The Rhizomatic Institution?

This is a 1-page “read across” paper I wrote. In a graduate seminar on Posthumanism, the students selected course readings and applied them to a rhetorical artifact. This particular paper was experimental because the prof relaxed the grading standards so we could explore more freely. Deleuze and Guattari are wildly difficult to follow, but their work definitely found resonance in my imagination, and in imaginative possibilities.  So here is my read of the introduction from A 1000 Plateaus across an important reading for my research about institutional critique from Porter et al.

Disavowing unity, Deleuze and Guattari argue for a new way of conceptualizing thought through rhizomatic structures that conflict with normative, historical arborescent images of Western thought that are often identified with a tree. Their rhizomatic structure resists static conceptualizing because its center or focal area remains contested and, furthermore, in any given conceptualization, what appears tertiary can assume the center due to the rhizome’s decentralized nature. This is not to say some areas in the rhizomatic structure are not more advantageous; Deleuze and Guattari comment that mineral availability, for example—following the botanical metaphor—still create favorable conditions in much the same way  cultures create better conditions for particular types of activities or networks. They articulate 6 “approximate characteristics of the rhizome” (7). Principles 1 & 2 establish the rhizome in terms of connectivity and heterogeneity. Applying this to linguistic knowledge, they argue rhizomatic structuring recognizes power relations rather than inherent categorical foundations. Thus, “a rhizome ceaselessly establishes connections between semiotic chains, organizations of power, and circumstances relative to the arts, sciences, and social struggles” (8). In principle 3 they argue that multiplicity makes discovering points or positions impossible because only perspectival lines serve to mark the rhizomatic structure. Principle 4 they call the asignifying rupture, a phenomenon that ensures any departure  from the rhizome, which they term “flight,” recalls the nature of the rhizome and therefore functions against creation of dualisms or dichotomies that, should they exist, are temporal and fleeting. Finally, principles 5 & 6 are cartography and decalcomania. These principles place the rhizome at odds with structural stability that can always be reimagined or repurposed. In placing the map as preferential to tracing, they claim, “the map has to do with performance, whereas the tracing always involves an alleged ‘competence’” (12-13). Rejecting dualism and yet acknowledging its necessary and perhaps unavoidable function within writing (20), they claim that knowledge, at least as conveyed through writing but I suspect they mean in general, is based in approximations rather than exactness.

With this in mind, I pivot towards a seminal article for my research: “Institutional Critique: A Methodology for Change.” In this article, Porter et al. argue that historically the field of rhetoric and composition has located the classroom as the primary locus for change, but this focus should be shifted towards the institution itself. Drawing on postmodern geography and critical theory, they present a methodology  for reimagining the transformative scene through professional writing and public discourse. A productive problem, then, between Porter et al. and Deleuze and Guattari develops around the appearance of the institution. For Porter et al., the institution inhabits a mappable material and discursive space joined and administered through rhetorical designs. This institutional posture meshes well with principles 5 & 6 that concern rhizomatic mapping. However, the inherent lack of rhizomatic structural stability that Deleuze and Guattari theorize seems, at least, partially incompatible with institutions that proffer appearances of stability within local communities. Despite this, Porter et al. emphasize the rhetorical nature of institutions that make them amenable to targeted rhetorical action. In advocating for better conditions across the university, noting the precarious populations of students, part-time composition teachers,  and workers and the economically disadvantaged in general , they seek to “include institutional research in the realm of what counts as research in rhetoric and composition” (612).  Institutional action, they argue, typically takes three particular forms: administrative critique; classroom critique; and disciplinary critique. Importantly, however, are there local contexts and practices. They further argue,

There are productive tensions between abstract actions (e.g., disciplinary critiques), local actions (e.g., changing classroom practices), and the terrain (shaded) where we locate institutional critique. Institutional critique operates within the material and discursive spaces linking macro-level systems and more visible local spaces, such as classrooms, where critique and action in rhetoric and composition typically operate. (621)

Applying the rhizome to institutional structures, these institutional locales take on a  decidedly less vertical appearance, exhibiting the “connectivity” and “heterogeneity” of principles 1 & 2, which open new possibilities for critiques that take advantage of the material and discursive communicative/rhetorical linkages or, if you like, adventitious runners just below the surface that undergird the institution itself. Porter et al. remind us to look for “gaps” or “fissures” within institutional structures.  Thus, rather than seeing these institutional sites as discrete locations with discrete functions within a monolithic framework, perhaps we can focus on how  critiquing institutional spaces, organizations, practices, etc. brings new opportunities to dissolve the divide between theory and practice. Said another way, by seeing institutions as rhetorical designs that exhibit rhizomatic features within local spatial, visual, and organizational contexts, new opportunities for agency develop; however, without the local, material context, institutional critique runs the risk of becoming overly abstract and disembodied, so to speak.

Hoaxing “Grievance Studies” and Burkean Motives

This is a 1-page summary/response paper for a contemporary rhetorical theory and criticism class. The prompt asked me to selectively read a rhetorical theory monograph across a rhetorical artifact of my choosing. I had to push the margins to get it all to fit on a single page, but I did it!

In this critique I examine two important discussions from Kenneth Burke’s A Rhetoric of Motives and read them across a current rhetorical artifact, “Academic Grievance Studies and the Corruption of Scholarship,” an article published October 2, 2018 in Areo, an online magazine devoted to “broadly liberal and humanist values.” A Rhetoric of Motives develops Burke’s expansive account of rhetorical persuasion, broadening the realm of rhetoric by emphasizing the persuasive effects of identification.  The book consists of three parts that work together to establish rhetoric’s range, its traditional principles, and its order. Importantly, for Burke, identification troubles the need that rhetoric be argumentative or strategic. For instance, he argues “a rhetorical motive, through the resources of identification, can operate without conscious direction by any particular agent (35).  For this paper, I focus on Burke’s discussion of the rhetoric of autonomy and its relation to science (29-32) and his discussion of pure persuasion (267-294).  Within the rhetoric of science, Burke identifies the liberal actor’s  inclination toward seeing science as “good and absolute.” This theologic function can implicate even the most scientific and rational actors, and he likens their involvement to a scene within “a kind of secular temple, in which ritualistic devotions are taking place, however concealed by the terminology of the surface.” According or Burke, the rhetorical foundation of pure persuasion relies on symbolic identification as its motor. Persuasion, in general however, fails to achieve any pure form in an actualized sense because those employing it  typically use it to gain advantage or to acquire something. That is, the practice of rhetoric undoes attempts to make it pure, for its pure form  exists only in idealizations, even in scientific and religious discourse.  Thus, in the absolute sense, any rhetoric may claim the ingredient of pure motive, but in actuality it exists nowhere.

Recently the editors of Areo revived the infamous Sokal Affair by submitting 20 phony papers to peer-reviewed academic journals of what they call “grievance studies,” a conspicuous term they use to pejoratively broadside cultural and identity studies. Of the 20 submissions to relatively well-known and respected journals, such as Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 7 were accepted, 7 were tagged for revision and resubmission, and 6 were outright rejected. The three authors, Helen Pluckrose, James A. Lindsay and Peter Boghossian claim their hoax-driven methodology addresses problems of “ideologically-motivated scholarship, radical skepticism and cultural constructivism” within the academy. Their thesis rests on the premises that academic work being done across much of the humanities lacks intellectual rigor and thereby contributes to an ongoing problem they call “identitarian madness” that corrupts academic research. Furthermore, people holding values of liberalism, modernity, and progress etc. should be concerned about this rot within the academy. Although the context is slightly dissimilar, it is not hard to imagine how Burke’s admonishment regarding the tendency of liberals (think classic liberals) to attach absolutist values to ensconce their views as irreproachable while castigating those who do not conform fits here. The writing method they used to dupe the journals “started with an idea that spoke to [their] epistemological or ethical concerns with the field and then sought to bend the existing scholarship to support it.” In short, they adopted a circuitous the end justifies the means approach because they did not agree with the scholarship to begin with.  What immediately comes up in light of such methods is a zealous belief that all knowledge production must align with their preferred academic modes in order to be considered knowledge at all. Rather than acting in good faith one might normally accept as integral to a rational liberal mindset, they instead demonstrate a narrow and stunted sense of vindictive reason by rejecting that which does not align with their own preconceived conclusion. Burke’s metaphor of ritualistic devotion seems especially apt here because in trying to make apparent the “corruption” of “grievance studies,” they demonstrate their own impoverished ethical position hidden from their sight by dogmatic blindness. A self-reflective discussion about the ethics of their bad faith actions escapes their article for the most part, although they do mention that participating in the knowledge production processes of the journals would have been unethical. Ironically, they offer questionable (at best) academic hoax-based practices in their fanatical attempt to restore/rescue/reset the academy to a more pristine, therefore less corrupt, state. In this pursuit of ideological purity, they fall into the trap of believing that their persuasion is apolitical and divorced from any ideological or, in their minds, sinister motives because it rests on some imagined universal liberalist foundation; but as Burke demonstrates, pure persuasion, that is, persuasion free of motive, exists at the level of symbolic identification, and any practical use of rhetoric must account for motive that concomitantly undermines an apolitical or ideology-free stance. In this case, I argue that any discussion of their rhetoric must admit these authors were bad faith actors who falsified data and arguments to advance their agenda, and worse, failed to engage in a productive way with current scholarly discussions in the fields they targeted.

RSA 2019 Project: Working Group Proposal

Writing a conference proposal is a genre I am still warming up to. It takes a lot of situating of personal/academic interests within relevant disciplinary discussions and in the context of the what the conference is looking to address. To complicate matters further, the proposal is usually limited to a pretty meager word count–250 words in this case. Anyway, here is the proposal I crafted for the Pedagogy and Community Literacy working group of the RSA 2019 Project in Power, Place, and Publics.

My work in Rhetoric and Composition focuses on the intersections between institutions and communities, with emphasis on researching and elevating various community literacies that can open new conversations and ways of understanding. Recently, I collaborated with another student to develop a proposal for the University of Nevada, Reno (UNR) Office of Service-Learning and Civic Engagement (OSLCE) that would bring upper-division English and Journalism students more impactful learning opportunities in local communities through a semester long service project emphasizing direct contact and collaboration with disenfranchised, marginalized, or at-risk communities existing on the borders of campus or communally adjacent to it. This effort overlaps with the focus of the working group, which asks us to “imagine ways of matching them [community members] with the needs of students and faculty at UNR.”

Recognizing the work of Cushman, our proposal matched community partners, like the Northern Nevada Literacy Council, to specific institutional sites at UNR and sought to define and establish important service-learning criteria of student empowerment and common goals. We acknowledged the delicate balance partnership entails on many fronts, from community partners to participating students and teachers. Because service-learning can seem one-sided, we argued that, as Deans, Roswell, and Wurr note, community participants, including students, should be afforded opportunities for reflective writing and transformation that are more commonly the province of community literacy scholars.

My current proposal, then, seeks to create rhetorically active roles for community participants to work through and across institutions to engage in more inclusive public life.

Medieval Rhetoric and Dialectic Constraint

The four texts we read for this week contribute to the study of medieval rhetoric in different ways. Of these, two are primary texts from the early medieval period, Augustine’s Book IV from On Christian Doctrine, and Boethius’ Book I of In Ciceronis Topica. The other two are Chapter III from James. J. Murphy’s 1974 book, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, and Chapter 2 and part of Chapter 3 of John Marenbon’s 2003 book, Great Medieval Thinkers: Boethius.  Although there are some similarities among the texts, the project of the authors varies widely. Augustine primarily addresses the evangelist in the correct uses of rhetoric, arguing the rhetoric is in itself not a bad thing since it can be aligned to serve truthful and good ends, which he identifies as those that promote Christianity through scriptural interpretation; Boethius’ project, on the other hand, critiques Cicero’s Topica—sometimes comparing it to Aristotle’s Topics—and generally establishing his own method for discovery or invention of arguments. Murphy’s dense history catalogues the ubiquitous influence of Cicero in the middle ages, and to a much lesser extent, Quintilian. He argues that of all the classical rhetoricians, Cicero’s work, primarily De Inventione and Rhetorica ad Herennium (which at the time was attributed to Cicero, even though the authorship is now in question), informed rhetorical training in this period. Finally, Marendon looks at the historical circumstances that surround Boethius and lead to his execution and summarizes Boethius’ topical arguments in relation to Cicero’s Topics and his own book, Topical Differentiae. 

Given the diversity of these texts, I had to extend my thinking to find an argument that I could trace throughout them. Reading Murphy, I flirted with the idea of arguing about why Cicero became the magister eloquentiae up through the scholastic period of medieval history. However, I realized I would not be able to marshal enough evidence in support of whatever position I argued in relation to this; Reading Marendon, I considered the influence of maximal sentences, a Boethiusian (is this a word?!) construction and thought I might argue they are similar to enthymemes and warrants. This argument, however, might not find enough traction outside of Marendon and Boethius’ texts, so I set it aside, too. Struggling my way through Boethius’ Book 1—this reading was tough sledding due to its highly abstract nature and lack of definitive, concrete examples, save for maybe the more illustrative example of the slave in 2.10—I pondered a possible argument about why Boethius felt compelled to comment and further elaborate on Cicero’s Topics, but I realized he covers his reasons, although somewhat opaquely, within the first part of Book 1, and I decided against this as well. Finally, reading Augustine, I found his prose to contain myriad figures of speech, so much so that in places it proffered a poetic bent, and I thought I might argue about stylistics and their place in medieval rhetoric, but, like my earlier inclinations, I decided against this because I wasn’t sure I could sustain my argument through the other texts.

Recalling the memoriam culture that permeated medievalism, I argue that dialectic held such a dominant position because discourse, in general, was limited, in terms of acceptable forms and structures, because a more open rhetoric would threaten the social hierarchy by accommodating and recognizing more voices outside of the hegemony of the Church and learned, not inconspicuously comprised almost entirely of men.  In her presentation last week, Dr. Angela Bennett informed our class that the transmission of medieval knowledge and culture, in terms of literacy especially, relied on memorization. This meant that to even enter the many discourses in a substantive and agentic (I use this word loosely) way, participants needed extensive training that was expensive and time consuming. This limited participants to the wealthy and those demonstrating an aptitude that could be useful for the Church. I concede that a lack of material resources and technologies also likely played a part in the transmission of literate experiences. But as Dr. Bennett pointed out, many texts proliferated nonetheless. Thus, I believe that the highly schematized and formalized system of rhetoric and dialectic that flourished during this time functioned as a gatekeeping institution.

Although I might return to the interpretations I stated previously, I did finally settle on an argument, as I just mentioned. Throughout everything we read, I could not help but be struck by the emphatic use of dialectic alongside rhetoric. In describing Cicero’s influence, Murphy writes, “Boethius, for instance, assumes that is Cicero’s rhetoric which should be the standard in assessing the relation of dialectic and rhetoric;” (91). Augustine makes it very clear from the outset that dialectic and rhetoric should be joined, stating in Chapter 1 that “’There are two things on which all interpretation of Scripture depends: the mode of ascertaining the proper meaning, and the known, the meaning.’” In connecting a need for discovery alongside judgment, Boethius argues “philosophy must establish our judgment concerning the governing of life and exercise our faculties in accordance with reason has determined we should adhere to or reject, do or leave undone.” He goes on to say, “This discipline, then, which ancient Peripatetics called logic, is ‘mistress’ of discourse” (25). Although Marendon’s account of Boethius’ topical reasoning shows a perhaps more accommodating method than Aristotle’s because Boethius’ presents arguments as “plausible rather than necessary,” (59) his summary still demonstrates a Boethius invested in ideas of correct structure and form.

While rhetoric can overturn even the most deeply held beliefs, constraining rhetoric by overly formalizing it can do just the opposite. Consider, for a moment, how a speaker might struggle if he does not know the next elocutionary move his audience expects? I am not conflating form with dialect here; however, dialect and form during this period seem intertwined in scholastic logical exercises and emphasis on correctness. Murphy remarks, “Cicero’s theories were known to the middle ages primarily through the highly schematized rhetorical treatises of his youthful period” (109). So even though “The exacting spirit which made Paris the center of scholasticism (and could make Aristotle’s Rhetorica into a book of ethics) was a spirit which distrusted the shifting, problematical influence of the basic Ciceronian belief that human artist of discourse can so shape and sway his audience that they are affected only by pure human factors,” (111) Cicero’s early works, as a rhetorical model, became ascendant not just because they were readily available, but because they required intense study to grasp their schematized methods. The effect, intended or not, must have been one that immobilized large portions of society that had neither the time nor resources to learn the acceptable modes of discourse necessary to enjoin public life in a less circumscribed way.

Even Augustine, who argues that style can be a very effective form of persuasion, filters the whole of his work through religious restrictions.  In some ways his exhortations are generous because he acknowledges the power of eloquent speech. He says, “Now a strong desire for clearness sometimes leads to neglect the more polished forms of speech, and indifference about what sounds well, compared with what dearly expresses and conveys the meaning intended” (Chapter 10). Taken out of context, this instruction seems reasonable, but with Augustine it is difficult to escape his overarching message of evangelism that pervades his instructions. In Chapter 13 he drives home his point about his motives, remonstrating, “For what does it profit a man that he both confesses the truth and praises the eloquence, if he does not yield his consent, when it is the only for the sake of securing his consent that the speaker in urging the truth gives careful attention to way he says?”. Augustine’s eloquence and persuasiveness—and truth for that matter—are only properly deployed if they target an audience for conversion to Christianity. So even as he acknowledges sonorous and delightful speech, he constantly reminds his readers that must always be tempered with truth and intention, truth as found in scripture, and intention as it relates to truth.

Thinking of the how discourse still functions in this way, I wonder if we, in the academy, in our online discussions, in our writing, still are struggling to overcome formalized and schematized discursive expectations that rob us of the opportunity to say what we want to say because we can’t find an acceptable venue or an acceptable way to say it. I admit the generative aspects of Topics from Aristotle, Cicero, and Boethius are important and remain relevant and useful, and certainly we have come a long way since medieval times, the continuing progress towards gender equity is one thing that comes to mind, but I also wonder if there aren’t new or perhaps less obvious gatekeeping institutions that surround our speech—written and spoken, maybe residing in memory—that limit us in ways less recognizable but still nonetheless present?

Works Cited

Augustine. On Christian Doctrine.

Boethius. In Ciceronis Topica.

Marendon, John. Great Medieval Thinkers: Boethius. Oxford, 2003.

Murphy, James J. Rhetoric in the Middle Ages: A History of Rhetorical Theory from Saint Augustine to the Renaissance. University of California Press, 1974.

 

Response to Books 2 & 3 of On Rhetoric

Response: Books 2 & 3 of On Rhetoric

Aristotle is often thought to be one of the most accomplished philosophers in Western tradition, writing across broad subjects ranging from the natural sciences to rhetoric and poetics. Although he took a kinder view of rhetoric than did his predecessor and contemporary, Plato, Aristotle’s treatment of speech in On Rhetoric still reflects an overarching aim to systematize the art into discrete categories common to Greek society during his time. In Book 1 he separates rhetoric into three species, deliberative, judicial, and epideictic. In Book 2 he continues his treatment of Pisteis, or “The Means of Persuasion,” establishing a psychology of human emotions common to rhetorical situations, further developing theories of ethos, in terms of speakers and audiences, and introducing forms of logical argument, including twenty-eight topoi, or common topics. Book 3 is devoted to matters of delivery, style, and arrangement, with emphasis on word choices and syntactical complexities and their relations to certain types of speech. Book 3 also gives the most detailed analysis of written compositions. Kennedy remarks, “The period from the middle of the fifth to the middle of the fourth centuries has been called a time of a ‘literate revolution,’… for reliance on writing greatly increased in this period and affected the composition and reception of texts” (227).

In her reaction paper, Diana has argued that Aristotle’s instructions, while essential to rhetoric, “are sometimes dangerously manipulative.” She supports this thesis throughout her paper, but I have selected three specific statements of hers about Book 2 of On Rhetoric that I believe are key assertions. To me, the following represent her argument most forcefully:

“This understanding of emotions equips the speaker with the methods of provoking an audience into an emotional state that may not be the best for making judgements, at least in their rational favor.”

“These assumptions and classifications [regarding the naturalization of social standing in terms of authority and wealth] can lead to unscrupulous methods of stratifying groups of people with the means of rhetoric to rationalize, reinforce, and deceive people with less resources and agency.”

“But the extreme and unprincipled exercises of his [Aristotle] methods have had unforeseen consequences that are now proving to be difficult to discipline with more regard to truth than power.”

In my response I would like to extend Diana’s critique while also developing my own. Like her, I will focus my response primarily in Book 2, but for possibly different reasons. In Book 2 of On Rhetoric, Aristotle skirts between notions of human psychological development that vacillate between public selfhood and individual character, of which the latter seems to rely more heavily on someone’s innate inclinations, while the former is largely a product of social conditioning. My critique, then, focuses in the conflict between what persuasion organizes or calls forwards. Aristotle argues public selfhood can be organized through persuasion, but, in other instances, he implies persuasion simply calls forward what is already present within an audience (an audience of one or many). One way of reading this text, as Diana identifies, is as a possible instruction manual for manipulating audiences, possibly for nefarious or ill purposes. Another option I want to present is that perhaps Aristotle’s rhetoric did not create the conditions of persuasion in an audience as much as it relied on the common sensibilities he observed.

I agree that whipping up emotions in an audience can affect their judgment. However, I am not certain reason stripped of emotion is possible or even ideal. Recently, my English 102 class read an article from political scientist Greg Lukianoff and moral psychologist Jonathan Haidt, in which “emotional thinking” is constructed as a hindrance to the current generation of American college students. The authors argue its bad properties require various kinds of mental adjustments to fix emotionally centered distortions that obstruct clearer reasoning. Similarly, in his discourse on fear, Aristotle takes a poor view of people in general, saying “for human beings usually do wrong when they can” (129). Undoubtedly, taking this opinion places some responsibilities on the speaker to account for his reasons for speaking. If the speaker recognizes this characteristic in the audience, does he bear any blame for passions he incites in an audience through his speech?  I am not sure I have an answer. If one believes humans are predisposed towards the wrong courses of action, it seems reasonable that they might act accordingly regardless of what they hear or believe.

This conflict of agency and character, or states of mind, occurs throughout Book 2. The reader may be confused about whether Aristotle believes people make choices that define their character or if a stable character is driving the choices a person makes. Making matters murkier, Aristotle structures his discourse regarding human emotions in what appear to be haphazard sections. He usually begins with a definition of an emotion and its cause(s), anger for example (116), and proceeds to describe the state of mind of those who become angry, followed by a more definite social context, “Those at whom People Become Angry.” These subheadings are repeated in Book 2, but he doesn’t adhere to the same pattern. For instance, in Chapter 6 on Shame and Shamelessness, he starts again with the definition and causes of shame but proceeds next with “Those before whom people feel shame,” before ending with “The state of mind of those who feel shame” (136). By changing the order to foreground and prioritize the social before the individual in his discussion of shame, Aristotle seems to indicate that certain feelings are driven more by public awareness rather than by individual character.

Aristotle’s rhetoric does tend towards conservation of his social order rather than rebellion against it. In this way, much of On Rhetoric can be read as explicit and tacit endorsements of classism and sexism, or as Diana suggests, against those with less resources and agency. The lack of examples of woman speakers is apparent in the text, although, as stated earlier, it could reflect Greek society more than Aristotle’s personal views. I believe it probably reflects a bit of both because, and this could be very much derived from my experiences and commonplaces within the 21^st century rhetoric and composition academy, individuals arrive at their conceptions through social interaction, allowing for, of course, certain pathological exceptions. However, although Aristotle’s rhetoric exhibits classist thinking, especially if one thinks his text was meant primarily for upper class and educated rhetors, such as his most famous student, Alexander of Macedonia, it also commends the persuasiveness of common folk.

In what could be called “plain speaking” today, Aristotle remarks that the directness of the uneducated often wins the day by its lack of pedantic and “tiresome” reasoning. Specifically, he says, “This is the reason why the uneducated are more persuasive than the educated [when speaking—emphasis Kennedy’s] before crowds, just as the poets say the uneducated are more ‘inspired by the Muses’ in a crowd” (169). In this instance, Aristotle argues that this is an inherent ability in the uneducated to intuitively connect with an audience, while the educated can lose connection through reasoning that is not understood or common to the audience at hand. Thus, one could see Aristotle’s statements here as a warning to the socially well-connected against certain types of speech, but also as a genuine compliment to those who come to rhetoric more naturally.

Within the confines of our current civic situation, I can see how Aristotle’s text could be a source of anxiety. Inflammatory rhetoric seems to have shaken some of the foundations of our politics. The dangerous tones and bombast of the current President are key examples, as are the seemingly willful ignorance and disdain exhibited by his followers. Returning to my original point then, that Aristotle’s treatise can be read as an observation of the society he lived in, I believe it is hard to overlook the possibility that audiences can be persuaded not just because of the innate power of speech and text, but because the audience identifies with what the speaker gives voice. Recognizing this, in Book 3 Aristotle cautions against delivery superseding facts, calling “true justice” that which “seeks nothing more in a speech than neither to offend or entertain… nevertheless, [delivery—emphasis Kennedy’s] has great power, as has been said, because of the corruption of the audience” (195-196).  So, while Aristotle’s rhetoric on the emotions offers insight into speech and how it works through emotion, we are still left wondering if speech actually creates or simply stirs those passions within an audience. Does the speaker shape the audience, or worse, manipulate the audience, or does s/he simply call forward or recognize what is already present? Part of Aristotle’s allure is the certainty with which he infuses his assertions. His matter of fact reasoning makes it appear his observations and qualifications regarding rhetoric are definitive, the first and last word on the subject. However, as we have discussed in our seminar, Aristotle’s text is very much his rhetoric—one of many voices—in an ongoing conversation.

Works Cited

Aristotle. On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse. Translated by George A. Kennedy, Oxford UP, 2007.

Response to “Reading Strategies and the Construction of Meaning”

Written in 1988, Christina Haas and Linda Flower conducted a small study of first-year college students (student readers) and graduate student readers (experienced readers) in “Reading Strategies and the Construction of Meaning” to determine their reading strategies. Acknowledging the implications for cognitive and literary studies and the limitations of knowing the internal processes of readers during the act or reading, they embrace a trend towards viewing reading a constructive process rather than a receptive one. In developing the study, they codify three reading strategies that readers typically use: content, feature, and rhetorical strategies. Of these, rhetorical strategies are used least, and barely at all by student readers. Importantly, however, is there conclusion that rhetorical strategies are what separate student from experienced readers. They assert teachers should encourage “The Role of Rhetorical Reading” by moving students beyond transactional textual interpretations that rely on “knowledge-telling” and “knowledge-getting” (181-182). Haas and Flower admit teaching rhetorical reading is difficult and stop short of recommending specific pedagogical choices. To fill this gap, I suggest a strategy that can help student readers fill the rhetorical void that often surrounds their reading. While Haas and Flower argue that student readers struggle with rhetorical reading and teachers should address this issue, on a practical level, I recommend teaching the rhetorical situation as a critical reading strategy to help students to establish rhetorical frameworks to help construct rhetorical representations during reading.

Student readers need help constructing a rhetorical situation for texts they read. The Haas and Flower study found that student readers rarely—1% of the time—used rhetorical strategies for interpreting texts. Although the rhetorical situation is generally thought of as a tool for teaching writing, incorporating it into discussions of reading would offer students practices for interrogating texts through rhetorical means. This practice, then, could introduce students to the realistic reasons people produce texts, as Haas and Flower comment, “A text is understood not only as content and information, but also as the result of someone’s intentions, as part of a larger discourse world, and as having real effects on real readers (170). Moreover, Haas and Flower note, “in the absence of a rhetorical situation for the text, all experienced readers constructed one” (178).). By introducing the rhetorical situation as part of critical reading, the teacher could ask students to reflect on questions of audience, exigence, and purpose alongside content-driven questions about the meaning of passages, thus connecting content to a rhetorical focus.

Familiarizing students with the rhetorical situation gives them an interpretative schema in which to make rhetorical assessments of their reading. Rhetorical strategies make students enact judgments that lie outside of the text (Haas and Flower 176). I believe students are reluctant to do this because they often do not have the knowledge of discourse that more experienced readers do. In first-year composition, providing students with the rhetorical situation schema offers them a starting point from which they can begin to think about the forces that surround a text, even if those forces are not readily discerned from the text itself. As student readers spent most of their energy on interpreting content through summary and paraphrasing to construct meaning, connecting these interpretations to rhetorical structures would help produce a more general, and perhaps higher-order, framework in which content-level assessments of the text operate. Of the three strategies for constructing meaning identified by Haas and Flower, rhetorical strategies are employed far less than the other two strategies which relate to the text’s content and features, yet are the most critical distinction between student and experienced readers (176).

In short, teaching the rhetorical situation would transition composition teachers away from just teaching texts to teaching readers.  Haas and Flower ask, “What does rhetorical reading do for readers?” (178). They answer their own question by asserting rhetorical representation possibly gives students a focus that could prove particularly helpful for complex reading tasks. Although Haas and Flower do not mention teaching the rhetorical situation explicitly, teaching it as a reading practice and not just a writing practice seems a logical outgrowth to their suggestions. Rather than seeing the text as something to be passively received, they suggest “teachers move from merely teaching texts to teaching readers (169). Adding the rhetorical situation into the critical arsenal of critical reading strategies gives students another way to at least begin understanding texts beyond simply reciting the information they perceive therein. Furthermore, it pushes students to imagine the real-world implications and considerations of discourse that go into text production and, therefore, inform representational practices in their reading.

Works Cited

Haas, Christina, and Linda Flower. “Rhetorical Reading Strategies and the Construction of Meaning.” College Composition and Communication, vol. 39, no. 2, 1988, pp. 167–183.

Portfolio Grading Response

In “Portfolio Standards for English 101,” Douglas D. Hesse categorizes the qualities he looks for in student portfolios, although not every category may be appropriate for assessment, depending upon the local situation of the course. He maintains that portfolio grading be broad and holistically focused and no individual papers be graded specifically as part of the assessment. He provides criteria for “A,” “B,” “C,” “D,” and “F” portfolio grades. An overarching concern for Hesse is that students effectively situate and relate the works in their portfolio to illustrate various developmental schema, in terms of writing. Hesse argues that writers in his English 101 course demonstrate audience awareness, ambitious and mature qualities of thought—including critical and reflective thinking—engaged reading practices, evidence of careful and deliberate global and local revision, and sophisticated language displaying a strong command of stylistic features.

In establishing portfolio criteria, Hesse overgeneralizes in places, using terms that he fails to define. Specifically, he refers to “metaphorical and analogical thinking” as a key quality for portfolio assessment regarding the incorporation of personal experiences and direct observations but does not go any further in defining what that means; so, while Hesse does a commendable job in outlining a helpful variety of portfolio standards, his omission of sufficient context for “metaphorical and analogical thinking” weakens that part of his assessment strategy.

Within the structure of the article, Hesse refers the qualities of analogy and metaphor in repeated paragraphs that define assessment criteria about how students connect personal experiences and direct observations in the “A” and “B” portfolio sections. However, the criteria for this assessment in the “C” and lower portfolios does not include these qualities, evidence that Hesse believes students’ writing in this area for grades less than a “B” no longer include these qualities of thinking. In a “C” portfolio, rather than evidence of analogical and metaphorical thinking, Hesse claims, “The connections, [of personal experiences and direct observations] however, may not be as fully integrated, explored, or subtle as in the “B” portfolios” (416). This difference places the emphasis on integration and exploration, which, in my view, is not always indicated by uses of analogy and metaphor. As a matter of fact, I am not even quite sure how analogy and metaphor are the operative conditions for integration and exploration of personal experiences and direct observation, in terms of writing.

Nevertheless, discussing the portfolio writer’s situation for an “A” grade, Hesse claims, “Their writing often displays analogical or metaphorical thinking” (413). Similarly, for a “B” grade, he claims, “Occasionally, their thinking writing may display analogical of metaphorical thinking” (415). While establishing these types of thinking as the difference between “A,” “B,” and “C,” portfolios for making connections, in writing, to the broader world, the problem is that Hesse does not qualify either analogy or metaphor, in terms of thinking or in terms of writing. How, then, does a student exhibit these qualities in their portfolio writing? The answer to this question is not clear. I believe, when it comes to assessment, criteria must be accessible, therefore well-defined.

The assumption is that sophisticated writers use both habits of mind, analogical and metaphorical thinking, to structure and relate their experiences and observations yet, without more explanation, such assessments are difficult to make. I can imagine a student writer seeing this criterion and peppering her prose with instances of comparisons and relations to seemingly unrelated things to demonstrate analogies and metaphors. I do not, however, think this is what Hesse argues for in this area. He seems to want students to demonstrate this type of thinking in less overt and deliberate ways, although I am not certain since he does not move the terms past generalization. Even so, his glossing would be easier to overlook if he did not emphasize the importance of these qualities by making them essential elements for quality written work around personal experiences and direct observations.

Works Cited

Hesse, Douglas. “Portfolio Standards for English 101.” Teaching Composition: Background Readings, edited by T.R. Johnson, Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2008, pp. 412-421.

Community Engagement Pedagogy Response

In the introduction to “Teaching and Writing Across Communities: Developing Partnerships, Publics, and Programs” in Writing and Community Engagement: A Critical Sourcebook, Deans, Roswell, and Wurr offer a brief history, key critical frameworks, and current trends within the field of service-learning. They frame their analysis of community-based pedagogies around a key question: “What does it mean to teach college writing?” (1). Exploring this in various contexts, they outline the book’s content according to “What Teachers of Community Writing Need to Know” (4) and “Agendas for Further Research on Community Writing: Process, Products, and Participants” (8). Overall, they bring considerable resources to the hands of teachers interested in community-based pedagogies.  However, the discussion about service-learning assessment does not provide comprehensive assessment criteria or detailed approaches to issues of writing proficiency in these pedagogies. Although the public turn in college composition is addressed in terms of potential positive impacts, teachers of writing who embrace these pedagogies should use reflective components to situate assessments of writing proficiency that rely on evidence of social interaction.

Deans, Roswell, and Burr acknowledge the difficulty of assessing “the effects of participation in community-engaged courses on students’ writing proficiency” (9). Kendrick and Suarez conclude that it did not improve student writing quality, while Astin et al., Feldman et al., and Wurr discovered the opposite. The researchers used different assessment criteria, which bring up a key question for those interested in community-based writing courses: How is student writing assessed in these courses? Or, as the authors ask, “what makes good writing?” (1). This problem faces teachers with a dilemma of how to structure assessments. Certainly, grading a student based upon a portfolio of her writing seems reasonable, but because community-based writing inhabits a nexus of interrelated aims, the teacher must carefully select key outcomes that she wants the student to accomplish.

It is rightfully pointed out “that literacy learning is a social and ideological process rather than simply a textual transaction” (5). This, too, brings up another dilemma. Textual transactions are relatively straightforward to assess, at least in theory. The teacher looks for key determinants, usually surface in nature, that signify the student has met a learning outcome. For instance, piece of writing might be analyzed for command of grammar, syntax, and meaningful sentence structures. Even when one applies a higher-order concern of thesis or focus, these can be found within the communicative act of the writing itself. However, assessing a student in terms of how well they engaged with a community is a trickier proposition. It brings up more sophisticated questions of authority and ideology. By this I mean if a student writes about community experiences they have spent a considerable amount of time developing, how does the teacher judge the quality of that interaction, in terms proficiency?

Deans, Roswell, and Wurr contend, “Rarely, however, do we invite community participants to reflect on or document their learning or transformation” (10). Scholars of community literacy have long employed reflective practices to ground their research because they help to bring their diverse experiences into writing. Students who become community participants in service-learning environments should be given the same opportunity to engage this practice. Moreover, reflective writing should be an articulated goal of the service-learning course, a goal based in the recognition that community-based writing creates a complex and nuanced social interaction among participants. Writing proficiency assessment emphases should reflect this aim, even if it is initially difficult to imagine. Through practice and refinement, however, teachers can create assessment criteria with community participants to realize this goal of complex and nuanced social interaction. Thus, teachers of writing should employ a similar community-minded consciousness in their grading by making reflective components designed to assess writing proficiency along these lines a mainstay of service-learning courses.

Works Cited

Deans, Thomas et al. Introduction. Writing and Community Engagement: A Critical Sourcebook, edited by Thomas Deans et al., Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2010, pp. 1-12.

Response to Sondra Perl’s “Understanding Composing”

In “Understanding Composing,” Sondra Perl primarily focuses on the interior processes of mainly college-level or higher writers as they compose. In general, she maintains that the writers she researched have internalized recursive writing patterns that help them attend to revision and editing along the way rather than in a step-by-step linear process, such as drafting—revising—editing. Her notion that accomplished writers rely on recursive processes in composing is well supported. To better understand some of the finer points of the article, I compare her claims regarding syntax and semantics, and bodily sensations, to my own experiences. In qualifying these, I conclude that Perl’s “felt sense,” a central concept of her article which seemingly drives a creative aspect of writing, is closely identified with confidence. A confident feeling related to writing, however, is by itself insufficient. This conclusion leads me to question how writing teachers might produce constructive reading experiences necessary to build audience-based points of reference that Perl refers to as “projective structuring” for student writers in their composing processes, with the goal of better writing outcomes.

Perl claims that writers she worked with tended to address semantic units rather than syntactic units as they reviewed their work during the composing process (142). Her assertion is that when experienced writers read backwards after completing a “chunk” of writing, their focus is more often semantic than syntactic. In my experience as a writer, I do both when I compose. Often I get stuck while I search my mind for a word that fits a sentence, and I and if I cannot settle on one, I gloss the location and keep moving forward. In this way, my writing process involves a combination of syntactical and semantic processes. Syntax generally is thought of as how prose is structured linearly. On the other hand, semantics more broadly invoke the meaning-making qualities of language. Semantic reasoning typically indicates higher-order concerns, such as argument, theme, purpose and so forth. However, syntactic arrangement contributes to meaning as well. For me, syntax and semantics, although having different foci, contain similar properties as both relate to how meaning is made through language because form and meaning are interrelated.

Perl uses the term “bodily sensations” to indicate on what a writer should focus during the writing process (144). This recommendation deepens the definition of a felt sense but is difficult to put into words due to its amorphousness and subjectivity. I do not completely agree with her here, as I can imagine a host of bodily sensations that may or may not impact writing during the time of production. For these feelings to be successful, they must connect to the writer’s purpose. This could be the recognition of an assignment and what it entails, or the identification of a piece of evidence to support a claim, or a broader connection to an argument the writer is making. I agree that these types of recognition imply a mental or emotional connection. However occurring and instantiated, difficult to define nascent moments within the writing process, felt or otherwise, should lead the writer to develop discourse in connection to these creative moments. What she seems to identify without explicitly saying it is that a felt sense connects with and informs the writer’s development of voice. In my view, felt sense, while necessary to propel a writer forward, must also align to a rhetorical situation, and specifically incorporate some genre awareness of the discourse the writer enters. For a writer to be productive, her creativity must eventually demonstrate a coherent form that recognizes reader expectations for that piece of writing.

In general, what I took away from the article is that a successful writer’s creativity is often infused with moments of confidence that occur upon recognition of writing-related applications. Confidence, as Perl alludes, tends to be found through a felt sense, a moment of knowing “anchored in the writer’s body” (143). When it comes to writing, feelings of confidence alone are probably not adequate though. The writer needs some practical guideposts along the way. Developing this “outer judgment,” as Perl calls it, comes in the shape of reader-centered reflections about the writing produced (147). This reflective process, however, relies on a knowledgeable writer who understands or can imagine how her prose might read. Without having some understanding of the discourse, its conventions, its genre(s) etc., a writer can brim with reflective feelings, even confident ones, and still struggle.

For further discussion, I would like to consider the alternating frames of mind that Perl argues experienced writers inhabit: retrospective structuring and projective structuring. The first is how a writer expresses what she wants to say, while the second is how a writer imagines her writing will read. In my experience, the second frame of mind needs further development in students. As teachers then, how should we inculcate constructive reading experiences that inform writing and elicit audience-based concerns in our pedagogies? If reading alone was simply enough, voracious readers would be great writers, but that is not necessarily true.

Works Cited

Perl, Sondra. “Understanding Composing.” Teaching Composition: Background Readings, edited by T.R. Johnson, Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2008, pp. 140-147.

Kairos

I am one month into my first year of the PhD program at the University of Nevada, Reno. And this is my first post as an official blogger, an opening place to stand, if you will. I imagine my readers will be fellow students of Rhetoric and Composition, friends, writers, and some intellectual sojourners. Welcome all.