I've always been fascinated by researching my family history, but until this class, I had never considered the concept of ideological ancestry. My connection to a broader legacy through the books I read, the classes I take and teach, and even the informal conversations I have with students, professors and co-workers puts a lot of things into perspective. Over the past several weeks, my research for this project has led me to discover the deep connections and profound complexity that exists in our discipline. I'm just now starting to see a pattern emerge within this tangled, messy network.
Marilyn, Michaela, and I interviewed Dr. Trujillo, who told us about a host of diverse people who had influenced her. We then began the process of researching these people and their many influences; I focused on Barbara Harlow and Ben Olguin. Dr. Olguin responded to my inquiry by writing, "I have had many influences in my life: my mother, who taught me to read, Karl Marx, who taught me to critique, and Mao Tse-Tung, who taught me to fight." Dr. Olguin credits both his biological family and his ideological family with making him who he is today. That's the biggest lesson I've taken away from this project so far: entering a field of study is like joining a family. As you listen to arguments, form ideas, and eventually enter the conversation, you are actually becoming part of a rich legacy of thought.
One idea I had for the board was some kind of "ripples in a pond" aesthetic. Each figure is the center of his/her own ripples. Some of the ripples overlap, and some are far removed from each other, but all of them are in the same pond. Whatever the result, I hope that our creation reflects both the order and the messiness of our rich rhetorical legacy.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Dewey, Burke, Berlin, and the Power of the Pen
As I was reading the handout Erin gave us to supplement her presentation, I saw several threads connecting John Dewey to Richard Burke. But the most prominent thread by far was idea that society and its pressing concerns are the driving force behind the educator's rhetoric. Both men held the pragmatic belief that our rhetoric should be shaped by what benefits our world. Dewey said in his Pedagogic Creed that "the only true education comes through the stimulation of the child's powers by the demands of the social situations in which he finds himself." Burke "attempts to solve the problems of education that, he believes, eventually lead to Cold War competitions" (Enoch 278). Both men believed that rhetoric had the power to change society, and that it should be used for the good of all people (it helps that Burke explicitly made the connection between himself and Dewey, saying that he had a "Deweyite emphasis" [Enoch 278]).
In her article, Jessica Enoch makes sense of the often complicated mess that is Burke's philosophy and draws out some outstanding applications for the composition classroom. Teachers should help students learn how to examine both sides of controversial issues before making judgment calls. "Burkean debate" has students writing for both sides of an issue and then write a third piece that simply and objectively analyzes the rhetorical techniques used to persuade.
Most people don't realize what a rhetoric-saturated world they live in. Advertisements jump to mind first--and they are indeed ubiquitous--but consider also political speeches, sermons, songs, class lectures, textbooks, novels (yep, narratives wield a mighty rhetorical power as well!) your elderly neighbor trying to convince you to get rid of your pink flamingo lawn ornaments, and yes, even this blog. The problem, and often the tragedy, is that we allow ourselves to be affected by it without recognizing it for what it is, analyzing it for effectiveness and evaluating it for accuracy. Even the simple act of saying to yourself, "This person/ad/book is trying to persuade me," has the power to objectify you as audience and enable you to make a more reasonable decision about whether or not to allow yourself to be persuaded. Burke's theory of critical reflection goes beyond such a simple statement and presents a complex means of diffusing the inflammatory power of rhetoric. I loved the idea of giving students the tools to take a step back from writing and observe the various aspects of the rhetorical situation carefully (purpose, audience, tone, etc.). He advocates the cultivation of a "distrustful admiration," a phrase which I loved, and a healthy fear of the power of language. I think that getting students into the habit of analyzing before they evaluate--carefully weighing the techniques and merit of both sides of an argument before deciding which side they agree with--would benefit every area of society, from politics to the stock market to the workplace.
James Berlin in his essay "Rhetoric and Ideology in the Writing Class" presents some very similar ideas. "A rhetoric can never be innocent," he writes (Norton 667). He argues that all rhetoric is ideological. Burke would agree and add, "So we need to teach students to evaluate the rhetoric before agreeing with the ideas." Dewey would agree and add, "So we need to find the ideas that work in our social context." All three of them would see the pen as both an invaluable tool and a potent weapon of destruction.
In her article, Jessica Enoch makes sense of the often complicated mess that is Burke's philosophy and draws out some outstanding applications for the composition classroom. Teachers should help students learn how to examine both sides of controversial issues before making judgment calls. "Burkean debate" has students writing for both sides of an issue and then write a third piece that simply and objectively analyzes the rhetorical techniques used to persuade.
Most people don't realize what a rhetoric-saturated world they live in. Advertisements jump to mind first--and they are indeed ubiquitous--but consider also political speeches, sermons, songs, class lectures, textbooks, novels (yep, narratives wield a mighty rhetorical power as well!) your elderly neighbor trying to convince you to get rid of your pink flamingo lawn ornaments, and yes, even this blog. The problem, and often the tragedy, is that we allow ourselves to be affected by it without recognizing it for what it is, analyzing it for effectiveness and evaluating it for accuracy. Even the simple act of saying to yourself, "This person/ad/book is trying to persuade me," has the power to objectify you as audience and enable you to make a more reasonable decision about whether or not to allow yourself to be persuaded. Burke's theory of critical reflection goes beyond such a simple statement and presents a complex means of diffusing the inflammatory power of rhetoric. I loved the idea of giving students the tools to take a step back from writing and observe the various aspects of the rhetorical situation carefully (purpose, audience, tone, etc.). He advocates the cultivation of a "distrustful admiration," a phrase which I loved, and a healthy fear of the power of language. I think that getting students into the habit of analyzing before they evaluate--carefully weighing the techniques and merit of both sides of an argument before deciding which side they agree with--would benefit every area of society, from politics to the stock market to the workplace.
James Berlin in his essay "Rhetoric and Ideology in the Writing Class" presents some very similar ideas. "A rhetoric can never be innocent," he writes (Norton 667). He argues that all rhetoric is ideological. Burke would agree and add, "So we need to teach students to evaluate the rhetoric before agreeing with the ideas." Dewey would agree and add, "So we need to find the ideas that work in our social context." All three of them would see the pen as both an invaluable tool and a potent weapon of destruction.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Feeling Inspired? A Look at How We Begin the Writing Process
I love Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I love Linda Flower. But Flower sure didn't love Coleridge; at least not when it came to the theory of inspiration. I was only able to touch briefly on this point of connection in my presentation, and I wanted to explore it in more depth in my blog. Initially, I really liked Coleridge's inspiration theory. I like how he merged various views, didn't discount the possibility of an external influence (as the Enlightenment philosophers did), but also didn't buy the "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" theory of the Greeks. I loved the idea of the human mind working in concert with sources of inspiration in the world around us to create writing. And as an inveterate metaphor addict, I loved the picture of the Aeolian harp: the writer as the instrument, a mysterious wind, an undefined locus of inspiration creating the haunting and beautiful music.
However, Linda Flower (along with John Hayes) came up with a compelling metaphor of her own to describe the writing process: the metaphor of discovery. Her metaphor suggests that, unlike the stationary harp that sits and waits for the inspiring wind to blow in its strings, we ought to start the writing process by picking up our tools and digging--both inside our own minds as well as in outside sources. She states, "A writer in the act of discovery is hard at work searching memory, forming concepts, and forging a new structure of ideas, while at the same time trying to juggle all the constraints imposed by his or her purpose, audience, and language itself" (468). Far from sitting passively by, the writer in Flower's concept of discovery is using all available resources to construct the text.
Flower certainly doesn't soft-pedal her disdain for the Romantic view. She states that "the notion of discovery is surrounded by a mythology which, like the popular myth of romantic inspiration, can lead writers to self-defeating writing strategies" (468). Flower argues that belief in an inspiration that comes unbidden and leaves without warning can discourage writers and make them feel that good writing is something beyond their control. I would also add that there is a potential, under the Romantic theory, to create an intellectual laziness in writers. Belief that good writing is something that comes to us rather than something for which we must work provides a convenient excuse for us to do nothing. It is maddening to think that a poem as brilliant as "Kubla Khan," which supposedly came to Coleridge in an opium dream, was left unfinished because the inspiration had "vanished," when he might simply have sat down and hammered his way through the rest of the 250 lines and produce a finished masterpiece.
Flower believed that "discovery" was a cognitive process that could be documented, and she worked to demonstrate how that process was different for expert versus novice writers. Coleridge, on the other hand, would have probably been horrified to think that someone was trying to examine, quantify, and neatly package something he saw as almost mystical.
Is there a happy medium between these two diverse views? I think there is. I can't deny that there have been moments when great writing comes to me in a flash of inspiration. The source of this inspiration may well have been my own subconscious, but it certainly seemed external. However, the vast majority of my best writing has come into being through blood, sweat, and more than a few tears. Breeze or no breeze, our harps have to play; we have to become our own source of inspiration.
However, Linda Flower (along with John Hayes) came up with a compelling metaphor of her own to describe the writing process: the metaphor of discovery. Her metaphor suggests that, unlike the stationary harp that sits and waits for the inspiring wind to blow in its strings, we ought to start the writing process by picking up our tools and digging--both inside our own minds as well as in outside sources. She states, "A writer in the act of discovery is hard at work searching memory, forming concepts, and forging a new structure of ideas, while at the same time trying to juggle all the constraints imposed by his or her purpose, audience, and language itself" (468). Far from sitting passively by, the writer in Flower's concept of discovery is using all available resources to construct the text.
Flower certainly doesn't soft-pedal her disdain for the Romantic view. She states that "the notion of discovery is surrounded by a mythology which, like the popular myth of romantic inspiration, can lead writers to self-defeating writing strategies" (468). Flower argues that belief in an inspiration that comes unbidden and leaves without warning can discourage writers and make them feel that good writing is something beyond their control. I would also add that there is a potential, under the Romantic theory, to create an intellectual laziness in writers. Belief that good writing is something that comes to us rather than something for which we must work provides a convenient excuse for us to do nothing. It is maddening to think that a poem as brilliant as "Kubla Khan," which supposedly came to Coleridge in an opium dream, was left unfinished because the inspiration had "vanished," when he might simply have sat down and hammered his way through the rest of the 250 lines and produce a finished masterpiece.
Flower believed that "discovery" was a cognitive process that could be documented, and she worked to demonstrate how that process was different for expert versus novice writers. Coleridge, on the other hand, would have probably been horrified to think that someone was trying to examine, quantify, and neatly package something he saw as almost mystical.
Is there a happy medium between these two diverse views? I think there is. I can't deny that there have been moments when great writing comes to me in a flash of inspiration. The source of this inspiration may well have been my own subconscious, but it certainly seemed external. However, the vast majority of my best writing has come into being through blood, sweat, and more than a few tears. Breeze or no breeze, our harps have to play; we have to become our own source of inspiration.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Grand Rhetorical Achievement or Grand Rhetorical Manipulation? The Role of Emotion in Rhetoric
I think that George Campbell would have made an excellent politician. I was intrigued by his views regarding the importance of appealing to the emotions in rhetoric. While not discounting ethos or logos, Campbell seems to make pathos the central feature of rhetoric, the foundation upon which everything else is built. This stands in contrast (although not necessarily contradiction) to Aristotle, who asserted the foundational nature of logos. In our assigned reading, Arthur E. Walzer provides a complex definition of Campbell's "grand art of communication" involving the interrelated "sentiments, passions, dispositions" (73).
The first thing that jumps into my mind is "manipulator." Yet Campbell spends a great deal of space addressing the moral component of rhetoric. He insists upon "the inability of reason to establish a hierarchy of values that would meet reason's test for truth" (75). Without emotion, Campbell claims that we are unable either to do or to choose what is good.
I started warming up to his ideas a little bit more when I read about that all-important distinction between the calm and violent passions. The violent passions, Campbell claims, are easily excited and can quickly spiral out of control. These are the emotions to which I see many politicians appealing. They want a quick rise; they speak for maximum emotional effect without perhaps weighing the consequences of their words. The calm passions, however, have more depth and more persevering power than the violent passions. Calm passions are more closely related to character, and I see an appeal to these emotions as not only moral, but absolutely necessary. Without engaging the audience's emotions in a fair and honest manner, how will they care about what the speaker has to say? Is it not likely that, regardless of how reasonable the rhetoric was or how much you trusted the speaker, you will walk away and never think about his or her ideas again? Appeal to the calm passions ought to be closely related to the speaker's purpose in writing. This seems to connect to Hugh Blair's writings about taste. Calm passions relate to the cultivation of "the power of receiving pleasure from the beauties of nature and of art" (Blair 1). On a side note, I definitely did not find Blair's ethnocentrism tasteful at all! His statement that nature "in the distribution of those [talents] which belong only to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours with...frugality" was quite shocking to a 21st century mind.
The problem is that we almost exclusively see appeals to the violent emotions in public discourse. Because our culture is so oriented toward instant gratification, we grab for the techniques that will get us the best results the fastest. This problem is intensified when rhetoricians avail themselves of Campbell's advice that "art must be concealed" (81), and the best way to get a rise out of your audience is to not let them know that you're appealing to their emotions. To me, this seems to walk the fine line between persuasive techniques and outright fraud. As teachers, as rhetoricians, and as compositionists, we ought to model and encourage openness of discourse that enhances our ethos. We ought to appeal to the emotions judiciously, but we ought always to strive for Quintilian's ideal of "a good man speaking well."
The first thing that jumps into my mind is "manipulator." Yet Campbell spends a great deal of space addressing the moral component of rhetoric. He insists upon "the inability of reason to establish a hierarchy of values that would meet reason's test for truth" (75). Without emotion, Campbell claims that we are unable either to do or to choose what is good.
I started warming up to his ideas a little bit more when I read about that all-important distinction between the calm and violent passions. The violent passions, Campbell claims, are easily excited and can quickly spiral out of control. These are the emotions to which I see many politicians appealing. They want a quick rise; they speak for maximum emotional effect without perhaps weighing the consequences of their words. The calm passions, however, have more depth and more persevering power than the violent passions. Calm passions are more closely related to character, and I see an appeal to these emotions as not only moral, but absolutely necessary. Without engaging the audience's emotions in a fair and honest manner, how will they care about what the speaker has to say? Is it not likely that, regardless of how reasonable the rhetoric was or how much you trusted the speaker, you will walk away and never think about his or her ideas again? Appeal to the calm passions ought to be closely related to the speaker's purpose in writing. This seems to connect to Hugh Blair's writings about taste. Calm passions relate to the cultivation of "the power of receiving pleasure from the beauties of nature and of art" (Blair 1). On a side note, I definitely did not find Blair's ethnocentrism tasteful at all! His statement that nature "in the distribution of those [talents] which belong only to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours with...frugality" was quite shocking to a 21st century mind.
The problem is that we almost exclusively see appeals to the violent emotions in public discourse. Because our culture is so oriented toward instant gratification, we grab for the techniques that will get us the best results the fastest. This problem is intensified when rhetoricians avail themselves of Campbell's advice that "art must be concealed" (81), and the best way to get a rise out of your audience is to not let them know that you're appealing to their emotions. To me, this seems to walk the fine line between persuasive techniques and outright fraud. As teachers, as rhetoricians, and as compositionists, we ought to model and encourage openness of discourse that enhances our ethos. We ought to appeal to the emotions judiciously, but we ought always to strive for Quintilian's ideal of "a good man speaking well."
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