Hey all, I was on a fun podcast with Johanna Hartelius and Jason Micheli, talking about demagoguery and the most recent book.
Talking about Deliberating War on a fun podcast
Tag: rhetoric
[DRAFT] Part of the introduction for Deliberating War
There are five ways of imagining policy conflicts that make it likely we will see ourselves as having no option but some degree of aggression—that is, to see a policy disagreement as discursively insoluble. The first is believing that one is a voice crying in the wilderness, a prophet sent by God speaking an unpopular and yet immediately recognized Truth. Claiming that no one is listening, that one is all alone, is a lively glimpse of being fourteen, and, as in the case of Muir, it isn’t necessarily entangled with victimization or persecution. By claiming that God is on one’s side, one does seem to be implying that opponents are un-Godly, a characterization that fosters motivism (discussed later). It also seems to imply that negotiation, bargaining, and even inclusive deliberation are problematic—prophets aren’t known for sitting down at a table with opponents and working out a yes-yes solution. But (again, as in the case of Muir), it’s often nothing more than rhetorical flourish, venting, or a bit of hyperbole. It doesn’t inevitably or necessarily prohibit using deliberation to find a political solution far short of violence against the Other.
The second is shifting from policy disagreements to questions of identity. If, for instance, there is a minister with a different interpretation of the faith/grace/works conundrum from us, we may feel threatened by his rhetorical success. If we confuse our feeling threatened with his being a threat, then we’ve made him the problem—not his rhetorical effectiveness, nor our ineffectiveness, nor the conundrum, but his presence in our community. A policy issue has become a conflict of identities.
The third is to frame that conflict of identities in terms of essential, almost ontological, strife between good and evil—those who disagree with us do so, not out of principle, but out of their identity as bad people, and their loathing for good. John Winthrop, for instance, categorized all the conflicts as parts of Satan’s plot to destroy the Puritan project. Cotton Mather, when more or less forced to admit that the witch trials had been badly managed, still deflected responsibility, maintaining that the events were Satan’s fault.
Once such a plot is posited, then it cannot be falsified. Disconfirming evidence (for instance, that the witchcraft convictions depended on violating evidentiary norms, that there is a long history of disagreement about Scripture) is deflected and dismissed. Hutchinson’s death at the hands of Siwonoy is proof that she was wrong; he doesn’t draw that conclusion about others killed in wars on indigenous peoples. It’s only evidence when it confirms the already existing beliefs.
Because we are threatened with extermination by an Other plotting against us, we have moral license. “Moral license” is the fifth way of imagining policy conflict, and it follows from the others. We don’t condemn victims who violate ethical norms in order to save themselves or their group; moral license means that individuals or groups are free to violate those norms while still claiming the moral highground. One of the crucial tenets of reasonable deliberation is that discourse rules (e.g., is it okay to lie?) are reciprocal—all parties are held to them. But, if it is a question of extermination, we’re likely to allow the victim to lie, but condemn lying in the aggressor. If we believe ourselves to be already or imminently victimized, we are likely to believe ourselves and our in-group rhetors and leads to be justified in lying—to be unbound by any discourse rules, especially reciprocity. Thus, if we are rhetorically successful in persuading ourselves or others that we face an existential threat, we are less bound to find non-violent ways of resolving the conflict, and will be seen as more justified in violating norms. Sometimes that violating of moral and rhetorical norms is hypothetical, as when slavers justified mass killings of African Americans on the grounds that the slaves would do it if they could (what’s called “the wolf by the ears” argument).
What I hope this list suggests is what will be pursued in this book: there is a complicated relationship between rhetoric and war. The more that we believe that our disagreements can be solved discursively—that is, the more faith we have in the power of pluralistic approaches to persuasion and deliberation–, the less likely we are to believe that our only choice is war. The more that we are persuaded that there is an evil Other already at war with us, and determined on our extermination, the less likely we are to value or demand inclusive, pluralist, and reasonable rhetorical approaches to our disagreements. The more we are persuaded that this war is total war, signified and engaged in major and minor ways, the less likely we are to believe that there are neutral actions or actors, and the more likely we are to find ourselves treating normal policy disagreements as themselves a kind of war. When politics becomes a kind of war, I will argue, we have to think carefully about what kind it is.
This isn’t a book about military strategy, or military history; it’s about rhetoric. We’re primed to reason badly when it comes to questions about war because the prospect of being the victim of violence activates so many cognitive biases, especially binary thinking. Under those circumstances, deliberation can easily be framed as opting for cowardly flight instead of courageous fight, as unnecessary at best and treasonous at worst. It’s precisely because disagreements about war are so triggering, so to speak, that we need to be deliberately deliberative. To say that we should deliberate reasonably before going to war is banal in the abstract, but oddly fraught in the moment, and this book uses several cases to explore why it is that we often evade deliberation even (or especially?) when the stakes are so high.
But, if war and deliberation are incompatible, then war and democracy are incompatible, because democracy thrives on deliberation. This isn’t to say that every decision about a conflict should be thoroughly deliberated—that would be impossible and unwise—but that deliberation doesn’t weaken the will for war if there is a strong case to be made for that war. If advocates of war can’t make their case through reasonable policy argumentation, then they probably have a bad case, and it’s likely an unnecessary war. War triggers cognitive biases, and so deliberation is necessary to counter the effects of those biases—contrary to popular belief, we can’t simply will ourselves not to rely on biases; deliberating with people who disagree can, however, do some work in reducing the power of the biases. But, not all rhetors want us to reduce the power of cognitive biases. Because we are averse to deliberating about or during war, rhetors engaged in normal political disagreements who are unable or unwilling to advocate a policy rationally are tempted to claim that this isn’t normal politics; it’s war. If they can persuade their base that this situation is war, then they won’t be expected to deliberate. The cognitive biases triggered by war will motivate the audience to believe beyond and without reason, and some political leaders and media pundits want exactly that. We shouldn’t.
Trump’s tax returns and his quiet supporters
I wrote a bunch of posts called “Arguing with Trump supporters,” and decided to use the term “Trump supporters,” but “arguing” was really the distinguishing term. I was talking about the group of people who still try to defend Trump, either in person or on the internet. They’re mostly repeating pro-Trump media talking points, and they don’t even try to defend him through rational argumentation. I’m not sure they ever had reasons to support him, as much as passionate beliefs about him and government.
When James Arthur Ray—a self-help bozo who made his money telling people how to make money (when he made his money telling people how to make money)–was exposed as not only murderously irresponsible, but a person telling people how to be successful when he was underwater in terms of debt, there were blog posts (which have since disappeared) saying that the fact that he had more debts that profit wasn’t evidence that his advice was bad. It was, they said, a kind of success.
In other words, for them, that you have a lot of money to spend means that you’re successful, even if you have that money because you have unmanageable loans, fraudulent claims about your wealth, and skeezy ways of getting the money. They were admiring a con artist.
Trump’s base—his cult [1]—will love that he screwed over the government through fraud. They’re beyond reasoning with, since they have no reasons to support him, and they like that he’s a con artist. (It’s interesting that they don’t realize he’s conning them.) This post is about a different set of people.
That other set of people voted for Trump did give reasons, and did (in 2016 anyway) often engage in rational argumentation to advocate for voting for him.[2] These are the people who in 2016 expressed some ambivalence about voting for him, but who gave reasons for their voting that way, and almost none of those reasons now apply. I wonder about them.
Here were the reasons I heard:
1) they hated HRC;
2) he has no relevant experience, but he’d hire the best people (I heard this a lot);
3) he’s a buffoon, but the GOP will keep him in line;
4) he’d appoint justices who would overturn Roe v. Wade;
5) he’s a good business man, and we need a businessman’s perspective on how to run government;
6) they think Democrats will raise taxes on businesses and the very wealthy, either force businesses to fund ethical health benefits for workers or have substantial government-subsidized healthcare, enforce environmental regulations, promote non-partisan redistricting policies.
So, here’s their situation now.
1) HRC isn’t running.
2) He never hired the best people. As early as 2017 it became clear that the best people won’t work with him because he’s unpredictable, unreliable, and disloyal. (I assume that his inability to hire good lawyers is why Barr is trying to get the DOJ to take over Trump’s worst case.) His personal lawyer is Giuliani, whom no sensible person would hire to fight a parking ticket. In fact, like many narcissists, Trump deliberately hires underqualified people so that they are completely beholden to him. I can’t imagine any of the people who said in 2016 “He’ll hire the best people” looking at whom Trump has hired (and fired) and thinking those are people whom they would hire for anything that requires more intelligence than being a crash test dummy.
3) When people argued in 2016 that the GOP would keep him in line, others said (correctly), that’s exactly what the conservatives said about Hitler. Since, clearly (or not), Trump wasn’t Hitler, his supporters ignored that argument. It wasn’t a claim that Trump would kill all the Jews, but that narcissistic people on the edge of sociopathy can’t be controlled. The better argument (and the one I wish I’d made when arguing with people) was: when has that worked? When has someone as difficult to work with, as narcissistic, as mercurial as Trump ever been controlled by a political party? (The answer is: never.) He isn’t controlled. It’s important to note that people who worked with him have described him as a threat to the country.
4). If your only reason to vote for Trump was that he would appoint enough justices to overturn Roe v. Wade, that’s a done deal. So there’s no longer any reason to vote for him. (I wonder about this one a lot—I think it’s really a moment of truth for whether the people who made this argument actually were all that ambivalent about Trump’s racism, reckless rhetoric, and appalling character.)
5a) This argument–he’s a good businessman–is the only one that the taxes affect. Even his defenders aren’t disputing that Trump lost a lot of money, or that he owes a lot of money–their argument, as far as I can tell, is that The New York Times hasn’t proven fraud (see, for instance, this WSJ editorial— talk about a low bar). If they’re saying his taxes aren’t fraudulent, then they’re saying it’s clear that he made no money from his businesses; he’s wealthy because of his TV show. That’s the reasonable inference.
I have to point out that lots of people in 2016 said that Trump was not a business success, because a reasonable assessment of his assets (even with all his lying and evasion) would lead to that conclusion. In my experience, the people who defended him as a successful businessman when presented with that information had the same argument that defenders of James Arthur Ray had–so what if it was a con and he’s underwater in terms of debt? He’s got money to spend, and that’s success.
5b) It’s interesting that this was exactly the argument made for Bush Jr., which people conveniently forgot when Trump was running. There’s no evidence that businessmen (it’s always men) who go into government make government more efficient. And I always think that’s a weird argument because there are a lot of things one can say about massive corporations, but being efficient with their use of resources isn’t a claim that withstands any scrutiny. So, the notion that a successful businessman would be a great President is one of those things that some people believe but can’t defend rationally.
6) Don’t I wish.
Democrats don’t have a recent history of passing that level of social safety net—the last time was under LBJ. And, even if they did, those policies don’t lead to Stalinist socialism. That’s an empirical claim subject to disproof. Were that narrative right, then there would be countries where people slid slowly—through one democratic socialist policy after another—into Stalinism.
And that country would be?….
In fact, although countries have slid into increasingly authoritarian governments (such as Russia now), no government slid into communist socialism. Israel has been socialist for a long time, after all. So, just to be clear, the fear-mongering about what happens if we adopt universal health care, for instance, has literally no evidence to support the claim that we’ll end up as the USSR.
So, I’m curious what those people will do—will they vote for Trump again?
[1] That is, his base that neither wants nor admires democracy but openly wants an authoritarian government in which someone they feel represents them has unlimited powers. That’s called fascism, in case you’re wondering.
[2] Being able to engage in rational argumentation to support your position doesn’t mean your argument is true or right or ethical, let alone that I agree with it. It’s actually a fairly low bar, so it’s interesting that Trump supporters can’t meet it.
“Trump is going to win in a landslide”: Supporting Trump is now openly irrational
Recently, I’ve noticed that, when people post something critical of Trump, Trump supporters don’t even try to argue with the criticism. More and more, I’m seeing Trump supporters say, “Trump is going to win in a landslide.”
In other words, Trump supporters are admitting three things, any one of which makes them look really bad: 1) they don’t care whether their candidate is corrupt, dishonest, incompetent, destructive, as long as he’s winning (that is, if his setting them on fire makes “libruls” too hot, they’re happy); 2) that it’s impossible to defend him through anything within three city blocks of rational argumentation; 3) that they repeat the talking points they’re given without thinking them through at all. As I said a year ago, Trump supporters have given up arguing for him or his policies.
I don’t think the left v. right binary (or continuum) is a useful way to describe our political landscape. It’s used because it’s more profitable for media to present things in simplistic and proto-demagogic ways. And so I think it’s fueling demagoguery to characterize the GOP (let alone Trump supporters) as “conservative.” They aren’t. The GOP hasn’t been conservative since Eisenhower. From the moment of FDR’s success, the GOP has been reactionary—its whole identity has been not-Democratic. There are slogans—small government, low taxes, freedom—but they’re ignored or abandoned at any given moment for an election. Even the two rallying cries (abortion and immigration) are deliberately not actually solved. If the GOP were to solve either of those issues (and they could) those buttons would no longer be hot. So, the GOP has policies that will definitely not solve them.
Granted, every political party will make exceptions on its principles, but as Tim Alberta recently put it, for the GOP, these principles “have in recent years gone from elastic to expendable.” As Alberta says, “If it agitates the base, if it lights up a Fox News chyron, if it serves to alienate sturdy real Americans from delicate coastal elites, then it’s got a place in the Grand Old Party.” In that same article, Alberta quotes the GOP consultant Brendan Buck as saying that the GOP is now all and only about “owning the libs and pissing off the media.” The response I mentioned above, “He will win in a landslide” is exactly that way of thinking about politics.
In 2016, there were arguments for Trump. He would hire the best people, as a successful businessman he would negotiate effectively, as a Washington outsider he would break the low-level nepotism and corruption of government politics. I’m not saying whether or not those arguments were true—I’m saying that his supporters aren’t even making them any more. That’s interesting. It’s as though even they are acknowledging that supporting him is rationally indefensible. They’re not even trying.
They also aren’t willing to look at anything critical of him, and that’s significant too. They’re like little kids pretending they aren’t afraid of what’s under the bed, and that’s why they take a running jump to get into bed. They aren’t getting near that thing they aren’t afraid of.
This kind of fearful blustery partisanship is hard for a lot of critics of Trump to respond to, since many people who are interested in politics care about policies and arguments—and those are both off the table. Our impulse is to go to the data about him, but there are two problems with that approach. First, their attachment to Trump isn’t vulnerable to data because they won’t look at information that disconfirms their beliefs (they reject it as “biased,” showing they don’t understand what that word means, or how bias works). Second, and related, since they only get information from “trusted” media (that is, sources biased toward Trump), they have a lot of data to support their notion that he’s doing a great job and is not responsible for anything. (The research suggests they’ll only change their mind if they know someone personally who gets sick. )
So, what do you do about someone in your world who says, in response to your post critical of Trump, “He will win in a landslide!”?
I think you don’t argue with them, unless you just want to see exactly how far they’ll go with their nonsense (in other words, if you’re the sort of person who touches paint if there is a “wet paint” sign and pokes fire ant nests, just to see what happens). But I think it can be useful to point out that “He will win in a landslide” isn’t an argument, and that they’re admitting they don’t have an argument. I think it can be helpful to refuse to argue, while making a point that the person isn’t worth arguing with.
Pro-Trump rhetoric has long been all about projection, and it’s worth remembering that his major projection is how “sad” or “pathetic” someone is. I think that’s significant—they’re afraid that they’re sad and pathetic. And whether they are is something I don’t know, but their defenses of him are very sad and very pathetic. And they know it. Sort of.
The salesman’s stance, being nice to opponents, and teaching rhetoric
I mentioned elsewhere that people have a lot of different ideas about what we’re trying to do when we’re disagreeing with someone—trying to learn from them, trying to come to a mutually satisfying agreement, find out the truth through disagreement, have a fun time arguing, and various other options. There are circumstances in which all of these (and many others) are great choices—I think it’s an impoverishment of our understanding of discourse to say that only one of those approaches is the right one under all circumstances.
We also inhibit our ability to use rhetoric to deliberate when we assume that only one approach is right.
I’ll explain this point with two extremes.
At one extreme is the model of discourse that has been called “the salesman’s stance,” the “compliance-gaining” model, rhetorical Machiavellianism, and various other terms. This model says that you are right, and your only goal in discourse is to get others to adopt your position, and any means is justified. So, if I’m trying to convert you to a position I believe is right, then all methods of tricking or even forcing you to agree with me are morally good or morally neutral.
From within this model, we assess the effectiveness of a rhetoric purely on the basis of whether it gains compliance. For instance, in an article about lying, Matthew Hutson ends with advice from someone who has studied that lying to yourself makes you a more persuasive liar.
“Von Hippel offers two pieces of wisdom regarding self-deception: “My Machiavellian advice is this is a tool that works,” he says. “If you need to convince somebody of something, if your career or social success depends on persuasion, then the first person who needs to be [convinced] is yourself.””
The problem with this model is clear in that example: if you’re wrong, then you aren’t going to hear about it. Alison Green, on her blog askamanager.org, talks about the assumption that a lot of people make about resumes, cover letters, and interviews—that you are selling yourself. People often approach a job search with exactly the approach that Von Hippel (and by implication, Hutson) recommend: going into the process willing to say or do whatever is necessary for you to get the job, being confident that you’ll get the job, lying about whether you have the required skills or experience (and persuading yourself you do).
Green says,
“The stress of job searching – and the financial anxieties that often accompany it – can lead a lot of people to get so focused on impressing their interviewer sthat they forget to use the time to find out if the job is right for them. If you get so focused on wanting a job offer at the end of the process, you’ll neglect to focus on determining if this is even a job you want and would be good at, which is how people end up in jobs that they’re miserable in or even get fired from.
And counterintuitively, you’ll actually be less impressive if it’s clear that you’re trying to sell yourself for the job. Most interviewers will find you a much more appealing candidate if you show that you’re gathering your own information about the job and thinking rigorously about whether it’s the right match or not.”
Van Hippel’s advice comes from a position of assuming that the liar is trying to get something from the other (compliance), and so only needs to listen enough to achieve that goal. The goal (get the person to give you a job, buy your product, go on a date) is determined prior to the conversation. Green’s advice comes from the position of assuming the a job interview is mutually informative, a situation in which all parties are trying to determine the best course of action.
If we’re trying to make a decision, then I need to hear what other people have to say, I need to be aware of the problems with my own argument, I need to be honest with myself at least and ideally with others. (If I’m trying to deliberate with people who aren’t arguing in good faith, and the stakes are high, then I can imagine using some somewhat Machiavellian approaches, but I need to be honest with myself in case they’re right in important ways.)
At the other extreme, there are people who argue that every conversation should come from a place of kindness, compassion, and gentleness. We shouldn’t directly contradict the other person, but try to empathize, even if we disagree completely. We should use no harsh words (including “but”). We might, kindly and gently, present our experience as a counterpoint. Learning how to have that kind of conversation is life-changing, and it is a great way to work through conflicts under some circumstances.
It (like many other models of disagreement) works on the conviviality model of democratic engagement: if we like each other, everything will be okay. As long as we care for one another, our policies cannot go so far wrong. And there’s something to that. I often praise projects like Hands Across the Hills or Divided We Fall that work on that model—our political discourse would be better if we understood that not all people who disagree with us are spit from the bowels of Satan. The problem is that some of them are.
That sort of project does important work in undermining the notion that our current political situation is a war of extermination between two groups because it reduces the dehumanization of the opposition. I think those sorts of projects should be encouraged and nurtured because they show how much the creation of community can dial down the fear-mongering about the other.
They are models for how genuinely patriotic leaders and media should treat politics—by continually emphasizing that disagreement is legitimate, that we are all Americans, that we should care for one another. But that approach to politics isn’t profitable for media to promote, and therefore isn’t a savvy choice for people who want to get a lot of attention from the media.
It also isn’t a great model for when a group is actually existentially threatened (as opposed to being worked into a panic by media). This model says, if we apply it to all situations, that, if I think genocide is wrong, and you think it’s right, I should try to empathize with you, find common ground, show my compassion for you. And somehow that will make you not support a genocidal set of policies? I do think that a lot of persuasion happens person to person, when it’s also face to face. I’ve seen people change their minds about whether LGBQT merit equal treatment by learning that someone they loved would be hurt by the policies they were advocating. I’ve also seen people not change their minds on those grounds. Derek Black described a long period of individuals being kind to him as part of his getting away from his father’s white supremacist belief system, but the guy went to New College; he was open to persuasion.
And I think it’s a mistake to think that kind of person-to-person, face-to-face kindness makes much difference when we are confronting evil. Survivors of the Bosnian genocides describe watching long-time friends rape their sister or kill their family. It isn’t as though Jews being nicer to and about Nazis would have prevented genocide. It wasn’t being nice to segregationists that ended the worst kind of de jure segregation. We have far too many videos that show being nice to police doesn’t guarantee a good outcome. People in abusive relationships can be as compassionate as an angel, and that compassion gets used against them. We will not end Nazism by being nice to Nazis.
That kindness, compassion, and non-conflictual rhetoric is sometimes the best choice doesn’t mean it’s always the only right choice. It can be (and often has been) a choice that enables and confirms extraordinary injustice. It’s often only a choice available to people not really hurt by the injustice. Machiavellian rhetoric is sometimes the best choice; it’s often not.
The one rhetoric to rule them all
When people think about rhetorical effectiveness, we imagine ourselves as the audience, and so we tend to universalize from our experience. If it appeals to us, we call it “effective,” as though our judgment is the only one that matters. And we condemn anyone who uses a strategy that doesn’t appeal to us as engaging in “ineffective” rhetoric.
But we really disagree.
Liberals (people who want progressive change, but gradually, and from within existing political, ideological, and media systems) get really uncomfortable with conflict, violations of civility, negative campaigns, what they perceive as “personal attacks.” They turn away from that; they advocate “positive” rhetorical strategies, that find common ground, humanize the opposition, and avoid calling anyone racism.
Some leftists (call them social democrats) think in terms of policies, and so they think that we need to keep the message on policy issues. In my experience, they tend to be more tolerant of conflict than liberals, as long as it’s conflict about policies. (I put myself in this category.) Some leftists (call them heirs to the Enlightenment) believe that they are advocating the right policies, and so we need to slam the opposition (which is anyone who has an even mildly different from them) and hold out for the right policies, refusing any kind of compromise. They advocate finding a political figure who refuses to compromise and promoting that figure.
I could go on. There are lots of other positions conventionally categorized as “leftist” that I’m not talking about. My point isn’t to create an exhaustive taxonomy of “the left,” but to show that people who have a very similar end in terms of policy agenda have very different standards about “effective” rhetoric.
I also think every one of these positions (and a bunch of the ones I’m not listing) is valid. There are times when finding common ground, kindness, and listening is a wonderful approach. Projects like Hands Across the Hills and Divided We Fall are tremendously valuable. But even they show that this deeper and more charitable understanding of people who disagree with us doesn’t generally lead to changing positions on policy issues.
What’s a little misleading about the three examples above is that I’ve only used positions for which there is a match between the rhetorical and political preferences, and that isn’t always the case. (There are people who are deeply committed to the kind of policy agenda often called “far left” and the civility model of rhetoric, for instance.). Sticking with examples where the rhetoric and politics match just makes the topic easier to discuss.
Speaking of which, as I keep saying, I think the whole tendency to reduce our complicated policy and ideological options to left v. right (whether a binary or continuum) is gerfucked. But, because it is the way we talk about politics in the US, that false binary is hard to avoid (much like trying to talk about racism in the US without talking about white v. black).
The media is committed to the left/right binary because it enables the horse race frame, which people mistake as “neutral.” It’s also simply easier. Reporting that relies on analyses of policy agenda is slower, takes more expertise, and requires a deeper understanding of history and politics than journalism majors provide. The left/right binary makes marketing more straightforward, and it’s more profitable. It’s easier to get a loyal audience for a network or outlet (and advertisers like loyal audiences) by appealing to us v. them (right v. left), and generating outrage about Them. Outrage is good for the bottom line.
Paradoxically, living within an informational enclave enables people who are in fact highly factional in our beliefs and behavior to imagine ourselves to be independent thinkers. A person who watches Fox all the time might take pride in their not always agreeing with what they see; sometimes they side with Wall Street Journal (or they brag that they never watch Fox, and get all their information from The Blaze). Or, we might say that Rachel Maddow is too extreme (or not extreme enough), and we’re independent thinkers because we don’t agree with everything in The Nation.
If we accept the false binary (or continuum) then we’re likely to essentialize the opposition (attributing the same beliefs and motives to everyone who disagrees). And that brings us back to the point of this post (you thought I’d lost it): we shouldn’t assume that all audiences are the same. In addition to the fact that we might have wildly different goals in a disagreement (discussed elsewhere), even if we’re talking about trying to persuade someone to agree on a specific policy, the kind of strategy we most prefer might not be the one most effective with them.
Right now, I’m seeing a lot of critics of Trump who are arguing with each other about the best way to try to persuade his supporters to stop supporting him, or at least hold him accountable. There are people who argue we should let the little stuff (his tendency to drink water with two hands) go, and focus on his corruption of democratic institutions (such as reframing SCOTUS decisions in terms of support for him personally, his demands for loyalty), or on his policies. I don’t think we have to choose one.
Some of his supporters are Followers, and, as I’ve argued elsewhere, rational discourse is not the way to persuade them to change their support. Their support doesn’t have a rational basis. Some of his supporters are strategic—they loathe him personally, and are very worried about his policies, but they believe that Joe Biden wants to turn the US into the USSR (except with more homosexuality), and so they sincerely believe they have no choice. I think that’s a position that’s open to persuasion, but it involves persuading them first that they need to get a broader range of sources of information, and that means trying to do something about inoculation. There are people who argue that there is no difference between Biden and Trump, so there’s no point in voting (a stance that benefits Trump more than it does Biden). A fair number of those people are trolls, but not all. I haven’t found that they’re open to rational argumentation, but maybe I haven’t found the right strategies.
People have different reasons for supporting Trump, and are different in terms of what rhetorical strategies will be effective for them. The search for the one rhetoric to rule them all is fruitless.
Privilege and the rhetoric police
[Image from George Walling’s 1887 Recollections of a New York Chief of Police]
A lot of people assume that the only function of rhetoric is to persuade all readers to adopt your point of view. That’s wrong in a bunch of ways. A lot of times people have a composite audience, and might have different intentions for different audiences (such as a text with dog whistles, intended to calm some audience members down about whether the rhetor is a war-mongerer while having enough dog whistles that other members of the audience are cheered by the racist and war-mongering of the text—Hitler’s March 23, 1933 speech).
But, in addition, sometimes people have an intended audience, and have no intention of trying to persuade every person who comes in contact with the text.
Imagine that you and a friend are chatting quietly in a fairly empty Tacodeli, and you’re talking about how much you hate squirrels and how awful squirrels are. Although uninvited, I come in and sit at your table, and then say, “You shouldn’t be saying this or talking this way. I like squirrels, and you are doing nothing to persuade me that you’re right. In fact, you’re making me think that your kind of people are irrationally anti-squirrel.” You’d be thoroughly justified in saying, “We weren’t talking to you.” This is rhetoric policing.
Imagine that you and a friend are ranting about squirrels in a Tacodeli, and everyone there is forced to listen to your rant—it would be fair for someone to tell you to tone it down.
The internet makes that analogy weird, in that you can wander into all sorts of conversations in which you’re not part of the intended audience. Imagine a site oriented toward talking about college football. A person who thinks college football is boring might wander on and say, “This site is stupid, and I’m not interested in anything you’re saying, so you all suck. You need to make this site more interesting to people who hate college football.”
Perhaps it’s someone who loves Twilight, and the site has a lot of snark about Twilight, and so that officer of the rhetoric police says, “I have no interest in college football, and I love Twilight, and so your site is doing nothing to persuade me to like football. You should be more welcoming to Twilight fans who hate college football.” It would be perfectly fair for the regular members of the community to say, “I am so sorry that there is something so wrong with your internet connection that you have no possible way of engaging with the vast array of possible communities, and only have access to this site.” Or, perhaps, “I am so sorry that someone is holding a gun to your head and forcing you to read this site. Try dialing 911.” Or just, “Go away.”
I once wrote a talk I rather liked, oriented toward academics, about the ways that Milton’s Samson Agonistes exemplifies misogynistic discourse about women. I had a misogynist (let’s call him Bunny) not at the conference,but who ran across the talk somewhere, tell me that it wasn’t a good talk because it didn’t persuade him. He was rhetoric policing, and he wasn’t part of my audience.
But, he said, if feminists really want to change things, we will have to persuade men like him that there is some validity to our arguments. Therefore, I should have imagined someone like him when I wrote that talk. I pointed out to him that he didn’t try to think about how feminists might respond to anything he wrote, including what he was writing to me at that moment. He never understood that point. He was pretty clear that changing things about feminism would require that anything that any feminist wrote at any time and for any audience had to be oriented toward him, but he honestly was confuzzled at my notion that he would try to be aware of my rhetorical needs in something written to me.
All discourse had to accommodate him and his beliefs, but he didn’t have to accommodate others’ beliefs. His rhetoric policing was an absolutely perfect gem of privilege.
One of the powers of privilege is the power to interrupt conversations of which you are not a part and insist, not just that you be made a part, but that the whole conversation be oriented toward you, accommodating your beliefs, answering your concerns, being careful about your feelings.
Imagine a problem-solving discussion between two highly-ranked tech people about a very specialized issue. It would be seen as weird (or worse) if an intern in advertising interrupted their conversation and insisted they have the discussion in a way he could understand. But their boss, even if zir background wasn’t tech, could interrupt and rhetoric police. The boss has that privilege.
And lots of people have that privilege. Parents have the privilege to ask what their children were talking about (and most children will lie), K-12 teachers have the privilege of asking students what they were talking about (college teachers have the privilege of saying “STFU and listen to what I’m saying”).
If you are from a privileged background (as I am—very privileged), you have a tendency to assume that everyone must accommodate your beliefs, preconceptions, prior knowledge. Bunny unintentionally gave away the playbook for misogynists—what he was saying was that he knew people like him were in power, and that they would only go along with change if their concerns were pandered to.
There is a website that is, as it says everywhere on their site, “Black News, Opinions, Politics and Culture.” And a white guy wrote in and said that, while he was trying to be anti-racist, he found the site didn’t really accommodate his beliefs. And so, Michael Harriot wrote back:
“The Root is a site for black people, by black people, about black shit. We are not in the business of transforming racists into social justice warriors or changing hearts and minds in hopes of reversing white supremacy. Words cannot do that. If they could, I would have slit my throat with the sharpest, shiniest razor I could find years ago. I would consider my life a failure.
We don’t mind if white people read our content. In fact, we like it when you do. But don’t think for a minute that we are selecting words while considering the sentiment of Caucasian acceptance.
I know that you are accustomed to existing in a universe where everything bends toward whiteness, but do not let that factoid delude you into believing that you are the sky. You are eavesdropping on a conversation among black people. We don’t care if you listen. In fact, we are happy that you are listening, but don’t be bamboozled into thinking we are talking to you.”
Rhetoric policing can be helpful, when it’s from someone we’re trying to reach, and they’re helping us be more effective. As soon as it’s about how you can persuade me, and you should do so because I count more than the audience you’re explicitly trying to reach, it’s all about privilege.
Trump’s racist tweets
Donald Trump said:
“So interesting to see ‘Progressive’ Democrat Congresswomen, who originally came from countries whose governments are a complete and total catastrophe, the worst, most corrupt and inept anywhere in the world (if they even have a functioning government at all), now loudly and viciously telling the people of the United States, the greatest and most powerful Nation on earth, how our government is to be run… Why don’t they go back and help fix the totally broken and crime infested places from which they came.”
And the question is: is that racist? And the answer is yes. The more important point is that this is a great moment for talking about how racism actually works, since racism continues because people don’t know it when they see it.
A lot of people look at what he said, and say, “This isn’t racist, because he never mentions race, and he’s talking about culture of origin, not race.”
The notion that something isn’t racist as long as you don’t explicitly mention race is like saying it isn’t cancer as long as you don’t say that word out loud.
A lot of people believe that a racist action happens because a person (who is racist in every single encounter) gets up in the morning and says, “I sure do have an irrational hate of X race. How can I be more racist toward that group every day and every way?” And, when that person engages in a racist action, s/he says, “I am doing this to you purely because you are X race.” Thus, as long as someone isn’t deliberately hostile, or their hostility isn’t irrational, or they don’t explicitly mention race, they didn’t do something racist.
In that world, someone saying that what you did is racist is accusing you of being that kind of really awful person. And so you are offended, and then the conversation shifts to how you feel about getting accused of getting up every morning and ironing your hood. (This is called “white fragility.”) So, you point out that you didn’t use racist terms, you have friends of X race (which might or might not be true), you have done un- or anti-racist things. None of that–your feeling of having been disrespected, your avoiding racist terms, your friends, your past behavior–is actually evidence that this you just did was not racist.
Think about it this way. You’re driving along, and someone (call him Chester) changes lanes into you and causes y’all to crash. Your car is really damaged. And Chester gets out of his car and you have this conversation:
You: You just changed lanes into me.
Chester: No, I couldn’t have done that because that would make me a bad driver and how dare you call me a bad driver! I am a good person. I foster blind owls, and teach a literacy class at the local public library, and pick up trash on the road.
You: Um, that’s all great, but you did change lanes into me.
Chester: I couldn’t have done that because I’m a good driver. I have never been given a ticket (because I treat police officers with respect, unlike some people), I think terrible things about very unsafe drivers, and I always check my blindspots. And I think the real issue here is that you’ve accused me of being a bad driver.
You wouldn’t say, “Oh, wow, well, yeah, that’s all evidence that you are a good driver, so you can’t possibly have just changed lanes into me.” That would be an absurd conclusion. You would say, “I don’t really care if you’re normally a good driver. I don’t care who you are–I care about what you just did.”
Yet, when someone does something racist, and someone else points it out, we have the “I can’t have changed lanes into you because I’m a good driver” argument.
And that’s how this argument about Trump is going.
But, let’s take seriously the argument that he isn’t racist, but xenophobic. He isn’t xenophobic—his wife, in-laws, and father are or were all immigrants—he is not opposed to immigrants. He’s perfectly fine with engaging in chain immigration, which he has condemned in the abstract, for his family, and his wife’s visa is problematic. And, this isn’t really about immigrants—this is about what counts as a real American.
Keep in mind that all of the women he criticized are Americans. That’s the country they’re from. So, he just said the US has a government that is a complete and total catastrophe, the worst, most corrupt and inept anywhere in the world.
Perhaps we should take him at his word. Or, in other words, paging Dr. Freud.
There are only two ways to interpret what he said—either he is unintentionally showing what he thinks of his own government, or he believes that those women should be seen as coming from the countries from which their parents came. Three of them, after all, were born in the US. And he sees their ethnicity—their parents’ country—as what matters about them. And that is what makes it racist. That is how racism works—as seeing some groups as not really American.
That’s really common among racists. Americans gleefully put Americans of Japanese descent into camps (as they were called at the time) because the assumption was that, if you were second generation Japanese you weren’t really American, an assumption not made about the Italians, Germans, Romanians, or other Nazi countries in the 1940s (but made about all of those groups at some point). That was a political, and not biological, decision. All the decisions about who gets to be white have always been political and not biological.
Again, that’s how racism works. Until the rise of biological racism, “race” was always country of origin. Even after the rise of biological racism, there was a lot of “science” that showed that people from various countries (or continents) were inferior—the Irish, the Poles, the Italians–, biological racism never had a coherent biological definition of race.
Some scholars use the term cultural racism, but I’m not wild about that term, since all racism is and always has been about country of origin (sometimes going back pretty far, as with Latinx whose families have been in the US far longer than Trump’s, or Native Americans who are oddly framed as not native to the US). The Jews are not a race.
So, saying that Trump was talking about country of origin and not race means he’s perfectly in line with how racism typically works.
Trump has had a lot to say about what’s wrong with America, and how the government is awful. In fact, a lot of his base believes there is a Deep State trying to work against him. Trump and his supporters are the ones telling everyone how the government should be run.
So, Trump and his supporters have no problem with someone going on and on about how awful the government is—they think that’s great. That’s what makes them love Trump.
And, really, if you want to have an example of viciously telling people things, Trump’s tweets would be up there.
Again, that’s how racism works. When an in-group member engages in a certain behavior—let’s say disrupting coffee shops with protests—you defend it as required by external circumstances, and the consequence of good internal motives. When an out-group member disrupts coffee shops with protests, you say it wasn’t necessary, and it was the consequence of bad motives.
If you believe that disagreement is useful for a democracy, if you believe that people really disagree, if you believe that we should argue with one another—in other words, if you believe in the values on which the US is founded—then you would attribute someone’s disagreement to their disagreeing.
Either criticizing the government is okay, or it isn’t. And if it’s okay for you, then it’s okay for others. And if you say that someone’s argument should be dismissed because of their race, ethnicity, or country of origin, you’ve made a racist argument.
Pretending your factionalism is commitment to principle
One of many weird things about politics is how people claim that their opposition to a political figure is a question of principle, but that principle only seems to apply to an out-group politician. Thus, if Chester embezzles, and you are anti-Chesterian, you are likely to try to make your position seem reasonable—and not just in-group fanaticism—by claiming that you’re opposed to dodgy real estate dealing on principle.
But, if Hubert, your candidate, is later caught in dodgy real estate dealing, you’re suddenly going to find a reason your “principled” opposition to dodgy real estate dealing doesn’t apply. There are, loosely, three ways you’ll do that without believing that you have thereby violated your principle.
- By not hearing about it, or dismissing any reports of it as “biased.” You simply refuse to listen to anyone who says that Hubert engaged in dodgy real estate dealing.
- By claiming that it wasn’t really in dodgy real estate dealing because Hubert had different motives (we attribute good motives to in-group members and bad motives to out-group members) or because there were extenuating circumstances. That is, we explain bad behavior on the part of in-group members externally (circumstances), but bad behavior on the part of out-group members as internally (as a deliberate choice showing their essential evil).
- By saying that the in-group situation is so desperate that any behavior on our part is justified (note that this is saying that the stance on dodgy real estate dealing is, therefore, a principle for which there are lots of exceptions—you would operate on the basis of this principle were it not for the out-group).
[There is also the thoroughly unprincipled, openly irrational, and anti-democratic response that anything your group does is okay because the out-group has done a bad thing too. This post isn’t about that response—this is about people who think they’re principled and not fanatical about their in-group.]
In my experience arguing with people, they will also not uncommonly just refuse to admit that they ever claimed that their stance on in dodgy real estate dealing was principled (although they once did). They just don’t care if Hubert had and has dodgy real estate dealings—they admire it; they see it as a sign of his being a person with good judgment. Yet they remain in a white-hot rage about Chester’s dodgy real estate dealing, and they’ll suddenly rediscover they’re principled opposition.
This is just factionalism, but what I find interesting is that people who are clearly engaged in factionalism keep trying to claim they aren’t. (Some people admit that their support for one candidate or another is factionalism—this isn’t about them.)
In addition to number two (above)—you can always find ways to rationalize in-group behavior—there’s something else. It’s about identification.
Kenneth Burke long ago (1939, in a way) figured out that a really persuasive political figure presents zirself [I loathe him/her] as the same kind of person as the “real” people in a community. Many people decide whether to support a political figure on the basis of in-group membership—that person is me; that person gets me; that person cares about me. They see that person as someone they could be.
So, if I think Hubert is basically me with different opportunities, I will take every criticism of him as personally as I take criticisms of me, I will judge and explain his actions the same way I judge and explain mine. And most of us are pretty forgiving of ourselves. All of spend a lot of time finding reasons to justify behavior that violates principles we claim to hold.
Hillary Clinton and Trump both have/had accusations of dodgy real estate deals.
Assume, for the sake of argument, that HRC and Trump have equally plausible accusations of equally serious dodgy real estate deals.
If you liked HRC, if you see her as someone like you, if you think she has had a life you could have, or if you think she is the sort of person you want to be, if you admire a person with her education and intellectual achievements and abilities, if you imagine that you and she could be friends, then you wouldn’t mind accusations against her because you would find ways to explain them. You would find yourself imagining how you could have gotten into that situation, and why it wouldn’t really matter. You might even admire her for having bent the rules because you’d like to do that.
If you see her as a kind of person you don’t like, if you feel that what she is done is something you never could do, if you see her as someone you would never want to be (or you believe the rhetoric that people like her look down on people like you), then she is that bitch over there eating crackers.
If you liked Trump, if you see him as someone like you, if you think he has had a life you could have, or if you think he is the sort of person you want to be, if you imagine that you and he could be friends, if you think he really gets you and looks about for people like you, if you think that he responds to situations the way you would, then you wouldn’t mind accusations against him because you would find ways to explain them. You would find yourself imagining how you could have gotten into that situation, and why it wouldn’t really matter. You might even admit he bent the rules and admire him for it.
If you see Trump as a kind of person you don’t like, if you think he behaves in a way you never would, if you believe the rhetoric about the gold toilet, then he is that jerk to whom rules don’t apply.
So, am I saying “both sides are just as bad”? Nope, because I don’t think American politics is accurately described as “two sides.”
The important point is that neither of these responses is principled. They’re factional.
A person for whom dodgy real estate deals is a reason to reject a candidate, on principle, would investigate the claims by reading the smartest versions of the accusations against both, regardless of in- or out-group source. If that isn’t what you do, then this isn’t really about the principle of dodgy real estate deals—it’s about dodgy real estate deals being a brick you can throw at the other side. Your political positions are the consequence of irrational commitments to your in-group.
Were the Nazis leftists? No.
A lot of people believe that the Nazis were leftists. These are people who believe that the complicated and vexed world of thoughts about politics can be divided into an us (right wing/conservative) and everyone else, whom they think of as leftists. And that our current categories of politics go back through eternity.
The “Nazis were lefties” argument is also attractive because we want to believe that the Nazis share no group identities with us. That’s why it took me so long to admit that Hitler was vegetarian and a dog-lover. I just couldn’t admit that someone in two of my important in-groups could be that bad.
I kept trying to argue that Hitler wasn’t really vegetarian. But the “Nazis were lefties” argument goes one step further–it says that because Hitler couldn’t possibly have been conservative, he must have been lefty. [1] If conservatives wanted to argue that Hitler wasn’t really conservative, or he wasn’t conservative in the way we use the term now, that would be an argument to make. But, if you’re going to divide the world of politics into right-wing or left-wing, Hitler was right wing.
The solution is not to engage in mendacious or silly arguments, but to rethink the notion that the vexed and complicated world of political philosophies can be usefully divided into right- v. left-wing.
Instead of the example of Hitler being a reason to rethink their easy (and false) binary of politics, the people who say Hitler was a lefty want to reduce the uncertain world of politics to certainty–they want to believe that if you have these values, you can be certain that you are right and will never be wrong. So, this isn’t really about Hitler–it’s about their need to believe that they can be certain in the goodness of their political ideology.
Nazis self-identified as a right-wing group, they were aided exclusively by right-wing politicians, and they enacted right-wing policies (unless I’ve persuaded you to abandon the right- v. left-wing false binary, and then we can have a much more interesting discussion about Nazi beliefs), and thus they present a problem for this notion that commitment to right-wing conservative politics necessarily means you’re always on the side of good.
And, so, people who want to believe that a commitment to conservative “right-wing” values is always right have to explain the Nazis. (They don’t just have to explain the Nazis–they also have to explain away US slavery, segregation, company towns, children dying in factories.) At this point, someone committed to “my group is always right” is thinking, “Leftists did worse.” Perhaps, but that doesn’t make conservatism always right. Whether conservative political ideology is always right is orthogonal to the question of whether lefties are ever wrong. Perhaps neither is always right or always wrong. Perhaps politics is not usefully thought of as a binary of us v. them.
Hitler was conservative; he said so. He hated leftists. He said so. He said they were responsible for the loss of WWI. He said lefties were all Jews, and that was a major reason for making Germany “free of Jews”–it would free Germany of Marxists. He was entirely and exclusively supported by the conservative parties. The leftist parties–the communists and the democratic socialists–were the only ones who voted against his being dictator. When Hitler came into power, the first group he went after were communists. Every scholar of Hitler, Nazism, and the Holocaust says he was a right-wing authoritarian.
But, there are people who say he was leftist, and there are four ways they make that argument.
1) They haven’t read Mein Kampf, any of Hitler’s speeches, or any scholarship on Hitler. And, let’s be blunt, they won’t. They know that their belief that the Nazis were lefties is a fragile little gossamer wing that couldn’t withstand any consideration it might be wrong. I think this is interesting (it’s like people who say the CSA wasn’t about slavery and won’t look at the Declarations of Secession). They’d rather be wrong and loyal than right. I think these people kind of know they’re wrong, but they think that expressing loyalty to a claim even they know is irrational is the greatest loyalty there is.
2) They say that Nazis were socialists, and socialists are lefties. This one makes me sad. It’s taking the categories of our current political situation and assuming they’ve applied through time–like trying to think about the Trojan War conflict in terms of which group was Democrats and which group was Republicans. The answer is neither was either. Socialism predated Marx. That’s why he spends so much time in Communist Manifesto trying to persuade other kinds of socialists to become Marxist–because there were non-Marxist socialists, and there continued to be non-Marxists for a long time. There is good scholarship about the very weird economic philosophies of volkisch theorists, and the way that many conservatives hoped for an economy that had no one making money on the basis of interest (a conservative Catholic position)–sometimes that position was called “Christian socialism.” It had nothing to do with Marx. The notion that the market should be freed from tariffs and protectionism was, in the 19th and early 20th century, a liberal notion.
3) It says socialist in their name. And socialists are lefties. I run across this a lot. It has all the problems of the first two (it’s ahistorical), and another level of being hilarious. Okay, if we’re going to say that a word in your name being used by someone else shows who you really are, then let’s talk about Republicans. The R is USSR is for Republic, so, by their argument about socialist, Republicans are Stalinist.
They’ll never admit that–but, and this is the point, that means that they don’t have a rational position open to counter-argument. They want to believe that conservatives could never do what Hitler did, and they will scramble around to find any argument that enables them to swat away evidence that shows their faith in conservativism as necessarily and always good and never associated with anything bad is false.
4) Shoddy writers like D’Souza tell them they’re right. D’Souza’s argument about Hitler being a kind of communist relies on never quoting Hitler on the subject of communists, not citing any scholars of Hitler, bungling the history of communism, contradicting himself, and sometimes openly lying.
And, really, if someone who liked his argument ventured out of their informational enclave, they would see how wrong he is. That Hitler was a conservative is not a left/right debate.
That doesn’t mean he was a Republican. It’s nonsense to try to take our current (falsely binary) categories of politics and try to impose them on another era, country, and culture. American politics right now is not actually a binary of “leftists” v. “conservatives”–it’s silly to think that a binary that is false now would become accurate if applied to a different era.
What the Nazis meant by “socialism” was a vague notion that making money from interest was bad, the rigid German aristocratic system should be changed in favor of a class system based on race rather than class, the state should be able to call upon industries to help with the war effort. While some Nazis remained committed to that vague notion (e.g., Goebbels), there’s debate as to Hitler’s notions about domestic economy and whether he had coherent ones. There is no debate–and no debate possible, given what he said and did throughout his political career–as to whether he was “leftist.”
The argument about Hitler being a leftist isn’t about Hitler. It’s about whether loyal conservatives are willing to be so loyal that they will believe and repeat a claim that they aren’t willing to subject to rational argumentation.
Oddly enough, when I make this point with “Hitler was a lefty,” they will often say, “But lefties do that too.”
Well, as it happens, I think that people who aren’t loyal to “conservative” politics also have their irrational beliefs they protect from disproof. I don’t think all non-conservatives are lefties, and, more important, I believe that someone else believing a lie doesn’t make your beliefs true. It just means you’re both believing a lie.
Hitler was a right-wing authoritarian. If you’re going to divide the world into left- v. right-wing, that’s what he was.
That doesn’t mean all right-wing authoritarians are Hitler, nor that only right-wing authoritarians are bad (let’s talk about Stalin or Pol Pot).
It means something more complicated–and that’s why right-wing authoritarians try to make Hitler a lefty–it means that having a particular political commitment doesn’t guarantee that you are ethical, or correct, or just. It means the world isn’t right- v. left-wing. This isn’t about right or left politics; this is about people who want to believe that certainty is possible in a vexed and nuanced world–that if you have the right ideological commitments, you will never be part of injustice. That isn’t how our world works.
[1] I can’t resist pointing out that this is like arguing that, since Hitler wasn’t a dog, he must be a squirrel. If you think the world is divided into dogs and squirrels that would seem to make sense.
Maybe the world isn’t divided into dogs and squirrels.