My aim in this book is not chiefly to complain about the contentiousness of arguments about climate change. Indeed, what I hope to show is that the argumentative situation is affected by numerous factors that are both less noticeable and more damaging than its all-too-evident hostility suggests. But that hostility is, nonetheless, an important force in the argumentative situation. So it's only right to acknowledge what scholars, journalists, and politicians have come to lament with depressing regularityâit's real.
In fact, the sorry state of public argumentation has been evident for a long time. Let me comment briefly about three aspects of the problem that seem to gain the most notice.
1. Public arguments are about winning and little else
Many observe that our politicians, activists, and partisan commentators would rather win than be right. Today, argumentative victory is not just an important goal; it eclipses all other goals. That win-at-all-costs argumentation is so dominant that it is hard to find other models. Something must be done.
Anxiety about all of this certainly shapes contemporary teaching of writing and rhetoric. Textbooks are honor-bound to disabuse students of the idea that âwinningâ is the only aim of argumentation. On the very first page of The Structure of Argument, Annette Rottenberg and Donna Haisty Winchell say, âOf course, not all arguments end in clear victories for one side or another. Nor should theyâ (3). In the opening pages of They Say/I Say, Graff and Birkenstein write, âAlthough argumentation is often associated with conflict and opposition, the type of conversational âthey say/I sayâ arguments that we focus on in this book can be just as useful when you agree as when you disagreeâ (8). Such cautions ring true. In fact, obviously true. Argumentation does not have to be a contest where my gain is your loss.
Yet the idea of noncompetitive or cooperative argumentation runs counter to deeply held cultural habits, which can be hard to accept. Consider this version of the standard warning. In Everything's An Argument, Lunsford, Ruszkiewicz, and Walters tell students that the Western concept of argument is usually âabout disputation or combat,â but âwriters and speakers have as many purposes for arguing as for using language, includingâin addition to winningâto inform, to explore, to make decisions, and even to meditate or prayâ (5). I must admit that although I understand perfectly well what Lunsford et al. are saying, it takes some effort for me to make complete sense of it.
Perhaps I am not as good a person as I should be, but I ask myself these honest questions about why I argue: Do I really argue just in order to inform? Or is it to inform others about an idea that I favor? Do I really argue in order to explore? Or to explain the insights I've gained from my explorations? Do I really argue in order to make decisions? Or to recommend what I think is the best decision?
Then, I arrive at âto meditate or pray.â If I think for a moment, I can imagine scenarios in which meditation or prayer do involve argumentation. I suppose that in those cases, I might argue with myself. But isn't meditation as much about not thinking as about thinking? Isn't prayer about praising, thanking, and asking? Where are the claims? Where are the reasons and evidence that support those claims?
To think of meditation or prayer as arguing requires a profound broadening of what counts as an argument. Lunsford et al. say that âeverythingâ is an argument. However, it is one thing to recognize that a broader conception of argumentation may well be useful, and another for us to see it everywhere we look. Yet when we toss aside the Western defaultâarguing a point, arguing competitivelyâit can be difficult to say what is not an argument.
Some have pointed out how easy it is for textbooks and teachers to fall into old habits, despite the earnestness of their cautions. A. Abby Knoblauch writes:
As we have seen, both Writing Arguments and Everything's an Argument initially define argument as more than attempts at winning or conversion, but the discussion questions, examples, and more detailed explications within both textbooks privilege an intent to persuade, illustrating for students the primacy of persuasion and either marginalizing or functionally erasing alternative processes or outcomes. (262)
Along the same lines, Chris Blankenship traces the patterned ways that textbooks warn first about the competitive impulse and then slip back into the frame of competitive or adversarial argumentation. This apparent inconsistency doesn't make a broader, more cooperative view of argumentation any less valuable. It simply demonstrates how deeply entrenched in our cultural habits the win-lose view of argumentation is.
One reason for its staying power is that well-established conceptual metaphors undergird our ideas about argumentation. These metaphors tell us, as Lakoff and Johnson point out, that arguing is systematically conflictual. In ordinary talk, we say that people win, lose, overcome, strengthen, weaken, and defend arguments. Even seemingly non-competitive metaphors can be tricky. We build arguments. But whatever is built can be destroyed by counterarguments. If our arguments go in circles or if our arguments have holes in them, we can lose. All of these expressions add up to a metaphor system that sets the parameters for thinking about argumentation. Call the main metaphor in the system Argument Is War, as George Lakoff and Mark Johnson do (3â4). Call it Argument Is Conflict. But whatever we call it, it is the frame that alternative ideas about arguing are up against.
The desire to set that frame aside comes partly, I think, from simple distaste. Especially in our current media environment, competitive arguing can be ugly. Yet there are other good reasons for rejecting the win-lose model of argument. Sharon Crowley makes this point well:
Arguments can't be âwonâ in the way that basketball teams win. ⌠If I succeed in persuading you to change your mind about the injustice of preemptive war, for example, I have not âwonâ much of anything except your (perhaps temporary and lukewarm) adherence to this position. And by entering into argument with you, I put my own position at risk; during argument you may in fact convince me that in this or that particular case of preemptive war was just, in which case I must qualify my original claim. You can read this as a âwinâ if our relationship is competitive for some reason, and I suppose in this circumstance âvictoryâ in an argument provides satisfaction similar to that achieved when, for example, the Phoenix Mercury finally wins a game. That is to say, just as we may extrapolate from âMy team beats yoursâ to âMy team is better than yours,â we may extrapolate from âYou accepted my claimâ to âI am smarter than you.â (33)
It is true, when we look closely at the world of argumentation, it is difficult to know who has won and who has lost. The more honest the participants, the less clear that division becomes.