Abstract VOICES is a digital, student-led publication at Morehouse College that showcases the rhetorical choices African American men in an HBCU setting make in communicating issues of importance to them. I believe that activism, like leadership, begins at home. For these Morehouse College students, activism and leadership begin at “The House,” inside the… Continue reading Language and Social Justice in First-Year Composition at Morehouse College

In the fall of 2023, Jackson State University hosted the 5th annual HBCU Symposium on Composition and Rhetoric. The goal of this symposium is to center the research and scholarship occurring in HBCUs within the discipline of rhetoric and composition. This special issue of Reflections highlights the work of those scholars who presented… Continue reading Introduction to Special Collection: Papers from the 5th Annual HBCU Symposium on Composition and Rhetoric

Children, as a result of age, social status, and developmental stage, depend upon caregivers and medical professionals to interpret health discourse. However, children have largely gone unexamined in research on visual health communication. Because children are a vulnerable audience, rhetoricians should more closely attend to texts addressing them. This article analyzes 147 children’s picture books about COVID-19. These texts draw on the rhetorical concept of identification to encourage readers to take up particular health behaviors. These texts illuminate three specific risks of using identification to instantiate health behaviors in children: failing to acknowledge material limitations on children’s agency, glossing over the risks of infection, and distorting scientific discourse. Ultimately, while the majority of the texts in our corpus articulate the need for a community-centered approach, only a handful acknowledge directly that children’s agency and power are limited. These texts, therefore, also highlight a larger issue beyond the coronavirus: the difficulty of relying on an individual health imperative in communicating public health—an inherently communal enterprise.

One of the root causes of health disparities in Louisville, Kentucky, is air pollution, a disparity rooted in the city’s history of environmental racism. Residents who engage in local environmental justice efforts face other systemic barriers, all of which intersect in the jargon-filled public notices about air pollution that circulate throughout the city. This article discusses a feminist environmental health literacy coalition formed to promote health literacy and create translations of public notices in plain language. Our preliminary theory of Air Justice maintains that health literacy is a social practice and that intersectional coalitions provide rhetoric of health and medicine (RHM) scholars with a local approach to scholarship that mirrors the diverse and multiple situatedness of the communities in which they work.

Rhetoric about bodies, health, and medicine is conceived at the intersection of multiple discursive systems and social domains. I contend that religion remains an underexplored (and sometimes misrepresented) realm in the rhetoric of health and medicine (RHM)—a gap this article seeks to address. Here, I present my research on the importance of Protestantism in the invention of the premature infant as a medical figure in the United States. I show that early discourse about premature birth is shot through with Protestant rhetoric and beliefs, and I propose the term “theo-moral physiology” for the religiously informed medical orientation popularized in late 19th century medical literature about premature babies. Ultimately, I challenge RHM scholars to resist the tendency to treat the rise of American biomedicine as a fundamentally secular project by attending to the ways modern medicine has evolved in tandem with contemporary religion.

This essay reports results from a scoping study of recent rhetoric of health and medicine (RHM) research published in article form prior to the emergence of the subfield’s stand-alone journal, Rhetoric of Health & Medicine (RHM). Our corpus consists of 250 articles published between 2006 and 2020 across eight journals. Drawing on findings from our scoping study, we review RHM researchers’ methodological and evidential choices, which provides a baseline to which we can compare the next generation of RHM research. Such comparisons should illuminate the strides RHM has taken to improve our research’s durability, portability, and responsivity to matters of critical import. Finally, we conclude with an invitation to other researchers to continue scoping studies such as this one by adapting our analytic protocol and updating or expanding our corpus, both of which we make available to readers.

This article extends the engagement with decolonial theories within Latinx writing studies, particularly by engaging the ways literacy has been taken up within Basic Writing scholarship. In what follows, I argue that coloniality and decoloniality are crucial resources for Basic Writing and literacy scholarship under the larger umbrella of literacy/composition/rhetoric studies, and that in a symmetrical fashion a consideration of Basic Writing and the “politics of remediation” cannot be neglected or ignored within LCR studies’ decolonial turn if the decolonial imperative is to be achieved. To this effect, I advance three core claims. First, that the decolonial turn in LCR studies offers a potent set of resources for resolving core contradictions in Basic Writing scholarship. Second, that the decolonial turn offers Basic Writing scholars an opportunity to connect advocacy for students and student centered resources to larger public conversations about pedagogy and literacy. Finally, I argue that a decolonial turn in LCR studies offers Basic Writing scholarship a way to reconceive of its own historiography so as to overcome its current deadlocks.

In my sometimes-murky role as a writing program administrator, I often think about Eli Goldblatt's chapter "Lunch" in Because We Live Here: Sponsoring Literacy Beyond the College Curriculum.Goldblatt posits the main job of a writing program administrator is to have lunch with as many people on campus as possible.His advice is simple.I tell myself it's a lesson I already know.Yet again and again, just as I begin to wonder if I should renew that WPA contract the next time, I run into someone new on campus, we discover all that we share in our hopes for our institution, we make a plan or two, and I remember I have Eli to thank.This kind of move characterizes Goldblatt, both as a person and as a writer and scholar.His personability leads, distracting us from the fact that he is also a profound thinker whose writing models what we value most in composition, rhetoric, and literacy studies: it gently sets aside our concerns with form-genre form, forms of difference, disciplinary forms-and helps us commune, instead, through practice.For that reason, we are lucky now to have Goldblatt's new book, Alone with Each Other: Literature and Literacy Intertwined, a compilation of his published writing from the beginning of his career in rhetoric and composition to the present, between 1995 and 2022.Divided into three sections by topic-Composition Theory and Pedagogy, Community Literacy, and Poetics and Practice-the collection reveals, at last, just how much is really going on in Goldblatt's work when we see it in its wholeness.In the excellent new introductory chapter, Goldblatt shows us how he's been thinking of his tripartite work all these years, straddling university writing programs and literature departments, community literacy settings, and the poetry community.Goldblatt loosens literacy and literature from their disciplinary forms and reframes them, so that "literacy" denotes reading and writing in the world, and "literature" means reading and writing for art's sake.Then he argues that this reframing allows us to make our way around and through their politicized institutional histories.While we in composition have often lamented our precarity and lesser status in relation to literary study, Goldblatt shows us how to respect our own grounding in our peculiar intersection of college writing, English literature, and English education.But what Goldblatt also achieves-without stating as his aim-is a tender embrace of the varying stances, and dare I say open conflicts, within composition itself.He extols Aja Martinez's work drawing on Critical Race Theory, for instance, seeing a kindred spirit in the conviction that "argumentation divorced from accounts of lived experience too easily leaves oppressive structures in place" (7).He brings this newer critical work into conversation with the earlier energies of the social turn, especially the "often . . .

How do we move forward when the legality of teaching and learning about social justice research is called into question by the state? This article demonstrates the efficacy of collaboration as a form of institutional critique that made it possible to provide a comprehensive graduate education following the emergence of anti-DEI legislation in Florida. To teach and learn in a tumultuous legal landscape without sacrificing rigor, eliding DEI-oriented scholarship, or violating state law, we piloted a collaborative disciplinary meta-analysis project that enabled students to study social justice research along with the field’s other major research topics. This portable approach allowed us to meet the professional and ethical imperative to engage research that has been targeted by state officials but remains foundational for disciplinary expertise. It also demonstrates the futility of removing politically unfavorable scholarship from curricula. After sharing an overview of the results of our meta-analysis project, with a special focus on our field’s take on social justice and collaboration, we reflect on the rhetorical strategies those of us working in highly politicized educational climates have deployed to manage increased oversight from zealous state legislatures challenging the legitimacy of disciplinary expertise.

Before the isolation of HIV in 1984, members of queer sex communities developed robust explanatory frameworks for not only understanding AIDS but also mitigating its possible sociopolitical consequences. These frameworks retooled political values inherited from past modes of sexual health activism to introduce flexible, future-oriented sexual health policies. This essay considers how AIDS commentators working during the first year-and-a-half of the crisis tailored their speculative arguments about appropriate AIDS-era sexual health ethics in ways that attempted to address the enigmatic epidemic’s intersecting medical, political, and sexual crises. Drawing on work that considers the embodied dimensions of Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca’s concepts of presence and communion, I argue that, in the absence of clear biomedical information about AIDS, early AIDS commentators devised what I call vernacular policies of feeling. Unlike traditional health policies that rely on empirical evidence, vernacular policies of feeling make present communal ways of sensing risks to stabilize biomedical controversy, induce collective action, and affirm community values. Along with demonstrating how the body serves as a rhetorical resource for those made vulnerable to illness and death, vernacular policies of feeling productively illustrate how non-expert communities construct future-oriented arguments in moments of overwhelming contingency.

While Louis Pasteur’s germ theory functions as one of the foundational concepts of modern medicine, resistance to COVID-19 prevention measures reveal a rejection not just of government mandates, but of germ theory as well. Therefore, this article seeks to trace the rhetorical linear of rejections of germ theory denialism through an examination of primary and secondary texts from Pasteur’s contemporaries, through the development of chiropractic, and into the COVID-19 pandemic. The author finds that the denial of viruses offers a peculiar form of biorhetoric that invokes absence and invisibility, rather than presence, as rhetorical grounds for rejecting public health directives.

While survey data identifies that most Gen Z and Millennials are anxious about climate change, are supportive of climate activists, and agree that climate change is anthropogenic, that same data fails to nuance these generations' intersectional and relational environmental beliefs. The problem is both methodological and rhetorical, because assumptions built into closed-question public opinion surveys can fail to match younger generations' perceptions on the environment. Additional research methods concerned with capturing these relations, including the cognitive interviews that survey designers already employ, could illuminate these environmental perspectives. We see models for this approach in the preliminary interviews used in large-scale surveys, in the field of climate psychology, and in arguments for ecological rhetoric in communication studies. Building from these fields, we provide example questions that are emblematic of these relational environmental and argue for increasing numbers of smaller, qualitative studies which investigate the many relations that younger generations already experience.

This article uses the example of nootropics—a flexible term that capitalizes on the flexibility of the brain—as a category to describe how seemingly oppositional tropes, or turns, can occupy the same rhetorical topos, or space, and produce distinct ethos, political identity, and commitment within that space. It considers two dialectical, gendered tropes in nootropic discourse. The tropes are a falsely binary and highly problematic set of subjectivities, a Gothic masculine and an ostensible Gothic feminine. These two tropes exemplify how rhetorics of wellness produce identities whose turnings towards a politics does not map cleanly onto electoral politics or even identity politics in the US and Canada.

For most of the past two centuries, the scientific study of fungi was little more than a small, inconspicuous subfield of plant biology. Today, that is rapidly changing, as mycologists and their objects of study (fungi) are increasingly attracting young scientists and occupying the public sphere in both medicinal and environmental contexts. At the root of mycology’s popular ascendance is Paul Stamets, a self-trained mycologist, author, entrepreneur, and frequent public spokesperson. This essay offers a rhetorical analysis of Stamets’s most influential public appearance—a 2008 TED talk entitled “6 ways mushrooms can save the world”. In particular, I draw on theoretical frameworks in rhetoric and studies of expertise and experience (SEE) to explain how an amateur scientist holding no credentials beyond a bachelor's degree developed an authoritative voice as a thought leader in his field.

The concept of collaboration lies at the heart of this special issue of Poroi. This issue is rooted in the papers and discussions that emerged from the co-sponsored 2023 preconference of the Association for the Rhetoric of Science, Technology, and Medicine (ARSTM) and the National Communication Association's Environmental Communication Division (NCA-ECD). The collection brings together scholarship that examines, theorizes, and enacts collaboration from a variety of perspectives. The preconference served as an important space where scholars and practitioners from rhetoric, environmental communication, science and technology studies, and related fields engaged with the pressing challenges and opportunities of working together across disciplinary and institutional boundaries. 

This article examines rhetorical agency by using advanced bibliometric methods, arguing for a refined approach that recognizes multiple forms of rhetorical agency. By employing methodologies from information science, this study also illuminates often-overlooked infrastructural dynamics among scholars, specifically in how scholarship has materialized and enforced through textual citations. The analysis supplements traditional historical narratives of theory, introducing a dynamic conceptualization of rhetorical agency as an interconnected network. This paper forwards a multifaceted understanding of rhetorical agency, envisioned as comprising at least five intertwined networks. This article consequently provides a novel approach for analyzing disciplinary history by considering how citationality carries material traces of the past.

If we but listen, we can hear a voice from the grave—Jacques Derrida’s mournful lamentation: “There is no longer, there has never been a scholar capable of speaking of anything and everything while addressing himself to everyone and anyone, and especially to ghosts. There has never been a scholar who really, and as scholar, deals with ghosts” (2006, 12), a scholar who “does not believe in the sharp distinction between . . . the living and the non-living” (12). But, then, as if in response, we witness the apparition of just such a scholar: Stuart J. Murray, the author of The Living from the Dead, who very much is dedicated to the ethical project of attending to those dead who continue to haunt the living. Indeed, the book’s cover features a spectral image, entitled “Ghost,” as it were, conjured by artist Si Lewen. As well, the very title of his work renders the “sharp distinction” between “The Living” and “The Dead” porous, quixotically indistinct, as signified by the unattached and unhinged preposition “from.” That is, the title does not announce that Murray intends to distinguish the living from the dead, nor separate the living from the dead, nor identify the living from the dead—in some categorical, decisive demarcation. Rather, Murray’s use of the preposition “from” might conjure—instead, a Derridean sense of a “borderline”—a relation marked by différance between the living and the dead. Etymologically derived from an Old English preposition, “denoting the distance, absence, or remoteness of a person or thing in fixed position” (OED)—in time or space, from evokes Derrida’s neologism. “Différance as temporization [time/deferral], différance as spacing [space/difference]. How are they [time/space],” Derrida queries, “to be joined?” (1991, 61). Murray’s syntactically incomplete phrase suggests that the living and the dead are conjoined in a relation of interminable deferral and indeterminable difference, entangled in a fluxed, symbiotic—parasitic, even—relation.Much more could be said on this t(r)opic of deferred presence (and much more, indeed, of parasitic consumption and carnophallogocentrism), but to our immediate point, as Murray’s work entreats us to consider, there is much to learn in conversation with the dead; and indeed, it is our ethical responsibility—burden, even, as he remarks—to “hearken” to their voices. Murray’s The Living from the Dead undertakes this burden, listening to “the dead, the dying, the dispossessed” (1), endeavoring to articulate “[u]nder what conditions might we hearken those dead who summon us, and exhort us, perhaps to reckon with our unspeakable complicity in their deaths” (1), while offering the following caveat: “These pages, which arise in care of such summons, exhortations, and calls to reckoning neither speak for nor as the dead, the dying, or lives lost” (1), for as he will reveal in his refrain, speaking for or as amounts to an unethical co-option, a resentencing to death of the dead and dying.Murray describes his work’s writing “something akin to thanatography” (1), which is through and through a rhetorical enterprise, necessitating an attunement to and with biopolitics’ “speech/acts and its tropological constitution of subjects, political identities, and lives lived” (10). That is, as Steven Mailloux has argued elsewhere, tropes are rotated in order to “rotate the troops” (1993, 299). Tropes, troops; life, death. Much is at stake.The subtitle of the book, Disaffirming Biopolitics, foregrounds Murray’s argument: that attending to these voices, to the dead, requires a certain disaffirmation of biopolitics, a disaffirmation of “a politics ostensibly devoted to life (bios)” (1), to the production of “life,” which is “governed by increasingly autonomous efficiencies and economies of scale, through techno-administrative mechanisms that include systems of surveillance, segregation, health and welfare regimes” (2), as well as “through education, . . . law, biomedicine, and popular culture, too” (2). The production of “life” instantiates itself by way of a “sacrificial economy” (5) that necessitates letting die (1), even “acceler[ating] or mand[ating]” (2) death. In short, “[b]iopolitics kills, albeit indirectly and in the passive voice. It lets die in the name of life. This book begins here in the care of deaths disavowed—rather than from life’s sacred vows and avowals” (1).Murray undertakes his thanatographical critique of biopolitics with an introduction, four chapters, and a concluding “refrain.” Through the use of case studies, examining sacrificial economies that mobilize tropes/troops, Murray listens to those—dead and dying—who are “let to die,” according to the rhetorics and logics of bioethics, as employed during the COVID-19 pandemic, by suicide terrorism, during the hunger strikes of California prisoners, during legal cases of “untimely” deaths of young children, and surrounding the technologically distributed, videotaped death of a disabled Black man. Each case study is situated within a rhetorical framework, and—as ever—critically foregrounds Murray’s own burden of “using,” for analysis, for his evidentiary purposes, these very “precious perilous bodies in sickness and suicide; in hunger, subjects of medico-legal power, of time and race and technology” (161). “My ‘uses’ are abuses,” he admits, “notwithstanding my intent” (161). This confession, which seeks no absolution, confirms, yet again, our/his irredeemable and “unspeakable complicity” in the violence of letting die (1).The stakes are grave, indeed, in Murray’s thanatographical critique—politically, ethically, and rhetorically, which remain, in refrain, indistinguishable, one from the other. In the face of “unconscionable state violence,” “the revivification of nativist nationalisms and racisms,” “merciless neoliberal governments and burgeoning authoritarianisms; and most recently, a deadly global pandemic”: “We live and die today on a knife’s edge of disaster” (1–2). Yet, the most devasting cut of his critique comes, on refrain, as an interrogation into his, my, our, individual and collective complicity in all. Once more, there is no option of good conscience, nor of absolution, although there remains “the future-to-come” (148). This should give us pause, to “wait abidingly” (148)—and should inspire a certain, disaffirming vigilance. At the gravest point, The Living from the Dead is a powerful, ethical invocation; a lyrical, performative provocation—and a promising, futural conjuration.Murray begins his rhetorical investigation citing Foucault’s halting attempt to “define” “biopolitics,” as worked through during a lecture at the College de France in 1976, where Foucault postulates that “one of the greatest transformations political right underwent in the nineteenth century was precisely that, I wouldn’t say exactly that sovereignty’s old right—to take life or let live—was replaced, but it came to be complemented by a new right which does not erase the old right but which does penetrate it, permeate it. . . . This is the right, or rather precisely the opposite right. It is the power to ‘make’ live and ‘let’ die” (qtd. in Murray 3).Murray astutely notes that Foucault’s description of this “epochal transformation” of power can be articulated only in the passive voice, and Murray argues that this is Foucault’s only grammatical recourse precisely because this new right somehow manifests “seemingly by no one, or nothing, and yet in the name of an incipient ‘life itself’” (3). However, Murray continues, although this new right is, in contrast to sovereignty’s supreme agency, “decentralized and reticulate” (4), the grammar of liberal humanism has “become a great biopolitical ruse” (4), propagating the continuing illusion “that I freely choose and choose the very conditions of my own choosing—a grammatical ‘I’ propped up in its delusional sense of rationality, autonomy, and enlightened agency. An entitled ‘I’ through which ‘life itself’ would speak” (4).This grammatical habit—like Nietzsche’s worn coin in “On Truth and Lying” (1989, 250)—remains, circulating in this sacrificial economy as zombie currency: the illusion of individual sovereignty. This “lie”—supported and reproduced by “a mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, anthropomorphisms” (250)—further belies that “the object of that [new] power, its site of application, is not a singular body to be disciplined or punished. Biopolitics makes live and lets die en masse. No longer concerned with given individuals, it is applied systemically on—and constitutes—particular ‘populations’” (Murray 2022, 4). Further, still, Murray maintains, not only is the grammatical “I” a rhetorical invention, but “life itself” is, also. That is, biopolitics mobilizes “a tropological regime that fabricates a vital ‘truth’ from which all else seems to follow” (3). This “truth” belies a so-called “concrete biological body,” which incarnates a trope of a “most disincarnate, sacred, or transcendental notion,” which is “neither given nor natural” (3). The Living from the Dead “surfaces” these mobilizations of metaphors—the tropes of “life itself” (14).Disaffirming biopolitics’ tropological moves is in response to scholars who advocate an “affirmative” or “democratic” biopolitics, who proffer a “kinder, gentler” biopolitics (12). Yet, as Murray convincingly argues, “to affirm is the performative speech/act of a (neo)liberal political subject and iteratively both relies on and shores up a problematic underlying ontology” (12). In this way, citing Nancy Fraser’s criticism, such affirmative attempts, therefore, do not “disturb,” but rather reify “the underlying social structures that generat[ed]” the very injustices, which we are interrogating and asking to be held accountable (12).Disaffirming, in contrast, is a thanatographical endeavor—a rhetorical one: “To critique is not to judge the truths or lies of biopolitics (it proclaims both), or whether it is good or evil (it can be both); rather, critique would pursue rhetorical questions concerning the conditions in and by which such statements could be voiced, circulate, and recruit desiring subjects as agents of the biopolitical apparatus” (13). In this way, “[t]o disaffirm is a devastating undertaking. It is not self-righteously censorious, neither a disapprobation nor a condemnation issued from a posture of moral superiority or a secure sense-of-self. . . . Instead, it would turn its gaze inward to reckon with my collusion and complicity in systems that let die in the name of my own livingness” (18). And, would amount to—if not a burial of the liberal, humanistic subject, certainly “a mortification of this subject, ‘I,’ who writes—here” (19).And then, what remains of The Living from the Dead is its refrain. After careful exegesis of the case studies, themes repeat. What remains, like a refrain, which repeats, remains. A refrain, etymologically, also carries the signifying saturation of the sense of “burden,” which Murray carries with him in his thanatographical study. As chorus or burden, Murray’s refrain through the book is to amplify, in its repetition, like a death dirge, the incalculable, immeasurable ethical burden that “we,” that “I,” that “he,” the author, carries as the ethical obligation in the face of the recognition of our own complicity in the letting die, in the knowledge that our, my, his, very living is at the purchase of the disavowal of so many deaths, the disavowal of all whom “we”/“I” have let die in this sacrificial economy (see also 171).Yet we must lend our ear. The responsibility to “hearken” to, address, and dialogue with “the dead, the dying, the dispossessed” (1) (“however fictively” [144]), however rhetorically, however lyrically, Murray argues, necessitates the use of apostrophe as a non-co-optive, non-cannibalizing trope. Through a careful explication of the distinction between the tropes of apostrophe and prosopopoeia, Murray makes clear that the latter, prosopopoeia, speaks for and as the dead—a making present, as a projection of the addressor, and, as such, is “the master trope of biopolitics,” “whether expressly in the service of making live or letting die. It is a voice that impatiently projects the response it wishes to hear. It refuses to wait; inattentive, it willfully mistakes the echo for origin” (145).In contradistinction, apostrophe attends to a nonpresent absence (144), and eternally awaits a response—an impossible response, because the “impossible possibility of the reply ontologically precedes the call, and calls-forth that call, hearkening in advance: the apostrophe is summoned (by the absent addressee), the apostrophe in turn summons, and we tarry in this space. The address is always in the eternal return of this refrain” (145).And the address, “if we seek possibilities for a critical response that might disaffirm biopolitics,” requires a different “rhetorical register” (145). Hence the apostrophic address, the address summoned by the absent addressee, requires the “mortification” of the liberal human subject, perhaps summoning a sort of sacrifice of “letting die.” In this impossible space, unmoored from “our liberal subjecthood” and the illusion of agentic sovereignty, Murray takes up the (un)timely question: How then? What now? How might “we” proceed ethically (19)? In this concluding chapter, Murray faces the impossible, ethical injunction: How, then, to “deal” with these ghosts—with all these dead and dying with whom I have some complicity—by my very “livingness”? He turns/tropes his thanatographical eye from other systems to himself—to the very act of writing about the dead, about those lives that have been allowed (accelerated or mandated) to “let die.” The repetition is palpable. The lament has a corporeal texture. One feels the weight of corpses; the burden is heavy. This grave acknowledgment, however, is not cause for despair—but rather hope; here for a future-to-come, for a new way of being—for a new relation between the living and the dead.Murray suggests that there is a rhetorical, ethical responsibility to hearken to, to address—in a mode of call-and-response. How, then? Murray, thus, queries: might “we” (as tentatively as he inscribes such a collective), alternately, “gather around the impossible possibility of death, rather than life itself—a thanatopolitics rather than a biopolitics” (170)? Murray explains (and I realize I am quoting him heavily, but his prose is so gorgeously citation-worthy): “We must not think that by saying yes to ‘life,’ one says no to power and to death; on the contrary (to continue borrowing on Foucault’s phraseology), one tracks along the course laid out by the general deployment of biopolitics. And yet, in the sanctimonious affirmation of my ‘life,’ biopolitics demands that I say No to death, that I possess my life by locating death elsewhere, producing it there clandestinely, outsourcing it, as the condition of my living-on” (171).Speaking yes to life or yes to death, indeed, presumes that one can address such, and—to our purposes—presumes that one can, in present circumstances, “own” one’s own death, where nothing could be further from the “truth.” To speak the “truth” would acknowledge that “we ourselves are stuck in the universal contexts of death and cooperate with the death industry” (Sloterdijk 1987, 203). And this is where Murray resurrects the ancient Cynics, who acknowledged “the death-warranting of our established order. They refuse[d] to uphold the broken liberal contract, its ‘free speech,’ its false equalities” (175). Rather, they called for a “life which is radically other” and which “itself responds to—perhaps it has hearkened—death’s address” (175).By way of explication, he conjures Foucault’s late work on Cynic philosophy, as “a sort of parallel history to Western philosophy” (165). That is, Foucault contrasts the philosophical impulses as advocated by Plato’s with that of Plato’s In the the to is with a much relation to the as articulated in the Murray explains the of the the on the of an ethical relation to as a the manifests itself a and of in to the body the that we Western philosophy, and liberal In the in contrast, “the relation to itself . . . not on the care of the . . . but on the care of life (bios)” within Cynic contrast to the and of life within biopolitics rhetorical the or by which I my life and to it rather as by of as by a reply to that It does not speak it lives it. . . . a new to the of to say the (Sloterdijk 1987, It responds to the with “a dialogue of and An disaffirming mode of a mode of of of that one’s life and one’s one is or has one is to live or let to or of the has been a by scholars in our as in a to on Foucault and the of the to speak to speak and to speak The has a and history within the rhetorical (see and but of is the to to as is on the and rhetorics have their to critical This is a by who Foucault’s of power, and who argues that that we will or those that do not sense within the of or is, then, not in the according to much as it is an a The mode of thus, this critical as that up the possibilities for or of the of the to that have in that him his life, but he articulated a of that could one’s mode of one’s mode of death. the of the no such are or even even if we this Murray, in refrain, Cynic philosophy, the no no of an no but it us to still, on refrain, are the remains, the of remains, and the “burden,” or ethical to to Derrida has the work of attending to remains, to remains that do not remain, as the the impossible nonpresent absence that renders all thus, the for what I the (qtd. in 1987, in order to acknowledge that which the How to the of How to the work of our complicity in the systems of How to to the remains, to our complicity with injustices, in order to into the of the to address—in Derrida’s a and of a responsibility for This is what Murray is a scholar who deals with who to address, who for a of “life” that in one’s relation with the living and the ethical relation that would disaffirm our biopolitical regime and would not just an other life, it is an other in which an other death will one be (175). This is his this is what remains.

During the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, designers produced a number of novel data visualizations about the effects of the virus. Though many of these visualizations conveyed the current risks or actionable steps for mitigating risk, a subset of visualizations focused narrowly on depictions of total mortality. This article analyzes a set of 45 data graphics that fall into this latter group in order to unpack their rhetorical goals and to identify common design patterns. The article demonstrates that while these "death counter graphics" were rapidly produced and spread, they may have had limited value for conveying the immense scale of death during the start of the pandemic.

Have you ever wondered how design matters other than in content, structure, and insightful arrangement? Amy Gore's latest text, Book Anatomy: Body Politics and the Materiality of Indigenous Book History, can provide some answers to this question. A single sentence from the concluding chapter in her book--- "When we read a book for its narrative content only, we miss half the story" (p.125)---speaks volumes about where lies the book's alternative rhetorical possibility. This alternative rhetoricity rests on paratextuality manifesting a text's layout, cover design, and spatial texture that make up the cornerstone of design-based communicative practices.

As the impacts of extreme heat escalate, digital maps have been designed to triangulate the location, timing, and level of risk. To understand how these tools align with a range of heat communication needs, rhetorical topology is used to analyze three mapping tools that make projections at global, national, and local levels. While these tools seek to make heat risk visible, the reliance on numerical definitions and comparative statistics gets prioritized over lived experiences of heat, which could limit their impact. I argue that broadening the focus to include causal relationships and narratives may communicate extreme heat risk more equitably.

• Indexes are hylomorphic; they turn accidence into substance. • Indexes are authored, not merely produced. • The syntactic, alphabetic, and columnar form of indexes are rhetorically powerful. • Indexes are political because they destabilize hegemonic reading practices. This article, in the area of digital rhetoric, argues that the apparatus of the index is an authored text that bears all of the qualities of creative work. Its primary and distinguishing quality, moreover, is a hylomorphic one that bridges the temporal and material divide by taking the accidence in a text and naming it in substance. This dual nature is especially apparent in indexes that are produced by software, such as MS Word, that require the tagging of a main text to create what is called an “embedded index”; indexes of this sort exist both inside a main text and outside of it, in the tags and in the index list. Because the index both transforms (accidence to idea) and translates (from the main text to index list), the index has rhetorical force, interpreting a text for its readers. It does so as much by its content as by its formal qualities: syntactic, alphabetic, and columnar. Its persuasiveness in tandem with its intervention in the reading process, moreover, has social and political implications since the index can serve as both a means of rebellion and control for those who use and make them.

In this paper, we demonstrate how studying the rhetorics of ChatGPT prompt writing on social media can promote critical AI literacies. Prompt writing is the process of writing instructions for generative AI tools like ChatGPT to elicit desired outputs and there has been an upsurge of conversations about it on social media. To study this rhetorical activity, we build on four overlapping traditions of digital writing research in computers and composition that inform how we frame literacies, how we study social media rhetorics, how we engage iteratively and reflexively with methodologies and technologies, and how we blend computational methods with qualitative methods. Drawing on these four traditions, our paper shows our iterative research process through which we gathered and analyzed a dataset of 32,000 posts (formerly known as tweets) from X (formerly Twitter) about prompt writing posted between November 2022 to May 2023. We present five themes about these emerging AI literacy practices: (1) areas of communication impacted by prompt writing, (2) micro-literacy resources shared for prompt writing, (3) market rhetoric shaping prompt writing, (4) rhetorical characteristics of prompts, and (5) definitions of prompt writing. In discussing these themes and our methodologies, we highlight takeaways for digital writing teachers and researchers who are teaching and analyzing critical AI literacies.

American Kairos: Washington National Cathedral and the New Civil Religion by Richard Benjamin Crosby speaks to multiple areas within rhetorical studies, particularly for researchers interested in U.S. religion and politics, spatial rhetorics, presidential rhetoric, and kairos as a multilayered concept.Crosby is Professor of English at Brigham Young University and has published extensively on race, politics, and religion. American Kairos fits well within his previous work analyzing Mormon, presidential, priestly, prophetic, and civil religious discourse. As he mentions in the preface, some of the archival research for this book took place during his doctoral studies at the University of Washington.Rather than a straightforward rhetorical history or close reading of the cathedral, American Kairos analyzes several rhetorical dimensions of the building's relationship to civil religion in the United States. The book's attention is thus split between two theses. As Crosby states early on, “The main argument of this book is that American Civil Religion, the implicit system of values, ideals, rituals, traditions, and symbols that lend shape and meaning to our citizenship, has never been properly imagined, and that, as a consequence, the nation's past is haunted by ghosts that presently grow louder and more violent” (xii). This set of claims sits alongside what this reader takes to be the overarching rhetorical claim of the book, which appears in the introductory chapter: “The Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul—also variously named the Cathedral at Washington, Washington Cathedral, Washington National Cathedral, or the National Cathedral—is one the of the great, unknown rhetorical triumphs in the history of American religion. Without government mandate or public vote, it has claimed its role as America's de facto house of worship” (6). The two lines of argument surface in each chapter in some form, although they do not fully overlap.American Kairos is structured in an unorthodox manner. It is comprised of eight chapters, not including the introduction and conclusion, and split into two main sections. The first section explores the history and idea of the cathedral as it was conceptualized by prominent figures in its development, including Pierre L'Enfant, Henry Yates Satterlee, Francis B. Syre, and Mariann Edgar Budde. The second section examines the cathedral's “public space,” that is, its most well-known speeches and symbolic artifacts. This section begins with a close reading analysis of the cathedral's symbolism and spatial rhetorics by drawing on the theologically driven architectural vision of Philip Hubert Frohman, who served as the cathedral's principal architect from 1921 to 1972. It then moves into three chapters dedicated to major speeches delivered at the cathedral. The first analyzes Martin Luther King Jr.’s final Sunday sermon, “Remaining Awake through a Great Revolution,” given five days before his assassination in Memphis, Tennessee. The next contrasts the speeches of George H. W. Bush, who dedicated the cathedral in 1990, and George W. Bush, who offered pulpit remarks for the National Day of Prayer and Remembrance following the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Closing the trilogy is a chapter dedicated to the 2014 address of Cameron Partridge, an openly transgender Episcopal chaplain, and the 2018 interring of Matthew Shepard's remains within the cathedral, each highlighting the institution's role in promoting LGBTQ+ causes.Drawing liberally from the chapter on Dr. King, Crosby links various elements of the National Cathedral's rhetorical life to the concept of kairos. Building on James L. Kinneavy's theological work, Crosby defines kairos as “not just a moment; it is . . . an opening into what is truly real” (23). For Crosby, American kairos comprises “a sacred space wherein citizens could be moved by their experience of the country's heroes, deeds, and ideals, a space wherein citizenship becomes a holy practice” (23). One of the limitations of this book is that it does not offer precise definitions for these constituent terms—holy, religion, sacred, etc.—and thus does not fully articulate what separates “civil religion” from “religion” proper. By drawing on a wider and more critical literature on the intersection of faith, politics, religion, and society via the work of thinkers like Talal Asad, William Cavanaugh, David Bentley Hart, Kyle Harper, Stanley Hauerwas, Oliver O'Donovan, Richard Neuhaus, Charles Taylor, or Joseph Massad, the book's claims regarding kairos and the cathedral might have delineated those concepts more sharply. Regardless, Crosby robustly identifies fractures and inconsistencies within American civil religion and shows how those divisions manifested within the cathedral's rhetorical career, concluding the book with a call for the United States “to imagine itself at the helm of something unique . . . by throwing out all notions that we are a nation with a distinct religious or ethnic past. From there, we will find that we remain as rich as ever in the raw materials of civil-religious potential” (233).Along the way, the book makes several notable academic contributions. First, it provides a first-rate close reading of the National Cathedral itself. Chapter Five, which synthesizes scholarship on spatial rhetorics with Frohman's “fourth dimension” approach to ecclesial architecture that prioritizes “an experience in which the worshipper loses all sense of time and space and becomes co-present with God,” is a major contribution of the book (144). It offers a useful guide for scholars who seek to understand the sacred as it intersects the rhetoric of space and place. Second, the first section of the book offers a fascinating history of the National Cathedral as a rhetorical site, perhaps providing a roadmap for future scholarship that seeks to perform a similar diachronic rhetorical analysis of a specific monument, building, or public space. Third, Crosby's meditations on kairos, particularly in the preface and introduction, offer an insightful and interdisciplinary take on an oft invoked and potentially ambiguous rhetorical concept. Additionally, the book does a good job of situating its criticism of the chosen rhetorical artifacts within their articulatory and civil religious contexts by referencing the cathedral archives and other primary sources. American Kairos is, if nothing else, a work of patient and extensive research that models the best practices of public address scholarship.That said, the book has several areas where it could be stronger. First, the overall structure confused this reader. Perhaps because of its patient composition, the chapter sequencing can jump across historical eras and arguments, making important throughlines between chapters difficult to identify beyond general themes. While beginning with L'Enfant's dream of a national church makes sense chronologically, the result is that the book begins with a detailed, contested history of a rhetorical institution across multiple chapters without fully establishing from the start the rhetorical dimensions of that institution. One of the casualties of this organizational design is that a sustained rhetorical analysis of the National Cathedral's relationship to other spaces in the District of Columbia as they exist today is not provided. This absence seems all the more striking given Chapter Three's focus on anti-Catholic attitudes among nineteenth century Protestants. This chapter could have been expanded by discussing the proximity of the National Cathedral to a major center of Catholic life in the United States—Maryland and northeast Washington D.C.—epitomized by the Catholic University of America (established 1887), which boasts its own cathedral on a rival hill a mere five miles away (The National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, consecrated in 1920). That this information is left out seems like a missed opportunity.Second, the wide-ranging organizational structure leads to an attenuated sense of context at times across the book. For example, Chapter Four's discussion of Mariann Edgar Budde, the cathedral bishop since 2011, references several controversies related to President Donald Trump along with McCarthyism, xenophobia, immigration, and standards of civic dignity over the span of three pages. Chapter Three does not reference any anti-Catholic invective from Protestant pulpits prior to the nineteenth century or any of the significant criticisms of liberalism, democracy, and the United States offered by the Vatican during this era. Chapter One describes L'Enfant's vision of a “Great Church for National Purposes” that would be “assigned to the special use of no particular Sect or denomination, but equally open to all” (48–49). Crosby returns to this description in later chapters, even asking, “Was L'Enfant's church supposed to be Christian?” (122). The book would have benefitted from a more thorough explanation of what a non-Christian church would look like and what would differentiate it from another kind of religious gathering. As these brief examples illustrate, while the book ably analyzes the rhetorical figures it selects, it sometimes struggles to capture key elements and the full complexity of the broader context, which may in part reflect the book's ambitious scope.Finally, a main contention of American Kairos is the polemic assertion that “we have never had a coherent civil religion” (230). Likening the National Cathedral's attempt to embody American civil religion to “a charioteer holding the reigns of wrangling horses” (143), Crosby laments the cathedral's serpentine history and mishmash of iconography as “brilliant but unsettling and perhaps nonsensical” (163). Crosby proposes a view of the National Cathedral as an embodiment of a new civil religion: I imagine his [L'Enfant's] church as a place of ritual and memorial, yes, but also a great center of civic education where students and citizens come to study, debate, and celebrate the rights, responsibilities, and implications of their citizenship, including the responsibility to atone for past sins. To this end, such a church might also host schools and libraries, symposia and debates, artists and scholars in residence, and of course great speeches and civil-religious sermons (229).To this reader, this description sounds a lot like a university—an educational institution with many departments that is focused much more on here than the hereafter—and less like a church, mosque, temple, or synagogue. An alternative reading of the “incoherence” of American civil religion as embodied within the life of the Washington National Cathedral might find that its contradictions reflect democracy, in all its messiness, itself. In that sense, it would be difficult to find a building that more perfectly encapsulates the full range of the American experiment than the National Cathedral in northwest Washington D.C.In conclusion, American Kairos: Washington National Cathedral and the New Civil Religion is an insightful book that deserves to be on the shelf of any serious scholar of political rhetoric, civil religion, and religious discourse in the United States. It merits a readership that, like the cathedral itself, seeks to chart a path forward in divisive times.

How does America feel? We could ask introspectively—how does it feel to identify with, think about, and generally be proximate to America—or haptically—how does this imperialistic nation-state feel when it impacts different bodies? In American Magnitude, Christa Olson answers both versions of the question: she parses affects associated with American pretenses towards grandeur and reflects on the material consequences of America's inflated public feelings. The book deserves attention from anyone whose work encompasses affective publics, visual rhetorics, borders/borderlands, and the practices and legacies of American colonialism.Olson contends that, between the middle of the nineteenth century and the middle of the twentieth, “US Americans looking from the United States into the ‘other’ Americas to the south created, sustained, and circulated the United States as America through appeals to grandeur, import, and consequence” (6). Each of her chapters takes up a case study in the causes and consequences of the United States’ hegemony in relation to its neighbors. As her focus ranges across visual media from lithographs to animated films, she charts how public feelings accumulate, circulate in personal and national stories, and reinforce the self-importance of American self-representation. She also keeps an eye on the fragility of American self-aggrandizement and its failure to get non-U.S. audiences to take it seriously. The book not only carefully analyzes claims to national significance in rhetorical practice but also models how to write about hegemonic rhetorical patterns while decentering those pattern's own claims of importance.The introduction starts with Olson's “central assumptions”: that “American scenes” teach U.S. audiences the “contours and responsibilities of being American,” and that “becoming American . . . required looking not only within but also beyond US borders” (6). She develops those assumptions with three key terms: hemisphere, magnitude, and feeling. Describing her work as not strictly decolonial in practice, but as an investigation of how colonizing power functions, she focuses on “the history and consequence” (12) of U.S. habits of viewing the hemisphere as space to be controlled for gain. Magnitude names the rhetorical engine behind those habits and thus is the conceptual heart of the book. Magnitude, she argues, inheres in a variety of rhetorical practices for establishing importance and so appears in different guises across historical contexts. After defining its “close links to the sublime” (13), she rounds out the introduction by reminding readers that magnitude “rushes through a seeing-feeling body” (19). Locating magnitude in sensoria leads her to the final keyword, feeling. Magnitude's “normative common sense” is not an intangible idea but the lived reality in publics “formed through intensity of feeling and a need to monitor bodily borders both literal and symbolic” (23). Feeling, to Olson, constitutes publicness as such, as it keeps vivid the visceral qualities of what it is like to be in public. Magnitude, we might say, is not just a way of viewing, but a way of life.Chapter one offers both an origin story of hemispheric magnitude in American history and an innovative contribution to theories of visual circulation and public feeling. In it, Olson stories a wealth of archival material left behind by U.S. Americans trying to make sense of the Mexican-American war. She surveys the letters and lithographs through which the “war's implications—its aims, its triumphs, its costs—were before their eyes” (31). She theorizes “accumulation” to explicate why that archival material mattered, defining accumulation as “circulation's necessary counterpart,” involving “the buildup of material over time” regarding ideas and arguments, the slow gathering of “the stuff that sticks around and creates significance” (43). Accumulation innovates within extant disciplinary vocabularies of circulation and affect in that it allows Olson to discern affect mattering in moments when it moves too slowly to influence individual rhetorical encounters. Accumulation also lets her take a unique perspective on grandeur, describing it not as a single strike of sublime intensity but something that can gather too slowly to be noticed. American magnitude, she argues, did not occur overnight to Americans visualizing the Mexican-American war; it sedimented over time and across thousands of letters and ephemera of visual and material culture, and, like a mountain range, grew up gradually. Addressing why Americans accepted hemispheric hegemony as a dominant frame for viewing their place in the world, Olson claims that they acquiesced “to the precise shape of the nation as inevitable, as destined, and as exceptional” (65) largely by virtue of learning to take that shape for granted.The next chapter tells six stories about Frederic Church, the painter whose landscapes colored how Americans imagined “their” hemisphere. Trying to “defamiliarize the presumption of whiteness and [U.S.] Americanness that suffuses Church's paintings,” Olson tells “story and counterstory” (70) in a chapter that could have focused only on visual rhetorics. Expanding readers’ perspective on nostalgic paintings, the stories she tells contextualize, undercut, and complicate “the American stories” (71) and the landscapes of Church's that told them, that treat hemispheric hegemony as received fact. The chapter thus highlights the incongruity between magnitude's fictional “true American [white, Northern, masculine]” (81) and the character of the painter whose journeys south “left him gasping, itching, sweating, and shivering” (89). We get a picture of Church hiding his travails in tropical climates behind a more palatable painting of “placidity and tranquility” (87) that other white men could fantasize about conquering. Olson summarizes that “painting, in this retrospective, is colonization by another name” (99).Chapter three focuses on an irony of American magnitude: in an effort to be bigger than the rest of the world, American magnitude cannot recognize epistemologies other than its own, so it relies on tropes of “discovery, invention, and revelation” (105) to frame other cultures’ materials as spectacles for American eyes. Machu Picchu is the chapter's case in point for such rhetorical operations of “revealing discovery” (136). It follows Hiram Bingham, a mercenary adventurer dressed as a scientist, as he “went looking for greatness” to project to American viewers and “primed his methods to ensure he found it” (114). The chapter highlights not only how rhetorics of grand discovery “make the things that they bring to light” (137), but also how magnitude ignores entire epistemologies in framing the world as the measure of Americans’ greatness. Olson ends the chapter dwelling on the “opacity” of Bingham's “refusal to be held accountable by or to his Peruvian counterparts” (136), which Olson calls innate to rhetorics of grand discovery as such: “revelation, by necessity, hides” the “other possible understandings” (137–138) of what is being “revealed” as a discovery.The fourth chapter further develops the theme of magnitude's opacity, here from the perspective of people “looking askance” (171) at nationalistic paternalism. Olson investigates the Walt Disney Company's filmmaking work for the U.S. Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs, a unit meant to sell America's image to people in Latin America through pseudo-educational films that, in truth, barely passed as bad propaganda: “a bad gift,” in Olson's words, “presented as charity” (142). Comparing the U.S. American intent behind, and reception of, Disney films to the films’ reception in Latin America, Olson emphasizes magnitude's fragility. International audiences always viewed the tropes of “normative white, settler vision” with justified derision, in the process “pulling [American magnitude] off-course and making use of it slantwise” (178). This kind of humbling claim—that adherents to American magnitude who presumed their point of view to be “the unquestioned center of America” were “imagining things” (145)—winds down Olson's content chapters with a detailed example of how American magnitude has often failed to spur any usable rhetorical invention at all, let alone to compel actually existing hemispheric audiences to take it seriously.The concluding fifth chapter offers advice about how to resist magnitude's claims. Olson advocates a turn to “post-magnitude rhetorical history, theory, and criticism,” a disciplinary future where rhetoricians have learned “to sit with limitedness” (188). Identifying magnitude's impetus towards grandeur with the American academy's need for scholarship to be big, important, and, yes, grand, Olson refuses sweeping statements about what rhetoric beyond nationalistic magnitudes must be and instead offers advice about where such rhetorics would start. Specifically, she councils us to “be partial . . . keep a messy slate . . . do the hard work of connection [and] care” (188–193). It's a fitting way to conclude. The book models how to deal with authorial positionality in the face of an archive of harm. Olson weaves different modes of narrative, sometimes traditionally foregrounding a historical event explicated by the expert author, and at other times writing transparently about her access to, and affective response in the face of, various archives of magnitude. The book rewards close readings that pay attention to when it speaks in first-person and when it speaks as an authorial expert. Which, again, means that the conclusion is fitting: if we take Olson's call for post-magnitude rhetoric seriously, there was no serious way to end this book in the authoritative, as opposed to self-reflective, voice.One question lingers for this reviewer: Does Olson give magnitude too much credit? She seems to treat magnitude like a problem inherent in claims about significance as such, and not a problem specific to U.S. American nationalism. Olson would probably, if asked, dissociate magnitude from other forms for signifying importance, significance, and/or worth, and stress that magnitude is a particularly American place from which to evaluate something. But there are moments in the text where the distinction does not appear, and she considers magnitude like an unavoidable status quo, or even a feature of any claim about significance by default. I wonder if saying we need to be “post” magnitude gives too much credence to American magnitude's own aspirations toward perfection. Put another way: non-magnitudinous rhetorics only look limited and partial from magnitude's own point of view. Do we, by calling for new disciplinary paradigms to get beyond magnitude, accidentally reify its impact and, in the process, hide how some scholars, writers, and activists all along have been beyond magnitude—and have, in fact, never had the luxury of taking magnitude seriously?Olson has written an attentive and meaningful book, a clinic in the writing of palpable history. American Magnitude accounts for how magnitude matters materially, in bodies and maps, in felt distance and implied relation. It steadily innovates in approach to common theoretical concerns—circulation, sublimity, and so on—helping our discipline continue to shift focus from the sudden effects of rhetorical genius to the gradual accretion of norms, values, and forms. It is one of several recent landmark books in rhetorical studies (think of Emerson Cram's Violent Inheritance or Catalina M. de Onís's Energy Islands) that reject sweeping conclusions in favor of much more locally focused and self-reflective answers to problems of baffling scope and duration. It therefore communicates a sense of the fragility of magnitude: the light touch of the conclusion resonates with a fact Olson demonstrates from the introduction, namely that all visions of grandeur contain the conditions of their own diminution. In its scope and balance, it is clearly a book, like her research subject, that sedimented over time, accruing layers, eroding jagged edges, building gradually. The care with which Olson balances theoretical nuance, detailed case studies, methodological rigor, and self-reflection evokes the steady grace of the landscapes her book's subjects inhabit. The highest compliment we could pay it is to imagine all the ecosystems of research beyond magnitude—critical of U.S. American hegemony, attentive to flows of movement and immobility across and between borders, breathing in various formal and informal archives—to which it will surely contribute.

Communicating the Other Across Cultures by intercultural communication scholar Dr. Julia Khrebtan-Hörhager is a compelling read about how master narratives perpetuate cultural othering discursively, visually, and materially. The author notes that the crux of cultural othering is a systemic and reoccurring process of prioritizing histories with a “capital H,” “written and communicated by the powerful of the world” (e.g., colonizers, enslavers); this, in turn, socially constructs the Other (5). In these, the Other is routinely shown “as unworthy, primitive, barbaric, threatening, even subhuman” (2). In response to such master narratives, the latter half of the book examines how minoritized groups employ resistive rhetoric, specifically through exposure and empowerment, to disrupt oppressive systems and foster social change. The author refers to this process as “communicating other/wise,” which she coins as a “discursive strategy against Master Narratives that perpetuate cultural othering and an alternative epistemology of learning with and from the Other, of gaining awareness and eventually wisdom with regard to Self and Other” (14). Tracing types of rhetorical othering through case studies in the United States, Russia, and Western European countries, the author utilizes a cross-cultural approach and Kenneth Burke's concept of “equipment for living,” which Khrebtan-Hörhager extends to visual and material rhetoric.Communicating the Other Across Cultures is divided into two parts: “Cultural Othering as Equipment for Living” and “Communicating Other/Wise.” The first three chapters demonstrate the embedded nature of cultural othering through verbal, visual, and material artifacts, showcasing how cultural othering is a communicative phenomenon that has no borders. The last three chapters focus on how communicating other/wise is a powerful, subversive tool for the Other to tell alternative stories and conclude by pointing to the necessity of studying cultural othering across disciplines.Chapter 1 offers a comparative study of verbal othering in master narratives through different geopolitical locations. The author argues that the Other is discursively constructed, maintained, and normalized in literary works through binaries, which often endorse Eurocentric values and whiteness. An example of this is Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, where the racialized good and evil binary emerges as Finn “thinks of himself as a sinner who will go to hell for his choice of not betraying fugitive slave Jim” (25). Twain's characters point to the idea that Finn should not care for Jim's wellbeing, furthering the justification of slavery and colonialism as a U.S. master narrative. Ultimately, this institutionalizes stigmas and reifies oppressive binaries. The Other is characterized as nonhuman and undeserving of inclusion and equality.Chapter 2 focuses on how visual culture transcends certain discursive boundaries, contending that images are powerful as they “demonstrate to us who matters, who does not, who exists in the center, and who struggles on the margins” (67). A significant component of visual othering is through cinematography, which greatly contributed to Nazi Germany's propaganda, supported the National Socialist regime, and justified the Holocaust. For example, the famous 1940 documentary Der Ewige Jude (The External Jew) portrays Jews as an unsanitary pest and “compares them [Jews] to rats, and reminds the audience that rats need to be killed for reasons of public health and safety” (106). Such visuals have the potency to intensify othering of Semitic peoples across geopolitical locations, solidifying ideological and national understandings of the Other.Chapter 3 looks at the relationship between material rhetoric—such as monuments, architecture, and memorials—and cultural othering. The author underscores the importance of attending to artifacts as they “contribute to the creation of a certain worldview that includes our national identities, our heroes, our role models, and our aspirations,” resulting in the lack of representation and even misrepresentation of the Other (111). The nationalist narrative is evident in the Mount Rushmore National Memorial, which celebrates several of America's Founding Fathers, communicates a superior national identity, and upholds patriotism. Mount Rushmore National Memorial especially ignores the United States’ involvement in Indigenous genocide and displacement by depicting the American Dream and freedom as available to all. The author argues that this is a form of strategic othering, a “convenient ideology of the (non-[w]hite, non-Christian, non-male, non-European, non-powerful) Other” (123). Utilizing material artifacts to distort history absolves white guilt and upholds white supremacy.In chapter 4, Khrebtan-Hörhager highlights a collection of alternative stories across the United States, Russia, and Europe that does not reify master narratives but instead exposes and empowers the voices of the Other. Prominent Russian writer, poet, and critic Nikolay Nekrasov, for example, used his works to critique war and suffering—an opposition to Russia's worldview and imperial expansion. As the author posits, writing Other/wise “is about listening to and learning from Other narratives, even if they clash with our existing worldviews and discredit our heroes and role models” (164). Communicating other/wise is a critical tool for reimagining spaces that include perspectives of the voices often silenced, erased, and hidden.Chapter 5 explores visuality through the lens of the Other. A striking example is the artwork Cloud Madonna, which shows a woman of color carefully and intimately carrying a melon while carrying water on the top of her head. The author posits that this portrayal is supposed to contrast Indigenous women's innate and generative connection to the land with a Christian nationalist perspective of the white madonna, who is “primarily defined through her relationship to baby Jesus” (223). Visualizing the Other is rooted in critiquing essentialized identities created by master narratives, which “teach us to see things differently; provide a new look on beliefs, norms, and values; and gradually change our culture” (219).Chapter 6 models communicating other/wise through materiality. The author explains that materiality (e.g., monuments, memorials, museums) crafts and tells our histories, which, in turn, communicates and informs our present and “the future of our children” (261). Because many forms of materiality are told through a homogenous, colonized lens, the goal for this chapter aims “to ‘un-set’ history and culture that is ‘in stone’ and to introduce alternative, culturally sensitive, and inclusive pieces of material rhetoric” (263–264). Khrebtan-Hörhager introduces several examples of how exposure and empowerment are imperative for disrupting homogenous narratives often curated by those in power. One example is the act of literally removing monuments that commemorate a nation's ideological regime. For example, Poles have removed certain monuments that commemorate the Red Army for freeing Poland from Nazi fascism. The author notes that “the removal of such Soviet monuments [is] not only natural but highly necessary as it avoids communicating wrong ideological values and grants Poland a much-overdue chance to achieve its own national and cultural definition as a free European democracy” (279). Materiality can be an especially rich mode for communicating other/wise, as it is often strikingly present even in the most mundane public spaces.Communicating the Other Across Cultures concludes by restating the pervasiveness of cultural othering in verbal, visual, and material forms and their ideological implications. With inspiration from Audre Lorde, communicating others/wise is a strategy for disrupting oppression and, thus, necessary for creating new realities. As the author hopefully asserts, “although othering is still omnipresent, it does not have to remain omnipotent, but the power to change the status quo starts with the critical social self-reflexivity and cultural self-diagnostics” (312). The question, “Whose voices are being prioritized?” is necessary for the unraveling of master narratives. This can be especially useful for undoing hegemonic educational curriculums, instead bringing in alternative histories and voices, such as Toni Morrison, as the classroom is often a formative space for shaping new perspectives and realities. Communicating the Other Across Cultures is extraordinary, grounded in cultural richness with exhaustive examples; it also highlights the voices of Other scholars and showcases the importance of studying cultural othering beyond communication and rhetoric. While the book demonstrates that cultural othering is systemic across cultures and recognizes the destructive patterns of master narratives, it also reminds readers of their agency to listen to the Other, learn from the stories of the Other, and invent ways of living Other/Wise.

Abstract This essay analyses wilderness debates in the Utah Public Lands Initiative (PLI). From 2012–2016, the PLI sought to answer the “question of wilderness” through a holistic, state-centric public lands bill. The effort was spearheaded by former Utah Representative Rob Bishop who argued that the state could achieve “certainty” through “compromise,” or that the state's problems with wilderness and public lands could be resolved by reaching consensus on how best to use those lands. Bishop sought input from seven Utah counties, who would submit their own proposals for how best to resolve pressing land-use issues in their respective counties. I examine public discourse about one proposal, from Grand County, analyzing county documents, newspaper reports, and citizen comment letters. Following work in rhetorical studies on wilderness, my analysis demonstrates how local communities construct wilderness and its meanings in a particular cultural moment. Reading the county's PLI rhetorics for how citizens valued wilderness and their relationships to public lands, I argue that the county had difficulty attaining compromise and certainty because citizens could not agree on the meanings of “wilderness.”

Abstract Bayard Rustin influenced the trajectory of Black political rhetoric in the post-civil rights era. In this essay, I offer a rhetorical recovery of this neglected figure, focusing on the centrality of his emphasis on coalitional politics to the Black freedom struggle while noting that his stress on economics as the basis for coalition building shaped a rhetorical strategy tradition that I call “the rhetoric of race-neutral coalitional politics.” I also examine the legacy of this rhetorical strategy, against the backdrop of the Obama era, arguing that it silences dissent, de-emphasizes the policy priorities of Black communities, and reinforces the white gaze in Black political rhetoric and thought. I conclude that success in the Black freedom struggle depends on the community's ability to develop rhetorical strategies that position it as an equal partner in political coalitions rather than a captive participant.

Abstract This essay analyzes the redemptive rhetoric found in Rev. Dr. Heber Brown III's sermon “Redeeming Deserted Places.” I argue that Brown's rhetoric of redemption serves as a powerful rhetorical tool for critiquing whiteness, anti-Black racism, and justice-based movements. Through my analysis, I reach three key findings. First, Brown radically redefines the starting point for rhetorics of redemption. While Burke suggests that redemptive rhetoric's origin begins with the roles of the victim, Brown suggests that the starting point of redemption can also stem from the liberator. Second, Brown defines redemption as a form of liberation. Following in the footsteps of Cone's Black liberation theology, Brown argues that redemption plays a role in the process of liberating Black communities from anti-Black racism. Finally, Brown's use of the rhetoric of redemption centers on Black subjectivity while de-centering whiteness. By insisting that Black communities redeem themselves from white supremacy, Brown contends that redemption is a catalyst for actively implementing anti-racist policy and preserving marginalized Black communities rather than a tool for forgiving white supremacy.

This article shares three focal participant profiles from a national study on graduate student writing pedagogy in rhetoric, composition, and writing studies. Working toward a more linguistically just discipline, this research explores how we might teach graduate students disciplinary genre expectations while centering their embodied ways of composing.

Avowing settler status positions settler scholars to join in storying less harmful futures for the discipline. The author’s journey toward avowing settler status through the Northern Shoshoni word daiboo’ helps clear a path for this world-making.

I aim to inspire people to suppress language and practices that oppress people. I engage with scholarship to advocate for learning from suppressed communities. I call for rhetoric and composition scholars to recognize how the existence and progress of oppressed communities require suppressing language and practices that oppress those communities.

I recommend that teachers of professional communication (e.g., business communication) incorporate into their courses the Giving Voice to Values (GVV) curriculum developed by Mary Gentile. Adding GVV materials to a course in professional communication would add an ethical emphasis to the course or supplement an existing one. GVV materials also provide communication teachers with excellent opportunities to introduce (or expand) attention to rhetorical decision making. Furthermore, GVV materials provide an opportunity for cross-disciplinary cooperation among teachers of business communication and other business disciplines.

Medical documentation--i.e., charting--is widely known to be crucial for patient care, billing, and legal protection, but it is simultaneously largely viewed as tedious, time-consuming busywork that takes clinicians away from patients, especially in the era of electronic health records (EHRs). There has been excellent but limited research on how writing skills (and thus, explicit writing instruction) influence both the charting experience and charting outcomes (Schryer, 1993; Opel & Hart-Davidson, 2019). In this project, I investigate how progress notes within EHRs could be improved if medical providers had more training in rhetoric and technical writing. Specifically, I focus on primary care, as primary-care providers have been shown to spend the most time on EHRs (Rotenstein et al, 2023). I draw upon a corpus of de-identified primary-care progress notes and the insights of primary-care providers, both sourced from clinics in rural Oregon. My major conclusions are that primary-care providers would benefit from being taught how to write with attention to audience and purpose and that rhetoricians of health and medicine have an opportunity to help improve patient charting.

The conquest of America brought with it the introduction of rhetoric as a model of teaching and as a practice in the different manifestations of religious discourse, of which the preaching or sermon was the most important for scholars of the colonial era (16th-18th centuries) who, on the other hand, gave little importance to the three political genres: deliberative, epideictic and judicial or forensic, although these had not disappeared as discursive practices. The great classical deliberative oratory had taken a backseat in New Spain but continued to develop in the consistories of the mayoralties and in public debates; the judicial genre continued to be exercised in lawsuits before the Inquisition and local judicial bodies and the epideictic genre was manifested in the lives of saints and praises of various kinds. This situation changed during the 19th century, particularly in the second half, when great parliamentary oratory, civic and patriotic speeches that flooded the republic and judicial oratory flourished because of the new political conditions brought about by the struggle for independence and the triumph of liberalism, in addition to other important genres such as history and journalism. The purpose of this essay is, first, to offer an outline of oratory practices and rhetorical teaching during the Colony, emphasizing the importance of sermons and the oblivion of other discursive expressions and, second, to show the emergence of political genres during the 19th century, which reached their greatest splendor in discursive practices and liberal education.

Rarely are cookbooks simply collections of recipes; frequently, they offer a wealth of additional cultural and historical information. They serve as a medium for sharing ideas and memories; and thus operate rhetorically. Similarly, a recipe is not simply a set of instructions; it is a text embedded within and reflecting cultural, social, and historical contexts. Recipes act as rhetorical tools that foster communal continuity and cohesion. Cookbooks create a rhetorical space, engaging readers through both the main text and supplementary elements, or “paratexts,” as termed by Gérard Genette. This study examines the rhetorical function of Emily Meggett’s bestselling cookbook, Gullah Geechee Home Cooking, with a focus on her “Fried Okra” recipe and its accompanying paratexts. Analyzing these elements enhances our understanding of and appreciation for the cultural and rhetorical dimensions embedded within her cookbook.

Mexican President Andrés Obrador’s speech on the occasion of the 85th anniversary of the expropriation of oil suggests the speaker’s oratorical maturity. The speech is multi-threaded, with a factual (historical) dominant, accompanied by an important persuasive emotive and evaluative component, which is the proof of the rhetorical balance of the speech. The content of the speech and the way it is delivered strengthen and tighten social bonds and unite the community around universal ideas and values such as freedom, honesty, equality and sovereignty. Despite many problems that contemporary Mexico is struggling with, expropriating oil carried out 85 years ago was skillfully used by President Obrador. The rightness of the leftist path leading to social justice was clear in the speech. The anniversary became an excellent opportunity to popularize the president’s planned and ongoing political activities.

The article analyses the lyrics of selected songs by Lila Downs, paying special attention to the rhetorical appeals of logos, ethos and pathos they contain. The results of the analysis reveal all three types of rhetorical appeals, as well as passages combining two or all three of them. Pathos appeals to emotion, often using specific linguistic means (hyperbole, irony), ethos evokes both historical figures and indigenous people as examples, and logos involves predominantly social criticism.

This paper considers the possible parallels between Aristotle’s Rhetoric and the doctrine of “issues” (staseis) as developed in Hellenistic rhetoric. It is argued that while present in Aristotle’s thought, the issues are not built into a comprehensive system but rather integrated into his method of invention focused on topics. The different approaches in Books I and III seem to be due mainly to their respective contexts, and complement one another by focusing on different aspects of the issues.

The aim of the article is to revise views on the parodic nature of Plato’s funeral speech (epitaphios logos) entitled “Menexenus.” By demonstrating Plato’s literary virtuosity in the funeral speech and conveying his opinions regarding the social policies of democratic Athens, the author of the article seeks to challenge previous interpretations of the parodic nature of epitaphios logos in the “Menexenus.” Since Plato was writing during a period of establishing and asserting the authority of literary prose in opposition to the hitherto educative role played by poetry, the article also addresses the question of Plato himself establishing his authority through a symbiosis of philosophy and rhetoric. The author of the article draws attention to Plato’s significant contribution to revising views on the art of rhetoric by discussing it exhaustively and extensively in his dialogues, including the “Menexenus.”

Living Digital Media presents a compelling exploration of the intricate relationships between creators and their digital media productions. It emphasizes that creators are living digital media, meaning they experience a swell of emotions, from love to frustration, as they shape their creations.

Aaron Bruenger (he/they) is a senior lecturer at the University of Minnesota Rochester where he teaches writing and communication courses. He is interested in rhetorical criticism and theory, multimodal literacy and composition, and relational pedagogy.Ellen C. Carillo (she/her) is professor of English at the University of Connecticut and the writing coordinator at its Waterbury campus. She is the author of Securing a Place for Reading in Composition: The Importance of Teaching for Transfer (2014), Teaching Readers in Post-Truth America (2018), and The Hidden Inequities in Labor-Based Contract Grading (2021). Ellen is also the editor or coeditor of several textbooks, handbooks, and collections.Esther M. Gabay (she/her) is a PhD student at The Ohio State University, focusing on writing, literacy, disability studies, and writing assessment. She has over a decade of experience teaching first-year writing in the two-year college, and was a collaborative member of the Faculty Initiative of Teaching Reading at Kingsborough Community College. Esther has published articles in TETYC and has chapters in the forthcoming edited collections What Is College-Level Writing (vol. 3) and College Teachers Teaching Reading: Practical Strategies for Supporting Postsecondary Readers.Catherine Gabor (she/her) is professor of rhetoric and acting associate dean for the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of San Francisco. Her professional interests are digital authorship, the scholarship of administration, and ungrading. Her work appears in the Journal of Writing Program Administration, Reflections: Writing, Service-Learning, and Community Literacy, the Journal of Basic Writing, and several edited collections.Kara K. Larson (she/her) is an assistant professor of English at Hillsborough Community College–SouthShore, Florida. She was a Conference on College Composition and Communication Scholars for the Dream Award recipient in 2021. A former middle school English language arts and reading teacher for ESL students, Kara has enjoyed taking learner-centered engagement and collaborative learning strategies into the college classroom.Bronson Lemer (he/him) is a senior lecturer at the University of Minnesota Rochester. He is the author of The Last Deployment: How a Gay, Hammer-Swinging Twentysomething Survived a Year in Iraq (2011). He is a 2019 McKnight Writing Fellow and lives in St. Paul.Jessica Nastal (she/they) is assistant professor of English at College of DuPage. With Mya Poe and Christie Toth, her edited collection Writing Placement in Two-Year Colleges: The Pursuit of Equity in Postsecondary Education won the CWPA Best Book Award for 2022. Jessica serves on the editorial boards of Assessing Writing, Teaching English in the Two-Year College, and Composition Studies.Katherine Daily O'Meara (she/her) is assistant professor of English and director of Writing across the Curriculum at St. Norbert College. Her work has been published in the Journal of Response to Writing, The WAC Journal, and multiple edited collections. Kat's current research focuses on accessible assessment and contract grading, student self-placement, equitable/antiracist pedagogies, WAC/WID, and writing program administration.Cheryl Hogue Smith (she/her) is a professor of English, WRAC coordinator, and liberal arts coordinator at Kingsborough Community College, CUNY. She is a past chair of the Two-Year College English Association (TYCA) and a Fellow of the National Writing Project. Her work appears in TETYC, JBW, JAAL, English Journal, JTW, and in several edited collections.Jesse Stommel (he/him) is a faculty member in the Writing Program at University of Denver. He is also cofounder of Hybrid Pedagogy: the journal of critical digital pedagogy and Digital Pedagogy Lab. He has a PhD from University of Colorado Boulder. He is author of Undoing the Grade: Why We Grade, and How to Stop (2023) and coauthor of An Urgency of Teachers: The Work of Critical Digital Pedagogy (2018).Molly E. Ubbesen (she/they) is assistant professor and director of Writing at University of Minnesota Rochester. She applies critical disability studies to writing studies to support accessible and effective teaching and learning. Her work has been published in Kairos: A Journal of Rhetoric, Technology, and Pedagogy and Composition Forum. Additionally, she is an editor for the forthcoming collection Disability, Access, and the Teaching of Writing.Megan K. Von Bergen (she/her) is an assistant professor of English at Murray State University, where she teaches first-year and upper-division composition courses. She is interested in inclusive, student-centered assessment practices and the programmatic structures needed to support them. Her work has appeared in Composition Studies and enculturation. In her spare time, she likes running (really) long distances.Griffin Xander Zimmerman (they/he) recently graduated with a PhD in rhetoric, composition, and the teaching of English from University of Arizona. Griffin's work appears in the Journal of Writing Assessment and the Journal of Multimodal Rhetorics. An interdisciplinary disability scholar, Griffin focuses his work on pedagogical approaches to neurodiversity, teacher training, disability rhetorics, and relationality through communities of care.

The use of generative artificial intelligence (GAI) large language models has increased in both professional and classroom technical writing settings. One common response to student use of GAI is to increase surveillance, incorporating plagiarism detection services or banning certain composing activities from the classroom. This paper argues such measures are harmful and instead proposes a “CARE” framework: critical, authorial, rhetorical, and educational—a nuanced approach emphasizing ethical and contextual AI use in technical writing classrooms. This framework aligns with plagiarism best practices, initially devised from when rhetoric and composition scholars considered the pedagogical implications of the Internet.

This study explores how prompting techniques, especially those integrated with rhetorical analysis results, may improve the effectiveness of artificial intelligence (AI)-generated business communication messages. I conducted an experiment to assess the effectiveness of these prompting techniques in the context of crafting a negative message generated with ChatGPT 3.5 ( n = 85). A multiple regression was calculated to explore prompting techniques’ impact on the negative message grades and how each technique influences the message grade. The results ( F(4, 80) = 31.84, p < .001), with an adjusted R2 = .595, indicate a positive relationship between prompting techniques and the effectiveness of AI-generated messages. This study also identified challenges related to students’ AI literacy. I conclude the study by recommending practical measures on how to incorporate AI into business and professional writing classrooms.