Interpreting Language: When Simple Questions Aren't Simple

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We often assume that language is straightforward. We say what we mean, and others understand exactly what we intended. But perhaps it is time to rethink that assumption. Much of human miscommunication arises because even the simplest statements can be interpreted in different ways by different people. An interesting classroom exercise, which unintentionally turned into an experiment, revealed this truth to me during one of my Grade 9 French classes.

While teaching the conditional tense, I asked my students a simple question:

"Qu'est-ce que vous aimeriez faire plus tard dans la vie ?"

(What would you like to do later in life?)

What appeared to be an ordinary question sent my class on a fascinating roller coaster of thought. I was amazed by the eclectic range of responses it produced.

Sam was the first to answer. Without hesitation, he said that he wanted to become an engineer and work in the information technology industry. He seemed remarkably certain of his future. 

Sitting next to him, his close friend Adam replied that he wanted to become a mechanical engineer. Since I am a mechanical engineer myself, I was curious about his choice. He explained that he liked cars, and although his father was a chemical engineer, he worked for a company that manufactured a well-known mechanical product. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable explanation for someone his age.

Sam added, "It doesn't pay you enough. IT professionals earn more."

Among the girls, Sarah answered confidently. She wanted to become an artist and pursue a career in the fine arts, although she wasn't entirely sure about the details. That uncertainty was understandable. 

Veronica, on the other hand, said she wanted to become a fashion designer.

Then came a response that changed the direction of the discussion.

Elodie and Katie said that they wanted to travel to Paris and visit its monuments. Before I could respond, Sam interrupted.

"Can we say something like that?"

He had assumed that I was asking about a profession, just like everyone who had answered before them. Their response did not fit his understanding of the question.

Then Steven, who had been unusually quiet, looked at me with visible confusion and asked,

"Are you asking what I want, or what my parents want me to do?"

His question surprised me.

What had initially seemed like a simple classroom exercise was becoming increasingly complex. The question did not mean the same thing to every student. Here was a boy who had difficulty distinguishing his own ambitions from the expectations set by his parents.

I clarified that I wanted to know what he wanted to do, not what others expected of him.

"I don't know, sir," he replied after a pause. "Maybe something in sports."

His response reminded me of a conversation I once had with an acquaintance. While speaking about her son's education, she mentioned that she wanted to accompany him wherever he went to study abroad. She also said that she did not want him marrying "some random girl."

"We are investing so much in his education," she said. "How can we let him go away like that?"

Her words shocked me. She was speaking of her son almost as though he were an investment. This mindset exists in many middle-class households. Some parents expect their children to fulfil ambitions chosen for them, while others unconsciously begin viewing their children as investments from whom they expect returns. The result is often the same: children grow up under the weight of unrealistic or unwanted expectations.

Three students chose not to answer at all. Perhaps they were shy, or perhaps they genuinely did not know. Rather than forcing them to speak, I let them remain silent.

Then there were Virginia and Kevin—the femme et homme de lettres of the class. They each wrote nearly half a page describing what they wanted to do. Their responses were remarkably similar. They spoke about travelling to Paris with friends, wandering through its streets, breathing the French air, visiting museums, appreciating art, dancing, and dedicating their lives to experiences that would make them happy. Interestingly, they hardly mentioned any profession. Instead, they described the kind of life they wished to live.

The diversity of these responses made me reflect on the question I had asked. It had seemed so simple to me. But was it really? Let us deconstruct it.

"What would you like to do later in life?"

What exactly did I mean by "do"? Was I referring to a profession, a hobby, an ambition, an activity, or simply a dream? What did "later in life" mean? After school? After university? After becoming financially independent? Ten years later? Twenty? What about the word "like"? Does it express a wish, a desire, an ambition, or merely a preference?

And if one places emphasis on the word you—"What would you like to do?"—the question suddenly becomes even more personal. Many children do not yet perceive themselves as entirely independent individuals. Living under the authority and expectations of their parents, they may not even imagine that they possess the freedom to choose their own future.

It was fascinating to see how a seemingly straightforward question generated so many interpretations, each shaped by the student's personal experiences and circumstances.

Philosophers such as Nietzsche questioned the certainty of meaning, while Jacques Derrida later developed the idea of deconstruction, arguing that texts possess no single fixed meaning but instead allow multiple interpretations depending on the reader. Until that classroom discussion, these ideas had remained largely philosophical to me. That day, however, I witnessed them unfolding before my eyes in the most practical way possible.

The experience reinforced an important lesson. Language is interpreted through the lens of individual experience. Every sentence carries the possibility of multiple meanings, making genuine understanding far more difficult than we often assume. Many misunderstandings arise not only because people speak inadequately, but also because listeners interpret the same words differently. How, then, do we address this problem?

The first step is to recognise that language is rarely as precise as we imagine. Once we become aware that our words may carry several interpretations, we can communicate more carefully. We should strive to express not only our words but also our intent. Brief or cryptic statements often leave room for misunderstanding, especially outside the safety of a classroom discussion where clarification is possible.

A listener must also make an effort to clarify the speaker’s intent in cases of ambiguity, rather than accepting an assumed interpretation. Understanding a text requires a clear grasp of the words used, their meanings, their usage, and the context in which they appear. Therefore, the deconstruction of a text is necessary on both sides: to communicate thoughts clearly and to understand them accurately.

Good communication, therefore, is not merely about choosing the right words. It is about establishing context, conveying intent, and reducing ambiguity. Only then can language become a bridge rather than a barrier.