Maintaining
Institutional Power
and Constitutional
Principles:
A
Rhetorical Analysis of
R. Scott
Medsker and Todd F. McDorman
While
president, Richard Milhouse Nixon was almost obsessive in his desire to control
the flow of information. One example of Nixon’s pre-occupation is demonstrated
in the lengths he went to identify who was leaking national security
information contained in the Pentagon Papers. Angered by FBI Director J. Edgar
Hoover’s refusal to investigate the source of these leaks, Nixon created a
group to do the task himself (Kutler 112). These henchmen, known as “the
Plumbers,” were subsequently used by Nixon to spy on both his own administration
and his opponents in the Democratic Party; and whether one deems it fitting or
ironic, eventually contributed to his loss of the presidency.
On June 17, 1972, seven
Nixon neophytes broke into the Democratic National Headquarters in the
Watergate complex to wiretap phones and obtain campaign information. While the
seven men were arrested and eventually convicted for their crime, who
orchestrated the break-in remained a mystery, although some quickly suggested
that the orders came from within the White House (Apple 1). In January 1973,
after the general election, enough concern remained to justify the formation of
a Congressional committee to investigate allegations of White House misconduct.
However, the initial witness testimony, which was identical from all involved,
failed to implicate President Nixon or his administration.
During the third week of
March, two members of Nixon’s team broke rank and gave critical information
that did in fact implicate the president. On March 19, James McCord, a former
Nixon security advisor and one of the convicted Watergate burglars, wrote to
Judge Sirca, who presided over his trial, and informed Sirca that White House
officials had worked to keep the seven intruders silent. On March 22, FBI
Director Patrick Gray further fueled speculation by telling a Senate committee
that White House counsel had “probably lied” during the investigation. Subsequently,
on March 26, 1973 the Watergate grand jury convened for the first time (Apple
2-3).
As the investigation
proceeded, a Special Prosecutor was appointed. He was granted sweeping power
and charged to “investigate, subpoena, [and] bring suit in court against anyone
suspected of criminal wrongdoing in the campaign of 1972, up to and through the
White House to the President himself” (White 250). The Special Prosecutor
subsequently asked the District Court to issue a subpoena duces tecum1
to compel President Nixon to supply critical information. Nixon’s resistance to
the subpoena eventually brought
Watergate is an event
that influenced a generation and their beliefs in American government.
Likewise, rhetorical scholars have been fascinated with the scandal, spending
considerable energy addressing the issue from multiple perspectives. These
analyses have examined the apologia of Nixon (Harrell, Ware, and Linkugel;
King), his resignation (Rosenfeld; Wilson), the general course of events that
contributed to the cover up (Gouran; Schuetz), and the aftermath of the scandal
(Blair; Klumpp and Lukehart). Noticeably absent, however, is a detailed
analysis of the rhetoric that most influenced the trajectory of the crisis—the
Supreme Court’s decision in
In examining these
implications we argue that the Court’s Nixon decision was a uniquely strategic
response to a complex rhetorical situation. In fact, the elements of the
situation were so fundamental to the tenor of the Court’s response that this
essay’s framework is drawn from Lloyd F. Bitzer’s construction of the
rhetorical situation. The use of this system will allow for deeper consideration
of the context of
The analysis reveals
that in resolving the case the Court was faced with concerns on two fronts.
First, on an institutional front, the Court sought to maintain their ability to
perform their duties against encroaching claims from the executive branch.
Simultaneously, the Court worked to balance the sacred doctrine of American
jurisprudence that “no man is above the law” with the status of the President
as “first among equals.” Utilizing Bitzer’s rhetorical situation we examine how
the Court responded to the constraints, exigencies, and audiences present in
this extraordinary situation, ultimately arguing that the Court skillfully
assessed a complex situation and offered a rhetorical response that not only
maintained their institutional power in a tenuous time but also preserved the
basic tenets of American judicial theory.
The Rhetorical Situation as an Approach to Legal
Rhetoric
Perhaps in response to
Lucaites’ challenge to rhetorical scholars, attention to the rhetorical
dimensions of legal decision-making has grown in recent years. In the past
decade scholars of legal rhetoric, possessing varied goals, have offered
important observations about the intermingling of law and society (Hasian;
Hasian, Condit, and Lucaites; Sullivan and Goldzwig; Rountree). In bringing
social considerations to the reading of judicial opinions such work has reinforced
Prentice’s claim that “judicial rhetoric is a form of argument that seeks to persuade
listeners of the legitimacy of particular uses of power” (87). For instance,
Critical Legal Studies scholars have addressed contradictions and deep-level
incoherence within texts that legitimize unjust systems of power and distribution
of wealth. One investigation in this tradition undertaken by Hasian examined
the functions of law as sword, shield, and menace within Buck v. Bell and the eugenics controversy. Others, such as
Rountree’s pentadic analysis of Korematsu
v. United States, have sought to understand the relationships of actors,
actions, and motives in the expression of judicial rhetorical power. Finally, numerous
scholars have explored the moral implications of ideologically charged decisions
(Srader; Sullivan and Goldzwig). Regardless of the approach used, it is clear
that in briefs, oral arguments, and judicial opinions rhetorical expressions of
power are central to understanding the meaning and implications of law.
One approach for reading
rhetorical dimensions of the law that has received little attention is Bitzer’s
conception of the rhetorical situation. While the idea is often dismissed as a
pre-critical descriptive tool, Bitzer’s concept has a cozy fit with the
operation of the law. For instance, Bitzer argues that the function of rhetoric
is “ultimately to produce action or change in the world” (250). Such a function
is nearly identical to that of the law in its efforts to control, regulate, or
promote certain actions and behaviors. In this sense, Bitzer’s treatment of
rhetoric within the rhetorical situation could be used to provide perspective
on the workings of any Court ruling. However, other approaches to judicial
rhetoric will often provide more nuanced analyses due to unique factors found
in each decision.
Still, the mapping of
the rhetorical situation in terms of exigence, audience, and constraints is
also an accurate mapping of the judicial decision making process from the
acceptance of a case for oral argument to the rendering of an opinion. Bitzer
defines exigence as “an imperfection marked by urgency . . . a defect, an obstacle,
something waiting to be done, a thing which is other than it should be” (252).
Some type of exigence or “something waiting to be done” marks every Supreme
Court case and each judicial decision is written in response to a specific
obstacle, defect, or situation that is not as one party feels it should be
(Prentice 94). Bitzer’s point that every rhetorical utterance is controlled by
situational factors such as an exigence mirrors the petitioners’ presentation
of a legal claim. In
Attention to audience is
required according to Bitzer because “rhetorical discourse produces change by
influencing the decision and action of persons who function as mediators of
change” (253). The practice of this principle might be observed in the opinions
written by Supreme Court justices who must consider a number of separate and
distinct constituencies, interests, and reactions (Prentice 95). These groups,
to note only a few, may include the public, the litigants, or the other
justices. What makes United States v. Nixon unique and gives special emphasis
to audience is that the key constituency is the most powerful person in the
political hierarchy—the president. Thus rather than a generic concern for
audience, this controversy presents a particularized audience that makes the
lens of the rhetorical situation particularly profound.
The final element of the
rhetorical situation concerns the relevant constraints. In a judicial context,
the constraints consist of “persons, events, objects, and relations” that the
Court must consider when writing an opinion because “they have the power to
constrain decision and action needed to modify exigence” (Prentice 98). While
traditional legal constraints such as the Constitution, a lack of fiat while
needing to compel compliance, and American ideology are relevant to
The use of the
rhetorical situation as an approach to legal rhetoric has been explored
previously by Robert Prentice in the Arizona Law Review. For his analysis
Prentice selected Brown v. Board of Education because “more is known about the
decision-making process in Brown than in any other case” (102). In Brown, the
inflammatory nature of the issues forced the Court to realize that the manner
in which they presented their “ruling would be no less important than the
substantive content of the opinion” (Prentice 103). The result of Prentice’s
investigation is a quality analysis by a legal scholar that at times underestimates
the importance or impact of rhetorical subtleties. In contrast, in this
analysis rhetorical scholars address a legal controversy in hopes of providing
a more nuanced treatment of rhetoric (while no doubt opening ourselves up to
similar charges concerning legal subtleties). While the subject matter of the
analyses is vastly different, the resolution of a sensitive subject with a high
probability of provoking disobedience represents a parallel between Brown and
Nixon. Thus for this and similar reasons this essay employs the rhetorical
situation to examine
The analysis proceeds by
exploring with additional detail how the rhetorical situation can be an
effective tool to evaluate strategic decisions in the legal sphere. That is
rather than serving only a descriptive or pre-critical function, evaluation of
complex situations can be fundamental to successful legal decision making, as
the Supreme Court’s decision in United
States v. Nixon demonstrates.
Negotiating
the Constraints:
Determining
Jurisdiction and Justiciability
in
In any given legal
dispute there are likely to be numerous constraints operating in conflict with
one another. Most importantly, each constraint has “the power to constrain
decision and action needed” to address an exigence before the Supreme Court
(Bitzer 254). These constraints may consist of social norms, statutes, criminal
law, past precedent, or the Constitution. While constraints such as past precedent,
the Constitution, and institutional rules are typical in nearly every case, in United States v. Nixon the Court
effectively juggled more difficult challenges to their jurisdiction and the
justiciability of the issue. These constraints initially presented barriers to
the Court’s ability to review the issue and thereby resolve the exigence.
Before addressing the
legal merit of claims proffered by Nixon and the Special Prosecutor, the
Supreme Court had to first determine if it had jurisdiction over the case. In
most respects this is a fairly generic constraint. In every case, whether it is
a criminal case in a District Court or a case of national importance in the
Supreme Court, the question of whether the implicated court has authority to
adjudicate the controversy must be decided. In Nixon, the Court acknowledged
the a priori nature of this issue by calling it the “threshold question” (690)
in the case.
While jurisdiction is a
requirement for any court to hear a legal controversy, additional explanation
allows full appreciation of the complicated nature of this question and the
challenge it presented. In appellate courts, such as the Court of Appeals or
the Supreme Court, one rarely sees argument over specific motions but instead
entire decisions are appealed from lower courts. This is because in order to
create a judiciary that is efficient as well as to avoid piecemeal reviews of
cases, the jurisdiction of the Court of Appeals encompasses only the “final
decisions of the district courts” (United States v. Nixon 690), thus typically
excluding motions such as the subpoena duces tecum around which this case revolved.
At first glance,
therefore, jurisdiction appeared to present a constraint on the Supreme Court’s
ability to review and resolve
In explaining its
reasoning the Court was also careful to pay deference to the high office Nixon
held. For instance, in referencing Ryan’s determination that to risk contempt
for defying a court’s order is not an undue burden for the ordinary citizen,
the Court acknowledged the special standing of the president. Preserving the
maxim that the president is the “first among equals,” the Court used precedent
to demonstrate their desire to prevent an “unnecessary occasion for
constitutional confrontation between two branches of government” (United States
v. Nixon 692) by requiring Nixon to “place himself in the posture of disobeying
an order of a court simply to trigger the procedural mechanism for review”
(691). Such a result would not only be “unseemly” but “the issue [of] whether a
President can be cited for contempt could itself engender protracted litigation,
and would further delay both review . . . and the ultimate termination” of the
controversy (691-92). By delicately crafting an opinion that created a clear
attempt to present the image of facilitating the needs of the President, the
Court maneuvered to combine the power of precedent with calculated deference to
both Nixon and the office of the presidency in order to navigate what could
have been a barrier to resolving the exigence.
The second key
constraint for the Court was the question of justiciability. In order for the
Court to hear a case it must present a resolvable issue that is not a strictly
political question (Baker v. Carr). If the issue was an intra-branch dispute,
as Nixon’s counselors contended, the Court would have no authority to
intervene. Just as they did in addressing the question of jurisdiction, the
Court carefully chose its words so as to not offend the President, even going
so far as to suggest that the Executive Branch could have avoided the legal
controversy.
Arguing in the Court of
Appeals, Nixon’s attorneys contended the matter was an intra-branch dispute
between the President and the Special Prosecutor, who serves as an extension of
the Department of Justice, a section of the Executive Branch, therefore leaving
the Court without jurisdiction. After this argument was rejected by the Court
of Appeals it was renewed before the Supreme Court in an alternative form, with
Nixon’s attorneys arguing that the political nature of the matter was beyond
the purview of the Court and hence not justiciable. To put it differently,
since the chain of command flows through the Executive Branch from President to
Attorney General to Special Prosecutor, Nixon’s counselors argued that the
Court could not tell the President how to manage his branch, effectively
barring the Court from providing any relief to the exigence.
To refute this claim and
negotiate their way around the barrier of justiciability, the Court relied upon
the Constitution and sections of U.S. Code which define the ability of the
Attorney General to appoint subordinate officers to discharge relevant duties.
The Court explains:
Acting pursuant to those
statutes, the Attorney General has delegated the authority to represent the
Here the Court explained
that while it is true that the Special Prosecutor is an agent of the Executive
Branch, his duties allow him to turn to the Judicial Branch for aid should he
be hindered in gathering the evidence needed to complete his function.
While this passage is certainly
important as it validated the actions of the Special Prosecutor, footnote 8
registered the fatal blow to Nixon’s argument. In that footnote the Court cited
federal register rules defining the power of the Special Prosecutor, which was
given full authority “to contest the assertion of ‘Executive Privilege.’”
Moreover, the footnote explained the existence of “assurances given by the
President to the Attorney General that the President will not exercise his
Constitutional powers . . . to limit the independence that he [the Special
Prosecutor] is hereby given” (United
States v. Nixon 694-95). The footnote removes any ambiguity that might
exist in the text of the opinion. The question of justiciability is
resolved—the Special Prosecutor has the right to turn to the Judicial Branch
for help in completing his task. To include this footnote in the body of the
text, in plain sight if you will, might have been perceived as charging that
either Nixon’s counsel was so incompetent in their briefs that they did not
know of this assurance or that they knowingly presenting the Court false information.
Regardless of which was true, either would be an insult and an embarrassment to
the President, making him hostile to any decision from the Court. Given that
the condition was too important to omit the Court wisely placed it in the
footnote, thus preserving the record while also allowing the President to keep
his dignity.
Perhaps most
importantly, in an attempt to again show that they are not zealous to encroach
on the Executive Branch, the Court noted that it was “theoretically possible
for the Attorney General to amend or revoke the regulation defining the Special
Prosecutor’s authority. But he has not done so” (United States v. Nixon 696). The Court simultaneously reminds the
reader that so long as the regulation delegating the Special Prosecutor
“remains in force the Executive Branch is bound by it, and indeed the United
States as the sovereign composed of the three branches is bound to respect and
to enforce it” (696, emphasis added). By suggesting that the Executive could
have avoided the problem if the Attorney General had amended the Special
Prosecutor’s responsibilities, the Court not only displaced some of the
responsibility for the decision, but also showed the executive branch that
future better management of the Special Prosecutor might avoid similar situations.2
The Court concluded
their answer to the question of justiciability with a basic judicial lesson on
the meaning of the concept. Of course there was the “controversy” or “conflict”
over whether or not the Special Prosecutor could take his boss to court, but
the Court writes “controversy means more than disagreement and conflict; rather
it means the kind of controversy courts traditionally resolve” (United States
v. Nixon 696). The use of the word “traditionally” reasserts that what the
Court did was nothing radical, but rather was the continuing function of their
constitutional role. The Court quotes
Thus ultimately the
Court effectively confronted issues related to its institutional authority and
American jurisprudence. In preserving the institutional authority and power of
the Court, they invoked their history and precedents and cited federal regulations
and sections of U.S. Code to assert that their action in this case was not
revolutionary. Without explicitly stating it, the Court created the perception
that rather than encroaching upon the territory of the Executive Branch they
were simply maintaining their institutional authority and power as granted by
the Constitution. At the same time, in their effort to preserve American
jurisprudence, the Court argued that to allow the subpoena to go unfulfilled
“would be inconsistent with the applicable law and regulation” (
From the very beginning
of the opinion, the Court had to skillfully navigate the constraints, namely jurisdiction
and justiciability, to put itself in a position to consider the exigence. To do
so, the Court used language that was concrete and left little room for
interpretation while saving Nixon from an embarrassing blow to his reputation.
Further, the Court cited binding federal regulations, binding precedent, and
the actions of the Executive and Legislative branch to help nullify imminent
criticism that they were practicing judicial statecraft. With the constraints
eliminated the Court turned its collective mind towards the exigencies of the
controversy.
Resolving the Exigence:
Enforcing the Subpoena
and Defining Executive Privilege
In United States v. Nixon the Court was required to address profound
questions about the American political system. More specifically, the Court addressed
questions of institutional authority and the enforcement of long held
constitutional principles in determining how to treat the serving of a subpoena
duces tecum and the meaning and
extent of executive privilege. This required the Court to judge whether a
subpoena duces tecum has the power to compel presidential compliance, assess
its own power to review and limit executive action, and to confront Nixon’s
claim of an absolute executive privilege. These issues emerged from the
exigencies in the case, which, apart from the acts that instigated the general
Watergate crisis, are two in number: (1) how a subpoena issued against the
president should be evaluated and (2) the immense and immediate threat to the
Court’s ability to perform its constitutional duty by Nixon’s assertion of an
absolute executive privilege.
The special prosecutor
charged with investigating the Watergate scandal issued the subpoena to obtain
certain tapes or documents relating to precisely identified conversations and
meetings between the President and others involved in the indictment. President
Nixon responded by claiming that executive privilege protected the release of
these documents and tapes and thus moved to quash the motion. The conflicting
stances created an institutional imperfection—an exigence—that the Supreme
Court sought to relieve. The case before the Court, an appeal of the District
Court’s decision that had upheld the subpoena duces tecum, had to resolve the
question of the power and validity of the subpoena in order to determine if the
criminal case could proceed.
In responding to this
exigence the Court methodically addressed the possible reasons for quashing a
subpoena duces tecum, as set out in Federal Rule of Criminal Proceedings 17
(c). They refuted each possible objection to the subpoena’s enforcement and explained
why the reasons did not suffice in
Moreover, as United States v. Nixon was not the first
occasion the Court had to examine the power of a duces tecum subpoena in a case involving a president, the Court was
able to rely upon past doctrine in evaluating the power of the subpoena. In United States v. Burr, which concerned a
treason charge against former Vice President Aaron Burr, Thomas Jefferson
offered excerpts of a document that would guarantee Burr’s conviction. In
resolving the validity of a subpoena duces tecum in that case the Court ruled
that the president could not release only certain items as he wished, instead
demanding that he provide the whole text, or nothing (McGurn 14).
In resolving Nixon, the
Court references Burr a total of seven times in order to serve numerous functions.
First, the decision is cited to demonstrate that the Court was meticulous in
its review of the subpoena (702). Second, and more importantly, Burr is used to
assert that it is the Court’s “right and indeed duty to resolve” the issue (707,
708). Finally, and perhaps most interestingly,
Addressing the exigence
of executive privilege presented a potentially explosive institutional battle
between the executive and the judiciary and posed a threat to the Court’s
status similar to that encountered in Brown v. Board of Education and Bush v.
Gore. While the phrase “executive privilege” first appeared in 1958 in an opinion
by Justice Stanley F. Reed, presidents since George Washington, who denied the
House of Representatives the right to see papers related to the negotiation of
the Jay Treaty, have appealed to its existence (Biskupic and Witt 217).
However,
To accept Nixon’s claim
of a broad and absolute executive privilege would have barred the judiciary
from carrying out its duties under the Constitution (Fisher 214) and it would
have granted the Executive Branch a tool to hide nearly anything from the
reaches of review. At the same time, the desire to prevent an omnipotent chief
executive was balanced by fears of hampering the Executive Branch too much and
restricting the candor of advisors to the president. Such concerns demanded
that the Court not restrict the powers of executive privilege by too great of a
magnitude. This concern is demonstrated in footnote twenty of United States v. Nixon where the Court
suggested a parallel between the candor of a juror and the openness of a
presidential advisor. The note states:
A juror (or advisor in our case) of integrity and reasonable
firmness will not fear to speak his mind if the confidences of debate are
barred to the ears of mere impertinence or malice. He will not expect to be
shielded against the disclosure of his conduct in the event that there is
evidence reflecting upon his honor. The chance that now and then there may be found
some timid soul who will take counsel of his fears and give way to their
repressive power is too remote and shadowy to shape the course of justice.
(712)
Thus while the Court
considered the candor of advisors, concerns over candor did not determine their
final stance on executive privilege. After being weighed by the justices, the
potential constraint posed by hampering the executive with a partial privilege
was not deemed significant enough to outweigh the risks of an unfettered executive.
The exigence of
executive privilege required the Court to seek a precarious balance concerning
how to afford sufficient protection to the President without creating an
absolute privilege that risked placing the President beyond the law. In
balancing these concerns the Court was able to consider the social atmosphere
of the time and the public audience. With the support of the people in compelling
presidential compliance, the Court had more ability to uphold the “rule of law”
and expand still further the discretionary power of the judiciary in the
American constitutional system (
The decision that the
courts, and not the President, would define the scope of executive privilege
was of central importance (Fisher 214). With the Congress actively hostile to
Nixon’s stance on executive privilege (Westin xx), the Court likely recognized
that they could expand their power and Nixon would be left virtually helpless
if he decided not to comply with the Court’s order. Staking a claim to this
power, however, was an aggressive step for the Court, as they would—indirectly
at a minimum—enhance their own power at the expense of the executive by limiting
the scope of executive privilege. The gravity of this result clearly weighed
upon the Court as throughout the opinion they took great pains to not only
demonstrate that the Court had the authority to make this decision but also a
duty to do so.
In order to demonstrate
this duty the Court called upon the seminal case in American legal
history—Marbury v.
Ultimately the Court
found a constitutional basis for the “protection of communications between high
Government officials and those who advise and assist them in the performance of
their manifold duties” (
The exigence—in terms of
its legal dimensions—was resolved. The subpoena would be fulfilled. The Court
would maintain its power by defining executive privilege as a broad, though not
absolute, protection. Executive privilege would allow the president protection
in matters regarding the military, diplomacy, and national security, while the
Court maintained sufficient authority to fulfill its constitutional duty. The
complexity of balancing the exigencies—enforcing the subpoena while maintaining
the power of the presidency—contributed to the complex language the justices
used in addressing the audiences and dealing with constraints. While the
constraints, as discussed, threatened to hamper what the Court could and could
not do, the audiences would ultimately determine the fate of the Court’s decision
by either complying with or ignoring it. Nixon’s staff had noted that he would
follow a “definitive” ruling from the Court, but what Nixon considered “definitive”
was unclear (McGurn 13). Unless the Court could deftly handle the executive
office as an important audience, a dangerous conflict between the executive and
the judiciary remained a possibility.
Writing to Audience:
Pacifying the President and the Public
In commenting on the
Supreme Court’s enforcement powers Justice Clark once noted, “we don’t have
money at the Court for an army and we can’t take ads in the newspaper, and we
don’t want to go out on a picket line in our robes. We have to convince the nation
by the force of our opinions” (qtd in Prentice 86). Thus the wise justice (and
the good rhetor) resorts to those arguments that are the most persuasive and,
like speechwriters, utilizes emotional appeals, symbolism, audience adaptation,
and other persuasive techniques (Prentice 89). Especially when faced with a
sitting president, who is charged with enforcing the laws, the Court is
reminded of Andrew Jackson’s defiant attitude in response to a decision with
which he disagreed: “John Marshall has made his decision; now let him enforce
it” (qtd in Westin xx).
In crafting a
rhetorically sensitive response, the justices preserved the historic building
blocks of American legal theory, skillfully navigating a fine line in
protecting and pleasing a public who wanted the President held accountable
while also guarding the dignity of the office of the president and preserving a
president’s ability to perform his or her job. At the same time, the Court had
to quell a threatening president, guaranteeing that he would comply with their
ruling while maintaining their own ability to function as a part of the
national government. In addition to writing for the public and the President,
members of the Court also had to consider the philosophical standing of their
fellow justices to make a “definitive” ruling possible. Finally, the justices
would attempt to write with sufficient clarity and specificity to guide lower
courts and future justices.
While in every Supreme
Court case there is an audience which is “capable of being influenced” (Bitzer
253) by the Court’s discourse, this particular controversy was largely unique
in that the most important audience was a sitting president. President Nixon’s
press spokesman Ron Ziegler had promised that the President would comply with a
“definitive” ruling, but what would be considered “definitive” remained unclear
(McGurn 13). Prior to oral arguments and the Court’s decision Nixon reportedly
said, “I don’t give a shit what happens. I want you all to stonewall it. Let
them plead the Fifth Amendment, cover up or anything else that will save the
plan. That’s the whole plan” (Westin xi). Nixon’s desire to not cooperate was a
chilling reminder to the Court concerning the limits of its powers and lack of
enforcement mechanisms. Likewise, the threat showed Nixon’s frame of mind and
lack of respect for the system of government he was charged to protect. It also
presented the justices with a major constraint—the realization that they could
not chastise the President so harshly that he would not comply. The ultimate
result, from the perspective of Westin, was a judicial opinion that “sounds
like the cool lecture on constitutional fundamentals that a rather pedantic
school master might deliver to a pupil who has handed in a very poor paper on
the constitutional fundamentals of the American system and deserved a lesson in
basics” (xvii).
At the same time the
Court was careful to look past the actual person occupying the office of the
president, Nixon, and to the “presidency” itself. Any decision the Court made
would affect the office and the function of future leaders of the
The second audience that
received consideration from the Court was the American public. Given the degree
of public sentiment against the President and concern over Nixon’s role in
Watergate and the cover-up that followed, the Justices had to reassure the
American public that no one, not even the president, could evade the “due
process of law and gravely impair the basic function of the courts” (United
States v. Nixon 712). One way the Court did this was by reassuring the public
of the stability of constitutional values and judicial doctrine.
The Court located
language from previous cases indicating that while the presidency provides
certain benefits during legal controversies, such as immediate review and
avoidance of procedural mechanisms in the appeals process (United States v.
Nixon 691), the Court also must “look behind names that symbolize the parties
to determine whether a justiciable case or controversy is presented” (693).
While recognizing the special position of the president, the Court also
reassured the public by drawing from Burr and reiterating that their rulings
“cannot be read to mean in any sense that a President is above the law” (715).
The Court’s concern for
both the president and the public is further seen in the way that the Court
balanced the concerns and rights of each against the other. The opinion, which
also has been described as having a back-and-forth tennis match like quality,
first sides with privilege then sides with the issuance of a subpoena as it
seeks to persuade both important audiences of the wisdom of its opinion (
The nine justices and
their efforts to arrive at a unanimous opinion composed a third crucial
audience in the controversy. Since it is believed that Nixon was considering
disobeying the order if the decision was close (Nelson 197), it was important
that Chief Justice Burger and seven of his colleagues worked to unite behind a
single, unanimous opinion.3 While the decision making process of the
justices is not precisely known, a combination of journalistic sources and a
rare discussion regarding how Chief Justice Burger led the Court in writing the
opinion, provides unusual insight into how the decision was crafted:
[When] the Court
gathered for its conference on July 9th, the day after oral argument
had been presented, the Chief Justice urged his colleagues to try to reach a
unanimous judgment and to join in a single opinion, a goal to which they
assented. After a review of where each Justice stood, it became clear that the
President had no support among the eight Justices for his position as to executive
privilege. However, Chief Justice Burger and Justice Blackmun—the so-called
Minnesota twins—were troubled about the issue of justiciability, that is,
whether the Special Prosecutor had the standing to bring this suit to enforce a
subpoena against his formal superior, the President of the United States.
Justice Stewart stressed the clear autonomy that the Special Prosecutor had
been given when this office was created by the President and confirmed by the
Senate, and the discussions brought Burger and Blackmun around to that view.
Four of the Court’s liberals—Douglas, Brennan, Marshall, and Stewart—favored
drafting a broad opinion limiting the concept of executive privilege, while
White and Powell favored the writing of a narrow opinion that would leave the
Court flexibility on the issue. After about six hours of discussion, the
Justices agreed on the main lines of a decision, and Chief Justice Burger
assigned to himself the drafting of this opinion. The other Justices contributed
memoranda for his use, and one account states that it was Justice Stewart who
contributed the draft of the opinion’s treatment of the justiciability issue.
(Westin xv-xvi)
Thus despite apparent
differences on the Court, the justices realized the importance of unanimity and
worked for a single opinion. In this regard the decision is an exemplar of
judicial craftsmanship, reminiscent of Brown
v. Board of Education, and, unfortunately, is in marked contrast to how the
Court has resolved many other important issues. The ability of the Court to
reach a unanimous decision is even more noteworthy considering that this was a
Court that did not often agree. The day after the profound unanimous decision
in Nixon, the Court issued a fractured 5-4 decision, split along ideological
lines, in a case regarding a
A final important
audience, lower and future courts, was less well served by the opinion. Since
these courts look to the nation’s highest Court for guidance when faced with
similar circumstances, it is incumbent upon the Court to attempt to set out
clear, concise approaches to the central issues of each controversy. In this instance,
the definition of executive privilege leaves other courts a mixed bag of
language with which to deal.
In the opinion,
consistent with previous decisions that defer to presidential responsibilities
in military and diplomatic matters (Fisher 215-16), the justices reaffirmed
that even more privileged than executive privilege and executive confidentiality
is the President’s “need to protect military, diplomatic, or sensitive national
security secrets.” While this afforded consistency and provided a touchstone
for future and lower courts, there is ambiguity in the language governing
privilege. For instance on at least nine occasions the Court spoke of the relatively
ambiguous “confidentiality of presidential communications” (United States v.
Nixon various wordings on 697, 703, 705, 706, 708, 710, 711, 713, 714), using
terms general enough to suggest a constitutional privilege of broader
dimensions than the limited evidentiary privilege with which it was actually
concerned. The Court might have clarified the scope of the protection had it
exclusively applied executive privilege to matters which “protect military, diplomatic,
or sensitive national security secrets” (
Yet perhaps more
important than the murky definition of privilege itself is the responsibility
lower courts inherited due to the ambiguities in the language. Subsequent to
Within
Conclusion:
The Legacy of
Both the short and long
term effects of United States v. Nixon
make it among the most influential cases decided by the Supreme Court. In the
short-term it was the immediate cause
of the resignation of the President of the United States (Freidman ix) and it
was the first time that the Court had recognized a constitutional basis for
executive privilege (Biskupic and Witt 219). The long-range effects of the case
are also significant. These effects include (1) the Court’s augmentation of its
own power, (2) an attempt to set parameters for executive privilege under the
enumerated powers, and (3) a reaffirmation of the American judicial system. To
conclude this essay, a brief consideration of each is necessary as well as some
final reflection on the utility of the rhetorical situation as an approach to
judicial rhetoric.
First and perhaps most
importantly, the Court augmented its own power by reaffirming its right to
review other branches of government. The expansion in power is signaled in the
per curiam opinion through the Court’s treatment of potential constraints. The
Court asserted its “authority to interpret claims with respect to powers
alleged to derive from enumerated powers” (
Second, in resolving a
central exigence, the Court took the issue of executive privilege and set out
parameters for what is and is not protected under the enumerated powers. The
fact that the Court determined the scope of privilege is a lasting effect in
that they control its definition and may read the concept as they see fit.
While placing a restriction on the Executive Branch, the Court did defer in
part to the presidency by recognizing a president’s right to withhold certain
information, a first in the history of the Court (Lamb and Halpern 139). The
longer term impact of the Court’s method of handling the Nixon exigence is seen
when the Court later exercised its power to review presidential action in
Clinton v. Jones and there noted “it is settled that the judiciary may severely
burden the executive branch by reviewing the legality of the president’s conduct”
(682). Later in that opinion, the Court again called upon
Lastly, while the
ramifications to this point have been either political or legal, one must
realize how “the people” came out in this decision. This decision reaffirmed
the American principle that no one is above the law and that the American
judicial system must be allowed to operate. The Court recognized this when they
wrote that “the impediment that an absolute, unqualified privilege would place
in the way of the primary constitutional duty of the judicial branch to do
justice in criminal prosecutions would plainly conflict with the function of
the courts under Article III” (United States v. Nixon 707). The American judicial
system is based upon the principle that all men are equal before the law. This
decision carries that maxim to the highest level by saying that even in the
most extreme and unique cases the law continues to function according to principle.
Perhaps most importantly to the Court, the public accepted this decision. In a
poll taken in 1974, sixty-five percent of the public felt that Nixon’s actions
were serious enough to force resignation (
By using Bitzer’s
formulation of the rhetorical situation to analyze
Endnotes
[1] A duces tecum
subpoena, translated “to bring with
thee,” is used to compel the production of evidence. In this particular case
the subpoena sought to force the production of tapes of Nixon’s conversations.
2 One might question the legitimacy of such an action
as it appears to contradict the previously cited footnote in which the Special
Prosecutor was described as free from restrictions unless he committed “extraordinary”
(United States v. Nixon 695) or
“gross”(696) improprieties.
3 The ninth justice, Justice Rehnquist, did not participate
in the case because at one point he had worked for the Department of Justice
under Attorney General Mitchell (Biskupic and Witt 234).
4 It is
also worth noting that United States v.
Nixon was a criminal, not civil, proceeding and the evidence requested did
not contain any national secrets (Kurland 47)—a nuance the Court acknowledges
in footnote 19. In Nixon v. Fitzgerald,
which was a civil suit, the judicial branch again reviewed a claim of immunity
by Nixon. It is difficult to consider this case as anything except an extension
and clarification of their decision in United
States v. Nixon. In it the Court explains presidential immunity as
extending to all acts within the “outer perimeter” of the president’s
responsibilities. This would appear to make Nixon
v. Fitzgerald a continuation or counterpart to United States v. Nixon, albeit one that is eight years in the
making given that the clarification did not come until 1982.
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R. Scott Medsker (
Sally
Hemings and the Deconstruction
of
the Patriot Archetype
Betsy McCann
Desireé Rowe
Introduction
When
visiting Thomas Jefferson’s home and plantation,
Although paternity
cannot be established with absolute certainty, our evaluation of the best
evidence available suggests the strong likelihood that Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings had a relationship over
time that led to the birth of one, and perhaps all, of the known children of
Sally Hemings. (p.1)
Many newspapers throughout the country have, and continue
to argue the opposite. Yet, in the quagmire of this socio-political debate,
very rarely is it an issue that Sally Hemings was Martha Wayles Jefferson’s
half sister (Staples, 18), blurring the lines between family and property. Further,
the role of Jefferson as a slave owner while one of the leading proponents of
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all men is also avoided by
those denying Hemings’ descendants’ claims to
America’s patriotic bloodline. Hemings and her children were the only slaves
that were freed in
Even though DNA evidence
is one of the most reliable tools used in forensics, considered to be even more
accurate than eyewitness accounts, (Bauman, 1991, p.1) a large part of the
American populous still refuses to accept these allegations against
We explore
the above discrepancy by posing the question: How does the Sally Hemings
controversy work to deconstruct the popular conception of Thomas Jefferson as
American Patriot through the use of converging and conflicting frames? Kenneth
Burke’s concept of poetic framing may be used to help answer this question, as
Burke asserts history may be socially constructed via poetic frames which
reject or accept a given social order or expectations. Historical figures are
constructed as heroes, such as Abraham Lincoln, or as buffoons, such as
Benedict Arnold, representing the choice to accept or reject the status quo. Burke
asserts frames typically exist in isolation; as explored by a number of
scholars. While focused and insightful research, the scholars only address the
reaction to conflict within the context of an isolated Burkean frame (e.g.,
The rhetoric
surrounding the Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings controversy proffers a
similar opportunity for scholars, as divergent public responses are indicative
of social image construction in the acceptance frame of Burke’s epic, and the
rejection frame of Burke’s burlesque. Both frames work together in establishing
a more complete version of the truth, yet work in opposition to one another to
effectively prevent a full truth from ever being firmly established. Through
our analysis, the tensions between Burke’s frames may be more fully examined as
well as the implications for the public perceptions of Thomas Jefferson as
Americans are faced with rejecting or accepting a particular interpretation and
construction of “social order.”
Burkean Frames and Attitudes
Kenneth Burke (1969)
noted in A Rhetoric of Motives that the basic function of rhetoric is “the use
of words by human agents to form attitudes or to induce actions in other human
agents” (41). The idea of the need for critical action through rhetoric is the
paramount idea of Burke’s acceptance and rejection frames. Burke argues all
human beings operate through symbolic action, and this symbolic action inevitably
creates a social order. The social order
strives to create a hierarchy of power, and within the hierarchy Burke’s
notions of the acceptance and rejection frames are utilized. The problem arises
when the individual violates the hierarchy. Feelings of guilt are associated
with this violation, and the frames seek to address the problem. The function
of the frames is to use them as a guide for punishing or accepting those that
violate the hierarchy. Once another is punished, the individuals’ feelings of
guilt are alleviated. More importantly, the hierarchy is restored, when the audience
member experiences the text that person has “vicariously reintegrated himself
or herself back into the community, and the hierarchy, as well” (Brummett,
1994, 134). This notion of action by the individual is more fully expressed
when Burke (1984) elaborates: “implicit in our theory of motives is a program
of action, since we form ourselves and judge others in accordance with our
attitudes” (pg. 92).
In personal
correspondence with Malcolm Cowley, Burke noted “thinkers build symbolic
bridges to get them across gaps of conflict” (Jay, 1988, 212). These symbolic bridges are the frames that help inform society of
the validation or the negation of an artifact within the society as whole. This
by no means infers the only individuals labeled as “thinkers” or
“intellectuals” are building these symbolic bridges to classification. Jürgen
Habermas (1984) provides justification for the nature of the Burkean
classification through his ideas on rationality. Habermas (1984) notes
rationality is the ability for individuals to “under suitable circumstances,
provide reason for their expressions” (pg. 17). The above method strives to
focus those “suitable circumstances” primarily on an individual within the
political sphere, and the publics’ adaptation towards them.
The poetic
framework of acceptance and rejection is created in Kenneth Burke’s text
Attitudes Towards History. Burke (1984) states his case for creating these
paradigms for analysis succinctly: “We must name the friendly and unfriendly
functions and relationships in such a way that we are able to do something
about them” (ATH 4). Again, the notion of naming solidifies Burke’s determinism
to create a critical framework that allows the public to cast judgment on
another individual within the societal framework. The two major categories are
acceptance and rejection, but within each category there are three tenets
requiring further analysis. The acceptance framework includes epic, comedy and
tragedy which “validate and purify the dominating authority” (Buerkle, 2003,
190). The rejection framework is composed of burlesque, satire and elegy and
are “methods of responding to a disruption of the social order as evidence of
the system’s fallibility and subsequently renouncing that particular order of authority
and power” (Buerkle, 2003, 190). Before delving more deeply into these frames,
a cursory examination of prior research must be taken. This examination will
show that this method strives to produce a representation of the Burkean notion
of poetic framing yet to be fully explored.
By taking a
closer look into prior writings, the credibility of this method is solidified.
The majority of the analysis on Burke’s poetic framework utilized one of the
six key tenets of the framework. The only known example of the tenets being
utilized concurrently is within Buerkle et al.’s (2003) Our Hero the Buffoon:
Contradictory and Concurrent Burkean Framing of Arizona Governor Evan Mecham. Published
in spring of 2003, this recent analysis agrees, “Other critics using Burke’s
definition of the poetic categories have considered texts … as operating in two
or more frames sequentially” (Buerkle et. al., 2003, 188). Buerkle et.al.
(2003) suggests future researchers could “push the current analysis even
further to find additional tensions among Burke’s poetic frames” (pg. 203).
This is the goal of our method. The frames discussed within Attitudes Towards
History are not self-enclosing, for they encompass all things at all times.
Thus, make an excellent model in which to frame a societal reality. These
frames “have built-in capacities to transcend their own limitations” (Wolin,
2001, 104). It is impossible to stop analysis once the frame stops allowing the
rhetor to fully express the notions accentuated within the sphere in question.
Because of this, it is necessary to transcend the limitation of one frame and
guide the rhetorical analysis amongst the applicable portions of the Burkean
framework. Within this analysis, the applicable categorizations are: epic,
comedy, tragedy and burlesque.
Within the
acceptance frame, the epic attempts to create a schema that allows for the
construction of a hero. Three key notions are important factors with the epic:
teleogy, inborn dignity, and projection device. But first, a summation of the
function of the epic is necessary.
The most
important notion within the epic classification is, for the purposes of this
method, the idea of the “hero.” A hero is an individual who has the ability to
rise above the situation and meet the challenges presented. The epic frame “celebrates
the ideals of the dominating order through the admiration of a hero who embodies
the ideal attitudes and goals of the community” (Buerkle, 2003, 191). Burke
(1984) advances the notion of the hero within his epic framework by calling
upon the philosophy of Marx: “Marx could restore the possibility of the hero
function of his group, with all the enrichment of the individual that such a
possibility contained” (ATH, p. 95). Burke’s (1984) analysis of Marx expounds
upon the theory that the hero (within the epic frame) is one who absorbs the
need for judgment amongst the members of society; the first example that comes
to mind is the politician. The politician is precisely whom Burke had envisioned
when designing the poetic forms and more specifically, the epic: “He [Burke]
believed that conservative politicians had used simplistic frames to guide
their thinking about social and political reform” (Wolin, 2001, 98). The
individual within the society uses the epic frame to “share the worth of the
hero by the process of ‘identification’” (Burke, 1984, ATH, p.36). This, in
turn, humanizes the hero and bodes well for the individual “and incidentally
dignifies any sense of persecution that may possess the individual, who may
also feel himself marked for disaster” (ATH 37).
Three key
elements are applicable to the epic framework (and others, are explored later).
The first is teleogy. Teleogy is “the perfection of a thing–the idea that
within every concept or representation of a dog, for instance, is the concept
of the perfect dog” (Brummett, 1994, 131). This notion of perfection is fitting
for the epic framework because if the telos of the hero is not in place, then
the hero must be cast out for the judgment of the society, thusly appealing to
the epic framework. The “teleogy of symbols intersects with real life problems
and solutions” because of the ability of the individual (or a group of individuals
compose society) to place the hero within the appropriate paradigm (Brummett,
1994, 131).
The second
element is inborn dignity. Burke utilizes this unification device when
discussing Adolph Hitler, but the notion is fitting elsewhere. Burke elaborates
“this categorical dignity is considered to be an attribute of all men, if they
will but avail themselves of it, by right thinking and right living” (Rhetoric,
1969, 213-4). Again, through the Marxist lens established earlier, in
conjunction with the framework of the epic acceptance paradigm, inborn dignity
is a quality that must lend itself toward the hero. If the hero does not avail
himself towards this dignity, he/she are at risk at placing oneself at the whim
of society. When defining the hero, Burke emphasizes the importance of inborn
dignity: “It [the hero] lends dignity to the necessities of existence,
‘advertising’ courage and individual sacrifice for the group advantage …” (ATH,
1984, 35-6).
Finally, is
Burke’s concept of the projection device. The projection device serves as a
method for the individual to distribute his or her own personal faults to the
hero. The process of the projection device is “the ability to hand over one’s
ills to a scapegoat, thereby getting purification by dissociation” (Rhetoric,
1969, p.214). This process takes the blame for the action off the shoulders of
the individual because the “individual realizes that he is not alone responsible
for his condition (Rhetoric, 1969, p.214). The notion of placing the guilt
elsewhere instead of addressing the problem internally is a valuable one.
Instead of changing patterns of behavior deemed negative, the individual is
granted the autonomy to assign the guilt elsewhere “and he wants to have them
‘placed,’ preferably in a way that would require a minimum of change in the
ways of thinking to which he had been accustomed” (Rhetoric, 1969, p.214). The
projection device serves a two-fold purpose, first, to elevate the individual
of any guilt. Second, this device serves to allow the individual to maintain
current patterns of behavior and is not forced to change current rationalizations.
The next
frame explored is tragedy. To fully understand this frame we must, first, delve
into how Burkean tragedy differs from the Greek classical notions of tragedy.
Second, how the tragic frame impacts the individual in conjunction with the
hero and fits into the notion of acceptance. Finally, one of the most important
functions of Burkean tragedy, the tragic hero must be fully explored.
Burke notes
“tragedy flowered when the individualistic development of commerce had been
strongly super-imposed upon the earlier primitive-collectivist structure” (ATH,
1984, p.37). This illustrates how the individual is affected directly by the
hierarchy of society, and (identical to the epic frame) within the tragic frame
the individual must take action. In tragedy, “hierarchy embodies authority,
transgression represents disobedience and guilt arises from the ‘fear of being
excommunicated’ by those in authority with whom we must communicate in order to
minimize chaos and terror” (Moore, 1992, 110). Therefore, within the tragic
frame, it is the hierarchy that preserves the social order and acts to inform
society through these ideas of guilt.
The tragic
frame fits into Burke’s acceptance frame through the usage of the tragic hero.
The tragic hero is “depicted as engaging in actions that are inevitable insofar
as they arise out of situations or character flaws that members of the audience
may have as well” (Brummett, 1994, 134). Since the actions the tragic hero is
taking are worthy of being condemned, the tragic hero must be condemned as
well. This alleviates the feelings of guilt within the audience because “When audience
members experience a tragic text, then, they see their own guilt purged by
seeing it punished and destroyed” (Brummett 134). This is a frame of acceptance
because it allows the individual to “‘resign’ himself to a sense of his
limitations” (ATH, 39). This resignation is not a destruction of the psychology
of the individual, thus, allowing society to remain intact. Because the
audience believes the tragic hero’s crime is their crime “the offence is
dignified by nobility of style” and is not sacrificing anything but the tragic
hero (ATH, 1984, p.39).
The third
frame within acceptance is comedy. Two key elements within the concept of comedy
must be addressed. First, the comic fool takes the position of the scapegoat
within the comedic frame (just as the hero and the tragic hero have done).
Second, the consequences of the comedic frame are deserving of attention. The
comic frame supports the hierarchy through the use of humor: “humor uses
incongruity to support the status quo in nontransitional states” (Wolin, 2001,
p.104). The use of humor within the comic frame prompts the audience to accept
the guilty act by believing the problem itself is not important. The notion of
acceptance aids in maintaining a hierarchical and informed society.
The guilty
act is always a result of the comic fool. The fool is not committing a crime
but merely acting stupid: “comedy warns against the dangers of pride, but its
emphasis shifts from crime to stupidity” (ATH, 1984, p. 41). Since stupidity is
the cause “the guilty act was inevitable insofar as it was a common human
failing. In this way, the comic fool is regenerated into the social hierarchy”
(Brummett, 1994, p. 134). The allowance of the comic fool back into the
hierarchy is the main principle of this acceptance frame, and allows us to draw
consequences out of the comedic frame.
By
alienating the comic fool as one who is a victim of stupidity “society sanctions
symbolic enactments of social estrangement as a method for confronting
transgression and binding people together” (Moore, 1992, p. 112). This allows
comedy to remain within the acceptance framework because it continues to allow
the individual to remain within their place in the hierarchy, yet place blame
on another. The important aspect of this frame is not on the fool but “on the
social role portrayed by the rejected clown for the good of the community”
(Moore, 1992, p. 112). The nature of the comic frame does not allow for dire
consequences of the comic fool. The worst consequences are “shame, humiliation,
and embarrassment” which are quite a departure from the condemnation the tragic
hero faces.
The comedic
frame is linked to the burlesque frame in context of the fool. Within
burlesque, the fool is one who “deliberately suppresses any consideration of
the mitigating circumstances that would put his subject in a better light”
(ATH, 1984, p.55). From this notion, the burlesque is placed within the rejection
framework. This framework is more negative because the fool is dismissing the
social hierarchy to the point of a “reduction to absurdity” (ATH, 1984, p.54).
The individual is therefore forced to reject the fool, as to not risk the
complete collapse of the social order. The individual is forced to look beyond
the actions of the fool and “not merely be equal to it, we must be enough
greater than it to be able to ‘discount’ what it says” (ATH, 55). The audience
must look above and beyond the actions of the fool. In so doing, the audience
is merely rejecting the actions, not outright denouncing them. This is the fine
line within the burlesque frame, because “only by keeping a distance between
society and the imbecile, does burlesque avoid becoming an entirely cruel
frame” (Buerkle, 2003, p. 191). The audience insists the fool “be separated
from the clan to make clear what values are acceptable” (Buerkle, 2003, p.191).
In this way, the formulation of ideals and values within the social order can
occur. This is the relative genius of the imbecile; they force the social order
to draw conclusions based on their behavior. Burke notes this through the
political example of the French Revolution: “At the time of the French Revolution,
when a ‘bill of rights’ was being drawn, some members of the Assembly suggested
that a ‘bill of obligations’ be included to match them” (ATH, 1984, p. 55). The
mere thought of solidifying the notions of the audience is something that does
not occur within the acceptance frames. The rejection paradigm is, therefore,
one of change.
An
interesting aspect arises out of the burlesque framework, when Burke’s notion
of commercial use is applied. Again, this unification device appears in Burke’s
critique of Adolph Hitler’s rhetoric. The term commercial use is
self-explanatory when applied to the fool; he is looking to sell something.
Within the context of Hitler it was the need for “financial backers for his
movement” (Rhetoric, 1969, p.214). This is the ideal fit for the politicians,
for through campaigning they are trying to win both favor and, in Burke’s
phrasing, “financial backers” (Rhetoric, 1969, p.214).
Through an
in-depth analysis of Kenneth Burke’s poetic forms, and the probable concurrence
between epic, tragic, comic and burlesque we can now move forward in the
analysis of the method to Thomas Jefferson and his liaison with Sally Hemings.
Analysis of
the public reactions to the DNA evidence pertaining to the paternity of Sally
Hemings’s children reveal how Americans try to make sense of cultural norms of
the eighteenth century as well as hold tightly to a historical construction of
a founding father. Following a review of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial
Foundation, Inc.’s report, a dissection of the dissenting minority report
demonstrates the use of the epic frame in constructing a new identity for
Analysis of
the public reactions to the DNA evidence pertaining to the paternity of Sally
Hemings’s children reveal how Americans try to make sense of cultural norms of
the eighteenth century as well as hold tightly to a historical construction of
a founding father. Following a review of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial
Foundation, Inc.’s report, a dissection of the dissenting minority report
demonstrates the use of the epic frame in constructing a new identity for
DNA Does not Lie, Unless the Populos Says It Does
President of
the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation, Inc., Dr. Daniel P. Jordan, released
the official statement on the TJMF research committee report on Thomas
Jefferson and Sally Hemings on January 26, 2000. Stressing the foundation’s
commitment to scholarship and Jefferson’s legacy in regard to the “complex and
extraordinary plantation community that was
The
dissenting minority of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation, Inc. released
its minority report on April 12, 1999, eight months before the official report.
Citing historical evidence as its primary reason for dissent, the employment of
Burke’s frames starts to become clear. The minority report is contending
because the argued events took place two hundred years ago, only a few people
would have known the truth, and only one left direct evidence in response to
the claims. On July 1, 1805,
“You will
perceive that I plead guilty to one of their charges, that when young and
single I offered love to a handsome lady.... It is the only one founded on
truth among all their [Federalist] allegations against me.1”
The
ambiguity of this statement is dismissed as the committee simply states, “How
can it be [ambiguous]?” (2). The minority report argues Jefferson’s nobility as
a founding father outweighs scientific evidence because he displays a
“character as great as the situation” (Burke, Attitudes Toward History, 42), placing their construction of Jefferson
well within the epic framing of “hero.” The minority report asserts, “None of
the others who would have had first hand knowledge of the facts have put down
statements in their own handwriting and their own words” (p.2) even though it
is common knowledge that in the eighteenth-century slaves were typically
discouraged from reading and writing. The acceptance frames present in the
minority report reinforce the idea Thomas Jefferson was a man “above” dallying
with a slave and work to firmly place Jefferson in the role of hero, and at
times in the position of martyr, as the minority report argues to not have
“historical accuracy overwhelmed by political correctness,” (5) which would
make Jefferson’s historical significance “meaningless” (5). The minority report
illustrates Burke’s notion of how discrediting a national legend may be
personally upsetting to those who believe in the hero as ideal, because the
follower’s sense of personal identity and worth is too wrapped up in the hero’s
persona. The minority report celebrates
The majority
of those within the media and the general public that accept Jefferson’s
paternity of Hemings’s children as truth, continue to use the epic frame to
construct a new identity for
Those who
disagree with the DNA evidence also use both of Burke’s frames to further
assert their position. Media and public dissenters seek to more firmly entrench
When
combined with epic framing, dissenters construct a two-sided message that
constructs a new identity for
Conclusions
It is first
necessary to examine what this analysis can tell us about why people reject
information. Burke’s assertions construct a process by which people rationalize
information they receive. This information, once it is placed within a specific
frame or frames, is then responded to in a way the information receiver deems
appropriate. Key to Burke’s assertions is that receivers always place information
in the frames of their own choosing, therefore establishing perception as a
choice as to whether to reject or accept information. Information consumers,
then, will always and can always find reason to reject new information, even
with a preponderance of evidence demonstrating the opposing viewpoint to be
true. The analysis of Burkean framing even illustrates how acceptance frames
can be constructed to aid in the rejection of information, and rejection frames
can be used to aid in the acceptance of information.
Within the
analysis of the Hemings/Jefferson issue it must also be considered what the
general acceptance or rejection means for the construction of
From a
perspective of historical values, dissenters present an interesting conundrum
for consideration, do we only judge leaders based on contributions, or based on
the bigger picture of who the person was as an American citizen? This even
lends itself to modern interpretations as different factions of society downplay
issues such as Bill Clinton’s marijuana use and George W. Bush’s cocaine use. It
is not the information that necessarily shocks the American sense of historical
values, but rather the accuracy of American historical memory. Further, the
implications for historical accuracy should be considered in light of the scientific
evidence in so far as “the black oral tradition is sometimes more reliable than
the official “white” version of history.” (Staples, 2003). Despite denials by
white historians (A Presidential Indiscretion, 1998) the oral tradition of
black history survived, ultimately being supported by numerous types of
evidence and scholarly opinions. This offers perspective on the very foundation
of our historical understanding. What should be accepted as truth? What
perspective is the most accurate and valid? Wellman (2000), perhaps, states it
best, “When the lies about this country are replaced with the truth we will be
able to live together.”
In regard to
Burkean methods, the use of acceptance and rejection frames to accomplish the
same purpose provides greater insight to the flexibility and breadth of Burke’s
methodology when applied to a variety of events. Conflicting frames used in
congruence illustrate the lack of absolutes in historical reconstructions. Further,
this congruence illustrates the communicative ability of information consumers
to weigh differing perspectives in light of one another and then use both sides
of an issue to promote a broader notion of acceptance or rejection. This
application can be used to examine the construction of argumentation that uses
varying perspectives to promote an ideology or belief system. Further, future research
should build upon this analysis by exploring other situations where conflicting
frames are used in tandem. Additionally, research should explore using Burke’s
frames in combination with other perspectives such as feminist theory, postmodern
theory, and perhaps even postcolonial perspectives. The combination of using
Burke’s foundational approach with more modern rhetorical approaches could lend
greater insight to all of these perspectives, as each argues a basic power
structure that is used in different ways to communicate different meanings.
While the
issue of whether or not Thomas Jefferson fathered Eston Hemings will never be
resolved with one hundred percent certainty, it is evident that Thomas
Jefferson’s identity as patriot remains firmly embedded in American culture. Perhaps
this controversy can raise the necessary questions of where we place values as
a society, and teach us to be critical of who we declare as
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Betsy
McCann (MA, 2002,
Computer Mediated Communication
and Adult Learners:
A Case Study of Messages using the
Hyperpersonal Framework
Linda B.
Dickmeyer
Ronda Knox
Abstract
There is an increasing
amount of research examining the role of computer-mediated communication (CMC)
in a variety of educational settings. Online courses are of particular interest
to adult learners. In addition, we notice that communication research rarely
studies adult learners, who provide increasing numbers in our face-to-face and
computer-mediated classrooms. The purpose of this research is to investigate
the interaction that occurs between adult learners in an online course.
Specifically, the hyperpersonal framework is used as a lens to examine how
participants communicate with one another. The hyperpersonal framework
components (receiver, sender, channel, and feedback) were evident through a
qualitative analysis of postings. Implications reveal instructors would be well
served to understand the interpersonal and hyperpersonal interactions that
occur online. In both CMC and traditional classroom settings, adult learners
are rarely studied, creating a rich research opportunity for instructional communication
scholars.
Introduction
Communication research
provides ample opportunity to examine the implications of computer-mediated
communication (CMC), particularly in the classroom. Online courses are changing
the way instructors and students interact with each other. Technology in the classroom
may range from teacher/student email to electronic chat rooms to distance
learning. Instructional communication research that addresses technology in the
classroom has focused on teacher-student interaction (Roach, 2002), teacher
behavior (Mottet & Stewart, 2001; LaRose & Whitten, 2000), and benefits
of CMC, including increased perceptions of learning and participation (Althaus,
1997). There are also recommendations for the uncertainty and skepticism that
accompany pedagogical concerns with CMC (White & Weight, 2000; Wittmer,
1998). Understanding how CMC enhances learning becomes increasingly important
as technology becomes more prevalent in instruction.
Although an increasing
amount of research has examined the role of CMC in a variety of educational
settings, there remain many unanswered questions. The past decade has provided
important research in instructional communication, focusing primarily on
student-teacher interactions and constructs. Waldeck,
Instructional
communication research rarely studies adult learners, who provide increasing
numbers in face-to-face and computer-mediated classrooms. Online courses are of
particular interest to adult learners. Adult education occurs in far greater
numbers than other learning institutions, and with the availability of
technology, occurs in the home, workplace and community agencies (Merriam &
Caffarella, 1999).
The purpose of this
research is to investigate the interaction that occurs between adult learners
in an online course by examining messages using the hyperpersonal framework. In
addition to responding to the call for more substantive research in
computer-mediated classrooms, this research is unique due to its special focus
on the adult learner. The impact of technology will be understood through the
voices of the adult learners as demonstrated in their postings online.
Review of Literature
Theoretical and
practical implications are important when researching computer-mediated
instruction. Courses taught online provide unique challenges to both teachers
and students. The literature reviewed for this research includes pedagogical
issues and CMC, a framework that is relevant from a communication perspective,
and research on characteristics of adult learners.
Pedagogy and CMC
Computer-mediated
instruction is rapidly becoming a mainstay in post-secondary education. Examples
of research conducted in the mid to late 90s include the use of technology in
group communication, using online information to facilitate learning, and
utilizing email for relationship building (Shelton, Lane, & Waldhart,
1999). Flanagin (1999) reports that in some cases, online courses are more
satisfying and contribute to increased mastery of material in comparison to
traditional classroom environments. Other advantages include increased group cohesion
among students, student interaction that extends beyond classroom time, and
enhanced learning (Wittmer, 1998).
CMC in classrooms is not
without challenges for both students and teachers. For students, unfamiliarity
with computer technology may provide a barrier to learning (Brandon &
Hollingshead, 1999; Wittmer, 1998). Uncertainty in the medium itself may lead
students to question relevance of course material, affect motivation, and
engage in resistance behaviors. Teachers may also resist using
computer-mediated instruction due to rapid changes in technology and comfort
with the methods they have already established. In many cases, teachers are not
prepared to teach in the online environment, and mistakenly transfer what they
know about traditional pedagogy and experience to this very different medium
(Bailey & Cotlar, 1994; Flanagin, 1999; Wittmer, 1998). Lane and
Effective communication
and pedagogical decisions are crucial for a successful online course. Reed et.
al (2002) researched computer-mediated class discussions for eight years and
found an underlying theme that “language is crucial to learning” (p. 8). Participation
is more democratic in computer-mediated communication rather than in oral discussions.
Three conclusions Reed et. al (2002) draw are: 1) that with proper direction,
students can experience coherence in the CMC world, 2) topic construction is
critical in shaping group understanding, and 3) online discussions result in
different interactions than those found in face-to-face communication. If
presented effectively, computer-mediated instruction is not only successful,
but also appropriate for the changing face of education.
Berge (1999) contends
that education is more inquiry-based than in the past. As a result, students
are becoming more self-directed and taking responsibility for their own
learning. In other words, pedagogical decisions should move away from the
expert teacher to the life-long learner. The online environment seems appropriate
for inquiry-based learning and relates to Berge’s earlier work on online teaching.
Berge (1997) found that online teachers preferred the constructivist approach—learners
are involved, show self-direction, and construct their own meaning and
knowledge. From a social construction perspective, CMC offers a new environment
for discussion. In a face-to-face classroom, conversation flow can determine if
students are able to voice their thoughts. For example, conversations may move
in a different direction, students may get lost in the conversation and forget
what they were going to say, or students may not think what they have to say is
relevant. In contrast, online courses allow students to speak at the same time,
with more opportunity to talk than in a traditional classroom (Reed et. al,
2002).
Both computer technology
and collaborative learning are identified as trends in communication instruction
(Shelton, Lane, & Waldhart, 1999). The combination of collaborative
learning theories and CMC has resulted in research known as CSCL, or
computer-supported collaborative learning (Brandon & Hollingshead, 1999). The
CSCL perspective helps explain how technology can help or hinder collaborative
learning.
Brandon and Hollingshead
(1999) identify collaboration, communication, and social context as crucial to
understanding the CSCL perspective: “The social creation of knowledge, when
discussed at the level of small groups, is collaborative learning or the
development of shared meaning among group members. The collaborative
development of shared meaning requires a substantial amount of communication,
perhaps even more so in online than in face-to-face groups” (p. 111). As such,
there is a development of shared meaning among group members online.
A final issue
surrounding CMC and pedagogy is the use of theory. As mentioned above, Brandon
and Hollingshead (1999) address theory by providing a model that combines
research on both CMC and collaborative learning. Yet, instructional research
tends to be variable driven, with little effort to provide a theoretical
framework (Waldeck,
The Hyperpersonal Framework
The hyperpersonal
framework comes from the work of Walther (1996). Walther’s 1996 review of
various research on CMC encounters shows the progression from the impersonal,
or reduced channels perspectives to research that suggests CMC enhances
relationship development. Early research on CMC took the perspective that fewer
nonverbal cues are available due to the very nature of the medium. As a result,
impressions were limited and interactions were much more task-oriented
(Walther, 1996; Walther, Slovacek, & Tidwell, 2001). Much of this research
uses the social presence theory to explain how reduced social presence, such as
that found online, reduces the interpersonal warmth and connection that develops
in face-to-face interactions.
Walther (1996) cites
research that suggests social presence and other “cues-filtered-out” approaches
to CMC do not always result in impersonal communication. In an attempt to
explain results that point to interpersonal rather than impersonal CMC
relationship development, Walther (1996) advances the hyperpersonal framework. This
perspective is based on a social information processing perspective, in which
social cognition and normal relationship development do in fact influence CMC
to be interpersonal and social in nature (Tidwell & Walther, 2002; Walther,
1992; 1996). The primary difference between face-to-face and CMC regarding
impression formation and relationship development is the notion of time. Clearly,
those CMC encounters that are one-time only or time-limited groups are more
task-oriented. However, CMC communication that is ongoing provides the
opportunity for participants to use verbal cues and the delayed element of time
to result in “normal, but temporally retarded interpersonal development”
(Walther, 1996, p. 5). In fact, CMC may allow users to experience increased levels
of affection and perceptions of one another due to the medium. This phenomenon
is what Walther (1996) labels “hyperpersonal communication,” where the
communication in an online environment is “…more socially desirable than we
tend to experience in parallel FtF interaction” (p. 9). The hyperpersonal
framework is explained via four elements of the communication process—receiver,
sender, channel, and feedback.
Walther (1996) argues
that CMC affects these four factors in ways that are not possible in face-to-face
communication. Furthermore, asynchronous communication is key in the
development of the hyperpersonal communication. In other words, the notion of
time plays a part in the perceptions/impressions formed, particularly since CMC
users can respond to others at a time that is convenient. As such, the communication
that occurs is not in sync, as is the case with face-to-face communication.
Walther (1996) claims
that receivers engage in idealized perceptions of their online partners or
group members. In other words, the perceptions of others are inflated due to
the nature of the online interaction. Without the presence of face-to-face
cues, CMC partners positively over exaggerate their impressions of one another.
When in a group setting, individuals perceive greater similarity with other
members, increasing their liking for one another. Walther uses the social
identification/deindividuation (SIDE) theory to further explain this phenomenon.
Without the use of visual cues, participants in CMC cannot see one another as
individuals (deindividuation). As a result, any social and/or personal information
received is subject to over-attribution (Walther, Slovacek, & Tidwell,
2001).
When referring to
senders, socially favorable communication is sent to receivers; in other words,
there is optimized self-presentation (Walther, 1996). When using CMC, the
ability to be selective with self-impressions is greatly enhanced. Senders are
able to manage their impressions due to lack of visual cues and time spent
constructing presentational messages. As a result, they engage in what Walther
calls personal and relational optimization.
Walther (1996) discusses
face-to-face interaction in light of entrainment, or as very synchronized and
coordinated. The fact that hyperpersonal messages do not need to follow
face-to-face turn-taking rules, they are disentrained, or asynchronous. The
asynchronous nature of CMC defines how the channel is important to the
hyperpersonal framework. The coordination, or flow, of communication is greatly
influenced by the channel, especially since there are no time-bound concerns
when regulating the flow of interaction. CMC users can take advantage of the
channel to engage in both task and social messages.
The final component of
the hyperpersonal model is feedback, which Walther (1996) claims is intensified
via CMC. Since the interaction with CMC involves minimal cue interaction,
confirmation, or feedback, seems to be magnified. CMC senders and receivers
reciprocate, through feedback, idealized images of one another. The
interaction, via the asynchronous channel, reinforces and confirms through feedback,
the optimal self and idealized receiver, much like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Taken together,
hyperpersonal communication is a different communication system due to the
unique characteristics of receivers, senders and the message exchange process
(Caplan, 2001). Walther (2001) summarizes the elements of the hyperpersonal perspective
as depicting “… how senders select, receivers magnify, channels promote, and
feedback increases enhanced and selective communication behaviors in CMC” (p.
4). CMC may take advantage of the capabilities of textual communication to
create positive impressions that may not occur in face-to-face, or offline
encounters (Tidwell & Walther, 2002).
A learning environment
that encourages the conditions of hyperpersonal communication may increase
students’ perceptions of teachers and other students, as well as contribute to
information exchange (Weisgerber, 2002). The asynchronous nature of computer-mediated
instruction could capitalize on the way messages are sent and optimized. The
hyperpersonal framework may be of particular interest when students are adult
learners.
Adult Learners
Educational institutions
continue to increase online course offerings and target adult learners.
Continuing education is the fastest growing area in education, and most online
students are adults (Rudestam & Schoenholtz-Read, 2002). Online courses are
expanding to promote lifelong learning and to provide adult professionals with
additional training. Because of their multiple commitments, such as with work
and family, adult learners have embraced online courses. The asynchronous
nature of the online environment allows for flexibility in teaching and
learning.
Adult learning is a
growing enterprise, surpassing the activities found in all other educational
settings (Merriam & Caffarella, 1999). Instructors with the opportunity to
teach adult learners should know it is erroneous to speak of the adult learner,
as adult learners are as varied as students at any age and level. Some distinct
categories for understanding the variability among adult learners include
motives for learning, cognitive characteristics, personality differences,
roles, and life experiences (Long, 1990).
Perspectives on adult
learning often stem from the work of Knowles (1980; 1984), who coined the term
andragogy. Andragogy is the science of helping adults learn, and Knowles’
(1984) framework of andragogy includes four assumptions of adult learners: (1)
adults are self-directing; (2) adults use their personal experiences as a
learning resource; (3) adults tend to have a life, task, or problem-centered
orientation to learning as opposed to a subject-matter orientation; and, (4)
adults are motivated to learn due to intrinsic rather than extrinsic factors. In
light of these assumptions, it is clear that adult learning situations should
involve real-life tasks and situations, or conditions that allow personal
involvement. Adult education literature describes adults as self-directed,
self-reflective, and more likely to bring their own life experiences to the
learning situation (Pascual-Leone & Irwin, 1998).
Personal experience is
particularly important in adult education, as students not only build on prior
experience, but their experience shapes learning (Merriam & Caffarella,
1999). Adult educators recognize that pedagogical decisions that encourage
group interaction and reflection may be of particular interest to life long
learners. Since the adult learner is self-directed, the educator’s role should
be that of a coach, or facilitator. Educators can make effective decisions when
designing an adult course that capitalizes on participants’ strengths.
Adult learning research
has recently turned to the role of technology (Imel, 1999). An important consideration
when designing courses for adult learners is to consider technologies that
promote learning. Biswalo (2001) uses distance learning to suggest ways that
the environment can be enhanced for adult learners. The opportunities in this
setting include individual response times, learning that occurs in a real-world
context, participation of all learners without compromising class time, and a
community of learners based on intellectual interest rather than physical
proximity. Whether the technology involves email, distance learning or an
online course, the environment is conducive for capitalizing on the strengths
of the adult learner when well designed and implemented on the part of the
instructor.
Summary
Clearly, there is a
strong link between adult learners and CMC. Computer-mediated instruction is
rapidly changing the face of education. Technology provides interesting
research opportunities as adult learners participate in online courses. Online
courses are popular with adult learners because the students are involved,
self-directed and construct their own meaning. In other words, there is mutual
understanding while participants exchange ideas and feelings as they create
social knowledge. Much learning takes place in social contexts, or while interacting
with others. In fact, social construction of knowledge occurs not only with
one’s own understanding, but also through the interactions of others.
The hyperpersonal
perspective shows how communication that occurs online surpasses the typical
interactions that occur in face-to-face relationships, as communicators present
and perceive one another in an inflated, positive manner. Using the
hyperpersonal framework as a lens to examine CMC in an online course with adult
learners provides insight into the ways adult students interact in this
asynchronous environment. Analyzing the messages of online postings provides an
original, descriptive look at the communication that occurs among adult
learners. Therefore, the following research question is raised:
RQ: How is the hyperpersonal perspective reflected in the messages
sent by adult learners in an online course?
Method
This study is a
descriptive content analysis that is qualitative in nature. Because this
research focuses specifically on one class and all the resulting posts, it can
be considered a case study. In instructional research, a case study examines
educational phenomena in their natural context (Gall, Gall, & Borg, 1999). In
case studies, a conceptual framework is used to understand the collected data. The
data in this case are the postings, and the conceptual lens is the hyperpersonal
framework. Although the data emerged according to theme and course direction,
it was content analyzed according to the four components of the hyperpersonal
framework.
The Course and
Participants
The online course was
taught from a constructivist approach. Learning was inquiry-based and dependent
upon the adult learners’ messages. The course, Facilitating Learning in
Community, was taught online for 14 weeks as an elective in a Masters of
Education and Professional Development program at a small Midwestern university
through the use of the instructional software, Blackboard.
Eleven graduate students
participated in the online course. All of the students in the course were
working professionals. Four students were male and seven were female, with a
mean age of 43. Only two students had previous experience with an online
course.
Students were required
to attend two face-to-face sessions. The first session was used to meet
classmates as well as verify all students were able to use the technology. The
second session was the final class meeting and was used to complete required
documents and provide feedback about the course.
Procedures and Data Analysis
With the exception of
the two face-to-face sessions, all course materials and communication was
online. Students were encouraged to post questions and comments on the
discussion board; however, there were no requirements for number of posts. Students
and the instructor generated 554 posts throughout the semester. Posts ranged
from 2 to 357 words per posting. The average length of a posting was 94 words.
All postings were
printed at the end of the semester. Patton (1990) points out that there are
several strategies for analyzing written data, such as according to chronology,
key events, or issues. This research fits the strategy of processes, where data
is labeled and/or organized according to important processes. The postings were
marked according to the components of the hyperpersonal framework,
specifically: 1) receiver, 2), sender 3) channel, and 4) feedback. The intention
is not to have mutually exclusive or exhaustive ways of organizing data, but to
provide a framework. The framework in this case allows for a content analysis
that is descriptive in nature. The researchers individually coded the postings
according to the hyperpersonal components, then together discussed the postings
for descriptive results and implications.
Results
Although 554 posts were generated, thousands of
messages were embedded in the postings. However, the scope of this research was
to focus on those messages that clearly fit the hyperpersonal components.
Receiver
In the hyperpersonal
framework, perceptions of others are inflated in a positive way (Walther,
1996). The adult learners in this case perceived a greater similarity with
their classmates due to the nature of the interaction and their shared
experience. The postings with this group appear to reinforce this notion. Representative
receiver-focused messages include:
§
We're
on the same page of wanting to stretch and grow in our facilitator skills, so
this is a safe place to share experiences that will inform others as well as
get feedback to serve as future guidance.
§
I
know that I won't have any trouble developing strong bonds with you and will be
able to develop a shared vision and shared values.
§
I
really appreciate those who have been holding down the fort. You people just
amaze me.
§
I
am very grateful for this opportunity to share with so many incredible people
who value the same love of learning and joy in the profession that I do.
§
I
have gained more respect and admiration for those people who are always giving
of their time and insight. I have learned so much from everyone’s postings.
§
You
are all amazing people and I feel honored to be a part of this course.
§
I
feel I have learned a great deal about people and how they think...I learned
many new things about each one of you also. You really are very intelligent,
reflective people.
The influence of both
the nature of an online class and the fact that participants are adult learners
highlight the inflated views of one another. The postings seem to reflect a
need to establish common ground, particularly since all students were part of
the same Master’s program. This may explain their comfort in giving compliments
and reinforcing positive perceptions of one another. As Walther (1996) posited,
these online learners idealized their perceptions of their classmates, evidenced
in their positive perceptions of one another.
Sender
Walther (1996) suggests
that in hyperpersonal communication senders manage the impressions they send to
others about themselves. The nature of the online environment allows them to
posture and purposefully send messages of personal and relational optimization.
In this case, adult learners showed little evidence of personal optimization. However,
they clearly posture, or manage, what they are saying about their own
uncertainty and frustrations. Examples include:
§
Either
way, stranger or friend, one of the biggest problems for me in this setting is
the fear of sounding unintelligent or the fear that I will be thought of as
unintelligent.
§
This
senseless banter is just what is on my mind. I am often the silent voice, and I
believe I must be more present in the discussion threads.
§
When
I logged onto Blackboard and saw the extent of activity, I realized I'm going
to have to plan time more carefully.
§
I
have to admit though, the suggestion that we develop a set of values for our
virtual community caused my heart to race.
§
I
find myself intimidated because I am going beyond my comfort zone in my ability
to utilize a computer other than to word process or send email.
§
Am
I thinking too hard on this? Maybe, but I have been struggling with the fact
that I have not participated in this class as much as I would have expected my
students to participate if I were facilitating this class. I’ve been feeling
guilty and perhaps a bit overwhelmed by all the reading and other stuff going
on in my life.
§
I'm
puzzled but not surprised. I'm the one who knocked off the back steps of the
house on my first attempt to back the car up when I was 16.
§
I
have not taken the time to fully edit my posts. After reading what many people
said in regard to their editing, I was a bit ashamed...that my posts could have
been more reflective if I would have taken the time to really edit my pieces.
Another item that I can learn from.
§
Interestingly,
these adult learners were more negative in their self-presentation, as
indicated by their willingness to express self-directed angst, frustration, and
weaknesses. However, it is clear that the way they present themselves is
selective in the way they come across to others, although that presentation is
negative in nature. The postings include messages that could be interpreted as
both sender and receiver regarding the hyperpersonal framework, as the use of
negative perception in turn elevates the
receivers and their abilities.
Channel
In the hyperpersonal framework, the
channel is key to understanding the interactions of participants. The channel
is asynchronous in nature, affecting the coordination, or flow of communication
(Walther, 1996). These adult learners, as reflected in the following postings,
embraced the asynchronous nature of the channel:
§
I am excited to see where
this class takes us and all of the information that I can gain through everyone
else. I will be learning how we can form a community online as I watch everything
unfold.
§
I
like the way you summarized your thoughts about each person’s comments. I know
we can’t always do that, but it helped me get an idea of how you were
responding to all of the thoughts.
§
So
then, what is a learner’s responsibility to other members of the online community?
Is it fair and equitable to take and not contribute to the dialogue? Is it OK
to reflect privately in a course designed to help every member learn from each
other?
§
This
is one of the great things about this class. In a regular class, someone may
comment on something that you would like more time to reflect about, but can’t
since the class keeps moving forward with or without you. Here, we can read and
reflect at our own leisure and post questions for more clarification. I think
that in itself helps develop connections to our learning and as a result,
deeper understandings.
§
Interestingly,
we found more channel messages that were directed at the pragmatic nature of
the channel (use of a computer) than those that were evidence of
disentrainment. In fact, many messages focused on the technical difficulties
experienced with the channel itself. Technical difficulties were more frequent
in the beginning of the semester, but their expression with these difficulties
became more sophisticated as time passed:
§
I'm
on a MAC and having trouble opening some documents posted by PCs; any clues for
me as to how to overcome that hurdle?
§
I
pushed the wrong button..?...and lost all the messages. My board says I've read
them all; actually, I haven't started. I know they probably aren't really
lost...but I sure can't find them. Tried the expand and collapse button. Didn't
help. Any ideas?
§
I
followed your directions step by step but when I press the collect button, I
get a dialogue box that reads "you must have one item selected to collect".
And that's the problem. I seem to have buried those items out on the back 40
with no map to find them!
§
Being
a novice on Blackboard, I feel like I am going through the motions but I am not
yet comfortable with the process.
§
A
lot more time has been spent on the computer than usual and I am feeling that
twitch in my eye from squinting. The physical problems mentioned in the text
are real and are a concern for me.
The uncertainty with the channel also reflects the
negative self-perceptions of senders. Although there were concerns about the
technology and their own limitations, all of the adult learners discussed the
positive implications of the channel. Although this discussion of the channel
is different from Walther’s (1996) channel in the hyperpersonal framework, it
is important to reveal how the medium itself is discussed and interpreted by
adult learners. The following postings show some of the positive comments about
the channel and how the asynchronous nature contributes to the other components
of hyperpersonal communication:
§
I look forward to
having a
place to meet when we are not physically together.
§
It
will be great to convert those email sessions into online discussions or
announcements.
§
I
guess one of the exciting elements to this is being able to strengthen our
communications skills via the Internet.
§
I
think Blackboard is a wonderful tool for
sharing and a lot of learning can take place in a constructivist environment.
Feedback
Based on the
hyperpersonal framework, feedback is magnified online. Through the use of
feedback, senders and receivers reciprocate idealized images of one another
(Walther, 1996). However, since the adult learners tended to NOT idealize
themselves, the feedback messages were more in line with the positive perceptions
of the receivers. They seemed to focus more on others than on themselves. The
postings were affirming in nature while asking questions or seeking
information.
§
I finally read your idea
carefully and think we should all use this method more often. Good work!
§
I
like the idea of supporting one another as much as we can.
§
Amen.
I agree. As a matter of fact, being able to share the joy of learning with
others having a common foundation is a real blessing.
§
Thank
you for sharing your thoughts. They not only have helped me better understand
what we have just gone through in regard to this online class, but given me
more things to reflect on.
§
Love
this! I think you nailed it for me.
§
What
do the rest of you think?
§
Any
comments, questions or criticisms about this approach?
§
So
then, what is a learner’s responsibility to other members of the online
community? Is it fair and equitable to take and not contribute to the dialogue?
Is it ok to reflect privately in a course
designed to help every member learn from each other?
Adult learners in this research tended to
affirm one another on a regular basis. When they were not affirming others,
they were seeking feedback from the group.
Based on the analysis of the results, the four
components of the hyperpersonal framework were present in postings. The four
components of the hyperpersonal framework (receiver, sender, channel, and
feedback) were evident, although the sender messages did not appear to
selectively inflate one’s presentation of self.
Discussion and Implications
A pedagogical concern with CMC instruction is
uncertainty with the technology itself (Brandon & Hollingshead, 1999). The
messages examined in this case study reinforce concerns on the part of these
adult learners when using technology in an online class. Participants were
specific about addressing strengths and weaknesses of the online learning environment.
In an attempt to make sense of this channel, many messages compared online
interactions to face-to-face communication. This attempt at sense making is typical
of adult learners’ willingness to use their experiences to shape their own
learning (Merriam & Caffarella, 1999).
Knowles’ (1984) framework of andragogy includes
the notion that adults tend to have a life, task, or problem-centered
orientation to learning as opposed to a subject matter orientation. As such,
adults tend to be intrinsically motivated, self-directed, and turn to personal
experiences as a resource. This examination of adults’ online communication
provided a unique way to see how adults indeed used their own life experiences
and the reinforcement of others consistently throughout the course. Although
the examples provided for this research were representative of the hyperpersonal
framework, it should be noted that these and all postings frequently turned to
social and identity messages rather than a consistent focus on the course
itself. Although this may not be unique to communication in an online setting,
it reveals how the adults in this class reveal traits that are consistent with
andragogy research.
The
lens of the hyperpersonal framework examined adult learners’ perceptions of the
receiver, sender, channel, and feedback. Walther (1996) argued that
hyperpersonal communication intensifies and idealizes perceptions of self and
others because of asynchronous interactions online. As a result, any social
and/or personal information received is subject to over-attribution (Tidwell
& Walther, 2002).
Our analysis of the receiver messages
indicated that adult learners did inflate their perceptions of their
classmates. Responses revealed a strong affinity toward one another and were
extremely complementary. Although the participants were acquainted through the
same graduate program, early postings addressed the uncertainty that exists
with an online course as they shared their experiences. However, it became
clear that bonds grew stronger online through the positive perceptions and
compliments that were showered on one another. Based on this analysis, the
idealized receiver concept within the hyperpersonal framework was obvious in
adult learners’ communication online. Therefore, the online instructor could
discuss hyperpersonal research and how online students positively over
exaggerate their perceptions of one another. The online instructor could also
ask students to challenge one another and encourage them to provide constructive
criticism when appropriate online.
Walther (1996) claims that senders portray
themselves in a socially favorable way online by managing their
self-presentational messages. Although there were many sender messages embedded
in postings, the nature of those messages tended to avoid self-optimization. We
found an abundance of messages that showed personal angst and negative
self-perceptions—these adult learners downplayed their abilities. They did not
hesitate to express negative feeling and attitudes about themselves, such as
with their technological skills, contributions to the group, and their
intelligence. This may be unique to the adult learner population because adults
are more willing to increase their self-awareness (Imel, 1999). Because adult
learners use critical reflection, the presentation of self is not focused on
others’ perceptions, but instead, on their own self-awareness.
Adult learners should feel comfortable assessing
themselves. Biswalo (2001) notes that adult learners experience anxiety because
of their fear of failure and/or looking foolish to others. Within a few weeks
of an online course, an instructor may notice adult learners tend to downplay
self-presentation while inflating their peers’ abilities. This is an
opportunity for the online instructor to facilitate a discussion about the
hyperpersonal framework and the role of the sender. Although it is common to
inflate perceptions of others online, adults should know that their classmates
may also be feeling similar anxiety about the online experience. This not only
validates their negative self-perceptions, but also allows for the
non-threatening, supportive climate that is advocated by adult learning scholars
(Biswalo, 2001; Imel, 1999; Merriam & Caffarella, 1999).
The channel is discussed
via the hyperpersonal framework as instrumental to the idealized perceptions of
senders and receivers due to the asynchronous nature of computer technology. As
such, communicators are not bound by time in the message exchange. The
implication is that the channel itself reinforces the ways senders and
receivers present themselves in a positive manner. The results of this study
indicate that while the asynchronous nature of the channel was appreciated, the
channel itself was a major influence in all aspects of the class. Although it
appears that these adult learners appreciated the opportunity to reflect on
postings of others and carefully compose responses, it is difficult to discern
channel messages as explained in the hyperpersonal framework through content
analysis alone. Observation or follow-up interviews with participants may
provide insight into how the channel influences personal impression management
decisions. The channel messages that were prevalent go beyond the role of the
channel by pragmatically addressing concerns such as technical difficulties and
personal limitations. The way the channel messages were described by adult learners
were in the recognition that technology is primarily a medium that can help or
hinder communication rather than using it as an opportunity to manage
impressions.
One major concern of an online class for
adults is the use of technology. Uncertainty with technology likely reinforces
adult learners apprehension and participation level. One way to reduce this
anxiety is to have a face-to-face meeting at the beginning of class to make
sure all students are capable of using the required technology. Another
suggestion is to offer flexibility to accommodate certain circumstances.
Technical difficulties will occur, so online instructors need to communicate
their understanding of events beyond students’ control.
Walther (1996) claims
that feedback is intensified through CMC. The hyperpersonal framework shows
that feedback between senders and receivers online reinforce and confirm
positive perceptions. In this case study, the feedback component was present
due to the nature of the course. Intensification describes how the participants
appeared interested in giving and receiving feedback to one another. However,
feedback messages, as presented in the hyperpersonal framework, were somewhat
influenced by the lack of self-optimization regarding sender messages. As such,
the feedback messages tended to reinforce group members, showing the influence
of the idealized receiver. This was clearly evident through the recurring posts
that were affirming in nature. In addition, feedback messages frequently sought
information and asked questions. The questions seeking information further
reinforce the willingness to clarify and admit weaknesses rather than present
oneself as an expert. In fact, the feedback questions may have influenced the
idealized perceptions of the receivers through reinforcement and affirmation.
Research with adults
shows how learning is affected by stages of development. Adult learning is
frequently motivated by life transitions and is usually voluntary. Adult
learners bring a mature perspective to classrooms due to work, family and life
experiences (Merriam & Caffarella, 1999; Rudestam & Schoenholtz-Read,
2002). This understanding of adult learners sheds light on the nature of the
messages examined for this research. The messages exchanged by these adult
learners were reflective of a supportive environment where careful reflection
and question asking was encouraged. In fact, the results of this research and
the suggestions provided are consistent with Maehl’s (2000) recommendations
when teaching adults. Specifically, an instructor should incorporate
problem-centered learning that includes life experiences as well as emphasize
collaboration rather than control, which allows for mutual respect (Maehl,
2000). By examining the postings in this case, adults clearly took it upon
themselves to use life experience and collaboration as they consistently
communicated respect for the other. It is possible that an online environment,
due to its asynchronous nature, plays to the strengths and preferences of adult
learners.
Using the hyperpersonal
framework as a way to study adult learners’ messages revealed that all
components were present. Shared experiences, self-directed learning, and other
factors that influence adult learners were present in their postings. The
components of the hyperpersonal framework are clearly interdependent, and in
this case, the downplaying of the optimized self can be recognized in the other
components.
From a pedagogical
perspective, the hyperpersonal framework is suggested as a framework to inform,
or influence, the design of online courses (Weisgerber, 2002). Although many
online courses are taught, seldom do instructors consider the influence of CMC
on curricular decisions (Lane & Shelton, 2001). Instructors would be well
served to understand the interpersonal and hyperpersonal interactions that occur
online. This research provides a descriptive understanding of adult learners’
postings. Future research could utilize other methodologies to examine this
phenomenon in a variety of online classroom settings. In both CMC and traditional
classroom settings, adult learners are rarely studied, creating a rich research
opportunity for instructional communication scholars.
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Linda
B. Dickmeyer, Ph.D., is an assistant professor in the Department of Communication
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professor in the Department of Communication Studies, University of
Wisconsin—La Crosse.
Points of Stasis in the 1960
and 2000 Presidential Debates
Kevin
Stein
Abstract
The clash component of a
presidential debate sets it apart from other types of campaign messages because
the candidates are faced with a potential for “imminent rebuttal” not found in
other types of messages, such as television spots or stump speeches. This study
is a rhetorical analysis of the 1960 and 2000 presidential debates and attempts
to identify the specific points of stasis (clash) where two arguments meet.
These points of stasis are labeled in the classic rhetorical theory literature
as conjectural, qualitative, definitional, and translative. The study tests the
application of these categories as a precursor to future research employing
content analytic methods.
Introduction
Communication scholars
have long considered political debates to be an important area for research,
with special attention placed on questions relating to debates occurring on the
presidential level. Debates provide voters with information needed to draw
distinctions between candidates, potentially guiding an election-day decision.
While debates may matter less when information about candidates is readily
available through other media channels or when a race is not particularly
close, recent scholarship has shown that when the conditions are right, a
debate can be an important tool for disseminating valuable information to
voters. Scholars have focused on a wide variety of debate features, both verbal
and nonverbal, yet little seems to influence the tone or impact of the debate
more than the type and level of clash that occurs. After all, isn’t this what
debate is about--two or more people who stand on opposing sides of an issue
engaging each other in direct lines of argumentation. Remove the element of
clash and it’s not a debate, but rather a juxtaposition of the unrelated
thoughts of two speakers. The opponents share the same space, but little else.
The clash component of a
debate sets it apart from other types of campaign messages. Stump speeches,
acceptance addresses, television spots, Internet sites, and brochures may
contain arguments about the opponent’s positions, but the face-to-face element
as well as the potential for “imminent rebuttal” is lacking. Days or even weeks
may separate clash in non-debate campaign messages, while the defense of a
position in a debate will often immediately follow an attack (Benoit and Wells,
1996). Another reason for focusing on clash is that viewers of the debates
really enjoy it.
This paper will focus
specifically on the clash present in both the 1960 and 2000 debate series by
exploring the specific points of clash that define each exchange. It will first
provide some insight into the unique context of each of these historically
significant debate series. Second, the paper will discuss the contributions and
limitations of the extant literature. Third, it will provide a theoretical
framework for examining debate clash and discuss the specific methods used to
analyze the debate texts in light of the theory’s basic tenets. And last, the
paper will offer the results of the textual analysis and discuss the
implications of the results.
The 1960
and 2000 Debates
In 1960, the first ever
televised presidential debate aired. Networks wanted to model these exchanges
after the 1948 primary debate between Thomas Dewey and Harold Stassen. However,
the primary debate had some limitations that made it less than desirable for a
major television event. For one, the 1948 radio debate included twenty minute
opening statements by the candidates followed by eight and a half minute
rebuttals. Vice-president Richard Nixon and Senator John F. Kennedy both
recognized that this would not have appealed to the television viewers. They
negotiated changes in the format that would cut the opening statement down to
eight minutes followed by alternating questions put to the candidates by
journalists. Another limitation of the 1948 primary debate was that it centered
entirely on the discussion of a single foreign policy issue. Nixon and Kennedy
both agreed that this was a poor option because it might lead to slips of the
tongue that would embarrass our international allies. Four debates were held
between September 26th and October 21st of 1960. All of the debates had a
similar format, but debates one and four omitted the opening statements and
moved directly to the alternating questions (Kraus, 2000). Benoit and Harthcock
(1999) report that the primary function of the 1960 debate for both Nixon and
Kennedy was to acclaim their own achievements less often than to attack those
of their opponent. Whether acclaiming or attacking, both candidates most often
discussed policy rather than character issues. Though this finding points to a
more congenial debate, Ellsworth (1965) found that the debate was much more
confrontational than both candidates’ acceptance addresses and stump speeches.
The debates provided the candidates with an opportunity to directly question
each other and to respond to any attacks. While future debates would make the
1960 debates look less argumentative, the Nixon/Kennedy debates were the first
presidential debates to pit two candidates against each other on national
television. The very purpose of the debate was to create a forum where the
candidates could engage each other in face-to-face debate.
The 2000 debate series
was very different from the 1960 debates. In 2000, there were three debates at
the presidential level and, because of changes in format, each was more
conducive to direct clash. Participating in the debates were Vice-president Al
Gore and Texas Governor George W. Bush. Gore had a slight lead going into the
first debate and was expected to emerge victorious because of his previous
debate experience (
Literature
on Campaign Debate Clash
While some may not see a
huge difference between the terms “debate” and “clash,” the literature
certainly reveals various distinctions between the two. Carlin (1989) began a
discussion about whether a political debate should be labeled a debate at all.
She begins by citing the critics who argue that debates are merely “joint
appearances” or “orchestrated” news conferences” (p. 208). She contends that
political debates actually meet many of the requirements established in varying
definitions of the activity. One of the primary features of a debate is that it
involves participants on opposing sides of a conflict. In campaign debates,
there’s no question that members of the two major parties have opposing views
on many policy issues. Another feature is that participants “adhere to a
formalized set of rules to present their ideas.” Candidates always negotiate a
strict set of guidelines that are to be enforced during each debate. The third
requisite for a debate is that “a third party is the target of candidates’ messages”
(p. 209). Carlin (1989) identifies the third party as the panelists who pose
the questions to candidates, but this can also consist of voter-questioners
(town hall format), viewers at home, or all variety of media analysts.
But can a political
debate be devoid of clash or is it simply intuitive that a political event
deemed a “debate” will certainly contain moments of direct argumentation
between candidates? Though some debates contain less instances of clash than
others, the structure of a debate usually provides the opportunity for clash.
Many of the criticisms of current debate formats aren’t without substance.
Often, candidates do stand close to each other in a debate, each spouting off
memorized answers to given questions; and one candidate’s answer might be the
opposite of the other candidate’s response. Does this count as clash if neither
candidate engages in the process of comparing the two positions and showing how
they are different from each other? Some studies help to further define what it
means to engage in clash. Benoit and Wells (1996) explain that instances of
clash occur in exchanges where an attack is made and a defense follows. They
argue that an attack consists of two elements: 1) A candidate identifies a
harmful that has been committed; and 2) The candidate attributes responsibility
for the act to his opponent. Defense consists of the basic strategies offered
in the apologia literature. Some of these include denial (I didn’t do it), bolstering
(The good things I’ve done outweigh the bad), defeasibility (I didn’t know what
I was doing), and mortification (I’m sorry). While their work is valuable in
identifying some instances of clash, not all clash centers around an attack, at
least not an overt one. Sometimes candidates will engage in a process of
comparison where they will argue: “Your plan is okay, but mine is much better.”
Though this does begin to attack the opponent’s policy goals as being inferior,
it doesn’t seem to be consistent with the examples of attack offered by Benoit
and Wells (1996). These attacks go much further, revealing shortcomings in the
opponent’s policy proposals or his character.
Carlin, Morris, and
Smith (2001) and Ellsworth (1965) utilize a category scheme that contains different
types of clash. Ellsworth (1965) uses six clash categories, but Carlin et al
(2001) use nine categories, adding an additional three categories for instances
labeled “non-clash.” The six clash categories include: 1) Candidate’s analysis
of his own positions; 2) Candidate’s analysis of his opponent’s position; 3)
Candidate’s extension of an earlier statement of his own position; 4) Candidate’s
extension of an earlier statement on his opponent’s position; 5) Candidate
states his position and the opponent’s and compares them; and 6) Direct
statement to the opponent. The non-clash categories include: 1) Analysis of
self, opponent, or world not linked to policy or character; 2) Candidate states
a policy without analysis of the position; and 3) Statements that function to
follow rituals.
The research reveals, to
no one’s surprise, that candidate’s do engage in fair amount of clash. However,
for any content analysis, the category scheme must be mutually exclusive and
exhaustive (Riffe, Lacey, and Fico, 2001). The above categories are fairly
exhaustive in the way that they allow for almost every utterance in the debate
to be labeled. Carlin et al (2001) concede that there is some overlap in the
application of the “direct statement to opponent” and the “statement of
opponent’s position” categories. They claim that instances containing this
ambiguity should be “double coded.” This coding decision could have a
significant influence on the frequencies reported. This blurring of lines
between categories should give coders a difficult time, but the authors report
high levels of reliability. Perhaps this is because they report average
intercoder reliability. Some categories are more clearly illustrated than
others. These more obvious categories might function to counteract a severely
low reliability on the more vague categories. Difficulties such as these do not
show up in the final number reported for reliability. Additionally, labeling of
“candidate’s statements on their own positions” as a clash category lacks
justification. Clash is ordinarily defined as an instance where two opposing
views meet. This category allows utterances that aren’t addressed by the
opponent to be labeled clash. If Gore argues that he is in favor of a 20%
income tax cut for the middle class and Bush changes the subject to his policy
on health care, the exchange should not be classified as clash, yet would be
under the categories offered by Carlin and her colleagues.
The literature is
limited in its explanation of what constitutes clash and on which types of
issues clash usually occurs. Because of these limitations, this paper seeks to
test the application of Stasis theory, which provides four distinct categories
to explain the specific points at which clash (stases) take place. If a textual
analysis of the 1960 and 2000 debates reveal the presence of these points of
stasis, future studies can seek to apply the categories using broader content
analytic methods.
Stasis
Theory
Researchers of political
campaign debates have drawn on many theories outside of their immediate area of
specialization to explain the content and effects of these events. Theories
such as Uses and Gratifications (Rosengren, 1974), Third-person effects
(Tiedge, Silverblatt, Havice, & Rosenfeld, 1991), and Agenda-setting
(Cohen, 1963) have all been borrowed from mass media scholarship to explain
antecedent conditions contributing to the generation of debate content and the
effects of such content. Interpersonal theories such as Expectancy Violation
and rhetorical theories such as Aristotle’s canon of invention have been used
to explain communication happening in political debates. But despite the
extensive borrowing of theory from outside interest areas, some important
theoretical frameworks have yet to be applied to the study of political
debates. One example is Stasis theory, which was first introduced by Hermagoras,
developed later by Aristotle, and eventually borrowed by
Stasis theory says that
there are essentially four questions that can be asked about a specific point
of clash. The first question deals with conjectural issues or issues of fact.
For example, does something exist or is it true? The second question deals with
definitional issues. One might ask about a certain object’s component parts or
what some examples of it might be. The third question deals with qualitative issues,
meaning issues of quality. For example, is it good or bad, right or wrong? The
fourth question deals with procedural or translative issues. In debating
translative issues, it might be argued whether a particular person has the
power to rule on an issue or if the procedure proposed for enaction is faulty.
While Stasis theory was,
and still is, appropriately applied to forensic types of argument, it seems
perfectly suited for other studies whose central questions explore the nature
of clash between rivals. Contemporary political debate research has thus far
only discovered the frequency of clash in a given contest and perhaps the major
topics that serve as the impetus to argumentation. Stasis theory not only furthers
discussion of the content at the heart of each point of clash, but also
provides labels for specific types happening in political debates.
Here are just a few
literal and hypothetical examples to illustrate the theory. A point of
conjecture for candidates engaged in a debate might be whether or not the
deficit is rising, inflation is up, jobs are down, or the threat of terrorism
still exists. A point of definition emerged in one of the 2000 presidential
debates between Gore and Bush when Gore asked Bush how he felt about affirmative
action. Bush proceeded to clarify the term “affirmative action” before agreeing
with Gore’s interpretation of the term. Some questions of quality that might
also emerge. What is the impact of terrorism on
The text of the 1960 and
2000 presidential debates were collected from the website of the Commission on
Presidential Debates (www.debates.org). Four debates were analyzed from 1960
and three debates from 2000. The analysis was done in three stages. First, the
debates were read without consideration as to the specific categories that
might be applied to instances of confrontation. Places in the debate that met
the following requirements were unitized for further analysis. First, positions
introduced by the candidates had to be in direct opposition to each other. If
one candidate proposes a solution to a specific problem and the other candidate
offers an alternative solution, the positions are considered to be opposing. If
one candidate makes an affirming statement about his own policy goals or
attacks the opponents policy position, it is not considered a clash unless the
targeted candidate directly replies to the attack. Second, each point of clash
had to revolve around a single issue.
Points of
Stasis in the Debates
There are examples of
clash on each point of stasis from both series of debates. Due to space
limiations, I will paraphrase the argument that triggered the dispute and then
provide textual excerpts of the candidates’ responses that generated the clash.
Conjecture
Issues of conjecture
center on whether something exists or not, or whether something is true or not.
There were several instances of clash on conjectural issues. In the first
Nixon/Kennedy debate, Kennedy made the argument that since the advent of the
Eisenhower administration,
I think we disagree on
the implication of his remarks tonight and on the statements that he has made
on many occasions during his campaign to the effect that the
The point of stasis is
the central component of a clash that must be resolved in order for the
argument to reach its logical conclusion. In this example, the issue that must
be resolved is whether or not
Another example of a
conjectural point of clash took place in the third debate between Bush and
Gore. Bush argue that under Gore’s tax plan, 50 million Americans would get no
tax relief. Gore’s only reply was “that’s not right.” It was a short exchange
that hinged on a single factual detail. When Bush made the attack, the
implication was obviously that it is bad to enact a policy that doesn’t provide
tax relief to so many voters, yet he doesn’t say it. As a viewer of the debate,
we might assume that he is making a qualitative statement that establishes the
harmful nature of Gore’s policy, but it is the voters who are supplying this
conclusion. It is merely implied by Bush. As long as Bush doesn’t provide any
additional analysis, the point of stasis remains a conjectural one.
A third example of
conjecture comes from the first Bush/Gore debate. Bush made the argument that
Gore doesn’t support mandatory testing for schools, but rather voluntary
testing. Gore provided this response: “First of all, I do have mandatory
testing. I think the governor may not have heard what I said clearly. The
voluntary national testing is in addition to the mandatory testing that we
require of states. All schools, all school districts, students themselves, and
required teacher testing.” This argument also centers on a point of fact. The
issue is simply whether Gore supports mandatory testing in schools. It doesn’t
center on the negative implications of this position, why mandatory testing
should be the policy of choice, or what “mandatory” really means.
Definition
A definitional dispute
deals with what something means or what its components are. A dispute of this
kind occurred in the first Bush/Gore debate as well. When Bush was asked about
the types of judges that he would appoint to the Supreme Court, he said that he
will put competent judges on the bench who are “strict constructionists.” Gore
took issue with his use of the term by arguing:
We both use similar
language to reach an exactly opposite outcome. I don’t favor a litmus test, but
I know that there are ways to assess how a potential justice interprets the
Constitution. And in my view, the Constitution ought to be interpreted as a
document that grows with out country and our history. And I believe, for
example, that there is a right of privacy in the Fourth Amendment. And when the
phrase “a strict constructionist” is used and when the names of Scalia and Thomas
are used as the benchmarks for who would be appointed, those are code words,
and nobody should mistake this, for saying the governor would appoint people
who would overturn Roe v. Wade.
In this example, the
point of stasis is on the meaning of a single two-word phrase. The exact
meaning must be established before voters can know which types of judges Bush
will really appoint to the Supreme Court.
A second argument
centering on the definition of a word occurred in the third Bush/Gore debate.
Bush argued that he didn’t support quotas in the employment process. Gore
responded: “Affirmative action isn’t quotas. I’m against quotas, they’re
illegal. They’re against the American way. Affirmative action means that you
take extra steps to acknowledge the history of discrimination and injustice and
prejudice and bring all people into the American dream because it helps
everybody, not just those who are directly benefitting.” To this Bush answered:
“If affirmative action means quotas, I’m against it. If affirmative action
means what I just described what I’m for, then I’m for it. You heard what I was
for. The vice-president keeps saying I’m against things. You heard what I was
for, and that’s what I support.” The instance of clash might indirectly address
some points of fact or quality, but its primary focus is on what is meant by
the term “affirmative action.” Only by resolving this question does the dispute
reach its natural conclusion.
Quality
Issues of quality center
on whether some is good or bad, right or wrong, significant or insignificant.
In the first of the Kennedy/Nixon debates, Kennedy proposed several solutions
to improve medical care for the elderly. Nixon argued that Kennedy’s policy
proposals would be counterproductive and actually hurt those people that they
claim to help. Nixon said: “And so I would say that in all these proposals Senator
Kennedy has made, they will result in one of two things: either he has to raise
taxes or he has to unbalance the budget. If he unbalances the budget, that
means you have inflation, and that will be, of course, a very cruel blow to the
very people-the older people-that we’ve been talking about.” The point of
stasis is moved from fact to quality at the point that Nixon attaches a
negative implication to the policies offered by Kennedy. If he had simply argued
that the policies wouldn’t work, it would be a point of conjecture.
In the third
Kennedy/Nixon debate, Kennedy argued that the Eisenhower administration hasn’t
done enough to encourage disarmament between the
There isn’t any question
but that we must move forward in eery possible way to reduce the danger of the
war; to move toward controlled disarmament; to control tests; but also let’s have
in mind this: when Senator Kennedy suggests that we haven’t been making an effort,
he simply doesn’t know what he’s talking about. This has been one of the
highest level operations in the whole State Department right under the
president himself. We have gone certainly the extra mile and then some in
making offers to the
The point of stasis
centers on quality because Nixon argued that the Eisenhower administration went
further in promoting disarmament than they were required to. It enhances the
significance of the achievement. Simply encouraging disarmament would be a
point of fact, but encouraging disarmament beyond public expectations is an
issue of quality.
Translative
Translative issues
always hinge on what should be done in a given situation. It asks who is
responsible for dealing with a set of circumstances and what procedures should
be enacted to address the problem. In the second Bush/Gore debate, Gore argued
that he believes that a gun-free zone should be established in all schools and
that child safety trigger locks should be a mandatory requirement. Bush
provided an alternative proposal to the same problem. He said:
Well it starts with
enforcing law. When you say loud and clear to somebody if you’re going to carry
a gun illegally, we’re going to arrest you. If you’re going to sell a gun
illegally, you need to be arrested. If you commit a crime with a gun, there
needs to be absolute certainty in the law. And that means that the local law
enforcement officials need help at the federal level. Programs like Project
Exile where the federal government intensifies arresting people who illegally
use guns.
The point of stasis
centers on the necessary procedure for dealing with the gun issue. In this case
the procedure is to “get tough” on those individuals who illegally carry guns.
Bush and Gore offer different solutions to the same problem. Resolution of this
clash depends on settling which procedure is correct for handling the problem.
Another translative
point of clash took place in the third Bush/Gore debate. Both candidates
debated the necessity of government control in health care. Gore’s contention
was that a national health care plan was needed from the federal government. Bush
argued: “I’m absolutely opposed to a national health care plan. I don’t want
the federal government making decisions for consumers or for providers. I remember
what the administration tried to do in 1993. They tried to have a national
health care plan. And fortunately, it failed. I trust people, I don’t trust the
federal government.” In this example, the point of clash is whether the federal
government should be granted the power to control health care or if this power
should be relegated to the people.
Implications
Differences in the
points of stasis between the 1960 and 2000 debates are not entirely clear.
Without generating frequency data to explain the prevalence of the strategies
used in both series, it is impossible to know how they truly differ. However,
it seems appropriate to point out some potential differences they may exist.
First, very little of the clash in the 1960 debate series centers on
qualitative or definitional issues. Kennedy and Nixon may have had fewer opportunities
to engage in definitional clash because of the format of the 1960 debates. Even
though the candidates had negotiated for much shorter opening statements and response
times for individual questions, their statements were still relatively lengthy.
The candidates would often cover several issues in each response. When a
candidate was forced to reply to one of these lengthy messages, they would
usually choose one or two of the major ideas in the opponent’s statement to
address. Because definitional issues are often considered to be more trivial
than issues of fact or procedure, candidates may have been less inclined to
address discrepancies in the language choices made by the opponent.
Additionally, Kennedy and Nixon may have focused less attention on issues of
quality because it often requires comparison between two positions. The length
of responses may have made it more difficult to make these comparisons. Instead,
the candidates dedicated much of their time asserting their own positions. This
lack of policy comparison is consistent with previous literature that portrays
the Kennedy/Nixon debates as congenial (Benoit & Harthcock, 1999). More
policy comparison would have likely created a more confrontational tone to the
1960 debates. However, this negative tone never transpired.
The 2000 debates
contained all four points of clash. Many of them were conjectural and
translative, but all were represented. Each strategy served a unique purpose.
Candidate clash occurs on conjectural issues because the validity of claims is
often based on factual evidence. If the factual support for a claim is
established as untrue, the claim of the candidate is dismissed and credibility
is likely damaged for other claims. Clash on translative issues is important because
it establishes the workability of particular policy proposals. Candidates must
convince voters that their proposals are based on sound reasoning. If an opponent
can convince the debate viewers that a procedure for remedying a social ill
won’t work or that there is a superior alternative, they may stand a better
chance of defeating that opponent. Issues of quality are important because it
may not be enough for a candidate to establish that a policy won’t work. They
must establish that the policy can cause significant harm. On the other hand,
when touting their accomplishments, it may not be enough to show that an
enacted policy was merely adequate, but that it generated significant positive
results. Clash that takes place on the meaning or definition of terms can happen
for a variety of reasons. One reason is that a candidate feels his position has
been misrepresented by the opponent. The candidates must clash on the precise
meaning of words used to describe that position. Definitional points of clash
can also occur because a candidate has been cornered into conceding an argument
that they didn’t want to concede. For example, Bush was allowed to admit that
he supported the basic philosophy of affirmative action without technically
supporting it because of the ambiguity with which the term was defined.
In conclusion, I would
like to return to the initial justification of this project, which was to
explore the reasonableness of future applications of Stasis theory using other
methodological approaches. The points of stasis, namely conjectural,
definitional, quality, and translative were all present in the debates. There
were some difficulties in determining at what point a conjectural point of
stasis becomes a qualitative point of stasis; however, future studies,
particularly content analyses, can further develop the category definitions as
well as specific rules for the coding procedure. While previous literature sets
up parameters for identifying when a clash occurs, few studies have thus far
identified what types of issues those clashes center on. Hopefully, this study
is a step toward a closer examination of those specific instances of candidate
clash.
References
Benoit, W. L., &
Harthcock, A. (1999). Functions of the great debates: Acclaims, attacks, and
defenses in the 1960 presidential debates. Communication Monographs, 66, 341-357.
Benoit, W. L., &
Wells, W. T. (1996). Candidates in conflict: Persuasive attack and defense
in the 1992 presidential debates.
Carlin, D. B. (1989). A
defense of the “debate” in presidential debates. Argumentation and Advocacy,
25, 208-213.
Carlin, D. B., &
Carlin,
Cicero, M. T. (n.d.) De
Inventione. Edited by Jeffrey Henderson.
Cohen, B. C. (1963). The
press and foreign policy.
Commission on
Presidential Debates (n.d.). Transcripts. Retrieved from:
http://www.debates.org, November 25, 2003.
Ellsworth, J. T. (1965).
Rationality and campaigning: A content analysis of the 1960 presidential
campaign debates. Western Political Quarterly, 18, 794-802.
Krauss, S. (2000). Televised
presidential debates and public policy (2nd ed.).
Tiedge, J. T.,
Silverblatt, A., Havice, M. J., & Rosenfeld, R. (1991). Discrepancy between
perceived first-person and perceived third-person mass media effects. Journalism
Quarterly, 47, 141-154.
Kevin
A. Stein (M.A.,
The Role of Spokesperson
in Ambiguous and Complex Crises:
The CDC and Anthrax
M. Scott
Barrett, Kathryn C. Hasbargen
Anthony
Ocana, Vern Markey, Matthew P. Berg
Scott
Grand, Timothy L. Sellnow
Abstract
This study evaluates the
role of spokespersons in complex organizations facing ambiguous crises.
Specifically, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s (CDC) response
to the anthrax crisis in 2001 is offered as a case study. A content analysis of
the print media coverage of the anthrax crisis reveals that many claiming
affiliation with the CDC spoke on behalf of the organization, resulting in what
appeared to be a fragmented CDC message. The study concludes that the CDC’s
failure to provide a central spokesperson contributed to the ambiguity of the
situation.
Introduction
Nearly all organizations
may at some point face crisis situations (Cohn, 2000). For the purpose of this
study, crisis is defined as a “specific, unexpected, and nonroutine event or
series of events that create high levels of uncertainty and threaten or are
perceived to threaten an organization’s high-priority goals” (Seeger, Sellnow,
& Ulmer, 1998). Ideally, organizations respond to crises with plans for
communicating important information to stakeholders and public audiences
(Olaniran & Williams, 2001). For public or governmental organizations, a
primary purpose of crisis communication is the reduction of public uncertainty
and anxiety by dissemination of timely and accurate information on which an
informed public can act (Sellnow, Seeger, & Ulmer, 2002).
If effective crisis
communication plans are used when an emergency arises, the organization has a
better opportunity to meet its obligations to all stakeholders and minimize the
damage such events can do to reputation, image, and credibility (Fearn-Banks,
2002). Communicating such information in an orderly and precise manner is
paramount. Hence, most crisis management plans encourage the appointment of a
primary spokesperson to share consistent messages with the public (Coombs,
1999; Kaufman, Kesner, & Hazen, 1994; Benoit, 1997; Turner, 1999; Rugo
2001). Should the public lose trust or confidence in a public organization, the
ramifications can be distressing. A case in point is the Centers for Disease
Control and Prevention’s (CDC) response to the 2001 anthrax crisis.
On October 4, 2001, the
CDC in
Initially, the CDC
assumed the first case of inhalational anthrax, which occurred in
This study examines the
role of spokespersons for the CDC in the print media as the crisis unfolded.
The print media was selected because of its wide distribution and its
availability. Throughout the crisis, three types of spokespersons emerged in
the print media: 1) official and formal CDC sources, including administrators
of the CDC and its official spokespeople; 2) unofficial CDC sources, including
supra resources such as CDC lab workers, Department of Health and Human Services
(HHS) staff (those employees or staff of the HHS and CDC not authorized to
comment or report on anthrax and the investigation; and 3) unofficial and
informal sources, including anyone called upon by the press to comment,
including former CDC staff and non-CDC bioterrorist and anthrax experts.
In this study, we first
provide a context for interpreting spokespersons during crisis situations.
Next, we clarify the method for the study and reveal our key findings. We
conclude with a series of conclusions and implications based on the study.
Spokespersons
in Organizational Crisis Situations
Although an organization
cannot predict a crisis, it can implement strategies to effectively respond to
the vagaries of such an event. By preparing a system of communication, an
organization can quickly respond to the public’s communication needs (Marra,
1998). If the press presents useful, rather than sensationalized, information
on bioterrorism the public can make informed decisions (Covello, 1992;
Osterholm & Schwartz, 2000; Seeger, Sellnow, & Ulmer, 2001). The best,
most consistent information comes from the cooperation of all agencies involved
(Osterholm & Schwatz, 2000). By including the organization’s stakeholders
in this multi-agency communication coordination, crises can be resolved more
quickly and essential channels of communication can be created, resulting in
greater understanding between the organization and its stakeholders (Seeger,
Sellnow, & Ulmer, 2001). The ability to properly disseminate information
may then minimize erroneous public theorizing and avoid unnecessary public
alarm.
A crisis contingency
plan helps expedite an organization’s image restoration process (Benoit, 1997).
Such a crisis contingency plan should be based on what has been effective in past
models. Effective strategies include three aspects. First, the organization
should be willing to share information. Failure to provide information promptly
can result in serious negative repercussions to the organization’s image and
finances (Marra, 1998), while sharing information increases the organization’s
credibility. Second, legitimacy can be regained when an organization is willing
to accept responsibility for harmful mistakes (Hearit, 2001; Sellnow, Ulmer,
& Snider, 1998). Finally, an organization must be flexible enough to meet
the diverse needs of its different stakeholders (Benoit, 1997; Sellnow &
Ulmer, 1995; Covello, Peters, Wojtecki, & Hyde, 2001). To avoid the threat
of imposed legislative changes, an organization’s crisis plan can be designed
to accommodate change in order to meet the needs of outside parties (Gaunt
& Ollenburger, 1995). A successful public information campaign can help the
organization regain public trust (Sellnow & Ulmer, 1995), as well as keep
the public informed and involved (Covello, 1992). In a health threat situation,
an effective plan lets the public know how best to reduce their personal health
risk (Heath & Abel, 1996a).
Identifying and
presenting a centralized message can often avoid the detriment caused by conflicting
messages. Organizational procedures established to meet the needs of the media
are a key variable in this process. In cases of a crisis with widespread public
interest, the press needs information quickly. Journalists are likely to seek
out members of an organization who can provide that information (Covello,
1992). Organizations should try to accommodate them (Balian, 1999). The intense
media scrutiny may make controlling the message difficult because different
members of an organization have different levels of knowledge (Heath &
Abel, 1996b). Because of this, all levels of employees should be informed on
the organization’s message (Turner, 1999). If the organization has multiple
people releasing information, message and time of release should be coordinated
(Balian, 1999). To avoid a lapse in the stream of information, an organization’s
communication with all involved parties—employees, investors and shareholders,
and the media—should be continuous. This approach to information sharing
reduces the risk of miscommunication or confusion regarding the organization’s
intended messages (Burton, 1989; Turner, 1999). Coordination with other
organizations sharing a common general goal is as important as coordination
within an organization. Because different organizations may have different,
even incompatible, agendas, one organization should be in charge during a
crisis (Osterholm and Schwartz, 2000). In risk situations, apparent disagreements
between agencies can lead to public mistrust. Coordinating organizations need
to work together from the early stages of a crisis to make sure the public
receives clear, consistent messages. Risk communication training for all
involved organizations is helpful. Indirectly involved, yet trusted, third
party voices lending support to the centralized message will also help achieve
the desired result of a credible and consistent message (Covello, Peters, Wojtecki,
& Hyde, 2001).
An effective way for an
organization to manage the messages it provides to the public is to have a
single spokesperson (Kaufman, Kesner, & Hazen, 1994; Benoit, 1997; Turner,
1999; Rugo 2001). Having more than one spokesperson can result in mixed and
confusing messages (Kaufman, Kesner, & Hazen, 1994). While a spokesperson
should be a top executive in an organization (Turner, 1999) in some situations,
the CEO may not be the best person for that role (Kaufman, Kesner, & Hazen,
1994). Whether or not an executive officer should be the spokesperson depends
on the severity of the crisis and the executive’s willingness to risk public
scrutiny (Rugo, 2001). If not the CEO, the spokesperson should be an industry
expert and ally to the organization (Rugo, 2001). At the very least, the
spokesperson should have a positive outlook toward both the press and the organization
(Balian, 1999) and be both knowledgeable and flexible in the messages he or she
provides (Murphy, 1996). To act quickly, a spokesperson must be an autonomous
(Marra, 1998), experienced, and media-trained person who is well informed,
prepared, and self-controlled (Rugo, 2001; Nicolazzo, 2001). The key to public
receptiveness of a spokesperson is credibility. Covello, Peters, Wojtecki, and
Hyde (2001) state that not only do spokespersons need to be trustworthy; they
must also be the best persons to communicate messages of risk. If more
challenging information needs to be communicated with a sense of credibility, a
technical expert can be trained on message delivery and supported by an
experienced spokesperson (Heath, 1995). The public attributes low credibility
to government and industry spokespersons. It views governments as having
insufficient resources to meet the public demands and public agencies as
conflict ridden and inadequate (Covello, 1992).
Method
Using three online
databases (Lexus-Nexus, Infotrac, and the Electric Library), 503 anthrax and
CDC-related news stories appearing in major
Table 1: Number of Representatives and
Appearances Totals
Number of
Appearances: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 10 11 15 20 22 41 51 111
41 13 7 3 3 2 2 1 2 1 1 1 1 2 1 1
Discussion
The data collected
during this study indicate the CDC was faced with an ambiguous and complex
crisis making it nearly, if not completely, impossible to consistently follow
basic crisis communication principle of maintaining a centralized spokesperson
during the crisis.
CDC
Spokespersons
Perhaps the most telling
symptom highlighting the CDC’s incapacity to follow traditional crisis
communication principals was its inability to control the number of
representatives speaking to the media. Table 1 indicates that 81 different
individuals were cited by name and title as spokespersons for the CDC during
the crisis. CDC Director Koplan and HHS Secretary Health and Human Services
(HHS) Tommy Thompson[1],
were quoted most frequently, while 79 other representatives were quoted at
least once, some as many as 41 times. The media appeared to have unfettered
access to a large number of CDC employees. The result was less than ideal.
Because so many individuals spoke freely, apparently in many cases without the
assistance or guidance of trained public relations personnel, the CDC was
unable to control the consistency of its public messages.
With so many different
speakers, confusing and contradictory messages damaging to CDC’s image and
reputation were inevitable. The San Francisco Chronicle summed up the
situation, stating, “There has been no single, comparable authority on the
bioterror attacks at home. The CDC has appeared reluctant to step into the
breach, allowing mixed messages to go through state and local health agencies”
(Hall & Stannard, 2001).
Another troubling
spokesperson issue for the CDC was the imposition, by outside authorities, of a
limit on who could respond to the press at the onset of the crisis. The Atlanta
Journal and Constitution reported October 28, 2001, that “privately, CDC staff
say they were kept from speaking out in the early days of the outbreak by
orders from HHS” (McKenna, 2001). Further, the Boston Globe reported, “In the
first two weeks of the anthrax crisis, senior Bush administration officials
told both Koplan and Surgeon General David Satcher to remain publicly silent”
(Donnelly, 2001). As seen in Table 1, HHS Secretary Tommy Thompson was the
second most quoted spokesperson during the crisis. While he had oversight
responsibility for the CDC, he is not a physician, an epidemiologist, or an
expert in bioterrorism, and therefore in several cases, he appeared ill
equipped and unprepared to answer sophisticated medical questions while serving
as a principal CDC spokesperson. Some of his remarks were inaccurate or
misleading, a fact quickly identified and chronicled by the media. For example, he commented that the nation
should be on the lookout for “mysterious health symptoms,” and was roundly
criticized by the media for feeding hypochondria (Morse & Stoltz, 2001).
A principal focus of
crisis communication is the dissemination of centralized messages. Conveying
centralized messages is vital as it represents a primary opportunity for an
organization to tell its story. Early in the crisis, the CDC was successful in
conveying the message that it was inadequately funded, ill equipped, and poorly
housed. Shortly thereafter, President Bush visited the CDC’s
This success was not
repeated, as the CDC did not follow up with additional centralized messages.
Instead of seizing the opportunity to broadcast its mission, scope, and role,
the CDC’s leadership took a more passive role, allowing staff to be
characterized as hardworking medical sleuths or detectives (Russakoff, 2001
& McClam, 2001). Unfortunately, frustration over lack of progress in the
investigation tarnished even this seemingly positive characterization of CDC
staff.
The fragmented function
of CDC spokespersons during crisis, summarized in Table 1, ultimately limited
the CDC’s ability to offer timely and consistent messages to the press. The Palm
Beach Post emphasized this point, stating, “Good science is what you want from
the CDC; good PR would be an added bonus” (Reid, 2001). The Boston Herald
suggested that members of the CDC “are better at science than the bells and
whistles of Web design and self-promotion,” further supporting this finding
(Brown, 2001).
Contributing
Factors
Clearly, the CDC did not
meet the standards for effective spokespersons established in the crisis communication
literature. To assume that this failure was completely due to error or poor planning
on the part of the CDC, however, fails to account for the complexity of the anthrax
crisis. In this section, we describe those factors that may have influenced or
impaired the CDC’s crisis communication.
The crisis was ambiguous
because little was known about how widespread exposure to anthrax spores would
affect the nation. The Atlanta Journal and Constitution reported, “When Bob
Stevens, 63, a photo editor at the tabloid newspaper The Sun in
In part, the CDC’s
spokespersons were limited in that they simply did not have the information the
public was demanding. The CDC operated on the basis of the limited knowledge it
possessed. It assumed “the inhaled form of anthrax could not be contracted
through sealed letters” (Borenstein, Murphy, & Pugh, 2001). “[CDC] Director
Jeffrey Koplan said it was ‘highly unlikely to virtually impossible’ for
someone to develop pulmonary anthrax from spores that floated from one piece of
mail to another” (Connolly & Nakashima, 2001). By stating its position in
such absolute terms, the CDC calmed the fears of millions of Americans worried
about contracting anthrax through the mail. But the calming benefit came at a
high cost. When it became clear people who had been exposed to anthrax through
the mail were becoming sick and dying, the CDC’s previously conclusive position
caused significant damage to its reputation and credibility. Senator Tom Harkin
was quoted as being “upset because he had thought the CDC ‘was really on top of
this’ and it wasn’t” (Borenstein, Murphy, & Pugh, 2001). It was widely
reported that Harkin told CDC Director Koplan, “Maybe I’m wrong, but it just
seems to me that something broke down here or is broken down. It’s obvious
people are getting sick, people are dying, and we can’t afford to keep letting
this happen . . . I am very concerned about what CDC is doing and how they
are operating” (McClam, 2001; McKenna, 2001).
In the political arena
and among other US health professionals the news that people could contract
anthrax by handling the mail resulted in an apparent widespread loss of trust
in the CDC. The Washington Post reported
that Health Commissioner George DiFerdinando acted against CDC advice when, on
October 19, he “instructed all 1,000 postal workers at the
In an attempt to restore
its image, CDC Director Koplan defended his agency: “We had had no cases of
inhalation anthrax in a mail sorting facility. There was no reason to think
this was a possibility” (Meckler, 2001a). He took responsibility for the
initial position on cross contamination and acknowledged it was flawed: “Knowing what we know today, would we have
done things differently three or four days ago?
Yes” (Borenstein, Murphy, & Pugh, 2001). Others helped by addressing
this difficult situation. White House spokesman Ari Fleischer attempted to
refocus the public’s attention on the real culprits, telling reporters, “The
president believes the cause of death was not the treatment made by the federal
government or the local officials, or anyone else, but the cause of death was
the attack made on our nation by people mailing anthrax” (Meckler, 2001a). HHS
Secretary Tommy Thompson was also quick to defend the CDC. He told Congress,
“We’re going to err on the side of caution in making sure people are protected”
(Meckler, 2001a). These quick and strongly supportive responses assisted Koplan
and the CDC in restoring and repairing some of the damage caused by its initial
stance on cross-contaminated mail.
The crisis was complex
because of the context in which the attack occurred. Due to the September 11 terrorist attacks,
the nation was sensitized, alert, and aware of the potential threat of new attacks.
As the crisis matured, inhalational anthrax deaths occurred in
The media’s heightened
attention to the crisis generated an insatiable appetite for new information
well beyond the CDC’s ability to fully satisfy it. Despite 26 telebriefings
conducted by the CDC during the crisis, along with 24 formal CDC press
releases, the media still sought statements and interviews from many current
and former CDC personnel, sometimes to no avail. The
Conclusions
and Implications
Previous research
concludes that proper crisis planning is essential and is characterized by the
establishment of crisis communication systems before crises emerge. Such
systems should be fashioned after historically successful plans and should
include mechanisms allowing for continuous communication with all stakeholders
through the media. Cooperation among involved agencies is also essential to resolve
the crisis and provide greater understanding for all stakeholders.
Effective communication
plans help organizations restore credibility because they exhibit a willingness
to avoid secrecy and promptly distribute information. Successful plans
encourage organizations to admit fault where necessary and accept responsibility,
strengthening organizational legitimacy in the process. They allow
organizations to be flexible to meet the diverse needs of all stakeholders,
especially the public’s need for accurate information on how best to reduce
personal health risk. Successful plans for public organizations
present centralized messages, establish procedures to continuously meet media
needs, educate employees to provide unified messages at appropriate times, call
for risk communication training of senior staff, and include a mechanism to
determine the appropriate lead agency. Having one specially trained, well
informed, trustworthy, and credible spokesperson is ideal. Typically, the CEO
or another senior leader of the organization is called on to serve this
function and deal directly with the media.
The anthrax attack was a
highly complex, difficult crisis fraught with ambiguity and uncertainty. The
organizational structure of the CDC, with its multiple centers of expertise,
when coupled with numerous investigative sites, made following many of these communication
guidelines nearly impossible. The media’s insatiable need for information
apparently led the CDC to allow media access to nearly all of its employees,
without any coordination except for the message that the CDC was understaffed,
inadequately housed, and poorly funded.
Once Congress acted to resolve its financial concerns, the CDC could
have identified a new central message. No new message emerged. Left to their
own devices, the media pursued multiple avenues, putting the CDC in a poor
light as the communication crisis seemed to spiral out of control. Subsequent
contact with the media led to contradictory, confusing messages from different
official and unofficial spokespeople. This problem was exacerbated when the CDC
disseminated incorrect information about inhalational anthrax. With so many different
voices speaking on behalf of the CDC, officially and unofficially, it was difficult
for the CDC to convey its messages to the public and nearly impossible for the
public to discern which messages were authoritative and which were not.
Conflict with other governmental agencies such as Congress and Health and Human
Services also hurt the CDC’s credibility and image.
Implications
The CDC is not without
fault in its mishandling of the spokesperson role during the anthrax
crisis. Attempts to provide conclusive information
before such statements were prudent weakened the CDC’s credibility, yet crisis
conditions made much of the standard advice for crisis spokespersons
impractical. The CDC’s experiences during the anthrax crisis suggest two
implications. First, a combination of intense media pressure, active political
involvement, multiple investigative sites, and public participation of equal
yet independent elements of an organization make following existing guidelines
on funneling all communication through designated spokespersons difficult if
not futile. Much of the literature devoted to crisis communication is based on
for-profit organizations with a focused group of stakeholders. The recommendations
from this knowledge base cannot account for the intense scrutiny the CDC
experienced during the anthrax crisis. Further research is needed to establish
practical standards for operating in such a multi-faceted and complex
organizational setting.
Second, when faced with
a highly fluid, ambiguous situation, it becomes quite difficult and perhaps
impossible to follow the major guidelines espoused in well-prepared, effective
crisis communication plans. A willingness to share information, admit fault,
accept responsibility, work to meet stakeholder needs, and inform the public on
how to reduce personal health risk may not be enough to protect organizational
reputation and credibility. Many Americans were terrified at the prospect of a
bioterror assault through the government mail system. The demands placed on the
CDC to offer immediate, accurate, and conclusive information were unattainable.
Recognizing and sharing these limitations at the outset of a crisis may
contribute to a public understanding of the communication constraints an
organization is facing. Further study in this area is warranted.
Terrorism has long been
understood as a potential source of organizational crisis. Nevertheless, the
existing literature could not have anticipated the level of anxiety and
scrutiny generated by the September 11, 2001 assaults and by the subsequent
anthrax crisis. This study establishes one clear example of how the complexity
of wide-scale terrorism makes it problematical for complex organizations to
follow the established crisis communication guidelines. Future research should explore the unique
needs generated by such horrific events.
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Communication at