Oratorical Animal

The Tax Man Cometh

There's been an odd disconnect in most media coverage of President Obama's budget plan. On the one hand, reporters emphasize the tax increases in the plan. On the other hand, they realize, with some shock, that very few people will see a tax increase. So, a headline in the NYT today said: "Braced for a Higher Tax Bill, Some May Dodge the Bullet." Only those who failed to listen to candidate Obama or those in the top few percent of income could possibly be bracing themselves for a tax increase. Frankly, it's one of the rare disagreements I have with the president. We need higher taxes.

Yes, as David Leonhardt notes in another fine essay, this is the great unspeakable. There are all kinds of things you can say or do in contemporary politics (Solicit prostitutes--David Vitter. Be a prostitute--Roland Burris) and remain, say, a U. S. Senator. Indicate that you want to raise taxes and you'll supposedly be hauled away to the retirement home.

I recently brawled in a Facebook comment thread about this issue (and thanks to those old friends!) and that recalled to me my life in North Dakota. Why? Because both reminded me of one simple fact: Americans want far more government than they're willing to buy. They want efficient mail service, national defense, roads and bridges, public health measures, disaster relief, and so on and so forth. They, particularly "conservatives," are unwilling to pay for it. So, while living in ND, I often heard Republicans spouting off about self-reliance, crazy liberals, evil big government--as they pocketed enormous agriculture subsidies, complained bitterly when the power went out (and for very good reason at 50 below, let me just say), and howled for disaster relief after the 1997 floods. When the chips are down, in particular, they automatically demanded that the government bail them out. Frankly, we all do. Because it's 2009.

Why? The more advanced a society is, the more it needs and wants common goods--its citizens want to live in peace and order, they're not willing to risk their lives and health when they eat peanut products, they think bridges should stop falling down and so forth. None of us, I think, despite conservative veneration for the Victorian era, want to return to The Jungle. As the reactions to food poisonings and the earthquake in China show, people in all kinds of nations refuse to live there.

Or, at least, we don't want to return to The Jungle. They can live there, outside of the gated community, for all that we care. Too many so-called conservatives (because selfishness is so not conservative, or at least the Burkean variant of it) obsess over taxes because they want a free ride. They don't want to pay for the services the community indubitably provides for them.

Moreover, they certainly don't want to pay in proportion to what they have received. Many of the whiners (I'm looking at you, Newt) have done very well under the protection of our armed forces, with the oversight of, say, the FAA, SEC, copyright legislation, and so on. They'll pay--but they won't pay in proportion to what they have received: "We already pay too much," they cry, without acknowledging that, especially since 1980, the wealthy have accrued more than everybody else. With the active help of conservative administrations. Talk about welfare queens.

Thus, my recent interest in the norm of reciprocity and the way it gets developed in the liberal tradition. It strikes me that some variant of that argument is going to be required--that those who profit should be those who pay. That fair taxes were part and parcel of the two greatest periods of economic growth in American history--1948-1968, 1992-2001. That when people accepted their responsibilities, they also benefited their communities--and themselves.

RIP Postmodernism

The New York Times tells me today that the batting order of the hometown Yankees is "postmodern." Evidently, the writer sees the end of the master narrative in the Yankee effort to separate speed and power in the lineup.

Meanwhile, David Sanger of the Times tells me in the front section that President Obama's budget plan is "postmodern" because "he appears to have shed President Clinton's fear of being labeled an old-fashioned liberal." Old-fashioned liberalism is apparently postmodernism. By the by, the plan is also aimed at the middle class because neither a "far larger federal role in education" nor "national health care" seek to help the poor. Helping the middle class must also be "postmodern."

The Yankee lineup. The Obama budget plan. Both postmodern. I think we can safely say that postmodernism died on February 28, 2009.

The Nonapology apology

During the Watergate era, the Nixon Administration, particularly Press Secretary Ron Ziegler and Attorney General John Mitchell, became famous for what journalists Carl Bernstein, Bob Woodward, and Ben Bradlee called the "nondenial denial." Woodstein would write a story documenting the coverup; the White House would attack them, list the resources it had put into the investigation, and proclaim its undying integrity. But it would never actually deny the story. It would walk and talk like a denial. But it was not a denial, any more than "I never violated the laws of this country" or "I didn't inhale" was a denial.

We have now, I think, officially entered the era of the nonapology apology. It is, so far as I can tell and someone please correct me if I'm wrong, a creature of the political right. I say that because it arises from the controversies over "political correctness."

The narrative of the political right (and certain UI fans who like their racism performed in public) is this: Sometime in the 1980s, liberals managed to take over the public airwaves and newspapers and make everyone unduly sensitive. Stuff that was a joke, a good time, raucous good ol' boy behavior, suddenly became "incorrect" or, when it came to grabbing women's breasts and chasing them around the office, crimes, for God's sake: "No one can take a joke anymore!" 

Thus, when a good ol' boy grabbed those breasts or made a racist joke or enjoyed "redface" at the half of basketball games, it wasn't his fault, to invoke John Belushi in the Blues Brothers. It was your fault. You took offense, so it was your problem. It was the problem of humorless feminazis, the NAACP, or American Indian faculty who could not understand that the fake dance and stolen items honored genocide's victims. "C'mon!", they said. "Get a grip."

Now, we've progressed since then. Except for Rush and a few others, the "It's not my fault!" whine has pretty much faded. The nonapology apology has replaced it. It sounds better. But it's the same thing.

The nonapology apology says: "I'm very sorry that you took offense at these words. If I had known that you would feel badly, I would not have said them. I'm sorry that you feel badly." This says that the speaker did nothing objectively wrong. But you feel bad. So, s/he will apologize for that. Because the speaker is just that kind of good guy. This is the route that Rupert Murdoch and the New York Post have taken during the cartoon controversy.

Murdoch says, "Last week, we made a mistake. We ran a cartoon that offended many people. Today I want to personally apologize to any reader who felt offended, and even insulted." Classic example. He begins with a "mistake." Now, it's in active voice, so it offers hope that he's actually apologizing. It gives the impression of an apology. But it's only a "mistake," not wrongdoing, and even that move is subsequently retracted.

What was the mistake? They ran a cartoon that "offended many people." He apologizes to readers "who felt offended." The locus of responsibility is not the paper or Murdoch; it's the reader. The key to the controversy? Those who "felt offended," those who felt "insulted." It is their subjective reaction that is at issue; obviously, we cannot predict who might feel offended by something that we do. No one could have known. It's not our fault. We didn't do anything wrong. But we're sorry if you happen to feel bad cause, y'know, we're sensitive guys here at the Post. 

The best recent example, however, is the Catholic Church. After embracing a bishop who denied the Holocaust, they insisted (I'm betting) that he issue a statement to pull their asses out of the fire. This one is a wonder. Bishop Richard Williamson says, "I can truthfully say that I regret having made such remarks [because it got me into all sorts of trouble], and if I had known beforehand the full harm and hurt to which they would give rise [because who could have known that people would feel so bad when I denied the Holocaust], especially the church [because they're way more important than those other people], but also to survivors and victims of injustice under the Third Reich [a dependent clause that indicates grammatically just what I think of them], I would not have made them [not that I was wrong; I just wouldn't have said it]."

He added, "To all souls that took honest scandal from what I said, before God I apologize." Really? First, they have to have souls; think about that in the context of his ideology. Then, they must take "honest" scandal; that is, no politically correct losers who want to stir things up deserve any apology--once those conditions are in place, he'll apologize. Sort of. Because y'know, how could he have known any better? Why should he be held responsible? He's just a "nonhistorian" and his view was formed "20 years ago on the basis of evidence then available, and rarely expressed in public since." You see, no regular people knew 20 years ago (1989) that the Holocaust had happened and, hey, he didn't deny it often. So, it's not his fault. And the Pope un-excommunicates this guy? Seriously?!

They key to recognizing this strategy? Look for where the orator puts responsibility. If the speaker says, "Hey, my bad. I'm sorry," it's an apology because the speaker has assumed responsibility. If the speaker says, "I'm sorry you feel insulted," then it's on you. Only your reaction can fix the problem; the orator does not need to change anything. S/he is awaiting your reaction. Given that most of us are polite people, we tend to say, "Oh, alright, that's ok." As a rhetorician, I believe in situation and context, but, sometimes, as with Bishop Williamson, we should say "no." No, it's not ok. You need to change. Not me.

The nonapology apology. Contrast that to this: "I screwed up." The change that refreshes.  

In the Midst of Everything...

The world is now a bit brighter. Because we have baseball.

Heckuva job, Bobby

It's never easy to deliver a response to the State of the Union. The president holds all of the high cards: a joint session, loud applause, great pictures, guest stars. Some poor sap of a governor or senator then finds himself or herself alone, giving a speech to a camera, being the spoilsport to the main event. That said, only Senator Bob Dole's 1996 rant about socialism comes close to the incompetence of Jindal's speech.

First, if you're going to assure the country that the opposition is willing to help, then give an example. Jindal spent the first 1/4 to 1/3 of the speech assuring Americans that Republicans would cooperate. He failed to provide a single example; heck, he could have made a joke about the LSU Tigers and a college football playoff. Something. Without any sort of an example, the abrupt transition from cooperation to attack made Jindal seem like an idiot.

Second, his delivery confirmed that impression. His style was exaggerated; everything, from vocal tone to pace, was bigger and slower than it should have been. Lots of sing-song. That resulted in the unfortunate impression of a bad third grade teacher. It was just awful.

Third, if that wasn't enough, the speech was politically incoherent. He sets up the debt as the key criterion for judging national policy: "Who amongst us would ask our children for a loan so we could spend money we do not have on things we do--we do not need?" The biblical echo (Who among you will take up your cross...) makes this a powerful point and crafts Jindal as an idiot. If that was the key criterion, why did Republicans support two wars and, in terms of proposals made in the last month and in the last eight years, something on the order of $5 trillion in tax cuts? "Need," of course, is the key. Only what we need. Yet his explanation of what we need makes even less sense. He holds up Louisiana government as an example; they're better than $1 billion in the hole for the next fiscal year and they wouldn't even be close to that level without massive, continuing federal aid as a result of Katrina. Why in the world he would cite his own catastrophic budget is beyond me.

And that's the final nail in his political coffin. The major argument of the speech is as follows: Hurricane Katrina tested whether the federal government could work. The federal government failed. Ergo, the federal government cannot work. Unfortunately, it was HIS PARTY that failed the people and screwed up the government. Does he think we won't remember who was in charge in 2005? A Republican invokes Katrina. A condemned man asks for a noose. It's about the same thing. Seriously. He's the great hope of the Republican Party?

God help my conservative friends.

Obama's State of the Union

This was an excellent speech. It reads even better than it sounded. By now, there's been a ton of commentary. Let me highlight three strategies that I think have been neglected by others.

First, the speech was highly structured. Consistent with SOU's, Obama (in broad strokes) identified our values, assessed the state of our union in light of those values, and offered recommendations. More specifically, Obama articulated his tasks early in the address: "What is required for this country now is to pull together, confront boldly the challenges we face, and take responsibility for our future once more." These were the themes; they cohered with the tasks I noted above (values, assessment, recommendation). The thesis comes later: "Now is the time to act boldly and wisely--to not only revive this economy, but to build a new foundation for lasting prosperity." Those were the two main parts of the body--short term and long term--and each was subdivided. In the short term, we gain jobs through the stimulus package and the financial plan. In the long run, we address the issues of energy, health care, education, and the deficit.

Why so much structure? The American people are confused, doubting, distrustful. Obama sought to clarify and resolve the world, to have it make sense again. In addition, we know that a clear structure raises credibility and so the president's ethos grows. He is the president; he knows the problems and sees how to address them. Plus, there's an interactive effect here--each issue relates to the others, all relate through time--short and long term--and the package, therefore, seems coherent and sensible. The speech's structure was powerful.

Second, there is, for lack of a better term, what my old persuasion teachers used to call inoculation or a two-sided persuasion. The president knows well the counterarguments. He anticipates them and, like an inoculation, gives a bit of the disease and allows the body to build defenses and defeat it before the sickness starts. The president rehearses and defeats the opposition in his speech. He doesn't like big government, either, he says, but someone has to act in this crisis. It's only a tax increase for those who earn over a quarter of a million dollars, he notes. He knows what they'll say. Examples are strewn throughout the speech. By the time the excreable Bobby Jindal spoke, Obama had already refuted much of his argument.  

Finally, President Obama and his staff paid some considerable attention to Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Obama announced in his opening that he would speak "frankly and directly to the men and women who sent us here." FDR said he would speak "the whole truth, frankly and boldly." Obama said, as I note above, "now is the time to act boldly and wisely." FDR said, "We must act, and we must act quickly." Obama's explanation of the credit crunch bore a strong resemblance to FDR's first Fireside chat explaining the banking crisis. To say the least, there are worse role models to choose at a time of economic crisis (Jindal preferred Hoover and Bush) and Obama steps nicely into the role.

Again, this was an excellent speech. I think it will, in fact, grow over time. And that's not to mention the lovely moment with the South Carolina student at the end. The president will see his political hand strengthened as a result of this speech.

SOU to do

Given the general outline of the genre, it strikes me that President Obama will face three interesting choices. I'm not sure they're the most important aspects of the specific situation, but his choices here will tell us a good deal about his presidency, I think.

First, there's the generic dilemma. Will Obama resemble Reagan and seek to bring us together on a ceremonial occasion or will Obama resemble Clinton and seek to move us toward adoption of specific policies? Honestly, I think he'd prefer to do the latter, but I'm not sure the policies will be quite ready. His Secretary of the Treasury boffed a major appearance by announcing a plan that was no plan for a bank bailout. The Not Ready for Prime Time Players, indeed. Obama won't want to repeat that experience. So, I suspect that it'll look and sound like a deliberative address, but the detail won't quite be there all of the time. I also suspect we'll still see a somber tone, but he'll pivot back to a bit more inspiration here--time to roll up the sleeves and throw the moneychangers from the temple.

Second, there's the institutional dilemma. The Constitution says that the president shall direct this speech to Congress. Most presidents now speak to the American people over the heads of the Congress. Presidents then assume that the pressure they create among the people will eventually move the Congress. The two most recent presidents kicked it up a notch--they loathed the Congress. Both hated Congress on general principles but Clinton was also about to be/impeached for two of his addresses, so, you know, he got a bit cranky. At any rate, Obama has sought to create comity in Washington and, one would assume, that includes or, perhaps, is equal to, a respect for the other branches of government. Look for olive branches to the Congress as an institution.

Finally, there's the partisan dilemma. On one level, it's generic. Presidents must choose whether they intend to address primarily partisans in their speeches (W), primarily the middle (Reagan), or some combination of both (Clinton). On another level, this is peculiar to Obama. He came to Washington promising to close the partisan divide--there are no red states or blue states!--and he has been, um, enlightened as to the nonpartisan qualities, or lack thereof, of his opponents. Will he continue to try? Or will he make a public effort while quietly slipping knives in their backs? Or will he rally the Democrats as FDR did in 1936 (if you think we're partisan today, take a look at FDR in '36).

One additional note. If two new polls are any indication, President Obama holds the high ground in advance of his speech. Both have his approval in roughly the mid-60s, Congressional Democratic approval ratings near 50, and Republicans down in the 30s. This is very good news for the president. There's been a lot of bloviating about Obama on the cable shows and elsewhere. It's pretty clear he's doing what he did during the campaign. The pundits pound the podium, Obama smiles gracefully and talks sensibly, and the American people support him. To say the least, the Republican strategy is not working. Except that I don't think it's a strategy; it is, instead, an ideology. About which, more soon. 

Onto the speech!

SOU II

Partly because State of the Union addresses have assumed so many forms over the years, it's a stretch to call them a genre. Nonetheless, it's useful to think of them that way because they are directly linked to the legislative powers of the president. Although Congress dominates in that arena, the mandate in the Constitution explicitly grants the president an agenda-setting function. Equally important in these times, because the Constitution says that the president must talk, it's a "nonpolitical" occasion. That is, the television networks and others define the address as a state or government function and not as a political occasion. In this era, that sort of opportunity is rare.

The mandate itself helps to define the elements. It says that the president shall give information to the Congress and recommend to them measures for consideration. That, in turn, gets incorporated into a three-part structure, Campbell and Jamieson argue.

Presidents meditate on the values of the nation, they assess the nation in light of those values, and they offer policies to close the gap between values and performance. Who are we, what have we done, and what should we do? The "what should we do" is conditioned by the "who we are." What sort of people would do what sorts of things? Are we proud of them or not? Should we change those things?

The speech as a whole is sometimes structured this way--meditation, assessment, recommendation. More often, the address assumes a topical structure--by issue--but each issue reflects the three generic elements. So, a president might discuss five issues--or, if he is Clinton, 99 issues--and each area is organized by meditation, assessment, recommendation. So, we might expect President Obama to define us as a nation that cares, as a nation that believes we will be judged by what we do for the least of these, assess the awful state of our health care system in light of that value, and offer recommendations for the improvement of health care.

Two recent presidents--Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton--have generally defined a continuum of purpose. Reagan saw these occasions as primarily ceremonial, epideictic, a time to reflect on our identity as a nation. Thus, he emphasized the meditations on our values. Clinton saw them as deliberative or policy occasions and used them to advance his proposals. Thus, he emphasized the constitutional injunction to judge what is "necessary and expedient" and hit the recommendations hard--very hard. Clinton often spoke for nearly ninety minutes, a modern record. Reagan couldn't stay up that late.

All presidents also face a specific set of problems, of course, and I'll turn to those tomorrow.

SOU, too

President Barack Obama will give his first State of the Union address this Tuesday, although the White House refuses to label it as such (if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck...). For those of you who haven't perused your Campbell and Jamieson or suffered through my presidential rhetoric class, here's what the future holds for you.

SOUs are among the weirdest of presidential genres. They're mandated by Article 2, Section 3 of the Constitution which says that the president "shall from time to time give to the Congress information on the state of the Union and recommend to their consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient."

Presidents have interpreted this provision in a variety of ways. The first two presidents delivered speeches to the Congress; presidents from Jefferson to Wilson sent a written "Annual Message" to the Congress; Wilson again spoke to the Congress (until his stroke); subsequent presidents have generally delivered a speech, although a few have not, and recent presidents have delivered a nationwide televised prime time address.

Indeed, since Ronald Reagan, the SOU has become a televised extravaganza. Reagan understood television and designed the SOU to be a one hour television event, with 1/2 hour of speech and 1/2 hour of worshipful praise of his Reaganess. A neat package. Reagan was also the first to introduce a guest in the gallery. In his case, it was the famed Lenny Skutnick (you just can't make up that name). One of Reagan's favorite themes was the belief that ordinary Americans were heroes (thus, they did not need government and their children could eat ketchup as a "vegetable" and be fine). Skutnick was a government worker when a plane crashed into the Potomac River--much more of a crash than our Hudson heroes. Skutnick stopped his car, got out, and rescued people from the river. Reagan introduced him (and the no government theme) to great applause.

Bill Clinton, in turn, heightened the importance of the speech. He not only delivered a televised, prime time, guest star filled spectacle, but he also organized his entire legislative agenda around the speech and its preparation. Michael Waldman tells the tale of these speeches in his wonderful memoir of the Clinton White House. For the famously disorganized Clinton, the speech served a disciplinary function. It set a deadline. It made him create and develop a legislative agenda.

In short, the SOU has become a significant occasion for the president and the country. More on the features tomorrow.

What Kind of Dissertation Advisor?

So, we're driving back from Nashville the other day and giggling at Paul Krugman's latest endorsement of the stimulus package: "It's not a terrible bill. There's an output gap. And it sorta fills it. There are some things I like." Given that he's an academic, we laughed at the fun it would be to have those things said about one's dissertation--it's not a terrible dissertation. And that got us going on other people in public life. Feel free to contribute to: What kind of dissertation advisor?

Barack Obama: Ideal. Except for the fact that he has 300,000,000 other advisees.

Hillary Clinton: Most conscientious advisor EVER. You get your chapters back in a day. With every line edited. Not coincidentally, you are her only advisee.

Joe Biden: "God help me, but I love this dissertation. It's GREAT! I take it to bed with me. Write me another one."

George W. Bush: Doesn't read your stuff. Wonders why there's so much of it.

Bill Clinton: Greatest advisor ever once a year. Focused on you, loves your project, best advice and direction you've ever received from anyone on anything. Does not recognize you in the hallway the rest of the time. 

Dick Cheney: "Write it this way. Or else."

Rod Blagojevich: "It's passable. For $300,000."

Gregory House: Worst. Dissertation. Advisor. Ever.