Defining the Real in Composition
This paper serves, in one way, as a response to the essays in Bloom, Daiker, and White’s Composition in the Twenty-First Century—for rarely have I read a text so full of existential angst: “…doubts about composition’s future…utter collapse of the research enterprise…death of paradigm hope…” Looking at the history of composition in American colleges, one sees the same turmoil, reflected (it would seem) by the proliferation of rhetorics—all of them grappling with that slippery beast, “reality.”
It all goes back, I’m convinced, to the “artificial writing occasion” induced by freshman composition, which is sure to produce a peculiar brand of unreality. Whether these student ramblings are sub-literate or slickly professional (like the specimen Bartholomae includes at the beginning of his essay), one has to seriously question their worth—both as learning exercises and as rhetoric.
Assessment is almost beside the point: even if it were demonstrated beyond all doubt that students became better writers by taking these courses, the axiological problems associated with theme-writing would remain. And this calls into question some of the basic rhetorical tenets: how is an excellent piece of, say, argumentative writing undercut by the unreality of the occasion? how can bona-fide invention result from it? if rhetoric is a science, what is its proper methodology? and if it is an art, wouldn’t that undermine the egalitarianism of American institutions (since only the truly gifted can be artists)?
In theory, college composition classes should be producing, at least occasionally, classic samples of English prose. Instead, they produce a lot of head-scratching among faculty and conferences that reek of pessimism. There must be a reason why. After giving it some thought, I’ve come to believe that the reflexive nature of the language used in composition classes is the culprit—“reflexive” meaning that it is focused upon itself.
The Dilemma
First, it might help to provide a clear statement of the problem at hand: the “artificial motive” for student writing and the controversies surrounding it. For this I turn to Gertrude Buck, writing in 1901. She begins by quoting Whately:
“The cramped, meager, and feeble character of most such essays, etc., as are avowedly composed according to the rules of any system” of technical rhetoric, was noted, and the further observation made that “On the real occasions of after life (I mean when the object proposed is, not to fill up a sheet, a book, or an hour, but to communicate his thoughts to convince or persuade),—on these real occasions, he [the student] will find that he writes both better, and with more facility, than on the artificial occasion, as it may be called, of composing a declamation.” From this dual discovery, so frequently made by the practical teacher of composition, the inference is plain. If the student writes both better and more easily when he has a real occasion for writing…then let the teacher, so far as possible, replace this artificial situation by natural conditions for writing.
It might be interesting to note, however, whether such anxieties exist in subjects other than English. While a teacher or professor may bemoan the shortcomings of student-writing—even to the point of intermittent coaching—the objective in a history or political science class (where written documents are required) is not to assess writing, but to gauge the student’s knowledge of the subject matter. Production of documents in those classes, arguably, qualifies as real occasions for writing. Buck continues,
Nowhere outside of composition classes does one write to conform with a certain rhetorical law. The condition is absurd. No wonder the student on whom it is imposed writes painfully and pretentiously; no wonder that continued exercises of this sort form “a habit of stringing together empty commonplaces and vapid declamations,—of multiplying words and spreading out the matter thin,—of composing in a stiff, artificial, and frigid manner.” No real literature, no genuine writing of any kind, was ever fashioned to the pattern of a rule.
The response was to introduce “topic” writing of subjects that were of interest to the student (though there was some debate whether college-age boys had the mental capacity for such a task). Anything to get the students writing, and writing often—Peter Elbow style—in keeping with the adage that writing can be learned, but not taught.
After that reform, however, came the problem of assessment: “The deliberate setting of a rule as a guide for writing could indeed be avoided, but so soon as the student became aware that his composition was later to be criticized by this rule, the knowledge could not but condition to some extent his present writing.” The assessment dilemma encompasses other such “artificial conditions” as SOLs, timed writing sections for the SAT, the GRE, and the ODU exit exam. Even if a student is the next Ernest Hemmingway, it does him no good if he fails these tests.
And lest one object that the good Dr. Buck wrote over a century ago on this matter (and things have surely improved since then…), consider Carroll’s perception of her present-day writing class: “Many students sense already that their writing for the classroom is ‘artificial’ and that what they say ‘doesn’t really matter’ as long as they give the teacher ‘what she wants.’” What we have here is an epistemological quandary.
To delve further into the “London fog” of this matter we will have to leave the familiar setting of the classroom behind (for the time being) and venture to the more rarefied planes of rhetorical theory.
Rhetoric and the Problem of “Reality”
I must admit that upon entering the graduate program here at ODU, I knew nothing about rhetoric (although Plato and Aristotle were familiar territory). And when, in Modern Rhetoric (ENG 669), we turned our attention to the history of college composition, reading essays by Genung, Aydelotte, Scott, Denney, Buck, and others, I was even more puzzled. “What has all this to do with rhetoric?” I wondered. But eventually it dawned on me: teaching is a rhetorical endeavor. In a paper I wrote for that class I said:
Although rhetoric is usually defined in its narrow sense—i.e., the use of language in persuasive speech or writing—and thought to be the province of the English department, it also has broader applications across the curricula. Rhetoric is inherent within all other subjects (even something as esoteric as mathematics) simply because teaching is conveyed through language. In other words, rhetoric is a property of language itself.
And it is more than just a tool for conveying “knowledge;” it is also a means of defining reality—an effort that is underscored by ideology. According to Berlin, “…every rhetorical system is based on epistemological assumptions about the nature of reality, the nature of the knower, and the rules governing the discovery and communication of the known. These matters, of course, converge with the elements of the rhetorical triangle: reality, interlocutor, audience, and language.” Truth is variously located in the material world, the internal subjective world, group consensus, language itself, or in some combination thereof.
Defining the Term
We may readily assert, as I do, that the primary use of rhetoric is to define reality. But the matter is obscured somewhat by the numerous ways in which the word “reality” is employed. One definition would make it equivalent to “empirical,” as in, that which can be proven to exist. If it cannot be proven to exist, it is a matter of speculation, faith, or intuition—either transcendent of material or beyond our experience. There are other definitions, too. According to Cohen,
…people use the terms real and unreal to denote the distinction between that which has the value of genuineness and that which is spurious, e.g., real money as opposed to counterfeit, real diamonds as opposed to glass or paste, etc. But reality has also been widely used in many other senses. Thus it is used to denote a certain vividness or intensity of feeling, as when we say…that the imaginary heroes of our childhood were more real to us than our unknown ancestors. The real is also that which stands in a certain relation of priority or superiority to the seeming. The two railway tracks may seem to meet, but we know they are really parallel, i.e., the latter judgment harmonizes better with all other judgment and explains even how the seeming arises.
So we have at least four meanings of the word “real,” and if we assert that this rhetoric or the other locates reality in this place or that, we need to be a little more precise in what we mean. For the purposes of this discussion, however, “reality” may be equated with agreement: agreement between what one thinks is true and what actually occurs in nature; agreement between outward appearances and underlying facts; agreement between any “elegant” theory and that which later proves unassailable. The ordinary meaning of the word is sufficient most of the time—the true, the actual, the empirical—but augmented meanings may result from whatever rhetorical system one adopts.
To conclude: reality is something that includes human subjectivity but is not confined by it; it exists independently of us, whether we like it or not, and is known in its entirety by no one (other than God). To say that rhetoric “defines reality” is to say that it interprets experience to arrive at meaning—regardless of the rhetoric used or definition of “reality” applicable.
Objective vs. Subjective
Current-traditional rhetoric, positivist and phenomenological in nature, might be called the “Republican View,” having a vested interest in outward authority—e.g., government, church, institutions (such as schools). Subjective rhetorics, on the other hand, focus on the individual and are quite libertarian. Here, the only authority is that of the Self: “While the reality of the material, the social, and the linguistic are never denied, they are considered significant only insofar as they serve the needs of the individual.”
Nevertheless, one cannot claim that an objective rhetoric is “right” while the subjective is “wrong,” or vice-versa; each has its legitimate claim. No sober person would say that the phenomenological world isn’t real—for such fantasies can quickly be dashed by a Hurricane Katrina or two. To deny the importance of individual perception is also foolish. History shows that lonely, isolated visions sometimes develop into world religions or political revolutions, given enough time. Any attempt to take an absolute position either way is problematic.
Transactional rhetorics attempt to resolve this by synthesizing subject and object: reality is found socially—in the joints and welds of interaction. Originating from the educational theories of John Dewey and further developed by the teaching of Fred Newton Scott, here is an attempt to revive rhetoric as a science. According to Scott, “The science in which I am interested, call it rhetoric or call it what you please, is an investigation of the phenomena of speech-communication. It is the science of human intercourse so far as this is conducted by speech or the symbols of speech.” It is not, one should note, science as it applies to nature or to the individual (whether medical or psychological), but as it applies to discourse--that is, social phenomena. Thus, there is an appeal to the social sciences:
Of especial interest and value are the contributions in sociology and psychology. On one side the nature and constitution of the community in the various stages of its development, the laws which control the interactions of individuals in their social relations, the forces by which social processes are set in motion—these and other social phenomena have been the subject of careful observation and prolonged discussion…From the psychological side the contributions are so numerous and so fundamental as to be fairly embarrassing. There is hardly a topic in the traditional subject-matter of formal rhetoric which does not require reinterpretation in light of modern psychological theory. I need only mention such researches as those in regard to internal speech, the nature of rhythm, the theory of expression, the mental images aroused by certain classes of words, the basis of motive, choice, and volition, to show how extensive and how varied is the material now lying ready for workers in this field.
The appeal to science might seem ironic, especially since, according to Berlin, transactional rhetoric was formulated as an alternative to current-traditional and its reliance on scientific objectivity: “Scott saw reality as a social construction, a communal creation emerging from the dialectical interplay of individuals. While this social reality is bound by the material, it is everywhere immersed in language.” The inseparability of the perceiver and the perceived—an enigma then being explored in quantum physics—is reflected, apparently, by social discourse. Here, language is almost deterministic. Berlin continues, “Language is not, however, conceived of as a simple sign system in which symbol and referent are perfectly matched. It is instead constitutive of reality, language being the very condition that makes thought possible. Language does not exist apart from thought, and thought does not exist apart from language; they are one and the same.”
Transactional to Epistemic Rhetoric
That amazing and fascinating claim—language and thought are “one and the same”—has to be critically examined. While there are difficulties with objective and subjective rhetorics, neither makes quite so troubling an assertion. I intend to debunk it, but not without first expressing a great deal of admiration for its ingenuity. And it is hard to disagree with its ideological stance, being a rhetoric, after all, for democratic society. Why should the Philistines of Commerce and Privilege determine the content of public discourse? Why should the elitist scions of Liberal Culture have their way in setting up an American aristocracy? Transactional rhetoric might be seen as the speech of the common man, and Henry Ford its patron saint (can it be coincidence that Fred Newton Scott and Ford Motor Company both manufactured their wares in Michigan?).
One of the easiest ways to critique a rhetoric is to ask—what if it is taken to an extreme? Objective rhetorics align with scientific dispassion, but eventually become an ideological weapon (something science tends to resist). Subjective rhetorics degrade, sooner or later, to mere solipsism. As a synthesis of the two, transactional rhetoric avoids certain problems: the tendency to exclude the “other,” to reinforce the status quo, to quantify truth in too narrow (or too broad) a sense. The word “transaction” means exchange, with both sides of the conversation benefiting from the circuit. The problem I have is not with the rhetoric, but the assumption about cognition: if language and thought are actually “one and the same,” then language-control too easily becomes thought-control. That is, after all, one of the main themes of Orwell’s 1984:
The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a medium of expression for the world-view and mental habits proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, but to make all other modes of thought impossible. It was intended that when Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak forgotten, a heretical thought—that is, a thought diverging from the principles of Ingsoc—should be literally unthinkable, at least so far as thought is dependent on words.
From the Sophists of ancient Greece (so hated by Plato) to modern-day “Bushlines” (i.e., official talking-points of the Bush Administration), language has been a mighty tool of manipulation, obfuscation, and misdirection. One could think of F.N. Scott’s appeal to science, then, as an attempt to rehabilitate rhetoric’s stature, at least in the academic community.
The transactional view found its successor (and most extreme expression) in epistemic rhetoric. Berlin writes,
In this point of view, rhetoric is epistemic because knowledge itself is a rhetorical construct. Having historical precedents in Vico and Marx and a brilliant modern articulation in Kenneth Burke, this stance argues that epistemology is rhetorical, is itself a social and historical construct. …this is the antithesis of the positivist contention that reality is empirical, with language simply reporting what is determined outside its domain. For the epistemic, the symbolic includes the empirical because all reality, all knowledge, is a linguistic construct. Meaning emerges not from objective, disinterested, empirical investigation, but from individuals engaging in rhetorical discourse in discourse communities…
My reading of this suggests that epistemic rhetoric is a sort of “shared solipsism,” with discourse communities, rather than individuals, deciding what is real and what counts as genuine knowledge. The one caveat might be the concluding sentence, which stresses it is meaning that is being sought here, not some Cartesian denial of empirical reality. Nonetheless, there is still the troubling assertion that “all reality, all knowledge, is a linguistic construct.” According to Knoblauch and Brannon, “Discourse enacts the world: its knowledge is not about the world but is rather constitutive of the world.” One can almost imagine entire galaxies popping into existence (in real space-time) simply because a handful of astronomers on earth are talking about them! This view, in the end, undercuts any semblance of natural science. According to Royer, the roots of this can be found in Kant: “Stemming from Kant’s epistemological thrust, the implication is that all knowers participate in or have some systematic effect on the thing known. Stemming from Kant’s metaphysical thrust…the implication is that ‘reality’ is a product of our own symbol making, cognitive process. Hence, there is no reason to believe there is any reality independent of man as symbol-making knower.” And although there is evidence to support the “epistemological thrust,” the “metaphysical thrust” is much harder to accept. As I said: solipsism.
Critique of Transactional-Epistemic Rhetoric
Obviously, language assists in the process of cognition, being far more than a sign system for communication; it midwifes our own internal struggle to understand and explain things to ourselves. Knowledge is essential for survival, however visceral that knowledge may be. Lindemann notes that “…language…is a social, not a biological necessity. We don’t need language to survive. Feral children, raised in the wild without other human beings around them, and mutes [deaf-mutes, I would add], who for some physiological reason aren’t able to speak, can survive without language.”
The subconscious mind, moreover, appears to operate at a level where language cannot penetrate. It happens when, for instance, we know an individual’s name but cannot produce it, having it “on the tip of our tongues.” Later, after a few maddening hours or days, the name will pop into our heads as if by magic. In working on a complex problem, like a puzzle—or even the prewriting stage of a research paper—the subconscious mind continues to grapple with difficult issues even as we sleep. How many brilliant “eureka” moments have people experienced waking up in the middle of the night?
I remember a few years ago when I was taking math classes—advanced algebra, trigonometry, calculus—I repeatedly had this weird experience as I did my homework. If I happened to arrive at a wrong solution to a calculus problem, I somehow knew it was wrong. It just “felt” wrong. And sure enough, checking the back of the book, it was. My intuition was always right. Question: how did I subconsciously know the answers were wrong? I’d never taken calculus before. I’d done everything I could to get the right answer. When my answers were right, I knew that too—there was a feeling of completeness and satisfaction to it. This presupposes a thorough (subconscious) knowledge of higher mathematics embedded in the brain somewhere. How could that be a “linguistic construct”?
Something else to consider: If language and thought are “one and the same” then they are polar opposites that cannot be separated, as, for example left and right cannot be separated. Yet they can—recorded voice messages, automated answering systems, or computers with “natural language processing” represent uses of pure language unaccompanied by human thought. If language can function without thought, it follows that thought can function without language. The preceding paragraph strongly suggests that the brain can also cognize mathematically. Another method of cognition might be image-based, another sound-based. In other words, language is only one facet of cognition.
Apprehending reality without language is in fact one objective of Eastern mysticism. In the practice of meditation, the first task is to shut down one’s incessant internal dialogue (not easy to do). By forcing the mind to concentrate on a mantra, to the exclusion of all else, one’s awareness becomes more and more settled, and at the same time focused, on what we might call “reality itself.” During those brief moments of depth consciousness—where words cease to exist—it is possible to perceive directly what most consider mundane: the reality of the present moment.
The benefits of daily meditation are many, but for our present purpose three are worth noting: 1) the ability to concentrate on a single task or object is greatly enhanced; 2) the ability to instantly evaluate the “essence” of a person or object is increased; and 3) one becomes acutely aware of what is genuine and what is illusory. These are, interestingly enough, some of the same concerns rhetoric tries to tackle. But whereas the epistemics assert the primacy of language (to the exclusion of other modes of cognition), mysticism tries to accomplish the same results by pushing language to the side—at least for brief periods every day.
It seems best, therefore, to regard language-based cognition (as well as other forms) as a thin skin—a membrane of consciousness covering a vast reservoir of subconscious and unconscious potencies, none of which operate linguistically.
* * *
All the systems of rhetoric discussed above feature their own unique assumptions about cognition—thinking and learning—in various configurations. And all of them are inseparably wedded to ideology (if James Berlin is correct). The effects on writing students are indirect—reaching them through whatever pedagogy they are subjected to. Paulo Freire’s “banking” analogy describes the objective bent: students are like blank slates that all-knowing teachers write their wisdom upon. Bruffee’s experience with open admissions students tells a different tale: “…our students, however poorly prepared academically, did not come to us as blank slates. They arrived in our classrooms already deeply acculturated, already full-fledged, competent members…of some community or other.” This suggests learning as a collaborative experience—i.e., that a mutual effort between teacher and student makes education possible. The real issue, I suppose, is where the balance lay. A subjective rhetoric (and pedagogy) shifts it more toward the student, objective toward the instructor. The appeal of transactional rhetoric is its sense of mutuality and cooperation. My purpose in critiquing it was not to undermine the appeal, but to demonstrate the utter futility of regarding a human being, however young, as a malleable substance to be molded at will. Current-traditional rhetoric may indulge in this too, but transactional-epistemic provides the ready-made tool: language.
Pedagogical Challenges
What do we ask student-writers to do in a composition class and what do we expect them to learn? Is it about the mechanics—mastering the syntax, grammar, usage, and conventions of edited American English? Is it about teaching genres or formal as opposed to informal writing? Is it about inculcating a love of the English language and the joys of free expression, or is it simply remedial—fixing literacy problems that should have been handled in high school? Or is it, more ominously, an attempt to indoctrinate young minds according to the latest ideological slant?
Summarizing the research of Janet Emig, Fulwiler says, “[Emig] points out that writing progresses as an act of discovery—and furthermore, that no other thinking process helps us develop a train of thought as thoroughly. Scientists, artists, mathematicians, lawyers, engineers—all ‘think’ with pen to paper, chalk to blackboard, hands on terminal keys.” Experienced writers understand this, and in the Ideal World composition classes would indeed be places where rhetorical invention is taught, appreciated, and practiced. But in the gritty, grimy world of reality—in actual composition classrooms—such instances are rare. One major cause of this failure has to be the de-emphasis on content. Again, “Only in particular circumstances…such as English and speech classrooms, is the precision, shape and correctness of the speech or writing act itself viewed as more important than the thought engendered in the act. In other words, we usually speak or write to understand or communicate—not to evaluate our language medium.”
While the one (understanding, communication) should be regarded as a natural function of language, the other (evaluating the medium itself) is decidedly unnatural—or more precisely, artificial. I could not therefore believe my ears (and good fortune) when I heard one of my student-colleagues describe the English 110 syllabus, which boldly declares, “This is not a current events class or a political science class…” It’s understood that the staff may have grown weary reading papers about abortion and other such issues. Nevertheless, it is the content—the ideas and opinions—that makes good writing worth reading. To frown upon genuine content in the composition class (reducing students to, as one of my friends put it, “writing essays about your dog or cat”) is sheer folly. Frank Aydelotte referred to it as the “divorce of writing from thinking.” This sundering would be no different from the “divorce of journalism from facts” or the “divorce of science from empirical evidence.” The skeptic would say, “But that’s not journalism” or “that’s not science.” To which I would add, “that’s not writing.” It may be writing in some technical sense, but in most cases it is an empty shell of what we regard as literature or rhetoric.
The term that I came up with to refer to this phenomenon is “Reflexive English.”
Reflexive and Non-Reflexive English
As I stated before, all teaching is rhetorical. In subjects other than English there is a specific subject matter, whether it be economics, sociology, political science, philosophy, mathematics, or what have you. The purpose of the class is to educate the student about the subject matter. Language is the means of communication—its natural rhetorical function. If the student is sufficiently focused on purpose and the rhetorical act of teaching sound (directed by purpose, focused on the subject), some degree of cognition is bound to occur—which is to say, the student is defining the real. In this case the language is non-reflexive because it is focused on an external entity (subject).
The composition class is different, however. First, there might be confusion concerning the purpose—is it to write student themes? Unlike the subject matter of a history or government class, the themes are not the focus; language itself is the focus, thus it is reflexive. It is almost as if “language” and “themes” exchange places, the themes serving as means of communication—not exactly a sound rhetorical practice. My argument is that the reflexive nature of the language interferes with proper cognition.
To illustrate how this might occur, let’s use the metaphor of quantum physics. In developing that theory physicists were forced to adopt new ontological categories to explain the disturbing realization that light was both a particle and a wave. The “both/and” category defies formal logic, which states that A cannot simultaneously be A and not-A. In the macrocosmic world, particles cannot be waves and vice-versa.
Graves applies this conundrum to rhetoric: “Some individuals suggest that rhetoric is a particle—helping the writer present her new insights in a manner that will persuade colleagues. Others argue that it is a wave—infusing all activities so that it actually generates new insight.” Language usage in this metaphor (and it is a metaphor—not to be taken literally), may at times have discrete properties, at other times wave-form properties.
That may not be a specious argument since language functions much the same way as light: emitted from a source (the speaker or writer’s mind), it illuminates external objects (what is spoken of or written about), and is picked up by our sense organs (eyes, ears) to be processed as knowledge (cognition). Where language is reflexive, it is similar to light striking a mirror or reflective surface. Just as our eyes see a mirage or an optical illusion, cognition can be distorted by reflexive language.
Suggestions
So how does one avoid the “artificial writing occasion”? There is only one way: get rid of the occasion. Clearly, students must receive some kind of expert writing instruction, and trained specialists are the best ones to do it. There is plenty of writing to be done across the curricula—that provides the subject matter. As much as possible, every writing assignment must be a “real” occasion and focused on a specific subject. English literature, incidentally, is one such subject where the problem of reflexive English does not arise.
“Hybrid” classes might be one solution. For example, an introductory philosophy class could be designated PHIL 110/ENGL 110, with instruction in both fields. A history class could be designated HIST 101/ENGL 114, and so on. The important thing is, students would be writing within their fields of interest. Another suggestion is extensive use of Information Technologies—class blogs or other writing spaces could be particularly helpful.
If composition classes remain as they are (a separate discipline), the best policy would require teachers to possess multiple degrees—in other words, to be widely and deeply educated. That would equip them for dealing with content as well as form. Limiting teachers to degrees in English seems too narrow. And why shouldn’t political science, philosophy, or history professors teach writing as well?
Most importantly, composition should instill rational judgment: as an undergraduate in governmental administration (criminal justice), I found that the primary thing expected of me was critical thinking—the ability to present rational arguments, uncover hidden assumptions, and avoid logical fallacies. While all faculty expected clear, error-free prose, content was what mattered. An empty-headed argument would likely get you ripped to shreds by a professor, regardless of how elegant the writing was. The point is, it was while taking those classes that I first realized the “connection” between writing and thinking—what rhetoricians refer to as invention.
When competent writing becomes a necessity rather than a hollow gesture, amazing things can occur, as F.N. Scott’s “newspaper” example suggests:
A young man enters the newspaper office as a “cub” reporter. He knows next to nothing about punctuation or grammar, his spelling is reckless, his sentences are amorphous, his ideas about diction mostly wrong; and yet within three or four weeks after he begins his newspaper work these faults will disappear. His writing, if not graceful, will be clear, simple and correct, and no one will have the slightest difficulty in understanding it. In other words, what the school has labored for three or four years to accomplish and has not accomplished, the newspaper office accomplishes in three weeks.
And what accounts for this miraculous improvement? Dire necessity, because “the theme correction that goes on in the newspaper office is merciless and decisive. The young reporter cannot make the same mistake twice. He either learns and conforms, or he gets out.” This is reminiscent of Lave’s theory that cognition (in this case, writing proficiency) is “situated”—that is, interdependent with the circumstances surrounding it. Competent writing, therefore, is imbricated in the “real occasion,” and is unlikely to appear without it. Even when the “artificial occasion” produces competent texts, the intrinsic value of those texts is unclear. This is an argument for publishing student texts, whatever the means, whatever the need. Letters to the local newspaper, school newspapers and circulars, book and music reviews posted on the Internet—all of these are good exercises in composition.
Language, as much as possible, should serve its natural function of illumination, whether cognitive, aesthetic, or utilitarian. When it cannot, students (and their teachers) are too often left in the dark.
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It all goes back, I’m convinced, to the “artificial writing occasion” induced by freshman composition, which is sure to produce a peculiar brand of unreality. Whether these student ramblings are sub-literate or slickly professional (like the specimen Bartholomae includes at the beginning of his essay), one has to seriously question their worth—both as learning exercises and as rhetoric.
Assessment is almost beside the point: even if it were demonstrated beyond all doubt that students became better writers by taking these courses, the axiological problems associated with theme-writing would remain. And this calls into question some of the basic rhetorical tenets: how is an excellent piece of, say, argumentative writing undercut by the unreality of the occasion? how can bona-fide invention result from it? if rhetoric is a science, what is its proper methodology? and if it is an art, wouldn’t that undermine the egalitarianism of American institutions (since only the truly gifted can be artists)?
In theory, college composition classes should be producing, at least occasionally, classic samples of English prose. Instead, they produce a lot of head-scratching among faculty and conferences that reek of pessimism. There must be a reason why. After giving it some thought, I’ve come to believe that the reflexive nature of the language used in composition classes is the culprit—“reflexive” meaning that it is focused upon itself.
The Dilemma
First, it might help to provide a clear statement of the problem at hand: the “artificial motive” for student writing and the controversies surrounding it. For this I turn to Gertrude Buck, writing in 1901. She begins by quoting Whately:
“The cramped, meager, and feeble character of most such essays, etc., as are avowedly composed according to the rules of any system” of technical rhetoric, was noted, and the further observation made that “On the real occasions of after life (I mean when the object proposed is, not to fill up a sheet, a book, or an hour, but to communicate his thoughts to convince or persuade),—on these real occasions, he [the student] will find that he writes both better, and with more facility, than on the artificial occasion, as it may be called, of composing a declamation.” From this dual discovery, so frequently made by the practical teacher of composition, the inference is plain. If the student writes both better and more easily when he has a real occasion for writing…then let the teacher, so far as possible, replace this artificial situation by natural conditions for writing.
It might be interesting to note, however, whether such anxieties exist in subjects other than English. While a teacher or professor may bemoan the shortcomings of student-writing—even to the point of intermittent coaching—the objective in a history or political science class (where written documents are required) is not to assess writing, but to gauge the student’s knowledge of the subject matter. Production of documents in those classes, arguably, qualifies as real occasions for writing. Buck continues,
Nowhere outside of composition classes does one write to conform with a certain rhetorical law. The condition is absurd. No wonder the student on whom it is imposed writes painfully and pretentiously; no wonder that continued exercises of this sort form “a habit of stringing together empty commonplaces and vapid declamations,—of multiplying words and spreading out the matter thin,—of composing in a stiff, artificial, and frigid manner.” No real literature, no genuine writing of any kind, was ever fashioned to the pattern of a rule.
The response was to introduce “topic” writing of subjects that were of interest to the student (though there was some debate whether college-age boys had the mental capacity for such a task). Anything to get the students writing, and writing often—Peter Elbow style—in keeping with the adage that writing can be learned, but not taught.
After that reform, however, came the problem of assessment: “The deliberate setting of a rule as a guide for writing could indeed be avoided, but so soon as the student became aware that his composition was later to be criticized by this rule, the knowledge could not but condition to some extent his present writing.” The assessment dilemma encompasses other such “artificial conditions” as SOLs, timed writing sections for the SAT, the GRE, and the ODU exit exam. Even if a student is the next Ernest Hemmingway, it does him no good if he fails these tests.
And lest one object that the good Dr. Buck wrote over a century ago on this matter (and things have surely improved since then…), consider Carroll’s perception of her present-day writing class: “Many students sense already that their writing for the classroom is ‘artificial’ and that what they say ‘doesn’t really matter’ as long as they give the teacher ‘what she wants.’” What we have here is an epistemological quandary.
To delve further into the “London fog” of this matter we will have to leave the familiar setting of the classroom behind (for the time being) and venture to the more rarefied planes of rhetorical theory.
Rhetoric and the Problem of “Reality”
I must admit that upon entering the graduate program here at ODU, I knew nothing about rhetoric (although Plato and Aristotle were familiar territory). And when, in Modern Rhetoric (ENG 669), we turned our attention to the history of college composition, reading essays by Genung, Aydelotte, Scott, Denney, Buck, and others, I was even more puzzled. “What has all this to do with rhetoric?” I wondered. But eventually it dawned on me: teaching is a rhetorical endeavor. In a paper I wrote for that class I said:
Although rhetoric is usually defined in its narrow sense—i.e., the use of language in persuasive speech or writing—and thought to be the province of the English department, it also has broader applications across the curricula. Rhetoric is inherent within all other subjects (even something as esoteric as mathematics) simply because teaching is conveyed through language. In other words, rhetoric is a property of language itself.
And it is more than just a tool for conveying “knowledge;” it is also a means of defining reality—an effort that is underscored by ideology. According to Berlin, “…every rhetorical system is based on epistemological assumptions about the nature of reality, the nature of the knower, and the rules governing the discovery and communication of the known. These matters, of course, converge with the elements of the rhetorical triangle: reality, interlocutor, audience, and language.” Truth is variously located in the material world, the internal subjective world, group consensus, language itself, or in some combination thereof.
Defining the Term
We may readily assert, as I do, that the primary use of rhetoric is to define reality. But the matter is obscured somewhat by the numerous ways in which the word “reality” is employed. One definition would make it equivalent to “empirical,” as in, that which can be proven to exist. If it cannot be proven to exist, it is a matter of speculation, faith, or intuition—either transcendent of material or beyond our experience. There are other definitions, too. According to Cohen,
…people use the terms real and unreal to denote the distinction between that which has the value of genuineness and that which is spurious, e.g., real money as opposed to counterfeit, real diamonds as opposed to glass or paste, etc. But reality has also been widely used in many other senses. Thus it is used to denote a certain vividness or intensity of feeling, as when we say…that the imaginary heroes of our childhood were more real to us than our unknown ancestors. The real is also that which stands in a certain relation of priority or superiority to the seeming. The two railway tracks may seem to meet, but we know they are really parallel, i.e., the latter judgment harmonizes better with all other judgment and explains even how the seeming arises.
So we have at least four meanings of the word “real,” and if we assert that this rhetoric or the other locates reality in this place or that, we need to be a little more precise in what we mean. For the purposes of this discussion, however, “reality” may be equated with agreement: agreement between what one thinks is true and what actually occurs in nature; agreement between outward appearances and underlying facts; agreement between any “elegant” theory and that which later proves unassailable. The ordinary meaning of the word is sufficient most of the time—the true, the actual, the empirical—but augmented meanings may result from whatever rhetorical system one adopts.
To conclude: reality is something that includes human subjectivity but is not confined by it; it exists independently of us, whether we like it or not, and is known in its entirety by no one (other than God). To say that rhetoric “defines reality” is to say that it interprets experience to arrive at meaning—regardless of the rhetoric used or definition of “reality” applicable.
Objective vs. Subjective
Current-traditional rhetoric, positivist and phenomenological in nature, might be called the “Republican View,” having a vested interest in outward authority—e.g., government, church, institutions (such as schools). Subjective rhetorics, on the other hand, focus on the individual and are quite libertarian. Here, the only authority is that of the Self: “While the reality of the material, the social, and the linguistic are never denied, they are considered significant only insofar as they serve the needs of the individual.”
Nevertheless, one cannot claim that an objective rhetoric is “right” while the subjective is “wrong,” or vice-versa; each has its legitimate claim. No sober person would say that the phenomenological world isn’t real—for such fantasies can quickly be dashed by a Hurricane Katrina or two. To deny the importance of individual perception is also foolish. History shows that lonely, isolated visions sometimes develop into world religions or political revolutions, given enough time. Any attempt to take an absolute position either way is problematic.
Transactional rhetorics attempt to resolve this by synthesizing subject and object: reality is found socially—in the joints and welds of interaction. Originating from the educational theories of John Dewey and further developed by the teaching of Fred Newton Scott, here is an attempt to revive rhetoric as a science. According to Scott, “The science in which I am interested, call it rhetoric or call it what you please, is an investigation of the phenomena of speech-communication. It is the science of human intercourse so far as this is conducted by speech or the symbols of speech.” It is not, one should note, science as it applies to nature or to the individual (whether medical or psychological), but as it applies to discourse--that is, social phenomena. Thus, there is an appeal to the social sciences:
Of especial interest and value are the contributions in sociology and psychology. On one side the nature and constitution of the community in the various stages of its development, the laws which control the interactions of individuals in their social relations, the forces by which social processes are set in motion—these and other social phenomena have been the subject of careful observation and prolonged discussion…From the psychological side the contributions are so numerous and so fundamental as to be fairly embarrassing. There is hardly a topic in the traditional subject-matter of formal rhetoric which does not require reinterpretation in light of modern psychological theory. I need only mention such researches as those in regard to internal speech, the nature of rhythm, the theory of expression, the mental images aroused by certain classes of words, the basis of motive, choice, and volition, to show how extensive and how varied is the material now lying ready for workers in this field.
The appeal to science might seem ironic, especially since, according to Berlin, transactional rhetoric was formulated as an alternative to current-traditional and its reliance on scientific objectivity: “Scott saw reality as a social construction, a communal creation emerging from the dialectical interplay of individuals. While this social reality is bound by the material, it is everywhere immersed in language.” The inseparability of the perceiver and the perceived—an enigma then being explored in quantum physics—is reflected, apparently, by social discourse. Here, language is almost deterministic. Berlin continues, “Language is not, however, conceived of as a simple sign system in which symbol and referent are perfectly matched. It is instead constitutive of reality, language being the very condition that makes thought possible. Language does not exist apart from thought, and thought does not exist apart from language; they are one and the same.”
Transactional to Epistemic Rhetoric
That amazing and fascinating claim—language and thought are “one and the same”—has to be critically examined. While there are difficulties with objective and subjective rhetorics, neither makes quite so troubling an assertion. I intend to debunk it, but not without first expressing a great deal of admiration for its ingenuity. And it is hard to disagree with its ideological stance, being a rhetoric, after all, for democratic society. Why should the Philistines of Commerce and Privilege determine the content of public discourse? Why should the elitist scions of Liberal Culture have their way in setting up an American aristocracy? Transactional rhetoric might be seen as the speech of the common man, and Henry Ford its patron saint (can it be coincidence that Fred Newton Scott and Ford Motor Company both manufactured their wares in Michigan?).
One of the easiest ways to critique a rhetoric is to ask—what if it is taken to an extreme? Objective rhetorics align with scientific dispassion, but eventually become an ideological weapon (something science tends to resist). Subjective rhetorics degrade, sooner or later, to mere solipsism. As a synthesis of the two, transactional rhetoric avoids certain problems: the tendency to exclude the “other,” to reinforce the status quo, to quantify truth in too narrow (or too broad) a sense. The word “transaction” means exchange, with both sides of the conversation benefiting from the circuit. The problem I have is not with the rhetoric, but the assumption about cognition: if language and thought are actually “one and the same,” then language-control too easily becomes thought-control. That is, after all, one of the main themes of Orwell’s 1984:
The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a medium of expression for the world-view and mental habits proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, but to make all other modes of thought impossible. It was intended that when Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak forgotten, a heretical thought—that is, a thought diverging from the principles of Ingsoc—should be literally unthinkable, at least so far as thought is dependent on words.
From the Sophists of ancient Greece (so hated by Plato) to modern-day “Bushlines” (i.e., official talking-points of the Bush Administration), language has been a mighty tool of manipulation, obfuscation, and misdirection. One could think of F.N. Scott’s appeal to science, then, as an attempt to rehabilitate rhetoric’s stature, at least in the academic community.
The transactional view found its successor (and most extreme expression) in epistemic rhetoric. Berlin writes,
In this point of view, rhetoric is epistemic because knowledge itself is a rhetorical construct. Having historical precedents in Vico and Marx and a brilliant modern articulation in Kenneth Burke, this stance argues that epistemology is rhetorical, is itself a social and historical construct. …this is the antithesis of the positivist contention that reality is empirical, with language simply reporting what is determined outside its domain. For the epistemic, the symbolic includes the empirical because all reality, all knowledge, is a linguistic construct. Meaning emerges not from objective, disinterested, empirical investigation, but from individuals engaging in rhetorical discourse in discourse communities…
My reading of this suggests that epistemic rhetoric is a sort of “shared solipsism,” with discourse communities, rather than individuals, deciding what is real and what counts as genuine knowledge. The one caveat might be the concluding sentence, which stresses it is meaning that is being sought here, not some Cartesian denial of empirical reality. Nonetheless, there is still the troubling assertion that “all reality, all knowledge, is a linguistic construct.” According to Knoblauch and Brannon, “Discourse enacts the world: its knowledge is not about the world but is rather constitutive of the world.” One can almost imagine entire galaxies popping into existence (in real space-time) simply because a handful of astronomers on earth are talking about them! This view, in the end, undercuts any semblance of natural science. According to Royer, the roots of this can be found in Kant: “Stemming from Kant’s epistemological thrust, the implication is that all knowers participate in or have some systematic effect on the thing known. Stemming from Kant’s metaphysical thrust…the implication is that ‘reality’ is a product of our own symbol making, cognitive process. Hence, there is no reason to believe there is any reality independent of man as symbol-making knower.” And although there is evidence to support the “epistemological thrust,” the “metaphysical thrust” is much harder to accept. As I said: solipsism.
Critique of Transactional-Epistemic Rhetoric
Obviously, language assists in the process of cognition, being far more than a sign system for communication; it midwifes our own internal struggle to understand and explain things to ourselves. Knowledge is essential for survival, however visceral that knowledge may be. Lindemann notes that “…language…is a social, not a biological necessity. We don’t need language to survive. Feral children, raised in the wild without other human beings around them, and mutes [deaf-mutes, I would add], who for some physiological reason aren’t able to speak, can survive without language.”
The subconscious mind, moreover, appears to operate at a level where language cannot penetrate. It happens when, for instance, we know an individual’s name but cannot produce it, having it “on the tip of our tongues.” Later, after a few maddening hours or days, the name will pop into our heads as if by magic. In working on a complex problem, like a puzzle—or even the prewriting stage of a research paper—the subconscious mind continues to grapple with difficult issues even as we sleep. How many brilliant “eureka” moments have people experienced waking up in the middle of the night?
I remember a few years ago when I was taking math classes—advanced algebra, trigonometry, calculus—I repeatedly had this weird experience as I did my homework. If I happened to arrive at a wrong solution to a calculus problem, I somehow knew it was wrong. It just “felt” wrong. And sure enough, checking the back of the book, it was. My intuition was always right. Question: how did I subconsciously know the answers were wrong? I’d never taken calculus before. I’d done everything I could to get the right answer. When my answers were right, I knew that too—there was a feeling of completeness and satisfaction to it. This presupposes a thorough (subconscious) knowledge of higher mathematics embedded in the brain somewhere. How could that be a “linguistic construct”?
Something else to consider: If language and thought are “one and the same” then they are polar opposites that cannot be separated, as, for example left and right cannot be separated. Yet they can—recorded voice messages, automated answering systems, or computers with “natural language processing” represent uses of pure language unaccompanied by human thought. If language can function without thought, it follows that thought can function without language. The preceding paragraph strongly suggests that the brain can also cognize mathematically. Another method of cognition might be image-based, another sound-based. In other words, language is only one facet of cognition.
Apprehending reality without language is in fact one objective of Eastern mysticism. In the practice of meditation, the first task is to shut down one’s incessant internal dialogue (not easy to do). By forcing the mind to concentrate on a mantra, to the exclusion of all else, one’s awareness becomes more and more settled, and at the same time focused, on what we might call “reality itself.” During those brief moments of depth consciousness—where words cease to exist—it is possible to perceive directly what most consider mundane: the reality of the present moment.
The benefits of daily meditation are many, but for our present purpose three are worth noting: 1) the ability to concentrate on a single task or object is greatly enhanced; 2) the ability to instantly evaluate the “essence” of a person or object is increased; and 3) one becomes acutely aware of what is genuine and what is illusory. These are, interestingly enough, some of the same concerns rhetoric tries to tackle. But whereas the epistemics assert the primacy of language (to the exclusion of other modes of cognition), mysticism tries to accomplish the same results by pushing language to the side—at least for brief periods every day.
It seems best, therefore, to regard language-based cognition (as well as other forms) as a thin skin—a membrane of consciousness covering a vast reservoir of subconscious and unconscious potencies, none of which operate linguistically.
* * *
All the systems of rhetoric discussed above feature their own unique assumptions about cognition—thinking and learning—in various configurations. And all of them are inseparably wedded to ideology (if James Berlin is correct). The effects on writing students are indirect—reaching them through whatever pedagogy they are subjected to. Paulo Freire’s “banking” analogy describes the objective bent: students are like blank slates that all-knowing teachers write their wisdom upon. Bruffee’s experience with open admissions students tells a different tale: “…our students, however poorly prepared academically, did not come to us as blank slates. They arrived in our classrooms already deeply acculturated, already full-fledged, competent members…of some community or other.” This suggests learning as a collaborative experience—i.e., that a mutual effort between teacher and student makes education possible. The real issue, I suppose, is where the balance lay. A subjective rhetoric (and pedagogy) shifts it more toward the student, objective toward the instructor. The appeal of transactional rhetoric is its sense of mutuality and cooperation. My purpose in critiquing it was not to undermine the appeal, but to demonstrate the utter futility of regarding a human being, however young, as a malleable substance to be molded at will. Current-traditional rhetoric may indulge in this too, but transactional-epistemic provides the ready-made tool: language.
Pedagogical Challenges
What do we ask student-writers to do in a composition class and what do we expect them to learn? Is it about the mechanics—mastering the syntax, grammar, usage, and conventions of edited American English? Is it about teaching genres or formal as opposed to informal writing? Is it about inculcating a love of the English language and the joys of free expression, or is it simply remedial—fixing literacy problems that should have been handled in high school? Or is it, more ominously, an attempt to indoctrinate young minds according to the latest ideological slant?
Summarizing the research of Janet Emig, Fulwiler says, “[Emig] points out that writing progresses as an act of discovery—and furthermore, that no other thinking process helps us develop a train of thought as thoroughly. Scientists, artists, mathematicians, lawyers, engineers—all ‘think’ with pen to paper, chalk to blackboard, hands on terminal keys.” Experienced writers understand this, and in the Ideal World composition classes would indeed be places where rhetorical invention is taught, appreciated, and practiced. But in the gritty, grimy world of reality—in actual composition classrooms—such instances are rare. One major cause of this failure has to be the de-emphasis on content. Again, “Only in particular circumstances…such as English and speech classrooms, is the precision, shape and correctness of the speech or writing act itself viewed as more important than the thought engendered in the act. In other words, we usually speak or write to understand or communicate—not to evaluate our language medium.”
While the one (understanding, communication) should be regarded as a natural function of language, the other (evaluating the medium itself) is decidedly unnatural—or more precisely, artificial. I could not therefore believe my ears (and good fortune) when I heard one of my student-colleagues describe the English 110 syllabus, which boldly declares, “This is not a current events class or a political science class…” It’s understood that the staff may have grown weary reading papers about abortion and other such issues. Nevertheless, it is the content—the ideas and opinions—that makes good writing worth reading. To frown upon genuine content in the composition class (reducing students to, as one of my friends put it, “writing essays about your dog or cat”) is sheer folly. Frank Aydelotte referred to it as the “divorce of writing from thinking.” This sundering would be no different from the “divorce of journalism from facts” or the “divorce of science from empirical evidence.” The skeptic would say, “But that’s not journalism” or “that’s not science.” To which I would add, “that’s not writing.” It may be writing in some technical sense, but in most cases it is an empty shell of what we regard as literature or rhetoric.
The term that I came up with to refer to this phenomenon is “Reflexive English.”
Reflexive and Non-Reflexive English
As I stated before, all teaching is rhetorical. In subjects other than English there is a specific subject matter, whether it be economics, sociology, political science, philosophy, mathematics, or what have you. The purpose of the class is to educate the student about the subject matter. Language is the means of communication—its natural rhetorical function. If the student is sufficiently focused on purpose and the rhetorical act of teaching sound (directed by purpose, focused on the subject), some degree of cognition is bound to occur—which is to say, the student is defining the real. In this case the language is non-reflexive because it is focused on an external entity (subject).
The composition class is different, however. First, there might be confusion concerning the purpose—is it to write student themes? Unlike the subject matter of a history or government class, the themes are not the focus; language itself is the focus, thus it is reflexive. It is almost as if “language” and “themes” exchange places, the themes serving as means of communication—not exactly a sound rhetorical practice. My argument is that the reflexive nature of the language interferes with proper cognition.
To illustrate how this might occur, let’s use the metaphor of quantum physics. In developing that theory physicists were forced to adopt new ontological categories to explain the disturbing realization that light was both a particle and a wave. The “both/and” category defies formal logic, which states that A cannot simultaneously be A and not-A. In the macrocosmic world, particles cannot be waves and vice-versa.
Graves applies this conundrum to rhetoric: “Some individuals suggest that rhetoric is a particle—helping the writer present her new insights in a manner that will persuade colleagues. Others argue that it is a wave—infusing all activities so that it actually generates new insight.” Language usage in this metaphor (and it is a metaphor—not to be taken literally), may at times have discrete properties, at other times wave-form properties.
That may not be a specious argument since language functions much the same way as light: emitted from a source (the speaker or writer’s mind), it illuminates external objects (what is spoken of or written about), and is picked up by our sense organs (eyes, ears) to be processed as knowledge (cognition). Where language is reflexive, it is similar to light striking a mirror or reflective surface. Just as our eyes see a mirage or an optical illusion, cognition can be distorted by reflexive language.
Suggestions
So how does one avoid the “artificial writing occasion”? There is only one way: get rid of the occasion. Clearly, students must receive some kind of expert writing instruction, and trained specialists are the best ones to do it. There is plenty of writing to be done across the curricula—that provides the subject matter. As much as possible, every writing assignment must be a “real” occasion and focused on a specific subject. English literature, incidentally, is one such subject where the problem of reflexive English does not arise.
“Hybrid” classes might be one solution. For example, an introductory philosophy class could be designated PHIL 110/ENGL 110, with instruction in both fields. A history class could be designated HIST 101/ENGL 114, and so on. The important thing is, students would be writing within their fields of interest. Another suggestion is extensive use of Information Technologies—class blogs or other writing spaces could be particularly helpful.
If composition classes remain as they are (a separate discipline), the best policy would require teachers to possess multiple degrees—in other words, to be widely and deeply educated. That would equip them for dealing with content as well as form. Limiting teachers to degrees in English seems too narrow. And why shouldn’t political science, philosophy, or history professors teach writing as well?
Most importantly, composition should instill rational judgment: as an undergraduate in governmental administration (criminal justice), I found that the primary thing expected of me was critical thinking—the ability to present rational arguments, uncover hidden assumptions, and avoid logical fallacies. While all faculty expected clear, error-free prose, content was what mattered. An empty-headed argument would likely get you ripped to shreds by a professor, regardless of how elegant the writing was. The point is, it was while taking those classes that I first realized the “connection” between writing and thinking—what rhetoricians refer to as invention.
When competent writing becomes a necessity rather than a hollow gesture, amazing things can occur, as F.N. Scott’s “newspaper” example suggests:
A young man enters the newspaper office as a “cub” reporter. He knows next to nothing about punctuation or grammar, his spelling is reckless, his sentences are amorphous, his ideas about diction mostly wrong; and yet within three or four weeks after he begins his newspaper work these faults will disappear. His writing, if not graceful, will be clear, simple and correct, and no one will have the slightest difficulty in understanding it. In other words, what the school has labored for three or four years to accomplish and has not accomplished, the newspaper office accomplishes in three weeks.
And what accounts for this miraculous improvement? Dire necessity, because “the theme correction that goes on in the newspaper office is merciless and decisive. The young reporter cannot make the same mistake twice. He either learns and conforms, or he gets out.” This is reminiscent of Lave’s theory that cognition (in this case, writing proficiency) is “situated”—that is, interdependent with the circumstances surrounding it. Competent writing, therefore, is imbricated in the “real occasion,” and is unlikely to appear without it. Even when the “artificial occasion” produces competent texts, the intrinsic value of those texts is unclear. This is an argument for publishing student texts, whatever the means, whatever the need. Letters to the local newspaper, school newspapers and circulars, book and music reviews posted on the Internet—all of these are good exercises in composition.
Language, as much as possible, should serve its natural function of illumination, whether cognitive, aesthetic, or utilitarian. When it cannot, students (and their teachers) are too often left in the dark.
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