From https://www.newsbug.info/news/nation/commentary-attacks-on-critical-race-theory-reopen-old-wounds/article_7f053c53-270a-566e-99e3-622595161329.html
Persuading an audience to go to war necessitates radicalizing them. War always involves the killing of noncombatants–even the most carefully conducted wars kill noncombatants through bombings, drones, starvation, failure of infrastructure. When there is a fear of partisan action, there are massacres. If the war is intended to be a war of subjugation or extermination, then persuading people to go to war necessarily means persuading them to ignore normal ethical considerations about fairness, compassion, concern for innocent bystanders. Radicalizing an audience means that that extremism becomes a virtue, and that constraints on behavior are framed as weakness, cowardice, disloyalty, lack of patriotism (for more on this see Kruglanski et al). A radicalized audience doesn’t want to think, but wants to punish (Thucydides’ point).
Radicalizing an audience is rhetorically straightforward. There are two main strategies. One is to create a hobgoblin—something that doesn’t actually exist at all (Jews poisoning wells, lesbians persuading women to get abortions, witches who seduce children, Satanic childcare workers). The other, much easier, is the junior high school mean girl strategy. Imagine that there are three people: both Chester and Abilene are friends with Hubert, and Chester wants Hubert to be irrationally committed to him–that is, radicalize Hubert. Chester would tell Hubert that Abilene is spreading rumors that Hubert [does something shameful]. If Chester wanted Hubert to attack Abilene physically, then the rumors would be relentless and extreme attacks on Hubert’s prestige.
Notice that this strategy only works if Chester can persuade Hubert not to talk to Abilene directly. That will be important later. It’s also useful to point out that Chester is the one making Hubert feel shamed.
Radicalizing an audience means framing the situation as a war against [this group] as justified because They are evil people committed to shaming or destroying us.
If a political figure succeeds at persuading a base that “we” (the political figure sometimes is, but often is not, a member of the group they’re claiming to protect) is threatened with a loss of prestige, power, or existence (and those three things get confused), then that political figure can count on zero accountability. It’s war, after all, and so in-group political figures are not constrained by any moral or legal norms other than crushing Them.
And, if you’re a political figure or party, then zero accountability is desirable. The more that you can persuade your base that you are a loyal fighter against some hobgoblin, the less they will hold you to any standards at all–the only standard is that you are an enemy of Them.
The easy and rich rewards of making our political world a zero-sum battle between Us and Them is a rhetorical trap.
As I said, the the whole process falls apart if Hubert talks to Abilene. The narrative that 1) our world is Us and Them, and 2) They want us to feel shame, or They want us to be exterminated generally collapses if we ask for primary sources, and if we assess sources fairly.
And then we cherrypick (use a minor political official to represent the whole party), nutpick (use some random PETA person to represent vegetarians, or some pastor of a small church to represent Christians), or actively lie in order to claim that we are justified in behaving as though politics is war. Since it’s war, every member of our in-group is justified in any actions (aka, not accountable) due to moral licensing.
And that is how the radicalizing demagoguery about CRT works.
It starts by creating a hobgoblin (CRT) that has nothing to do with what advocates of Critical Race Theory say, let alone what people who talk about systemic racism say. All of which has little to do with a goal of making white people feel shame.
It’s the anti-CRT people who want it to be about shame. Notice that they can’t quote anyone who says the goal of CRT is for white people to feel shame. That’s just eighth grade bullshit.
If you have to lie about what your opponent believes—and, let’s be clear, every pro-Trump attack on CRT lies about what CRT is—then maybe you should think about that. A group with a good argument doesn’t have to lie.
But if you are a political group that doesn’t want to be held to standards of morality, legality, fairness, or reciprocity, and you don’t have a good argument, then you need to radicalize your base for total war. And that is what this is about.
When I was working on the demagoguery book, I wanted to include pieces all over the political spectrum, including something by an author I really liked (Muir) and something from the radical left. Length made me cut the discussion of Muir’s “Hetch Hetchy Valley.” (At the time, I thought it would be part of my next book project. It’s now moved to the one after this at the earliest.) And I also spent some time thinking I’d write about the Weathermen, but writing about their rhetoric is really hard for a bunch of interesting reasons. Since I didn’t get to write about it in the book, I’ll blather about it here. I still think rhetoric from groups like the Weathermen should be talked about more in our scholarship and teaching for several reasons. But it’s tough.
First, their writings, especially Prairie Fire (1974), are mind-numbing in a kind of interesting way (so this is a reason for and against writing about them). That may be a deliberate rhetorical choice. It might be what used to be called mystagoguery, in which the rhetoric is basically unintelligible, but it seems smart, and the fact that the audience can’t follow the argument is taken to mean that the author is sooo smart, a prophet with direct connection to the Truth that the audience doesn’t have (but might get by putting all their faith in the prophet). A lot of New Age self-help rhetoric works this way, as do most conspiracy theories.
The term mystagoguery quickly fell out of favor among scholars because the accusation of mystagoguery was so often just anti-intellectualism or an unconsidered hostility to specialist discourse. The problem was that people called something mystagoguery (especially literary theory) simply because they didn’t understand it. But something not making sense to a particular person doesn’t mean it’s unintelligible in general. Early Habermas made no sense to me for a long time because I didn’t understand the references, context, counter-arguments, and terms. Once I took the time to try to understand them, it made sense. I can’t follow an argument about super-string theory to save my life, but it isn’t mystagoguery—I’m just not in the audience. So, to argue that something is mystagoguery requires first engaging in the most charitable reading possible—trying to make sure one understands the references and so on–, and then explaining why, even in that context and so on the text doesn’t make sense.
Arguing that Prairie Fire is mystagoguery would require going deep into the specific kind of Maoist Marxist discourse of the Weathermen, and then either showing that it didn’t make sense, or that their use of it didn’t make sense. That’s a long slog I didn’t feel like making.
To claim something is mystagoguery is to attribute a fairly specific relationship between the rhetor and audience. The audience isn’t persuaded of the arguments made in the text, because the audience can’t even say exactly what those arguments are (let alone explain what many of the terms or phrases mean), but they can get a general gist (capitalism = bad; weathermen = good), and they believe that the rhetor does understand everything they are saying. So, the audience believes there is a very clear set of arguments and the rhetor is a genius who understands them.
In another kind of discourse, however, neither the rhetor nor audience believes that there is a set of comprehensible claims logically related to one another. The claims might be clear to the reader in isolation, but their relationship to one another is nonsense. Much Weatherman rhetoric, for instance, lists various ways that different groups are oppressed by American capitalism, and makes claims about what a revolution would do, and why now is the moment that various oppressed groups will see their shared oppression, rise up together, and overthrow capitalism in favor of a communist society. There isn’t any argumentation showing the connections among the claims, and those connections are vexed.
The notion that the white working class would, any minute now, realize that their interests were the same as BIPOC (all of whom have the same interests), environmentalists, prisoners, gays, Palestinians, women, and every other group mentioned in the pamphlet seems to me implausible. Although it was doctrine in some (not all) Marxist circles that the first step in revolution was a massive coalition of people who had realized their shared oppression, that wasn’t how any revolution had happened. But Prairie Fire, like a lot of demagoguery, argues through assertion, not argumentation. There are specifics and data, but the specific cases described function to exemplify the point being made, not as minor premises logically connected to a valid major premise.
In other words, there’s a different kind of rhetoric going on here, discourse that is fundamentally epideictic but with all the discursive surface markers of argumentation. It looks like argumentation, but it isn’t. That’s interesting.
Another aspect of Weathermen rhetoric that’s interesting for scholars and teachers of rhetoric is the question of effectiveness. At the time of Prairie Fire (1974), there were authors engaged in Marxist critiques of American education, carceral system, economy that, whether we agree with them or not, were engaged in argumentation, and they did change minds. People did read, for instance, Angela Davis on the prison system and change their mind about it. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would read Prairie Fire and have their mind changed about abolition, China, Palestine, the Rosenbergs, or the other sometimes apparently random topics discussed. But, the authors might not have been trying to persuade their audience about those issues.
Prairie Fire is a manifesto, and one of the major rhetorical functions of a manifesto is persuading an audience somewhat committed to the cause to become fully committed. Augustine famously said that a sermon might inform pagans about Christianity, persuade Christians to believe correct doctrine, and convince committed Christians to walk the walk (not his exact words). A manifesto tries to convince believers to become beleevers, largely by trying to persuade them that the group is fully committed to success, and will be effective because it’s in a tradition of successful social movements.
It doesn’t make that latter argument through a careful comparison of strategies, but by providing a geneaology in which Weather Underground is placed at the end of a narrative that includes Harriet Tubman, unions, Toussaint L’O[u]verture, and others whose precise relationship to the Weathermen is never clearly explained. But I think the implication that one is supposed to draw is associative, and not logical. And that’s interesting.
There’s one other point I want to make about effectiveness. It’s hard to find a good secondary on the Weathermen—some of the histories make them heroes and others villains, with very little in between. All the authors seem to have an axe to grind. The people who were involved in it are not necessarily motivated to be entirely honest about their reasons for joining the group. Still and all, there’s some indication that, at least for some people, it was the sex and drugs. So, did the verbal rhetoric even need to be plausible, let alone persuasive?
The main reason I really wanted to write about the rhetoric of Prairie Fire is that its rhetorical approach—accumulation, association, assertion, dismissal of any opposition or criticism through motivism—might be connected to the epistemological premises of a certain kind of Marxism that was popular in that era: a kind of enlightened and omniscient naïve realism.
Naïve realism says that the world is as it appears, and that, if we get back to direct perception (which is relatively easy for sensible people to do) then we will all see the same thing: the truth. Disagreement is necessarily a sign that someone is biased and their views should be dismissed.
There is also a kind of naïve realism that says that only some people (those who have been enlightened) can have that unmediated perception of the truth, and that their perception is universally valid—they are omniscient. This way of thinking about thinking is deeply anti-democratic, and yet common in democracies. It isn’t particular to democracies, nor is it specific to any one political affiliation.
There are four important assumptions involved in the enlightened and omniscient naïve realism model of identity and perception: 1) that there is a truth in any situation—a true way of thinking about religion, the truly best policy, a true narrative about a historical event; 2) a single individual can perceive this truth (that is, they can have a perspective-free, omniscient viewpoint, from which they can see everything that is true about poverty, the Trinity, WWI); 3) certain experiences (a particular kind of education, a conversion experience, success in business, military prowess) and/or group identity (wealthy, poor, GOP, Dem, white, young, old, so on) have either given them or signify their enlightened and omniscient naïve realism; 4) because their point of view is omniscient, everyone who disagrees with them is biased (by cupidity or stupidity), limited to one perspective (seeing only part of the situation), or lying (they know what the truth is, but it’s inconvenient, risky, or unpleasant, so they deliberately or choose the obviously wrong policy).
The political implications are pretty clear: there is one right policy solution to every problem. There is no such thing as intelligent and informed good faith disagreement. That one right solution is obvious to the right people, so disagreement is itself a reason to ban someone from the discussion, and to keep political power limited to the people who demonstrate enlightened omniscience. In other words, it’s anti-democratic. There may be forms and norms that appear democratic–the communist bloc nations had constitutions and Bills of Rights, and Massachusetts Bay Colony claimed to support “freedom of conscience.” But, in all those cases, people had the right to be right–that is, the right to agree and not the right to disagree.[1]
Ultimately, enlightened omniscient naive realism ends up in a tyranny of some form, perhaps a one-party state (such as Dinesh D’Souza advocates), a theocracy, herrrenvolk democracy, oligarchy, and so on.
In the case of the Weathermen, it ended up with their being racist, and that’s another interesting aspect of them. Because they were enlightened by virtue of their ideology, they saw themselves as better judges of the conditions of Black Americans than Black Americans, with the obvious consequence that they became notorious for whitesplaining. Their epistemology undermined their sincere attempts to be anti-racist.
Participating in politics is, as Hannah Arendt elegantly argued, a transcendental leap into uncertainty. We can reduce the uncertainty of any particular leap by using processes that reduce our reliance on cognitive biases, such as trying to find the smartest opposition arguments we can, trying to think about what evidence would cause us to change our mind, and making a distinction between agreeing with an argument and thinking it’s reasonable. Believing that there is only one right policy, and that we happen to know it is like making that leap without a rope, parachute, rescue plan, or map.
[1] When I make this argument, sometimes people think I’m arguing against vehemence, and I’m not. I think it’s great for people to be passionately committed to their argument. Being passionately committed to our argument, and arguing vehemently that someone else’s argument is wrong because their evidence is flawed, they’re missing important information, their sources are bad, and so on—that’s what democracy needs to be. Arguing that one’s preferred policy is the best is how people are likely to argue. But arguing that one’s preferred policy is the only possibility, and that every single other policy is obviously wrong, and obviously every single person who disagrees is a benighted, biased, corrupt, bigoted fool—that’s profoundly anti-democratic. Dismissing arguments because everyone not in the in-group has bad motives is the problem. It’s also false. None of us is actually the person who crawled out of Plato’s cave and sees the truth in every situation.
From https://www.newsbug.info/news/nation/commentary-attacks-on-critical-race-theory-reopen-old-wounds/article_7f053c53-270a-566e-99e3-622595161329.html
Recently, I broke my ankle, went to the ER, got put in a boot and handed crutches (which I haven’t used since I was a kid), and was told DO NOT PUT ANY WEIGHT ON YOUR FOOT.
The next day, I got up and went to the airport for a long-planned trip to see our son. My husband had called ahead and arranged for a wheelchair at every point. We left from Austin, and had to change planes in Philadelphia. It was awful. Humiliating, exhausting, frustrating, and literally painful.
Most people were kind, a lot were just self-absorbed to the point of hurtful (who walks right in front of someone on crutches?), several were rude, and no one was deliberately trying to cause me pain. Even those who did cause me pain didn’t do so because they wanted to cause me pain. They were over-worked, understaffed, underpaid, trying to get their job done in circumstances less than propitious.
The worst experience was TSA in Austin. The wheelchair person asked if I could stand, and I said no. She asked if I could take the boot off, and I said no (as I’d been told). She told that to security. We happened to arrive at security within half an hour of a shift change. If you can’t go through the scanner, then you have to get groped. Seriously groped. It’s a pain for the TSA agent, none of whom had any interest in groping a pudgy 60-year-old woman like me. It isn’t fun to be groped like that, and I’m sure they get a lot of grief from the gropee when they have to do it.
After much waiting, and the wheelchair person approaching various female TSA agents and getting turned away (they were clearly hoping to kick the can down the road to the next shift), there was what appeared to be a shift change, and then more of the wheelchair person approaching female agents, a very young female TSA came up. Let’s call her Chester. The wheelchair person told her that I couldn’t stand, and couldn’t take off the boot. Chester then turned to me and said, “Can you stand?” I said “On one foot, but not very well.” She said, “Can you take the boot off?” I said no. She made no attempt to hide how irritated she was about the situation, and that irritation was getting directed at me.
Perhaps because I was raised by dogs, when I’m dealing with someone who has a shitty job and they’re irritated, my impulse is to be as nice as I possibly can. So I was doing my best to be thankful and helpful. She remained irritated; she continued to direct that irritation at me.
We go through the initial complicated procedures necessary when someone can’t go through the scanner, she takes me through and to the grope place, says, “Can you stand?” I said, “On one foot, but not very well.” She points me to a table I can touch, and she is very grumpy about exactly how much I can touch it. She is grumpy about the whole process—I need to lift my pants leg so she can get to the boot, but not before she tells me to. I can’t touch my wheelchair. If I touch things before the right moment, she has to do things over. And she is not happy when that happens.
We get through most of the groping, and she says, “Can you take off your boot?” I say, “No.” She says, really irritated now, “You told me you could take off your boot.” I hadn’t. I had told her I couldn’t.
I took off the boot. It hurt to do so. She checked out the boot and my purple and swollen foot, and gave me the boot back. It hurt to put it back on. I hated being lied to; I hated being accused of lying. Also, my ankle now hurt enough that I was working hard not to cry.
There were other glitches in our travels—not being able to get on a tram because the wheelchair person was on break, my husband commandeering an apparently unused wheelchair, American Airlines agents commandeering wheelchairs because there weren’t enough people on the wheelchair staff, and just so many delays waiting for wheelchair assistance that sometimes never arrived. There were also kind people.
Nothing bad or inconvenient that happened to me was because someone hated people with disabilities and therefore intentionally harmed me. Nobody got up in the morning hoping to oppress people with disabilities. Chester had no personal hostility to me, although a lot to her job. And I don’t really blame her. All of the people who were rude or hurtful, by things done or undone, will (if they live long enough) someday be on crutches or in a wheelchair; they probably already have. They know and love people with disabilities. Some of their best friends are in wheelchairs or on crutches. Everyone reading this will be on crutches or in a wheelchair if they live long enough; everyone reading this loves someone who is or will be on crutches or in a wheelchair. This isn’t about individual intention.
I wasn’t treated badly because individuals wanted to hurt me personally or because of any individual’s desire to hurt people with disabilities; I was treated badly because airports weren’t built for post-9/11 security needs, and so security is shoved into whatever places happened to be available (in one airport, we had to go upstairs for security and then downstair for the flight), Chester was probably legitimately grumpy about why she always ended up doing the groping of Olds simply because she’s the newest employee, and all the other women had enough seniority to dodge that part of their job. Other people were grumpy or failed to show up because airports don’t pay wheelchair people enough, any kind of accommodation for people with disabilities is duct tape and bailing wire on existing airports and TSA screening processes, people cut me off because they were distracted, planes aren’t built for people with disabilities, and so on. It isn’t about individuals. It’s about institutions, systems, and decisions made fifty years ago.
So, how do we solve this problem?
Should people without disabilities be filled with shame? No. That does no one any good.
Is it a question of individual agency? Could I have willed myself to a better experience? No. It’s a systemic issue about how things, even the physical environment, were designed.
Could Chester have willed herself to a better experience? She could have been nicer to me, sure. But that wouldn’t have necessarily reduced her justifiable irritation about the situations. The system requires that a female grope women like me, many of whom are grumpy about being groped. A better system would have included people with disabilities in the design plans from the beginning, instead of suddenly discovering they exist. Could she have been nicer to me? Yes. But should she? Her job sucks, and it sucks because the way TSA handles people with disabilities sucks. It isn’t her, and it isn’t her boss. It might not even be TSA. It might be the laws, regulations, and policies TSA is required to follow. She had to grope me because the system makes her grope me. It sucked less if I could take off the boot, so she lied to make her job slightly less sucky.
She isn’t the problem. Her feelings aren’t the problem. Her intentions aren’t the problem. The people who wrote the laws, regulations, and policies didn’t necessarily, as individuals, have any intention to discriminate against people with disabilities. It wasn’t their intention to harm that causes the harm. It was their failure to think about inclusion.
My experience was a brief summer shower of what it’s like to try to fly when you have a mild and temporary disability, and has little or nothing to do with what it’s like for people to try to fly who have a more serious or long-term disability. I’m not talking about my experience because it exemplifies what travelling with a disability is like.
My point is that travelling even with a minor and temporary disability shows that we have a system that discriminates against a group of people, regardless of the feelings or intentions of the individuals who happen to be the momentary agent in that system, or even the intentions of people enforcing the rules. There can be discrimination and harm not because of individual intentional hatred, let alone a desire to “oppress,” but as a consequence of systemic thoughtlessness.
Discrimination isn’t about the intentions of individuals, good or bad. Oppression doesn’t actually require oppressors. It’s about systems that were put in place a long time ago but that still constrain what we do; it’s about policies and processes that are thoughtless and convenient; it’s about how saving money or time by relying on stereotypes about what’s normal does harm; it’s about certain kinds of discrimination, such as discrimination against a person who needs crutches, is baked into our buildings.
If we can admit that discrimination against people with disabilities is not about individuals, or shame, or hostility, but a systemic problem, then we can think about other kinds of discrimination as systemic. It shouldn’t be that hard.
People often forget or ignore the “aggressive” part of passive-aggressive. And people who are really skilled at being passive-aggressive—that is, abusive people—use passive-aggressive tactics that enable them to hurt others while looking so blameless that if the victim calls attention to the harm, the victim looks “sensitive,” or as though they’re “over-reading.” People skilled at being passive-aggressive are good at hurting others and evading the responsibility or accountability for it.
There are a few ways they do that. One of the most common is burying the aggression in the major premise (i.e., the logical fallacy of assuming what is at stake or what used to be called “begging the question”). Here are some ways of burying the aggression in the major premise:
Love the sinner; hate the sin. Well, as a liberal/conservative/teacher/atheist/Christian, you’d of course think that. You shouldn’t criticize this war because you should support the troops.
Were I Queen of the Universe, I would make people learn about enthymemes and syllogisms, not because they’re how people should reason, but because they’re how people reason badly. In logic, the fallacy is called the “undistributed middle,” and you can often show the problems with Venn diagrams.
I want to start with the second example because it’s simultaneously the one I run across most often, and the most problematic.
Let’s imagine that we’re arguing about whether small dogs are on the side of squirrels in the squirrel conspiracy to get to the red ball (this was an issue about which two of my dogs disagreed). You say they aren’t, I say they are, and you have an IRA with stock investments making you a Wall Street investor, so I say, “Well, you just say that because you’re a capitalist pig.”
Here’s the argument I’m making:
All Wall Street investors are capitalist pigs. All capitalist pigs support the squirrels or don’t see the danger of their conspiracy. Therefore, your being a Wall Street investor means your position can be dismissed.
That’s the syllogism. The two major premises (the unstated assumptions) are false. Not all investors are capitalist pigs (since many people have pension funds); not all all capitalist pigs support or don’t see the danger of the squirrel conspiracy (since that’s something we can’t possibly know, not having asked every capitalist pig about the squirrel conspiracy).
Here’s another way to think about my argument. Were my argument logical, then the Venn diagram would have a circle of “people who support (or don’t see) the squirrel conspiracy” and every Wall Street investor would be in that circle (because they would all be in the circle of capitalist pig, and that circle is completely in the squirrel conspiracy circle). Notice also that there’s considerable ambiguity about the term “capitalist pig,” as there is about the term “sinner.”
Obviously, the assumptions in this argument are wrong, or, at least, shouldn’t simply be presented as premises out of the range of argument. But it’s so hard to point out that the argument is bad because the assumptions are wrong, since so few people understand that a statement they believe is true that has bad assumptions is definitely not a logical argument, and probably not true.
When people are engaged in this kind of passive-aggressive argument, you have to bring up their premises, and then it’s easy for them to frame you as a pedant or quibbler. But, for a good conversation (which is not what they want to happen), their assumptions need to be argued.
Burying the argument in the premises gives rhetors a rhetorical advantage, especially if they’re appealing to common stereotypes. It enables them to avoid the rhetorical responsibility of fulling defending your position—that is, including your premises.
So, for instance, the “love the sinner, but hate the sin” enthymeme has as its major premise that some group is sinning, as well as an unstated premise that “hating the sin” justifies discriminating against the “sinner” whom they claim to love. They love the sinner, but, in the name of “hating the sin,” they want to be able to pass laws that restrict the civil rights of a group they claim not to hate.
What, exactly, does it mean to say that you love someone, but you won’t let them have the same rights as you?
They might say it isn’t hating the sinner, but it’s certainly quacking like it.
Further, they do not want to have to defend how they’re defining sins that should be hated. They will say, “It’s in Scripture.” Of course the term “homosexuality” isn’t in Scripture, but there are things (ranging from pederasty to rape) that get translated as “homosexual” acts.
Setting aside the translation issues, which are huge, what assumptions are they making about what should be considered a sin?
If they are defining “sins that should be hated” as anything condemned in Leviticus or Paul (or pseudo-Paul), then they’ve got a lot of sins they need to be hating. Do they?Whether homosexuality is a sin is a surprisingly complicated issue. Whether homosexuality is a graver sin than braided hair in church, paying interest on loans (or benefitting from an economic system that involves getting money from money being loaned), adultery, having non-procreative sex, getting a tattoo, exploiting or ignoring the poor, endorsing the death penalty, is an argument they need to make to support the enthymeme they throw out. They don’t.
They don’t, because they can’t come up with a consistent hermeneutic that justifies their hating the sin of homosexuality more than they hate the sin of charging interest (let alone exorbitant interest). Were their hierarchy of sin-hating rationally defensible, they’d be insisting on SCOTUS justices who go after pawn shops. I wouldn’t recommend that you hold your breath till that happens.
Basically, they neither value nor understand that simply being able to support your point with a quote from Scripture is not logical proof, unless you’re consistent as granting an argumentative win to every person who can do that. Everyone can, so that’s a problem. And therefore they don’t. That’s a winning strategy for them, but no one else.
As long as they can keep themselves and others from noticing the ethical and logical train wreck of their position, they’ll continue to think that discriminating against non-cishet people is okay, as are pawn shops, braided hair, and a justice system grounded in “an eye for an eye.”
They won’t accept the burden of proof because they believe that their personal conviction is all the proof they need.
So, we should throw the burden of proof on them. We all have people in our lives who are bigots, and whom we try to love.
Instead of trying to drag into the sunlight and then dissect their appalling major premises and assumptions, we should take as our motto that they’re bigots, and we will try to love them. They are, and we do try. And then they might notice what it’s like to have one’s condemnation buried in the premises. Let them try to figure out why the logic of an argument matters.
Or, put it this way: imagine that your passive-aggressive relative says, “Love the sinner, hate the sin,” and you reply with a smile and a kiss, “Love the bigot, hate the bigotry.” Think about what happens next.
[This is from a book I’m writing about how we deliberate about war]
In this book I’ve emphasized “paired terms” because (too) much public discourse presumes that issues can be thought of in terms of a set of associations and opposition as though: 1) those characteristics are necessarily associated or opposed, and 2) are necessarily epitomized in the association/opposition of liberal v. conservative, democrat/republican, and 3) these relationships are causal. That is, we too often talk as though Martin Luther King opposed the Vietnam War because he was liberal, and liberals opposed the Vietnam War because of their liberalism. This way of thinking about politics depoliticizes public discourse, in the sense that we don’t argue about whether, for instance, the policies regarding Vietnam are sensible, likely to get a good outcome, worth the costs, and other policy issues—instead, we argue (or, more accurately, fling assertions) about whether “liberals” or “conservatives” are better people. The false assumption is that, if we can prove that our group is good (or that the out-group is bad), we have thereby proven that our policies are good. That way of thinking about politics in terms of associations and oppositions is false at every step, and the public discourse about Vietnam exemplifies how inaccurate and damaging it is to displace policy argumentation with paired terms.
For instance, we now use the term “conservative” as though it were interchangeable with “Republican,” even when the Republican Party advocates a policy that is a striking violation with past practices (such as Romneycare, the adoption of preventive war in regard to Iraq, the level of governmental surveillance allowed by the USAPATRIOT Act ). Many people use the term “liberal” as though it were interchangeable with “democratic socialist,” “progressive,” and “communist” (when those are four different political philosophies). Democrats are not consistently “liberal,” and Republicans are not consistently “conservative.” In fact, it is simply not possible to define either “liberal” or “conservative” as a political philosophy that either the Democrats or Republicans consistently pursue in terms of policies—both parties advocate small government, big government, low taxes, high taxes, military intervention, states’ rights, federalism, and so on at different points, for different reasons, and generally because of short-term election strategies. Sometimes one party takes a stance simply because it is the opposite of what the other party is advocating—as when the GOP flipped on Romneycare. This observation is not a criticism of either party—that’s what political parties do–, but it is a criticism of thinking that partisanship is an intelligent substitution for policy argumentation.
Martin Luther King and Henry Steele Commager criticized US policies in regard to Vietnam, and both did so from what might usefully be called a “liberal” and Christian perspective, both believing that American foreign policy had to be grounded in moral principles. Hans Morgenthau, conservative, Jewish, and a “realist” in regard to international relations, was also a severe critic of American policies in Vietnam, and on April 18, 1965, The New York Times published a long editorial he wrote in which he argued that, while he appreciated a recent statement of LBJ about Vietnam, on the whole, he thought that “the President reiterated the intellectual assumptions and policy proposals which brought us to an impasse and which make it impossible to extricate ourselves.”
Although Morgenthau had a very different philosophical perspective from either HSC or MLK, his criticisms of American policies in Vietnam had some overlap with theirs. While he agreed that China should be contained, he argued that it was a wrongheaded fantasy to think that it could be contained in the same way that the USSR had been in Europe–that is, through “erecting a military wall at the periphery of her empire.” Like HSC and MLK (and as even Robert McNamara would later admit was true), he insisted that the Vietnam situation was a civil war, not “an integral part of unlimited Chinese aggression.” Ho Chi Minh “came to power not courtesy of another Communist nation’s victorious army but at the head of a victorious army of his own.” Ho Chi Minh had considerable popular support, whereas Diem did not, and therefore this was not a military, but a political, problem. Morgenthau argued that, “People fight and die in civil wars because they have a faith which appears to them worth fighting and dying for, and they can be opposed with a chance of success only by people who have at least as strong a faith.” Supporters of Diem did not have at least a strong a faith because Diem’s policies resulted in his being unpopular (“on one side, Diem’s family, surrounded by a Pretorian guard; on the other, the Vietnamese people”). Morgenthau pointed out that trying to treat such situations in a military way–counter-insurgency–had not worked. The French tried it in Algeria and Indochina (i.e., Vietnam), and it didn’t work, and it wasn’t working for the US in Vietnam. Like HSC and MLK, he emphasized that Diem (and the US, by supporting Diem) had violated the Geneva agreement, especially in terms of refusing to have an election—a refusal that was an open admission that communism was not imposed on an unwilling populace, but a popular policy agenda (he notes, largely because of land reform).
Unlike HSC and MLK, Morgenthau spelled out a plan that went beyond simply negotiating with North Vietnam. His plan had four parts: (1) recognition of the political and cultural predominance of China on the mainland of Asia as a fact of life; (2) liquidation of the peripheral military containment of China; (3) strengthening of the uncommitted nations of Asia by nonmilitary means; (4) assessment of Communist governments in Asia in terms not of Communist doctrine but of their relation to the interests and power of the United States. In other words, the US should be prepared to ally itself with communist regimes, as long as they were hostile to China. This plan was similar to the policy the US justified as “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”–how we rationalized supporting unpopular authoritarian regimes with appalling human rights records rather than allow elections that might lead to socialist or communist (even if democratic) regimes–but with a more realistic assessment of the varieties of communism and the possible benefits of those alliances. As Morgenthau says, “In fact, the United States encounters today less hostility from Tito, who is a Communist, than from de Gaulle, who is not.”
Just to be clear: Morgenthau had no sympathy for communism. His argument that we should ally ourselves with some communist regimes was, as I said, exactly the same one used for rationalizing our alliances with authoritarian–even fascistic–regimes. His argument that communists should be included in the group that might be the enemy of our enemies was grounded in realism. Realism, as a political theory, values putting the best interests of the nation above “moral” considerations, and strives to separate moral assessments of the “goodness” of allies from their potential utility to the US. We were, after all, closely allied with Israel, Sweden, and various other highly socialistic countries; why not add North Vietnam to that list, as long as it would be an ally?
If we think about the point of public discourse as debating various reasonable arguments, rather than a realm in which we will strive to silence all other points of view, then his is an argument that should be considered. Since support for Diem was grounded in the assumption that we should tolerate mass killings, corruption, incompetence, and authoritarianism if the regime is useful to the US, why not try to assess utility without assuming that an unpopular and incompetent anti-Chinese anti-communist is necessarily and inevitably more useful than a competent, popular, anti-Chinese communist?
Because of paired terms. Because, as Morgenthau says, public discourse, and especially the PR about how Vietnam was being handled, was based in an obviously flawed binary: It is ironic that this simple juxtaposition of “Communism” and “free world” was erected by John Fuster Dulles ‘s crusading moralism into the guiding principle of American foreign policy at a time when the national Communism of Yugoslavia, the neutralism of the third world and the incipient split between the Soviet Union and China were rendering that juxtaposition invalid. After all, Nixon decided that China could be treated as an ally–why not North Vietnam? In other words, the foaming-at-the-mouth anti-communism was an act (or, as Morgenthau said, PR); it wasn’t grounded in a consistent set of criteria of assessment utility to the US, even about shared enemies. Morgenthau’s point was that we shouldn’t be alternately moralist and realist, and that is what American foreign policy was—“realist” (that is, thinking purely in terms of utility) when it came to authoritarian governments, but “moralist” when it came to self-identified “communist.”
Whether we should be more consistent about those criteria is an interesting argument, and Morgenthau makes the argument for a more consistent approach to other countries from a coherent realist position. I don’t agree with Morgenthau (I think it’s unrealistic, in a different sense of the term, to believe that power politics is amoral), but even I will say it’s an argument worth making, debating, and considering. To say that an argument is worth being taken seriously is not to say we think it’s true, but it’s plausible.
Defenders of LBJ’s policies neither debated nor refuted his argument. Instead, they shifted the stasis to Morgenthau’s motives and identity, pathologizing him, misrepresenting his arguments, and depoliticizing debate about Vietnam. They shifted the stasis away from defending LBJ’s Vietnam policies to whether Morgenthau was a good person whose view should be considered. On April 23, 1965, Joseph Alsop responded (sort of) to Morgenthau’s argument in an editorial in the Los Angeles Times called “Expansionism Is a Continuing Theme in the History of China.”
In rhetorical terms, Morgenthau’s argument was a “counter-plan.” Morgenthau agreed with the goal of constraining China, but argued that the current strategy was an ineffective means of achieving that goal. Thus, a reasonable response to Morgenthau’s argument would argue that these means (a military response in Vietnam supporting the unpopular Diem regime) are likely to work in these conditions. That wasn’t Alsop’s response. He characterized Morgenthau’s argument as an argument for appeasing China and letting it “gobble their neighbors at will, even though their neighbors happen to be our friends and allies.” Morgenthau never argued for allowing China to gobble up other countries; he argued that the current American strategy for trying to stop China was ineffective. Alsop was not an idiot; he knew what Morgenthau was arguing. He chose to misrepresent it.
And he chose to take swipes along the way at professors who don’t really know what they’re talking about—as though being a journalist makes someone more of an expert on foreign policy?
Alsop’s argument, in other words, never responded to Morgenthau’s, instead attributing to Morgenthau a profoundly dumb argument that had nothing to do with what he’d actually said. Alsop’s argument wouldn’t work with anyone who’d read Morgenthau’s argument, but it would work with someone who already believed that the only legitimate position in regard to Vietnam was the one advocating a military solution—that is, people unwilling to engage in argumentation about their policy preferences, who instead believed that the way to think about policy option is good (us) v. evil (every other position). McNamara—the architect of the Vietnam War–would later decide that people like Morgenthau, MLK, and HSC were right. It was a civil war, Minh had considerable popular support, communism was not being forced on a completely unwilling populace by the Chinese, the situation was not amenable to a military solution. There were over 50,000 US deaths in the Vietnam conflict after Morgenthau made his argument. If even McNamara came around to Morgenthau’s position, doesn’t that suggest it was a position worth taking seriously in 1965?
I’m not saying Morgenthau’s policy should have been adopted in 1965; I’m saying it should have been argued.
Alsop (and others) did their best to ensure it wouldn’t be argued by making sure their audience never heard it, and instead heard a position too dumb to argue. And that is what partisans all over the political spectrum do—take all the various, nuanced, and sometimes smart critics of their position and homogenize them into the dumbest possible version, and they can count on an audience that never takes the time to figure out if they’re reading straw man versions of the various possible oppositions and critics. There are two lessons from Morgenthau’s treatment by people like Alsop. First, don’t be that audience.
We would never think we have been heard if people have only heard what our enemies say about us. Why should we think we have heard what others have to say if we only listen to what their enemies say about them?
Second, Morgenthau was conservative. He was a critic of how LBJ, a liberal, was handling the Vietnam conflict. MLK was liberal. He was a critic of how LBJ, a liberal, was handling the Vietnam conflict. Paired terms are wrong. It isn’t an accurate map of how beliefs and political affiliations and policies actually work. Good people endorse bad policies; our political options are not bifurcated into liberal v. conservative; being “conservative” (or atheist, Christian, democratic socialist, Jewish, liberal, libertarian, Muslim, progressive, reactionary, realist) doesn’t mean you necessarily endorse one of only two options in terms of policy agenda.
We need to argue policies.
McGeorge Bundy “debated” Han Morgenthau on CBS in June of 1965, and the scholar of rhetoric Robert Newman wrote a critique of Bundy’s rhetoric in the journal Today’s Speech. He said, and it’s worth quoting at length: Much of the profound disquiet about Viet Nam policy results from the increasing and systematic distortion of official news. There are, of course, especially in academic circles, the “doves” who want peace and noninvolvement even if this means communist control of some distant land. Bundy was not talking to them; nor is Morgenthau one of them. But even those of us who are inclined to be “hawks” are not anxious to back losers. We have had enough of this with Chiang Kai-Shek. We are afraid that Viet Nam, also, is the wrong war, at the wrong place, at the wrong time. And we are tired of being lied to.
Newman goes on to list the post-war intelligence debacles of the CIA—the Bay of Pigs, wishful thinking about what the Chicoms would do in the Korean conflict, bad predictions about the Viet Cong in 1961. He mentions Secretary Rusk claiming in 1963 that the “strategic hamlet program was producing excellent results” when, actually, “this whole operation was a disastrous failure,” and, well, many other, if not outright lies, then instances of unmoored optimism that were quickly and unequivocally exposed as false. Newman concludes about Bundy’s treatment of Morgenthau, “Thus i[n] a situation where what was desperately needed was reinforcement of the shattered credibility of the government which Mr. Bundy represents, we got only ad hominem attack on a critical professor.”
And that is the problem with our political discourse, all over the political spectrum. That’s all we get, Two Minutes Hate about “the” opposition. What we need is policy argumentation. If you don’t read primary opposition sources, and you only rely on in-group sources for what “they” believe, you’re no better off than fans of Alsop.
