Manifesto of Rhetoric According to the Precepts of Committed Relativism

I am Caucasian—white, if you will—middle class, American, small-town born and raised.  I was taught in third grade that Christopher Columbus discovered America, and we celebrated Columbus Day to honor this heroic man.  I was also taught that I should listen to and respect my elders, that children should be seen and not heard.  I was raised to believe that women are meant to be—nay, designed to be—subservient to men, that women and men can get along but when it comes to things that really matter, the man should make the decision.  I was also raised in a community where very few people of color lived, and those that did were an anomaly, often fawned over or treated as exotic other.  My background exists as symbolic of the American ideal to many.  It exists now as something to overcome.

My upbringing also serves as a representation of Greco-Roman rhetorical persuasions that have proliferated in industrialized countries for centuries, the ideal of patriarchal and capitalistic structures that encourage marginalization and discrimination.  This view creates dichotomous world structures that are difficult to break down and rebuild.  But I believe it can be done.

Overcoming Dichotomous World Structures through Committed Relativism
According to psychologist William Perry, all humans exist in one of three stages: dualism, relativism, or committed relativism.  They can be (briefly) defined as follows:  Dualism is a worldview or philosophy based on notions of right and wrong, good and bad.  Dualists believe that authority exists to enlighten them to what is good and right and it is our job, then, to absorb and practice what is good and right so that we can go on to teach others what is good and right.  Conversely, relativism is a worldview or philosophy based on the idea that right and wrong do not exist except in individual circumstances, much like the Sophists of Aristotle’s day.  Relativists are extremely skeptical of those in authority and tend to trust only those in positions of authority who prove themselves to be relativists as well.  The third stage, committed relativism, is a worldview or philosophy based on the idea that absolutes do exists, that some things are right and some are wrong for themselves, but simultaneously adhere to the notion of relativity, that not all things can be judged by the same measure.  Committed relativists, then, have strong beliefs of their own yet understand the beliefs of others; this means they believe that not all persons need to have the same beliefs because no belief is wrong.  Perry asserts that everyone begins as a dualist.  Many progress to relativism—about half—and, according to Perry, a much smaller percentage actually achieve the status of a committed relativist.  Most people, according to Perry, are caught somewhere between dualism and relativism, a place that seems to mirror committed relativism yet is far from it.  The difference lies in whether or not someone can believe in a different right and wrong for others, or if one believes that his right and wrong applies to everyone.

The ideal is, of course, committed relativism, a purview that exudes love, tolerance, and compassion.  The dominant worldview, however, is dualism.  The American ideal is predominantly dualistic, a world divided into the haves and have-nots, the good and the bad, the right and the wrong.  Most American systems promote dualism—everything from our education system to our political system to our prison system.  It is this dualistic nature that has dominated western ideas of language and language systems for centuries as well.  It often feels as if the world is working its way toward a more relativist stage, is beginning to realize that things are not as cut and dry as they previously have believed.  Thus marginalized peoples are being listened to and treated equally more and more.  Yet the dominant worldview is still stuck between dualism and relativism.  Most people are terrified of a relative view, also known as anarchy, and have no awareness of how to get from a dualistic perspective to a committed relativist perspective.  To move through pure relativism would create chaos.  Thus it is the responsibility of the committed relativist to pave the way for others to begin to see the world differently. 

Committed Relativism and Rhetoric
I preach to my students frequently of the power of language, of its ultimate power and how it can build or topple entire nations.  It can create religions, start wars, and break hearts.  It can win over a lover, move people to do amazing things, get people riled up.  There is no denying that the written word—a system of symbols that represent our speech—is incredibly powerful, useful, and amazing.  Yet too often I think that we consider text as immutable, which is not the case.  What I am writing here may seem to be immutable, but a million different people reading a text can—and will—come up with a million different interpretations.  Our way of writing is indubitably fabulous, but it is fallible, easily manipulated, and quickly deconstructed.  If we think of the Bible, one of the texts that supposedly holds together Christendom, and then think of the thousands of denominations that have sprung up over the various interpretations of this text, then I think it is fairly obvious that letters are not any more stable than any other way of writing, and letters certainly do not hold cultures, religions, or political persuasions together.  So we are left with a paradox: language can change the world but language cannot be counted on to mean the same thing to anyone, so therefore it becomes much less useful and must be used with caution, with care.  It must become an art.

This art is called rhetoric.  Writing (and its equivalent) exists in virtually every venue, but I would argue it is not all rhetoric.  The difference can be seen when one compares rhetoric to other arts.  Painting, for example.  A child can slap some watercolors on a page—anyone can slap colors on a page—but it is not all deemed as art.  The artist knows how to use her medium to its greatest advantage in order to to convey an idea, an image, an ideology, a political statement—virtually anything she wishes to convey.  Even if the goal is purely aesthetic, the painter knows how to achieve the greatest aesthetic through her medium in a way others cannot.  So it is with rhetoric.  The rhetorician conveys an idea, an image, an ideology, a political statement—virtually anything she wishes to convey—using her medium: words.  Even with words the goal can be purely aesthetic (but seldom is, as is true as well with paintings).  Writing is words (or their equivalent: hieroglyphics, pictograms, etc.) on a page; rhetoric is the art of making those words accomplish that which you set them down to do. 

There exist various uses and meanings of the word rhetoric, however.  For my purposes here, I define “rhetorics” as documents that are read and studied, actual texts.  Rhetoric as a discipline is Aristotelian, traditionally speaking, yet occurs whenever language is taught as a means of achieving an end (in any culture, not just Greek).  Metarhetoric (also called rhetorical analysis) is what Kennedy calls “writing about rhetoric.”  Rhetorical theory, then, is the result of metarhetoric.  While rhetoric as an art form or a field of study is important here, it is metarhetoric—written of course as rhetorics through rhetoric—that can achieve the ideal of the committed relativist.  Through metarhetoric we can study the rhetorics of all cultures, including those marginalized or oppressed, and discover how they inform our ways of thinking and our rhetoric, which then adds to our understanding.

The voices of the oppressed have been trying to squeeze their way into Western rhetoric and be heard not as marginal, not as other, not as outsiders, but as significant contributors to the voices that make up rhetorical theory and history.  They do not see themselves as other—or at least do not want to—and fight for inclusion, not addition.  They envision an idealized rhetoric that contains many voices, one that does not sit as an addendum to rhetorical tradition but shapes it, that is it. Dualistically, of course, rhetorical tradition does not include any voice that isn’t Eurocentric.  It remains white, male, and dominant.  But as committed relativists, we need to see this as the core of dualism; to keep these voices on the fringes of Western rhetoric is to ignore our own plurality.  We must work toward seeing rhetoric as a discipline that includes voices of minorities, women, and other, that doesn’t add them on as an afterthought but understands how these voices and traditions are an intrinsic part of who we are.  I see the difference between “inclusion” and “addition” as sort of like the difference between eating a hamburger and taping it to your face: it either becomes a part of you or a very noticeable thing tacked on that is obviously not a part of you.  And the difference is in the social, political, and cultural consequences that will result.  Swallowing this rhetoric and making it a part of who we are will change us—all of us—not just those who have been outsiders; it is an important step toward committed relativism.  There really is no denying that the world—and especially this country—no longer consists of several cultures independent of one another: no one is pure anymore. 

It is likewise a mistake to think of rhetoric existing as a product only of the Greco-Roman sphere.  To do so makes no sense.  While they may have coined the phrase, they certainly have no corner on the word market.  Rhetoric rises from a need, an urge to share ideas and thoughts.  Yet needs across cultures vary.  Greek rhetoric, as a discipline, arose from a need to defend oneself in court, in a democratic system of justice.  Yet how can one culture, which has such a need and thus develops a discipline to meet that need, be compared to another culture which has no such need?  Can you imagine Native American cultures needing the discipline of rhetoric as Aristotle defines it?  It wouldn’t have any use or even really be understood any more than a concept like baptism would make sense to such an indigenous culture. On the other hand, there are disciplines, within cultures outside of the western sphere, that are clearly used for their own cultural and/or religious purposes that can also be described as rhetoric, if, of course, we don’t define rhetoric according to Aristotle.  It requires looking at the systems of these other cultures and determining what they believed to be the most efficient use of language and/or other means to achieve their purposes: to determine truth, to achieve “happiness” (of course according to their own ideas of this term), to persuade, etc., and then, of course, how this was taught, how this “discipline” was handed down through the years.  If rhetoric is an art, then undeniably all cultures have practiced the art of language.

Additionally, there must never be confusion about whether or not we can call these other language usages “rhetoric” when it is crystal clear where the distinction lies.  They, too, have rhetoric: it just looks different.  It's like saying they don't have music because they use different instruments.  If it sounds different and uses different instruments, can we still call it music?  Who called it music first?  If we found out who first called music, music and then said that alone was music and all music had to sound like it, then we would be robbing the world of a multitude of musical sound.  Likewise, rhetoric exists in all cultures, in all areas of the world, all places where humans—and even animals—feel the urge to convey some thought or idea.  Rhetoric as an art form, then, must always keep context in mind: if this art is carefully embedded in cultural beliefs (even subcultural: I’m thinking English dialects here), it will only mean what it is meant to mean within that context. 

As an example, Confucius may have been said to despise “clever talk,” but by doing so he was cleverly creating and inculcating a belief system that devalued what he said to devalue.  As both cause and effect, then, plain speech becomes clever talk in Chinese Confucianism.  Nonpersuasion then is persuasive.   It’s a paradox to Western thinking to be sure, but the difference is the cultural perspective, the context.  What we consider “persuasion” is not persuasive to Chinese thought, and what they consider “persuasion” is not persuasive to us.  That doesn’t mean, however, that they didn’t teach rhetoric; indeed, they taught it fervently.  One of the main tenets of Confucianism is to teach others how to have a strong ethos (li, yi), how to stay incredibly logical (ren), and how to “avoid” emotional speech which ironically (to us) creates the desired emotion in their audience. 

What all this means to the committed relativist is that rhetoric must be heard and seen and taught as a careful art form.  We must include rhetorical means from all cultures as they exist within all of us.  As we speak and write and teach—as we practice rhetoric—and as we read and analyze and critique—as we practice metarhetoric—we must first see ourselves, no matter our race or upbringing, as the result of many rhetorics.  While our genetic code may remain nearly purely Eurocentric, our minds can take on any cultural beliefs and values that we choose them to.  I can teach logos, pathos, and ethos for example, yet simultaneously teach precepts like Maat and Confucianism while emphasizing a mestiza consciousness.  While I may teach my students how to use language to persuade, I will never deny that there are times their silence would be the most persuasive.  Or, while I may believe in the Christian God, I must recognize the nature of other religious precepts that exist and inform my own belief system and, in some cases, reject their dualistic forms.  Rejecting dualism will, in effect, be the force that gravitates toward change.  Rejecting dualism, however, must happen from a committed relativist stance and not a relativist stance or the result will mean nothing.