The Power of Rhetorical Transcendence

President Barack Obama and his congressional rival, John Boehner. AFP/Getty Images
President Barack Obama and his congressional rival,                 John Boehner.   AFP/Getty Images

Think of “transcendence” as a verbal bridge: a single word or phrase that narrows the gap between two views to the point where “opposing sides” almost disappear. 

The title for this short piece may sound hopelessly arcane.  But these are the exact words that should be used to describe what is a simple yet significant process for turning conflict into agreement.  The power is real and the process is useful.

The word “rhetoric” has few friends.  But it’s the right word to describe the daily chatter that emanates from us from morning until the end of the day.  We are not fact machines, but rhetorical machines.  We are not cameras, but practical artists:  rendering in the brush strokes of our own style what we have witnessed in life. The truth is that we routinely bend the world to our perceptions.  Apart from some forms of mathematical or programming language, our discourse is a complete mix of words and expressions that name as well as judge.  And because we usually do this to seek acceptance and agreement with others, we are—for good and ill—rhetorical.

Think of “transcendence” as a verbal bridge: a single word or phrase that narrows the gap between two views to the point where “opposing sides” almost disappear.  One of the virtues of thinking rhetorically is that it is easier to imagine escapes from hopeless impasses with others by thinking creatively about this kind of language of agreement.  If we sometimes use words as grenades that scare off potential supporters, transcendent ideas do the reverse.  So if someone baits another by calling the Affordable Care Act as “socialized medicine,” the impression is clear that there’s an unbridgeable divide that separates that person from a supporter.  That the program encourages people to sign up mostly with private insurers ought to be enough to get the flame thrower to pull back from such toxic language.   If not, there is still a rhetorical path to agreement. Different and more general words–sometimes called “ultimate terms”–can encompass the same subject area, but carry more of a tone of reassurance than threat.  As the critic Kenneth Burke noted, these terms tend to focus on values, first principles, common beliefs and the like.  So if we choose to describe the Act as a way to “guarantee a birthright of basic healthcare for every American,” it surely sounds better.  We recognize a “birthright” as a guarantee that comes with being a citizen of the country.  So while the lower end of the abstraction ladder includes terms or claims that still provoke disagreement–that insurance exchanges will actually work, that people will pay no more while still seeing their own doctors, and so on–the much broader “birthright” value is a point on which more Americans might find common ground.

Trancendance captureIn rhetorical terms, this is the point of transcendence.  It’s a universal principle or value where differences begin to yield to agreements.  So it is often the effective communicator who is capable of reframing an issue to find this point.  In public discussions and debates we often recognize the process of finding common values when an opponent probes the other side with a series of questions, for example: “Would you agree that no American should be sent into combat if a war does not involve our vital interests?”  “Can we both accept the idea that parents with children need adequate health coverage?”  “Can we start by accepting the principles enshrined in the First Amendment?”  Can we agree that all students in this city have a right to a good and comprehensive education?

So the ability to break through conflict is sometimes started—if rarely finished—by seeking the point of rhetorical transcendence where shared values are acknowledged by both sides.  That acknowledgment will not melt away conflicts.  But it’s often overlooked as a useful place to start.

cropped-Perfect-Response-logo.jpg

The Sentimental Songs of Dis-Connectivity

Source: Wikimedia
                              Source: Wikimedia

There was a time when connectivity was the enemy of our romance with imagined possibilities. 

The digital DJ in my iPod was on to something the other day when it decided to play a mix that started with Joni Mitchell’s Night Ride Home before proceeding on to Ella Fitzgerald and Count Basie bouncing through the classic Tea for Two. 

Mitchell’s song is a favorite.  She rhapsodizes about hitting the “open road,” something that perhaps resonates more with a child of Saskatchewan. An unfettered stretch of highway is the perfect representation of escape from the narrow borderlands of the familiar and domestic. Perhaps I want to see this because I also spent my teens traveling the same kind of narrow asphalt ribbons that threaded through pines and aspens, sometimes reaching pockets of high-mountain snow refusing to yield even to August. The chance to fly along these highways alone or with a girlfriend made them all the more mysterious and promising.

A clear highway to the horizon was a potent adolescent meme. It meant freedom, and an opening to different and perhaps dangerous possibilities: the kind fearless independence suggested in the film Thelma and Louise.  Just without the cliff.

We can make too much of a few song lyrics, but I was struck with lines in both songs that referenced the pleasures of not being connected.  In those days there was romance in the idea of leaving behind the entrapments of the telephone, among other things. Mitchell sings about the pleasure of hitting the “open road” with her boyfriend with the promise of “No phones ’til Friday.”[1]

What’s changed?  How did the phone go from being a nuisance to what it is now:  an addictive preoccupation, especially for the young?

I can’t say I get the same thrill of infinite possibilities today rolling through the countryside of the Delaware Valley, pretty though it is. I’m older.  But for me the car is still an escape from the phone. The automobile salesperson was annoyed when I told him I had no interest in connecting my mobile device to the car’s “Sync” system. To be sure connecting an IPod made a lot of sense, even though the “Sync” lady responds to my requests for music as if I’m speaking Polish. My cell stays off but close, mostly because the not-so-open road now throws up obstacles that can make a night ride home more treacherous.

But here’s the point. There was a time when connectivity was the enemy of our romance with imagined possibilities. The phone was an instrument of obligation.  It represented unwanted entanglements and reminders.  Irving Caesar’s lyrics in Tea for Two promises lovers unbroken time together, uninterrupted by “friends or relations on weekend vacations.”  In this perfect space, he writes,

We won’t have it known
That we own a telephone, dear[2]

What’s changed?  How did the phone go from being a nuisance to what it is now:  an addictive preoccupation, especially for the young? I suspect this reversal is related to changing patterns of courtship and marriage. 50 or 60 years ago there was a clearer threshold that divided living with one’s family from the transition to launching an independent life. Among middle class teens, passing this milestone occurred earlier. And most couldn’t wait to be on their own. The open road in mid-twentieth century America was paved with endless possibilities that would end too soon. In those years, teens caught in the thrall of an escape fantasy could never imagine that Jack Kerouac or Peter Fonda would want to check in with mom every night.

For many reasons we are now less likely to see young couples pairing off into early marriage. Most depend on their cell phones to maintain a larger and less exclusive network of friends. To be sure, they still romanticize moving out of the shadows of the family. But the means for taking on the world is now less physical than psychical. Phones and their digital wonders now function as devices for transporting facsimiles of oneself onto social networks of peers. They promise a better life through the constant connectivity that seems a safer substitute for an actual search to find paradise just beyond the next hill.

So the modern versions of this old family appliance no longer carry the stigma of an unwanted tether. They are now instruments of an inner space few want to leave.         


[1] Joni Mitchell, Night Ride Home © 1988; Crazy Crow Music

[2] Vincent Youmans, Irving Caesar, Tea for Two
Copyright: Irving Caesar Music Corp., WB Music Corp.

Perfect Response logo