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Revisiting The Rhetoric of Moderation

Back in 2014, I co-wrote an article, “The Rhetoric of Moderation in Deliberative Discourse: Barack Obama’s December 1, 2009 speech at West Point,” that proved difficult to place in a journal. My co-author thought it was because we were mildly critical of Obama and all our peer reviewers were leftists; I thought, rather, it was because our fine distinctions of what constituted claims and evidence in argumentation were deemed unimportant. I leave to the reader who was correct. Perhaps both.

Regardless, I think that article has held up rather well. I say this having now read the corresponding sections of Obama’s half-autobiography, A Promised Land, where he gives a fuller account of the deliberations that led up to that speech in two relevant passages: 431-439 and 442-445, as well as a later account of the Rolling Stone episode that prompted him to fire Stanley McChrystal on 577-580. These offer more evidence for our argument.

To summarize the original article, we held that Obama’s speech was a prime example of a “rhetoric of moderation,” where achieving a “middle” position and demonstrating extensive deliberation and weighing of options becomes a circular justification for that “middle” position, eliminating any need for evidence to support the position. The West Point speech appears on face value to be explaining why Obama has decided to send more troops to Afghanistan, but he never states a concrete reason for the specific number of troops. We compared Obama’s speech to LBJ’s 1968 Vietnam speech, noting that LBJ did provide a reason in his, namely that Westmoreland had indicated 100,000 troops were necessary, and we suggested that Obama did not refer to military authority as his relationship with the Pentagon was strained, and the actual troop number was far more arbitrary that Obama was willing to admit.

Before I get into the book, however, I should note something about post-presidential Obama. That he is verbose is obvious, I think, as well as the shoring up of old decisions, but what strikes me most about his style is how guarded he remains, even in 2020. Yes, his humor is showing more now – his disdain for McConnell in particular – and he does at times speak frankly about what he was feeling at moments.

But he is also still holding back a considerable amount of emotion, and not in a convincing way, any more than he was in 2008. Obama is simply unwilling, I think, to admit that some of his decisions have not been perfectly rational. Over and over in the book, all his decisions that he discusses are described as based on rigorous deliberation and careful impartiality and a seemingly 147-point ethical rubric, as if someone is going to accuse him of being human and he wants to get that notion out of the way quickly. I am not alone in such a critique, of course. Obama’s tendency toward restraint is established. He is reportedly a tight poker player, giving away as little information as possible and betting rarely, and an autobiography and his legacy is yet another game, I suppose.

In any case, Obama’s insider account confirms that the number of troops was both an operational and political compromise, where he favored a variant of a smaller plan backed by Robert Gates over a larger request by McChrystal, with Biden serving as a foil against a mission-oriented Pentagon at odds with Obama’s forest-over-trees worldview. These plans are tellingly not discussed separately from the men that championed them, and yet the rhetoric of moderation is everywhere. In the end, Obama mentions only the ceremonial occasion of the speech, not its moderating content that leaves little trace of the deliberation or power struggle, only a fait accompli. The external accounting is only a performance of nonexistent proof.

In a dictatorship, it is of course anathema for the dictator to admit other courses of action might also be justified, that there were doubts, that there are still doubts, that the people involved in constructing the decision have conflicting emotions and are not sure they made the right call. All those admissions undercut the notion of a fearless leader who decides. The ranks must be closed, even if the artificial nature of the entire enterprise can be pried apart from its protective rhetorical shell to find the softer, gushier innards of the decision-making process within. Like anyone thought it was anything else, dictatorship or democratic republic. In an autocratic state, I understand the purpose of the facade. Putin is great at it. But in America, what purpose does all this rigid posturing serve if it is regularly picked to shreds before the news cycle starts anew?

Obama still seems convinced he made the right call. But events have proved otherwise. Afghanistan remained a quagmire twelve years later, and now the man who played foil to the Pentagon then is now President and has taken the opposite view, announcing a full withdrawal. Time will tell if it sticks. But Obama’s unwillingness to show how the sausage was made at the time and his attempt to obscure the process undercut any notion of transparent deliberation. It is one thing to announce a troop increase and not provide any justification, it is another thing to announce a troop increase and provide considerable justification, but he did neither – he announced a troop increase, said he would justify it, and filled the gap with a rhetorical maneuver because he could not say then what he says implicitly now – that the decision was both logistically and politically expedient.

I suppose such a rhetoric keeps journalists and critics like myself employed, but why not skip to the end? Why wait 11 years to note that the sausage was, indeed, sausage? Is it only because we prefer to chomp down on our McNuggets without thinking about the mechanical chicken separator?

But before you, gentle reader, think I came to bury Obama, the later-yet-related firing of Stanley McChrystal, described on pages 577-580, was more justified. Obama notes McChrystal was an effective leader that he liked, but the stakes for undercutting the civilian control of the military were too high to let the insubordination he’d allowed his staff to commit pass. McChrystal made the decision easier by offering his resignation, of course.

This is not the only such incident in the book. Obama seems to have faced an unusual amount of pushback to his C-in-C role. His relative youth, lack of military experience, and his race are the obvious culprits. The question remains, then, how much of the Afghanistan troop decision was Obama pushing back against the passive undercutting of his constitutional authority, making sure that his moderate deliberation was his, not the Pentagon’s. Another open question for a future biographer and historian.

My cautionary note would be that it is the interaction between Obama, his staff, the Pentagon and the various generals, the actual “facts on the ground,” and the political situation that produced the rhetoric. It is never just about the lone rhetor who cuts through the malarkey to lead. Presidents are tempting targets for rhetorical criticism as they both have a lot of practical power and they are believed to have more power than they technically and legally have (the bully pulpit concept), but they have also considerable restraints that aren’t always appreciated. The West Point speech is prima facie evidence of this duality.

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The Dark Mark and the Fantasy Theme

In J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books, all of the hardcore inner-circle followers of Voldemort, the so-called Death Eaters, have a permanent brand on their left forearm, the Dark Mark. It serves as a perverse badge of honor and a way for Voldy to summon them to him quickly, or vice versa.

All the DE are second-rate henchmen at best, of course; Harry and a bunch of kids defeat their entire lineup in book five, and they only start racking up kills at the end when Voldy was right there with them at the height of his power. Not much more than vanilla stormtroopers talking trash while Vader does the carving. Ron’s mom took out Lestrange by herself, and without Voldy as a foci for their pettiness, they collapsed. Survivors got a date with the Dementors; the Malfoys turned, as the most inept and cowardly of the bunch, and were pardoned.

But the Marks remained, even just as a scar that no longer burned.

I imagine it made for some awkward conversations in public, assuming they ventured out at all after the war. Did Draco Malfoy simply deny if asked that he was once a Death Eater? Maybe he just stuck to long-sleeved shirts? Perhaps he simply hung out with his former toadies and moaned about the good old days. Or he turned a new leaf and stopped being an ass. But even without permanent physical proof of his sworn loyalty to the Dark Lord, I’d think it would be the first thing on anyone’s mind when interacting with him. A lifetime of benign philanthropy would help, of course, but he’d always be the ineffectual bully who agreed to kill Dumbledore, even if he ultimately refused and his family cruelly manipulated him.

The election is what made me think of this.

Imagine if after Harry zapped the freshly Horcrux-bereft Dark Lord with the Elder Wand, Voldy managed to file multiple lawsuits claiming the Elder Wand was stolen and rightfully his, making his death technically impossible and leaving his existence in magical limbo, even though Draco Malfoy’s ineptitude, Neville’s prophecy, and a half-ton of heroics made it very possible.

The wizarding world then pauses indefinitely to allow the suits to play out; the now incorporeal Voldy summons all of his remaining Death Eaters via their Marks, who insist they really won the war despite being powerless, and the word spreads. The Daily Prophet attempts to point out the truth, but with its reputation in tatters after being taken over by the Death Eater-run Ministry of Magic during the war, few minds are changed. Fake news. Harry is flummoxed; rather than return to the status quo, he retains the Elder Wand just in case, maintaining a permanent epistemic cold war where Hogwarts both won the Second Wizarding War and lost it, depending on who’s talking.

In a weird way, a version of this scenario essentially what starts the Potterverse – Voldy being killed by his own spell, but refusing to die and plotting to return with the help of his inane followers.

This is all of course nonsense, even by the standards of a work of fantasy. Trump lost the election and the election wasn’t rigged in every battleground state in a massive conspiracy that necessarily would need the active, enthusiastic, and sworn-silent cooperation of hundreds of Republican officials, and any solid evidence otherwise would make any investigative reporter’s career.

And yet it is quite popular to believe otherwise because there is an emotional truth that supports that belief, and that emotional truth rests secure and invincible within a narrative shared between Trump and his supporters.

It is not as simple as a discreet Q pin or a MAGA hat or even the standard dog whistle phrasing and GOP talking points.

It’s a fantasy theme.

Fantasy themes are an old idea in rhetorical theory, related closely to narrative and social movement criticism.

The concept works thusly.

All humans don’t like bad news. Rather than deal with it directly and honestly, we tend to rationalize it. And when we rationalize bad news, we create a new mental narrative, a fantasy theme, that allows the rationalization to keep going.

The longer the rationalization keeps going, the stronger it gets and the more bad (and good) news it sweeps into its growing storyline. Confirmation bias is a closely related concept, as any incoming data is explained as part of the fantasy theme in a way that does not threaten the theme itself.

I am familiar with how this works not because I have some deep insight into Trump supporters. I am familiar with how this works because I have a deeply anxious personality that I am not always successful at working around; I thus alternate between deep dives into fantasy-theme thinking and cold rationality. I’m not alone in this.

Anxiety is an extremely fertile ground for fantasy theme development. In fact, it’s the only place, I believe, the worst fantasy themes can really take off.

Everyone uses fantasy themes, of course. Many are helpful and useful. My son thinks, for example, that I can fix anything and that I’m the greatest dad in the world. Both beliefs are completely and utterly false but this illusion protects him and lets him learn the value of trust and attachment, but I have to keep up my end to make that happen. He will discard these beliefs, of course, when he’s a teenager, and form another about how mindbogglingly stupid I am, only to discard that one around 25 or so. And so it goes.

Trump is anxious too. His supporters are as well. Many fear they are going to lose something if he does not get another term. Rather than confront this fear directly and form a coherent plan about future elections that involves the rest of the country’s wants, though, the wild west nature of half the internet combined with the wear and tear on the reputation of media outlets that fed Trump oxygen for years has given Trump voters a spectacular outlet for their anxiety.

So weird claims abound, and some days, even Fox News looks reasonable.

These claims don’t need to make much sense to fit into the shared illusion. They need only raise questions, and more questions, poking and prodding like a kid asking “why?” over and over, until the only answer is “I told you so,” the last argument of parents and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

There is no external argument to be made to a fantasy theme. It is completely self-sustaining and spreads easily, much like Covid. However, I do know of one thing that can shatter the hold of a fantasy theme.

Pretty much every postmodern novel since 1950 concerns itself with this question. The characters are enmeshed in a comfortable fantasy theme of some sort that avoids some structural unpleasantness in their lives and society. They grow uneasy and question the nature of reality and modernism. This conflict is brought to a head through some kind of violent act that kicks the protagonist into a new perspective that usually involves a spiritual reconnect to a supposed higher plane, though whatever form this new viewpoint takes, it’s really just another fantasy theme.

Perhaps a personal reckoning with reality isn’t enough anymore.

The center cannot hold, sure, but de-centering doesn’t seem to be holding very well lately, either, if people dying of Covid are refusing to believe they have Covid, a vaccine for a pandemic is seen as the problem, and gutting democracy is preferable to a one-term Democratic president, a critical alliance with Europe, better health care, and treating people that are not white as human beings with rights and dreams and value.

1860 comes to mind, when despite every slave state that eventually seceded having left Lincoln off the federal ballot, their inhabitants felt justified in declaring the union a tyranny.

But I’m being alarmist. There is nothing new under the sun, including saying there is nothing new under the sun.

At the height of classical Greece, a jury of 500 men in the world’s most famous democracy sentenced the most famous philosopher in the Western world to death for the crime of being really annoying. Richard Weaver, one of the few deans of Southern agrarian conservatism (and a noted rhetorician) once wrote a essay where he argued Socrates’s death sentence was just and deserved, as his open questioning of all of the Athenian sacred cows was a direct threat to the integrity of their culture. To allow him to wander the agora and speak to their inability to defend their arbitrary values could not be allowed to continue.

Weaver thus showcased the ultimate core value of conservatism – the preservation of a preferred culture in suspended political amber, the ironic elektron. The particulars are surprisingly unimportant compared to the steadiness of the refusal to move. Any inconsistencies or injustices or inhumanities are excusable as long as that central principle of culture in suspended animation is preserved.

Physics tells us that even the coldest atom is still vibrating with potential, but Weaver’s philosophy seems to take even that slow-motion quiver as a potential problem to be kept in check.

Refusal to acknowledge the election is over is, then, a massive and powerful fantasy theme of conservationism – a spectacular kind of shared hallucination that no change has happened. The silent majority triumphed. Four more years. Nothing to see here. All indications otherwise are fake news.

I am afraid, though, is that when that hallucination ends, one way or another, memories may fade and forgiveness may be doled out on an individual basis, but the internet has largely lost the ability to forget. This fantasy theme was recorded.

Every op-ed and Facebook post and tweet and text and letter and email insisting the election was rigged and Covid is just the flu and Trump is almost ready to finally destroy the deep state and launch an thousand-year reign of white civilization is now a permanent part of individual histories.

January 20 rolls around soon, and when it does, the Dark Marks will remain. They will not fade to scars. Slipping on a henley will not conceal them when anyone with a smartphone and half a brain can do a quick search.

Of course, in America, no conspiracy theorists rot in Azkaban. They will continue to roam the expanded agora, unlike Socrates, as long as they are peaceful. America remains more mature than Athens ever was, allowing even the dimmest philosophers and prophets to hold forth. The marketplace of ideas eventually devalues intellectual stock that bears no profit.

The Malfoys that tap out beforehand – and there is still plenty of time remaining – will rejoin and work with the centrist and center-left folks, as they always have, to build and grow the world. Perhaps they will cast themselves as victims of temporary insanity. It will be awkward. Second acts always are. But there is plenty of room for Slytherins in the world. Some of them have even been known to teach at Hogwarts.