPs and the holistic, intuitive processing of GLPs—mirrors a broader issue in education: the system’s failure to accommodate diverse ways of thinking. As I work toward completing my book and passing ALP-oriented tests, I’m reminded daily that the rigidity of language instruction leaves many like me struggling to fit into a mold that was never designed for us.
GLPs: The Overlooked Learners
Language instruction, much like other areas of education, has long been dominated by a singular approach: that of the ALP. This approach breaks language down into small, isolated parts, focusing on rules, structures, and technical precision. It’s a framework that prioritises linear, rule-bound thinking and treats this way of learning as the universal standard. However, this dominance of the ALP framework isn’t simply a matter of pedagogy—it reflects a broader colonisation of learning methods. Just as colonial powers imposed their culture and ways of being on others, the ALP approach imposes its view of language and learning as the only valid method. In doing so, it marginalises alternative ways of engaging with language, particularly those of GLPs, who process language holistically and intuitively.
My personal experience as an autistic GLP speaks directly to this marginalisation. I was never recognised as someone with a valid, different way of processing language. Instead, I was seen as “broken,” placed into systems that sought to fix my perceived deficits rather than understanding and supporting my unique cognitive strengths. My books, No Place for Autism? and Holistic Language Instruction, were born out of this non-recognition—out of years of being dismissed by systems that didn’t understand or value how I engaged with language. I, like many other GLPs, was pushed into speech therapy or special education, where the goal wasn’t to nurture my natural processing style but to make me conform to a norm that wasn’t designed for me.
This non-recognition of GLPs by the educational system mirrors the broader process of colonisation, where one group’s ways of being and knowing are elevated while others are treated as inferior. In this case, the ALP approach to language instruction dominates the curriculum, forcing learners to adhere to rules and structures that are alien to how GLPs process information. GLPs, who naturally mix emotions, sensory data, and meaning into their understanding of language, are left on the margins, struggling to fit into a rigid system that doesn’t reflect their way of engaging with the world. Their holistic, intuitive approach is seen not as a strength but as a deficit—something that needs correction rather than celebration.
The implications of this failure to recognise and accommodate GLPs are profound. In schools, GLPs are frequently labeled as having learning disabilities or deficits, when in reality, they simply engage with language in a different, but equally valid, way. These learners are often sent to speech pathology or therapy, where the focus is on correcting their “errors” or training them to process language more like ALPs. Rather than being supported in their natural, intuitive way of learning, GLPs are taught that their way of processing language is wrong.
This approach not only marginalises GLPs but also impoverishes the broader field of language instruction. By focusing solely on the ALP framework, educators miss the opportunity to engage with the rich, emotional, and sensory-driven experiences that GLPs bring to language. Just as colonial powers overlooked the value of the cultures they sought to dominate, the educational system overlooks the strengths of GLPs, pushing them into the margins and treating them as deficient rather than recognising the diversity of cognitive processing styles that could enrich our understanding of language and learning.
The Legitimacy of Fictional Languages
Fictional languages have long been celebrated for their creativity and contribution to world-building. In both academic and popular circles, languages like Nadsat from A Clockwork Orange, Elvish from The Lord of the Rings, and Klingon from Star Trek are treated with great respect. Scholars study these languages, fans learn and speak them, and they are seen as legitimate components of the worlds they inhabit. Despite being entirely invented, these fictional languages are viewed as worthy of deep analysis and admiration for the way they expand and enhance the fictional universes in which they exist.
Yet, when juxtaposed with the real-world experiences of GLPs, this respect for fictional languages highlights a troubling irony. Whilst languages like Elvish and Klingon are embraced and celebrated, the literacy needs of GLPs—real people with a legitimate but different approach to language—are often ignored or pathologised. GLPs, whose engagement with language is intuitive and holistic, are frequently dismissed by the ALP-dominated education system. Our way of processing language, which doesn’t rely on breaking words down into isolated components, is seen as a deficit. Instead of being supported, they are often labeled as ‘learning disabled’ or sent to speech therapy, as though our natural linguistic style is something that needs to be corrected.
This double standard becomes even more glaring when you consider that GLPs, like those who thrive in creative and intuitive environments, are often more in tune with the kind of holistic, meaning-driven engagement with language that fictional languages encourage. Fictional languages are celebrated precisely because they step outside the rigid structures of traditional language and offer something new, imaginative, and fluid. In this sense, GLPs—who naturally view language in broader, more contextual ways—are in many ways closer to the spirit of these fictional languages than the ALP framework that dominates education. However, rather than being embraced for their unique strengths, GLPs are marginalised.
In my book Holistic Language Instruction, I argue for the recognition of these strengths and the need for a shift in how we view language processing in education. GLPs see language as a meaningful whole, where context, emotion, and sensory input all play crucial roles in understanding. Instead of breaking down words into minute parts like morphemes, GLPs engage with the gestalt of language—the complete picture that arises from context and interaction. This holistic approach is not only valid but necessary in broadening our understanding of literacy and language instruction.
Unfortunately, the failure to recognise GLPs’ natural strengths in the educational system results in their marginalization. The very methods that could support GLPs—like holistic language instruction—are disregarded in favor of rigid, ALP-focused frameworks. Meanwhile, fictional languages, with all their creativity and flexibility, are given more legitimacy than the real, lived experiences of GLPs. This underscores the systemic bias that prioritises one form of language processing while ignoring the diverse and valid ways others engage with the world of words.
Carroll’s Whimsical Language Play & Tolkien’s Invented Words
Lewis Carroll’s playful manipulation of language, exemplified by his creation of words like “uglification” and “slithy,” has long been celebrated as creative genius. His whimsical approach is praised for the way it breaks the rules of standard language use, creating something entirely new and imaginative. Similarly, J.R.R. Tolkien’s invented languages, such as the Elvish words “mellon” and “galad,” or the “hobbitses” of Middle-earth, are revered for their intricate world-building and linguistic creativity. In literary circles, these authors’ contributions to language are seen as enriching and artistic, embodying a flexibility that is embraced and admired.
As a GLP, my early experiences with language were very much like Carroll’s or Tolkien’s playful inventions. My gestalts—complete phrases and patterns of language—were fluid, intuitive, and creative. Words didn’t need to be broken down into their smallest parts or strictly follow linguistic rules to make sense to me. I connected with language holistically, much like how Tolkien’s “hobbitses” or Carroll’s “chortling” stirred the imagination without needing to conform to conventional standards. For me, language was alive with meaning, not confined by rigid structures.
Yet, while Carroll’s and Tolkien’s playful manipulation of language is celebrated, my natural approach to language as a GLP was pathologised. Instead of being recognised for the creativity it represented, my way of engaging with language was treated as a deficit. In the academic system, where ALPs dominate, my intuitive and emotionally rich approach to language was seen as something that needed to be corrected. The flexibility that is embraced in literature was dismissed in the classroom, where I was expected to conform to a rigid, rule-based framework that simply didn’t match how I processed language.
The educational system often treats the rich, intuitive engagement with language that GLPs naturally exhibit as something to be fixed rather than supported. Instead of valuing the creativity and emotional depth that GLPs bring to language, schools and educators tend to push us into speech therapy or remedial programs, assuming that our deviation from ALP norms is a problem. In doing so, they miss the opportunity to nurture an entirely valid way of understanding and using language—one that is deeply connected to emotion, context, and sensory data.
Had my early gestalts—so much like “hobbitses” and “uglification”—been supported instead of pathologised, I wonder how different my educational experience might have been. Just as Carroll and Tolkien were free to create new words and worlds, GLPs should be encouraged to engage with language in ways that make sense to them, even if it looks different from the ALP approach. Rather than treating GLP processing as a deficiency, educators should embrace its flexibility, creativity, and richness, recognizing that there is no one “correct” way to engage with language.
The Emotional Toll of Passing a Test That Denies Our Existence
The experience of a GLP preparing for a test designed for ALPs is far more than just an intellectual challenge; it’s an emotional and sensory ordeal. GLPs naturally mix emotions and sensory data into our gestalts, processing language in a way that is intuitive and holistic. For us, language is not merely a collection of rules and symbols to be dissected; it’s an experience. Each word carries weight, not just in meaning but in feeling. It’s like the world of hobbits, where every small detail—from the sound of the sticklettes crackling in the hearth to the taste of my gran’s bathtub mead—contributes to the richness of life. Words evoke emotions, context, and sensory data all at once, forming a complete picture rather than isolated pieces.
When faced with a test designed for ALPs, however, this natural, intuitive engagement with language feels erased. ALP tests demand a kind of linear, rule-based thinking that asks students to break language down into discrete components. The emphasis is on precision and correctness—on identifying the proper use of words like mattocks, gleams, or hauberks, with no room for the emotional or sensory layers that a GLP would naturally associate with those words. It’s as if the test is asking you to look at a carved wooden chair without feeling the smoothness of the carven surface, or to identify the word barrel without imagining the creak of wood or the smoky, peaty smell of aged whisky stored inside.
Preparing for such tests becomes a semi-traumatic experience for GLPs. The exam doesn’t just test knowledge; it denies the very way we process language. The focus on rules and technical details strips away the emotional richness and sensory depth that makes language meaningful to us. It feels like being trapped in a battle of wills, where the ALP-dominated system demands that we reduce the beautiful complexity of language into something dry and mechanical. In Tolkien’s world, it would be like being asked to describe Smaug’s lair without feeling the oppressive heat or seeing the glint of gold among the ruins.
Faced with this kind of test, GLPs are forced to develop coping strategies to survive in a system that doesn’t recognise their way of processing information. Many of us turn to methods like random exploration—wandering through different topics, making unexpected connections—or writing, where we can express ourselves more fully. Writing allows us to escape the rigid constraints of multiple-choice tests and engage with language in a way that honors its emotional and sensory richness. For example, instead of reducing a word like ravening to its dictionary definition, we might explore its implications through vivid descriptions of wolves on the hunt, blending sensory details with meaning.
But even these coping strategies are just that—ways of surviving in a system that wasn’t built for us. Passing these tests is not just about mastering the content; it’s about overcoming the barriers that invalidate GLP ways of being. It’s about navigating a structure that denies the emotional and sensory layers of language, forcing us to conform to a method that strips away the very essence of how we engage with the world. And while ALPs may thrive in this environment, for GLPs, every test feels like a battle against a system that insists on denying our existence.
Final thoughts …
Even if you’ve never read A Clockwork Orange or Lewis Carroll’s whimsical works, I bet you can still feel your way through the meanings of the closing passages that follow. The unique styles of Nadsat and Carroll’s playful language tap into something deeper than rules and definitions—they invite us to experience words with our senses, emotions, and imagination. As a GLP, this is exactly how I engage with language, and these examples show that even invented or whimsical language can convey rich meaning when approached intuitively. Let’s see if you can feel your way through them too!
And so, my droogs, it’s real horrorshow to viddy how this whole chepooka of testing comes together, innit? For a GLP like me, every razrez of these tests feels like a tolchock to the gulliver, forcing me to smeck at the govoreet that we all should be able to fit into one box. But we’re not all made for the same sharpness, are we? Some of us feel the slooshy of words, the way they drip with meaning and chelloveck feelings, not just skorry answers you can scribble in a test. They want us to fit into a mold that leaves out the real joy of the slovos—the smell of the maloko and the feel of the dratsing wind in your litso.
These tests, my brothers and sisters, are designed for the starry ones, the ones who follow the rules and see everything in black and white. But for those of us who feel the world in full color, who viddy words like music, it's a battle. In the end, it's not just about passing or failing, but about how we can make our way in this world that doesn't always have room for the veshches we bring. So we press on, using our own tricks and strategies, knowing that we’ve got a way of viddying that’s just as horrorshow, even if they don’t recognize it.
or …
So, my dear readers, let us imagine a world quite topsy-turvy, where tests are more like a game of tiddlewinks with words bouncing this way and that—plummeting from the air like a blustery day’s confusticating leaves. For we GLPs, language is no ordinary thing, oh no! It’s a grand jumble of smells and sounds, of feelings that twinkle and twirl like dancing jabberwocks. But alas! The tests we’re given are as dreary as a dodo’s teapot, asking us to pluck apart words like stale crumpets, all logic and no marmalade. Quite the uffish thought, isn't it?
You see, they ask us to march along a straight path, no boughs to swing from or curvy words to dodge through—just one long, straight slog like a trudging bandersnatch. But we? We frolic through the wabe, feeling words in our tummies, not just ticking them off like dullish checkmarks. Ah, but fear not! For in the end, though the tests may look at us and say, “Tut-tut, you’re all kerfuddled!” we know that inside, we’ve got our own way of bouncing through the tulgey wood, of making meaning soar and swirl. And no one, not even the snicker-snacking test-makers, can take that away from us!