Fish, Flower and Word Power

I think we would all agree that there is a language of the powerful. Yet, we must consider in our roles as teachers, writers, editors, mothers: should we work to promote (or condone) the hierarchal system of language or do we enable the power-less to speak and write in their own vernacular?

Stanley Fish writes in his blog, “It may be true that the standard language is an instrument of power and a device for protecting the status quo, but that very truth is a reason for teaching it to students who are being prepared for entry into the world as it now is rather than the world as it might be in some utopian imagination—all dialects equal, all habit of speech and writing equally rewarded.”

Fish is right when he states, “You are not going to be able to change the world if you are not equipped with the tools that speak to its present condition. You don’t strike a blow against a power structure by making yourself vulnerable to its prejudices.” If you are not in the same room or speaking the same language, it is easy to be ignored by those who clutch power within their sweaty fists. And, yes, when you give someone the opportunity to judge you immediately on your form, they are less apt to keep their ears and eyes open long enough to consider your ideas or arguments.

Yet, don’t we become a part of the power structure when we surrender to the required forms? We also unwillingly (or willingly) accept that language should exclude people and protect the status quo. Fish highlighted an organization in his blog, the ACTA co-founded by Lynne Cheney. The group seeks a standard way of teaching and specific, core topics at the university-level. Fish describes one angle of their argument expressed in a formal report that “says teach the subject matter so that it points in a particular ideological direction, the direction of traditional values and a stable canon . . . they see themselves as warriors in the culture wars. The battle they are fighting in the report is over the core curriculum, the defense of which is for them a moral as well as an educational imperative as it is for those who oppose it.”

What if a power structure surrendered to the language of the people? I must admit that I’m one of those rare feminists who is still a practicing Catholic, and one of the Church’s beautiful moments—in a long and flawed history—was when they gave up the exclusionary language of Latin and embraced the vernacular languages of people all over the world. (It is pretty smart marketing, too, considering the best way to connect with your audience.)

However, I don’t think it is worth waiting for the other patriarchies of the world to freely relinquish their power. I also think that communication requires us to agree upon some standards, otherwise we are only talking or writing to ourselves. And, while I don’t think that grammar should be used in a punitive or mocking way (I do sheepishily enjoy poking fun at inappropriate apostrophes), I also agree that no one should pretend that “da bomb” is a complete sentence.

Before we get mired in this crazy web of considerations and ideals, we should acknowledge the work of Dr. Linda Flower. Flower theorizes (and practices) on the empowerment ability of intercultural discourse. She recognizes that the “power-less” must know and use the language of the power-full to gain entry into the larger conversation. Once they are part of the conversation and people are listening, the once power-less can incorporate and integrate their own modes of communication to a more captive audience. Flower bases some of her theories on the work of Gloria Anzaldúa who wrote of the idea of “borders” and “border thinking,” using the Mexican-American border as a metaphor. Through her writings, Anzaldúa shows how to use language to bridge the border gaps, create intercultural connections and to empower the power-less. Best of all, these ideas don't just exist in someone's "utopian imagination." Flower has been exercising these very ideals into real action in the urban neighborhoods of Pittsburgh with remarkable results.

"I am an act of kneading, of uniting and joining that not only has produced both a creature of darkness and a creature of light, but also a creature that questions the definitions of light and dark and gives them new meanings." — Gloria Anzaldúa

Arise from Your Arm Chairs

Research seems so delightfully simple sitting on my couch with a humming laptop warming my legs. Everything that I need seems so close, within reach, from this cushy vantage point. Yet, Richard Enos in his article “Recovering the Lost Art” warns us against this “lap-top research.” He cautions against “’close readings’ that presuppose the text to be the only source of knowledge” (14).

Just this morning, I had a real-life collision with this notion. While doing research for an article about historic women of Pueblo for a local alternative paper, I attempted a little lap-top research and emailed the collection archivist at the library, asking her to suggest women that I must include. She insisted that I come to library and comb through the archives myself. Once I got there, I realized that she didn’t want to just release this information into cyberspace, but she wanted to hand me the information, to share the pictures, to see the whites of my eyes and make sure I would handle the information with care.

She had worked many years collecting these biographies and stories about women in Pueblo – a difficult task that requires gleaning information from non-textual sources. While no books had been written about the first female judge in Pueblo, there were newspaper accounts. But the pioneering midwife who delivered many children in Salt Creek in the first half of the 20th century, that information had to come through oral transmission. Enos challenges us to recognize the value of oral sources. When he talks about developing new methods for research, he states, “the benefits of developing new research applies to rhetoric that is both written and oral” (16). The story of the Latina midwife and the first female judge are both important to Pueblo’s history. But, we only know about the midwife because someone exercised their research muscles, looked beyond the bookshelf or the Internet. This also illustrates why primary research is essential to our broader understanding of history – without it we wouldn’t know the stories of traditionally excluded voices like minority women, especially those doing “women’s work.”

Beyond this, I realized that cozying up with primary research – handwritten letters, photographs, news articles, political campaign materials – provides an interesting catalyst to the invention part of the writing process. The intimacy offered by primary sources is a form of pre-writing. As Rohman and Wecke discuss in their essay, prewriting is the essential step in writing that happens before putting words on the paper, the beginning steps where writers form their concepts.

Without effective concept formation, the authors explain that “although students quite easily mastered the mechanics of transference . . . the concepts they ended up with were too often without meaning . . . the concepts that the students used were not truly their concepts: that is, they did not answer the students’ sense of what was real in their experience of themselves or their subjects” (Norton 219). Connection with primary sources gives writers this sense of real experience, deflates the problems of “phony involvement,” as labeled by Rohman and Wecke.

As the authors conclude their essay, they state, “the badness of writing is not incorrect grammar or inelegant expression; it is rather a matter of stale perspective, cliché reponse . . . usually such writing, no matter how ‘correct,’ is merely a gumming together of long strips of words which refer to nothing more than other words without anywhere a vital touch with anyone or anything.” Primary resources provide that vital touch that can give words meaning.

Enos echoes these same sentiments when he grumbles about the trends in rhetorical scholarship. He states that scholarship now merely “elicits a reaction to secondary sources” and includes “these commentaries (that) contained not a hint of research, but a load of speculative, subjective critical remarks” (11).

Primary sources, used for rhetorical scholarship or an article in an alternative newspaper, provide meaningful motivation, context, and the opportunity to “arise from your arm chairs” and engage. They offer the opportunity to create human connection, which further enhances meaningfulness, whether dirtying your hands in Homeric lands or chatting with the collection archivist over dusty photographs and handwritten notes.

Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie and . . . Audience

In Chaim Perelman’s “The Social Contexts of Argumentation,” he discusses the ideas of audience and a quest for truth. Perelman suggests that the power of the argument lies in the realm of the audience. “The development of all argumentation is a function of the audience to which it is addressed and to which the speaker is obliged to adapt himself” (252). Thus, when you are making an argument –whether written or spoken—you must first consider the perspective of the audience. You can only convince an audience of your argument, if you first view your deliberations from the audience’s place in the world. An effective speaker (defined by Perelman as “the person putting forward the argumentation”) must adapt her argument to fit the audience. In fact, in an effective argument, Perelman believes that the audience’s viewpoint is actually more important than the views of the speaker. While this at first seems counter-intuitive, modern modes of marketing certainly support Perelman’s theory. Marketers are making an argument in favor of a certain product, convincing consumers of the need to purchase a particular product. Successful marketing campaigns spend many dollars learning about their audience, developing psychographic profiles of different types of consumers. And, only after examining in-depth customer data, marketing companies will develop their messages (arguments) custom-fit to a variety of target audiences.

Furthering this point, Perelman recognizes that “the diversity of audiences is extreme” (253). He warns against assuming a universal audience when developing your arguments. He believes that a universal audience does not exist. When a speaker envisions a universal audience for his arguments, he is only conjuring up an audience based on his own prejudices and perspectives. “That universal audience,” says Perelman, “which is then not a concrete social reality but a construction of the speaker based on elements in his experience. They can vary in countless other ways—according to age, sex, temperament, competence and every sort of social or political criterion” (253).

Once a speaker has established her audience, she must then determine a common ground – a common language and common ideas – to start her argument. Perelman states that effective speakers adapt to their audience by creating connections over things already agreed. “It follows that all argumentation depends for its premises—as indeed for its entire development—on that which is accepted, that which is acknowledged as true, as normal and probable, as valid . . . the theses granted will sometimes be those of common sense, as that is, conceived by the audience,” says Perelman (253-254). Successful arguments begin when the speaker establishes community with the audience, when she states this is how we are alike. To revisit the marketers’ analogy, market messages in America often invoke images, like baseball, soaring eagles, apple pie and pick-up trucks, that resonate with the American public. These images create an immediate commonality between the message (argument) and the audience.

As for how Perelman’s theories on audience and argumentation might relate to an educational pedagogy, all teaching can be related to an argument. Teachers, when successful, convince students to learn, that learning is important, and that the information they are sharing is relevant, useful and true. Good teachers recognize, like Perelman, that they must consider their audience when developing their lessons (arguments). Successful teaching happens when a teacher understands that contemplating the student perspective, adapting lessons to a students’ worldview, establishing a common language and connections are all more important than his own world view.