However, pidgins evolve rapidly into Creoles when a generation of one of the groups contributing to a pidgin begins to adopt the pidgin itself as its native language. That generation then finds itself using pidgin for all social purposes, not only for discussing plantation tasks or bartering. Compared to pidgins, Creoles have a larger vocabulary, much more complex grammar, and consistency within and between individuals. Creoles can express virtually any thought expressible in a normal language, whereas trying to say anything even slightly complex is a desperate struggle in pidgin. Somehow, without any equivalent of the Academic Francaise to lay down explicit rules, a pidgin expands and stabilizes to become a uniform and more sophisticated language. This process of creolization is a natural experiment in language evolution that has unfolded independently dozens of times in the modern world. The sites for the experiment have ranged from mainland South America and Africa to Pacific islands; the labourers, from Africans and Portuguese to Chinese and New Guineans; the dominant colonists, from English and Spaniards to other Africans and Portuguese; and the century, from at least the Seventeenth to the Twentieth. What is striking is that the linguistic outcomes of all these independent natural experiments share so many similarities, both in what they lack and in what they possess. On the negative side, Creoles are simpler than normal languages in that they usually lack conjugations of verbs for tense and person, declensions of nouns for case and number, most prepositions, distinctions between events in the past and present, and agreement of words for gender. On the positive side, Creoles are advanced over pidgins in many respects: consistent word order; singular and plural pronouns for the first, second, and third persons; relative clauses; indications of the anterior tense (describing actions occurring before the time under discussion, whether or not that time is the present); and particles or auxiliary verbs preceding the main verb and indicating negation, anterior tense, conditional mood, and continuing as opposed to completed actions. Furthermore, most Creoles agree in placing a sentence's subject, verb, and object in that particular order, and also agree in the order of particles or auxiliaries preceding the main verb.
The factors responsible for this remarkable convergence are still controversial among linguists. It is as if you drew a dozen cards fifty times from well-shuffled decks and almost always ended up with no hearts or diamonds, but with one king, a jack, and two aces. The interpretation I hnd most convincing is that of linguist Derek Bickerton, who views many of the similarities among Creoles as a result of a human genetic blueprint for language.
Bickerton derived his view from his studies of creolization in Hawaii, where sugar planters imported workers from China, the Philippines, Japan, Korea, Portugal, and Puerto Rico in the late Nineteenth Century. Out of that linguistic chaos, and following Hawaii's annexation by the US in 1898, a pidgin based on English developed into a fully fledged Creole. The immigrant workers themselves retained their original native language. They also learned the pidgin that they heard, but they did not improve on it, despite its gross deficiencies as a medium of communication. That, however, posed a big problem for the immigrants' Hawaiian-born children. Even if the children were lucky enough to hear a normal language at home because both mother and father were from the same ethnic group, that normal language was useless for communicating with children and adults from other ethnic groups. Many children were less fortunate and heard nothing but pidgin even at home, when mother and father came from different ethnic groups. The children also did not have adequate opportunities to learn English because of the social barriers isolating them and their worker parents from the English-speaking plantation owners. Presented with an inconsistent and impoverished model of human language in the form of pidgin, Hawaiian labourers' children spontaneously 'expanded' pidgin into a consistent and complex Creole within a generation.
In the mid-1970s Bickerton was still able to trace the history of this creolization by interviewing working-class people born in Hawaii between 1900 and 1920. Like all of us, those children soaked up language skills in their early years but then became fixed in their ways, so that their speech in their old age continued to reflect the language spoken around them in their youth. (My children too will soon be wondering why their father persists in saying 'icebox' rather than 'refrigerator', decades after the iceboxes of my parents' own childhood disappeared.) Hence the elderly adults of various ages, whom Bickerton interviewed in the 1970s, provided him with virtually frozen snapshots of various stages in Hawaii's pidgin-to-creole transition, depending on the subjects' year of birth. In that way, Bickerton was able to conclude that creolization had begun by 1900, was complete by 1920, and was accomplished by children in the process of acquiring the ability to speak.
In effect, the Hawaiian children lived out a modified version of the Psammeticus experiment. Unlike the Psammeticus children, the Hawaiian children did hear adults speaking and were able to learn words. Unlike normal children, however, the Hawaiian children heard little grammar, and what they did hear was inconsistent and rudimentary. Instead, they created their own grammar. That they did indeed create it, rather than somehow borrowing grammar from the language of Chinese labourers or English plantation owners, is clear from the many features of Hawaiian Creole that differ from English or from the workers' languages. The same is true for Neo-Melanesian: its vocabulary is largely English, but its grammar includes many features absent from English.
I do not want to exaggerate the grammatical similarities among Creoles by implying that they are all essentially the same. Creoles do vary depending on the social history surrounding creolization—especially on the initial ratio between the numbers of plantation owners (or colonists) and workers, how quickly and to what extent that ratio changed, and for how many generations the early-stage pidgin could gradually borrow more complexity from existing languages. Yet many similarities remain, particularly among those Creoles that quickly arose from early-stage pidgins. How did each Creole's children come so quickly to agree on a grammar, and why did the children of different Creoles tend to reinvent the same grammatical features again and again? It was not because they did it in the easiest or sole way possible to devise a language. For instance, Creoles use prepositions (short words preceding nouns), as do English and some other languages, but there are other languages that dispense with prepositions in favour of postpositions following nouns, or else noun case endings. Again, Creoles happen to resemble English in placing subject, verb, and object in that order, but the borrowing from English could not account for Creole grammar, because Creoles derived from languages with a different word order still use the subject-verb-object order.
These similarities among Creoles seem likely to stem from a genetic blueprint that the human brain possesses for learning language during childhood. Such a blueprint has been widely assumed ever since the linguist Noam Chomsky argued that the structure of human language is far too complex for a child to learn within just a few years, in the absence of any hard-wired instructions. For example, at the age of two my twin sons were just beginning to use single words. As I write this paragraph a bare twenty months later, still several months short of their fourth birthday, they have already mastered most of the rules of basic English grammar that people who immigrate to English-speaking countries as adults often fail to master after decades. Even before the age of two, my children had learned to make sense of the initially incomprehensible babble of adult sound coming at them, to recognize groupings of syllables into words, and to realize which groupings constituted underlying words despite variations of pronunciation within and between adult speakers.
Such difficulties convinced Chomsky that children learning their first language would face an impossible task unless much of language's structure were already pre-programmed into them. Hence Chomsky reasoned that we are born with a 'universal grammar' already wired into °ur brains to give us a spectrum of grammatical models encompassing the range of grammars in actual languages. This pre-wired universal grammar would be like a set of switches, each with various alternative positions. The switch positions would then become fixed to match the grammar of the local language that the growing child hears. However, Bickerton goes further than Chomsky and concludes that we are pre-programmed not just to a universal grammar with adjustable switches, but to a particular set of switch settings: the settings that surface again and again in Creole grammars. The pre-programmed settings can be overridden if they turn out to conflict with what a child hears in the local language around it. But if a child hears no local switch settings at all because it grows up amidst the structureless anarchy of pidgin language, the Creole settings can persist.