Two Tales of Torture

Two tales of torture. Ostensibly , at least, that’s what we are presented with in the projects of both Flynn and Morris. I think that the real story is a bit more complicated than that—Flynn is definitely interested in torture, but its set within a different bigger framework. A framework that also includes parenthood and the rapidly changing post-9/11 world. Morris is more directly interested in torture, but he also seems to be using it as a way to investigate other themes; duty, service, and the limits of what ordinary, “good” people will do when faced with a choice between these things and their own ethical standards, are all topics he takes aim at. So we have two stories that are about torture, without really being all about torture. But the ways these two story-tellers, a poet and a professional documentarian, go about this, are rather different.

Flynn is a very self-interested story-teller. And I don’t mean this in a bad way, or as a criticism. He just has a way of bringing things happening halfway across the world into his mind and soul as if they were unfolding before his eyes. In the chapter, “the falling is the rain”, he puts himself in the image of a soldier “told to soften the prisoners up” and after dwelling on the dilemma this would place him in, he declares “so here I am, my fingers tight around Proteus’s neck, asking that same question, over and over, as if the answer exists, inside the prisoner, inside the beloved, inside my mother, inside my father, inside me, as if the answer is there and just needs to be released.” Thus, his story is uniquely his. It relies on symbols and allusions that he has cultivated and fragments of his own life that he lets the reader in on selectively.

In some ways, Morris could not be more different. The story he tells isn’t even coming from his own mouth. He arranges and choreographs the story, and surely it wouldn’t exist without his careful coordination. But he leaves the emotions to others. The judgements made are judgements put forth by interviewees. They are given agency over their own defenses. Morris doesn’t sit, waiting to make the stories his or make them submit to his will. Rather, he gently guides the words of others in such a way as to make the audience decide on their own what his motives may be. Its largely guesswork and conjecture, albeit conjecture and guesswork that seems more and more reasonable the longer you watch.


Rhetorical Justice

Abstract: There is something inherently clear and trustworthy in the language of the legal system. We associate the opening statements, cross-examinations, rebuttals, etc. with the eventual revelation of justice and truth. In The Central Park Five: the untold story behind one of New York City’s most infamous crimes, Sarah Burns lays out an argument that five teens were wrongly accused and convicted of rape and assault due to institutionalized racial bias. In making this argument, she leans heavily on the familiarity her readers likely have with the justice system. She structures her book so as to contain an opening statement, a timeline, witness statements, cross-examinations, and other conventions familiar to the court room. Furthermore, she creates a pervasive sense of irony. Through this, she forces her readers to examine why it is that this judicial voice is so trustworthy even though it has failed so spectacularly.
Preface: In terms of my own argument, I think that the greatest strength is the argument itself. I latched onto early critiques that I could be more explicit in addressing the elements of irony that I wanted to include. I attempted to pull this thread and the broader assertions about her arrangement together, and I am fairly pleased with how that went. If I had a chance to revisit this essay, I think that I would think about ways to more elegantly relate the aspects of Nichol’s writings that I included. I think that my references to arrangement were well-thought out and that my inclusion of the voice this creates for Burns are correct and important to discuss. However, I’m not sure I really explained the “voice” itself clearly enough, or made it as integral to the argument as I made my discussion of arrangement.
The language of the courtroom is burned into the public consciousness thanks to our cultural obsession with murder mystery shows and real-life criminal proceedings. We know, generally speaking, what opening statements are. Within the walls of a courthouse, the term rebuttal has a specific meaning, and its one that those of us outside those walls are still familiar with. We understand, at least partially, what it means to be held innocent until proven guilty, and what is involved in proving a fact beyond a reasonable doubt. Generally, we also have a degree of trust and respect for those who make their living by arguing over and sitting in judgement on legal proceedings. We love to second-guess their work, but when push comes to shove, our society holds legal professionals in rather high esteem.
We should not be surprised, then, that arguments rhetorically arranged using the blueprints of the courtroom have a certain ring of honesty and trustworthiness to our ears. In her book The Central Park Five: the untold story behind one of New York City’s most infamous crimes, Sarah Burns takes full advantage of this familiarity with and confidence in the judicial system and its rhetorical signatures. Throughout her book, she makes an argument that the five teens given jail sentences in connection to the rape and assault of Trisha Meili were the victims of racial and class-based bias. This is not a new position to stake out—the novelty in the argument comes from its arrangement—and this point is significant. As Bill Nichols highlights in Introduction to Documentary, the way an argument is organized is a key part of the voice that a rhetorical project takes. In turn this voice a large part of how we judge rhetoric as trustworthy or not. With respect to documentary films, Nichols states that “the voice of documentary testifies to the character of the filmmaker” (52). The same principle is at play in any rhetorical project, and this is exemplified by Burns.
Burns seems determined to give the accused teens the defense they were never given in court and to provide them with the benefit of the doubt which they were not accorded by the media. In order to do this, Burns reaches back—in an ironic twist—to the judicial system that failed them so spectacularly in the first place. Thus, not only does the arrangement tap into the readers’ trust of the judiciary, but it also highlights the failure of this system. This is crucial to Burns’ argument, and her ability to simultaneous criticize the system through subtle irony and elevate her own argument using its conventions is rhetorical mastery at its finest.
Burns creates an opening argument in which she humanizes and contextualizes the lives of the defendants. Throughout the first chapter of the book, and starting in the first paragraph, she relates that Raymond Santana Jr—one of the accused teens—was “well liked at school, where his good sense of humor made him popular with girls” (Burns, 1). She doesn’t start with the crime. She doesn’t start with the supposed transgressions of the accused teens. Instead, she methodically relays what it is about each one that is relatable and humanizing. Her language is subdued an understated. She doesn’t declare that the crimes were out of character for the defendants and she doesn’t necessarily play up their good qualities. But she paints a very human picture, describing where they live and who their friends are, where they go to school and how several of them are talented athletes and artists. In front of the jury of her readers, she tries to create sympathy for the teens, showing that their characters are not so very different from the kids they know and love in their own lives.
Just as important to Burns is the contextualization of the city whose legal system and media had failed so spectacularly. Again, Burns uses a decidedly subdued tone—she is careful not to assign overt blame and thus alienate too many of her readers. After painting her portraits of the defendants, she describes the frequent attention-grabbing headlines describing murders, rapes, and violent thefts. And then she pivots. After stating the inability of the police to effectively combat the rising crime, she points out “they were understaffed after cuts in the late 1970s” and that “newspapers regularly reported on police officers who had been shot or killed” (Burns, 10).
When she finally, inevitably, turns to discussing the attack, she doesn’t start with the rape and beating of Meili. Instead, she follows the path of the young defendants, relaying the attempted robberies and the beating of another jogger, John Loughlin. When she does eventually turn to the attack on Meili, she doesn’t mention the assailant. She mentions the time of the attack, the brutality of it, and, most inexplicably, the fact that she was wearing headphones. But beyond this, she largely abandons the details. The first glimpse that the read might have as to her motive to this comes a few pages later, when she belatedly announces that the accused teens weren’t the only ones in the park—Matias Reyes was, and he “was listening to a radio headset” (Burns, 27).
The first chapter of Burns’ book is key in establishing her use of judicial conventions and in laying the groundwork for her readers’ eventual realization of the irony of her structural choices. However, throughout the rest of her narrative she only expands on this further. She establishes a timeline, relays the actions of the New York Police Department, and then delves into the trials themselves with meticulous care. All of this is characteristic of legal testimony. But the next truly extraordinary use of this arrangement is when she begins to quote extensively from court documents originating from the trials. She recalls full testimonies and then, as though engaging in her own cross-examinations, she pokes holes in these narratives. She elucidates on the biases, ulterior motives and motivations, and—most importantly—rhetorical choices at play during the presentations of evidence.
A poignant example of this is when Burns is examining the motives of Colin Moore, the lawyer for accused teen Korey Wise. She notes that he was an activist who “knew how to play up the political dimensions of the case to the media” (Burns, 82) and that “Moore focused more on condemning police brutality and a racist media than on claiming his client’s innocence” (Burns, 82). One can almost imagine her placing Moore himself on the stand. The fact that she is trying Moore, a part of the very legal system she emulates is an irony that should be inescapable. Her takedown of the justice system is rooted in a voice created by an arrangement rooted in judiciary conventions.
Burns does, of course, run a significant risk in taking this direction. Many readers expect an explicit emotional appeal. As a reader—or, really, as a consumer of any sort of rhetorical project—we have an expectation to have an argument presented to us upon three fronts. Very broadly speaking, these are based upon our emotional connection to the argument, our willingness to trust the rhetorician, and our ability to follow the logic of the argument. Sometimes one or more of these strategies is more effective than the others. But we still expect to encounter them all in some form. Richard Lanham in A Handlist of Rhetorical Terms hearkens back to the classical roots of these and other rhetorical strategies in referring to them by their Greek names—pathos, ethos, and logos. Burns is not lacking for the latter two, but her arrangement leaves little room for an overt appeal to pathos.
This can be disconcerting. There are many moments where her readers will expect an aggressive and overt condemnation from Burns. For the most part, these moments pass without being addressed. It may be counterintuitive, but I would argue that this lack of overt passion actually creates a pervasive and unique pathos; albeit one that is subtle. If Burns were to engage in directly pathos-based rhetoric, she would risk forfeiting her credibility and logical power, as such a strategy would fly in the face of her rhetorical arrangement and developed voice. Instead, she guides readers in a much slower and discreet way towards the emotions she herself cannot express. In creating her own alternative set of legal proceedings throughout the narrative, Burns shows how deeply flawed the original trials were. This instills the reader with a sense of just how vast the biases at play were and how horrific an injustice they created. Burns could have stated this outright, but by guiding the reader towards this pathos-based realization using her logos-and-ethos-based arguments, she is able to appear more credible and also preserve the ironies that make her argument so strikingly successful.
Burns makes a compelling argument, but it is one that takes time to fully understand. She creates a persistent irony, made possible by the very organization of her argument to present a nuanced case. Over the years, the case of the Central Park Five has been discussed and relitigated in the courtrooms, newspapers, and dining room tables of America ad nauseum. It is a testament to the strength of Burns as a rhetorician that her work is as compelling and fresh as it is. Not only does she force us to reexamine one terrible moment in our history, but she also forces us to consider why we trust the very voice she speaks to us in.

Works Cited
Burns, Sarah. The Central Park Five: the untold story behind one of New York Citys most
infamous crimes. Anchor, 2012.
Lanham, Richard A. A handlist of rhetorical terms. University of California Press, 2013.
Nichols, Bill. Introduction to documentary. Indiana U.P., 2017.

Opening Statements

When I think about the arrangement of Burn’s narrative, I think about the court cases she so meticulously recounts. In hindsight, her structure is reminiscent of a lawyer presenting her case to a court–though in this case, her court is a court populated by a jury of her readers. She gives context, lays out a timeline, labors over describing every relevant conversation and relationship, provides an account of her opposing sides argument, rebuts it, and so on. I can easily see this an trial attorney’s oration.

Perhaps the most interesting and telling part of this arrangement is her consideration of the idea, both at the begging and at the end of the narrative, that this is a narrative about the justice system at large. This might be seen as the “means and motive” part of her rhetorical exercise. How is it that such a grave miscarriage of justice could have occurred? Not because of any one officer’s fault. But rather, because the justice system had the ability to create such a failure. Just as a mass shooter can’t wreak the carnage he does without an AR-15, a justice system can’t easily convict five innocent young men without systematic flaws that fail every safeguard. A prosecutorial lawyer must prove that an accused had the means to commit the crime–and this is precisely what burns arranges her narrative to prove.

Are You Convinced?

The questions that naturally follow the readings for this week are simple. Is the story told by Sarah Burns in The Central Park Five engaging and is it convincing? To a certain degree, the answers are arguable–and of course, mightn’t that be the point when dealing with rhetoric. It is easy for us to imagine how readers with different prejudices and experiences might come away with different readings. Alternately, if the rhetoric is good (whatever exactly that means), mightn’t it be enough to overcome these prejudices and experiences and have some unifying affect on the readers?

In any case, I think the question of whether The Central Park Five constitutes an engaging narrative is the easier question to address. Of the techniques suggested in the reading from Bill Nichols, I think the key on to clue in on here is the use of existing motivations and conceptions to build and move a narrative. We see Burns do this repeatedly, if subtly. In the opening to the third chapter of the book, Burns offers a snapshot of the life of Trisha Meili, the victim of the horrifying assault. This plays into our pre-conceived notions by depicting a raw, human, and tragic part of the story. No matter what your prejudices, you can probably latch onto Meili’s part in the story to some extent.

While specific techniques can be pointed to in order to show examples of an engaging narrative, it is more difficult to accurately quantify how convincing a narrative is–any narrative. I would argue that Burns is convincing. Burns cultivates a persona that is seems trusting and relatively unbiased. There is some editorializing, but most of it is subtle–set within statements of fact. In this way Burns can guide a reader towards an opinion gently. The process is not unlike learning a language by immersion. And ultimately, the fact that Burns has a point of view may be ancillary to the facts. The result of rhetoric that is sober, lucid, and direct.

The Voice of the Rhetorician is the Voice of God

Sarah Burns opens her book with a somewhat dramatic scene. A New York State Supreme Court judge had just vacated convictions for five men accused of rape and assault. Burns establishes her narrative amidst a moment of turmoil and long-overdue delivery of justice–or at least a semblance of justice. Her tone is almost, almost, reporter-ly. She delivers names and titles of those involved rapidly and matter-of-factly. We are presented with assertions of racism and deeply rooted societal injustice in a way that makes us willing to listen and believe, because her voice leaves us with little room to imagine an argument otherwise. From the beginning, Burns is making claims filled with drama and tension, and spinning them in the most believable light and the most grounded and sober tone that she can muster.

We’re presented with a different strategy from Joan Didion. Not a page into her essay, Didion suggests that the woman involved in the case was, in the eyes of the media and public at least, less of a human and more a symbol–a symbol for an ongoing social clash that was playing out in a polarized and morally suspect city. Didion plays into this by stating that few people who followed the case would remember the name of the female jogger and then proceeding not to use her name throughout a vivid account of the crimes she endured.

For this variance in rhetorical approach, neither account is inherently more or less effective. They both present the same story. The both present, largely, the same facts pertaining to that story. The difference comes from the voices with which they speak. Burns and Didion, for the similar underlying commentaries they make, have voices that seem to come from different worlds. They provide an in situ study of what Bill Nichols discusses in his chapter on the subject of the voice in documentaries. The contrast can be likened to the contrast Nichols presents between using “a voice of God to evoke as well as explain” and using “the composition and arrangement of the shots” to create the evocations explanations.

Of course, Nichols is most specifically interested in film documentaries. This does not however, diminish his usefulness to us. The overarching principle that it is not simply what is portrayed that creates the experience for us viewers/readers, can be carried over into rhetoric’s written plane.

Taking Off

Last year, I was fortunate enough to begin working for the American Birding Association. This should not come as a grand surprise to anyone. I have been involved with this organization for years and have always been deeply committed to their mission and goals. However, what might be a surprise is the role that I was hired to play.

North American Birds is about as venerable and respected as a publication in the birding world can be. It is the journal of ornithological record for North America–a repository for everything we, as birders, observe in our time in the field. How populations change, are there new hybrid populations appearing; basically, if it has to do with bird status and distribution, it has probably found its way into the hallowed pages of NAB. This is the publication I now find myself at the helm of, alongside fellow birder, Tom Reed.

I have a great deal of thoughts on what this means for me, for NAB, and American birding-at-large. But for now, turn to some thoughts I shared in this recent profile published by Washington College, where I am now entering my final semester as a student:

Good birding!

A “Where I Came From” Story

It’s the end of October, and that means that I’m spending most of my nights sitting in the tin-roofed-shed that houses our bird banding station. A loudspeaker broadcasts the monotonic and musical notes of the Northern Saw-whet Owl and offers a steady drone of white noise. My coworker Maren and I have wide-ranging discussions full of long quiet pauses and startling non-sequiturs. Our conversation reminds me of Savoy and her writings, in a way.

In the chapter “Migrating in a Bordered Land” of her book Trace, Savoy jumps around in physical location—from the National Archives in DC, to Arizona, to the San Pedro River basin, to Fort Huachuca itself. Throughout this, there is a relatively common thread for her discussion, though. She is tracking her history, hunting it almost. She follows her mother and through the land and through the history of people, both her people and others (whether those people are Americans, or African-Americans, or others).

I see Savoy’s task as very autobiographical. I suppose that, as we’ve discussed before, essays may be inherently autobiographical. But I almost feel something of Kaysen in this. It’s a tracking of a history of self and family. It may be more nebulous than Kaysen’s story, but it’s similar. It’s a “where I came from, how did I get here” story, just like Kaysen’s. And like Kaysen, the non-linear discussion reflects this. She’s still putting pieces together, working on her past like a jigsaw puzzle.