Comma Splices and Other Endangered Species

I’ve been grading college essays for nearly forty years, and for most of that time, spotting a comma splice was like being a tennis umpire catching an out-of-bounds serve: instant whistle, raised flag, righteous indignation. A run-on sentence was not merely a mistake—it was a moral offense. A fragment was a cry for divine intervention. I was the Grammar Constable, badge polished, citation pad ready.

But something has shifted. I look at a comma splice now and instead of reacting like a hall monitor on Red Bull, I simply ask: What’s the point? In a world where students increasingly treat AI like an in-house copyeditor, how long will “grammar errors” even exist? Am I really supposed to send them to syntax jail when a few prompts and a grammar model will sand off their linguistic rough edges? Policing grammar suddenly feels as antiquated as lecturing people about proper carburetor maintenance. The role I’ve played for decades—keeper of the mechanical rules—feels obsolete.

This morning I graded a paper with a textbook comma splice. A few years ago, I’d have winced like I’d bitten into a lemon rind. Today? I barely blinked. The author will eventually click a button and let a machine fix it. My outrage, like the comma splice itself, is becoming a relic of the combustible-engine era.