Debating Masterclass; Debating Workshop

This week I will be travelling to Montana for my now apparently annual debating workshop that I present there. This started a couple of years ago after meeting people in Mexico after the IDEA youth forum. At the forum, it became clear to me that it is important to create an environment of solid argumentation pedagogy if one expects to teach debating, rhetoric and argument. Without the environment, and a good large environment, there’s very little that can be done to teach rhetoric well. At least that’s how I see it. They were very happy to invite me to big sky country and I was happy to go. I am still quite excited about this, it still contains newness and the sense of frontier. Perhaps that’s my own association with this state and my ever constant fantasy that I will live and teach debate there one day.

The first workshop was in Billings, as is this one. Last year it was in Helena, where Brent Northup called it a debate “masterclass” – something I’d never heard associated with debating at all. I’d always thought of masterclasses as something associated with artistic endeavor, and debate as associated with – well – not that.

Considering debate as a performance is rare. A workshop is for crafting and building, making something practical perhaps or at least producing something – like a writing workshop. A masterclass is for putting yourself in touch with artistry. Acting workshops are for the production of better acting perhaps, but a masterclass would be for the refinement of the connection with the art. Something a bit more self-focused rather than product focused, perhaps. Usually reserved for advanced students, the masterclass – at least somewhat – suggests that there’s other learning that must come first. Something more programmatic. Something more practical. Something “not advanced.”

There are other ways to go with this word as well – thinking about music, a field that is where masterclass is used most often in reference to something performed, or performance. This is what I think masterclass in debating means – seeing debate less as something to be made and more as a performance.

A performance is about the moment and the experience of performing in that moment, with that context. The principles of this are much more focused on relationships, between the self and the audience. There is also a lot of focus on creation and generation, as well as reaction.

Thinking of debate as a product – something to be made in a workshop – this is about standards. This is about fitting expectations that exist in the world of the workshop. This isn’t necessarily about an audience or a moment, but about making something that is high quality and built well. It is about meeting the expectations of the craftspeople with whatever your relationship to the work might be.

Debate workshops forge the tools that one uses in order to create tournament victories. Debate masterclasses allow one to work out the connections between oneself and one’s debate performance. Seeing debate as a tool is not necessarily contrary to seeing debate as a performance if one sees a violin as a tool as well. Some people do.

The lack of anything other than debate workshops indicates where our thinking about debate lies. Against my better judgement I’ve watched a number of recent debate workshop lecture videos online. And the emphasis is on workshop.

Nothing but the bare bones. Direct delivery in a manner that most contemporary teaching theory would indicate doesn’t work. No introduction or orientation at all – “Today my lecture is on. .  .” No questions for the audience to bat around. No, this is instructional in how to handle and make tools that have specifications to do certain jobs. That’s it. There’s no education happening in these videos. There is a better word for it – and it’s often heard at debate workshops these days – “training.” These lectures are clearly built on the assumption that debate is a skill in tool use, and those tools must then be surveyed, detailed, and students need practice in using them to make arguments.

Training for what? It seems as if it is a training that goes little beyond tournament utility. Then what? What use is it after the tournaments have come and gone?

Debate masterclass, in contrast, brings up the thing that most debaters don’t want to discuss or confront – the uncertainty and lack of control of it all. Masterclasses highlight this lack of formulaic tools, and instead opt for exploring what is available to aid the performance – something that is always fleeting, especially in its most desirable form. Without a tournament, what will debate do for you? What relationship will you have with it? Imagine what pedagogy would look like with this mentality. For one, it would not look like shop class day one instruction, or on-the job factory training – a bland delivery mechanism of truths in the operation of machinery.

Debate workshops train people on how to build a road – how to level the ground, how to pour the asphalt, and most importantly, how to mark it with colored lines for use and limits. A masterclass is a walk in the woods, those same woods you went to last week, but are still unfamiliar. Very few markings exist. What you think are markings in an instructive pattern are created by your mind. Ephemeral, the walk does you good, but takes you nowhere. Roads are good for getting places, but the wilderness is good for figuring out where you are, and where you might want to spend your time. Debate as performance – that ancient and deeply rhetorical sensibility, has been blotted out nearly completely by the tournament-dominant theory of debate-as-skill.

How Was Your Summer Debate Institute? A Few Questions

Summer’s over folks, and that means back to the classroom for most of us. The positive spin is that debate begins to heat up with the return of the regular competitive debating season in the United States. September also means the ramp-up to WUDC as well, with the first big IVs coming along in Europe and Asia.

Many debaters spend some portion of the summer at a summer debate institute, or “debate camp” as we call them colloquially. Here are a few questions to evaluate the quality of your summer institute experience. Think about them next spring when you are making summer institute plans.

I ask these questions because I believe most debate institutes would not pass basic university quality control standards, regardless of the accrediting institution. I also believe most instruction given by debate coaches at summer institutes is a model of teaching that has been rejected across the university and supposedly opposed by most debate educators – the banking model, identified by Paulo Friere. Furthermore, I think most of the teaching practices and the information given to the students in these sessions would be grounds for dismissal if university faculty were to teach this way.

Here’s the list. Think about the implications for pedagogy, and for your ability to take the summer institute experience and use it to advance your education, not just your win-loss percentage.

How many times were you involved in direct instruction (i.e. lectures, a model of instruction where someone talks to you in a group and you listen more than you speak)?

How many times were you involved in sessions where you talk with your fellow students more than an instructor talks to you?

How much time was reserved each day for reading articles and books?

How many times were you asked to present summaries of your research to your peers?

How many times were you taught an issue of politics, economics, history or another subject by someone whose only credentials were that they were a debate coach or a “winning” debater?

How often were you given instruction by someone who is an expert in something other than the format of debating or winning competitive debates?

How often were you asked by an instructor to give your point of view on a question of strategy or preparation?

After a practice debate, how much time was given to you to reflect about the round with your teammates and opponents?

After a practice debate, did the critic give you suggestions on what to do with your upcoming instructional or research time as a part of the critique?

How often did your instructor suggest or provide short readings from scholarly materials about the topic you were working on?

How often did your instructor suggest strategic tricks for tournament success instead of potential avenues for access of information from scholarly sources?

If your institute was on a university campus, were you given significant amounts of time to use the research library on campus?

How often were students asked to instruct or provide instruction to their peers?

How often were you consulted on curriculum (i.e. what should we be teaching to you guys?)

How often were you told what to do by an instructor without space to debate, challenge, or question that demand? (i.e. Organization of a speech can only be this particular way)

Did you participate in any speaking or debate activities at your institute that had nothing to do with the rules and restrictions of tournament debating?

How often did your instructors access and instruct you about rhetorical or communication theory, making it applicable to the challenges you were facing in rounds? (Most “debate coach” types do have at least a Masters degree in this field)

What sources did instructors offer to you as the basis for their content lectures? Did they internally cite experts or expert sources?

Did instructors cite their research on powerpoint or through a bibliography distributed to you during or after the lecture?

Did your instructors approach the topic with an enthusiasm and energy to get you engaged in the material, or did they approach you with a cynical rhetoric, almost bored with their material?

How often did instructors connect the debate material they were teaching you to other formats of debating or arguing that we find in the “real world” (i.e. institutions of democratic governance, etc)

How many times did instructors debate against students, then critique the same debate they were in, identifying winning arguments?

How many times did instructors participate in debates where a student from the class or institute offered the critique?

How often did you debate your peers and were also judged by your peers?

What percentage of the research you were given at the institute was a product of you or one of your peers versus a product of an instructor?

Teaching’s Dangerous Assumption

This recent article in the Chronicle of Higher Education tells a story as to how a professor realized that it is ok to say that she doesn’t know the answer to a question, or that she might be uncertain about something a student has said in class.
My response is quite simply disappointment that this still counts as an interesting observation. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be anywhere near the category of things that one learns after teaching for years. On the contrary, it should be a first-order principle of teaching: It’s fine not to know. The most dangerous assumption about teaching is that a teacher knows, and students do not. 
A couple of times a year I work with high school teachers, and it always amazes me how quick they are to jump in and fill the uncomfortable silences and moments of student exchange that I try to craft with my pedagogy. Once the tension gets to the point of simmering, the high school teacher breaks the tension with a cool, refreshing dose of  “here’s how it is” which the students gleefully write down, happy to once again be deposited with valuable information. The script is familiar and comfortable. The students and teacher experience pleasure by filling out these roles. But is it teaching? Is learning happening? Unfortunately, it is, and it is teaching some dangerous assumptions.
I am always a bit surprised that the high school teacher is not immune, or does not celebrate the moment where the students are adrift and questioning one another. I too, participate in these moments, explaining that I am uncertain as well about them, and perhaps we should investigate further. I feel this is the best way to teach students that the solution to their recognized gaps in knowledge is not to guess, not to depend on an authority figure (which is pretty much all a high school teacher is these days), but to make a plan to address the lack of knowledge and shore it up as best they can for their purposes. Usually, this is the purpose of trying to sway an audience on an issue, one way or another, since I’m mostly teaching debate.
I think the reason that the above article is still interesting and a bit surprising, and the reason that high school teachers can’t help but jump into and disrupt productive silences with banking-model discourse is because the trope governing the reality behind both is the same. That trope is that knowledge is at the root of authority. By this logic, the teacher risks losing all authority and control of the classroom if he or she is not the source of knowledge. 
This is present in the rhetoric of the Chronicle essay as well. Discomfort at presenting a professorial subject that is not complete, or that is fragmented in some way is to risk upending the entire value of the course. It seems equally reasonable that a course in anything would teach you how to find out about it, not just information about it. Why does this trope hold so much power?
One reason might be that it dovetails nicely with capitalist narratives and capitalist desire. When someone is in a relationship in capitalism, the exchange must be even, or even for those involved. Not providing the right answer to a student question, or suggesting that you don’t know the answer to a student’s question is a very uncomfortable response in an exchange-system rhetoric. Not being able to provide what the customer wants is a terrible mistake, and can cost you everything. 
The alternative trope is one where authority in the classroom, or perhaps the more soft version of the word for professors – quality in the classroom – is connected to the professor’s ability to manage questions or the art of questioning. For this is the life-blood of the university, not providing an exchangeable service. The university should be equally preparing people for career and civic life – a life where the answers are not forthcoming, and we are generally operating on a best-guess basis. Those who can sift through the questions, reframe them, and suggest directions for answers are of the most value to society.
Training young people that older people will come along and spout out the unsatisfying, yet appropriate answer to everything is not the way to prepare people for a functioning society of any kind. What the author of the Chronicle piece has as her conclusion – that a student confronted with a professor who willingly admits she does not know the answers can inform career and life choices – should be the introduction to the preparation of future faculty and teachers for the classroom. 

Teaching’s Dangerous Assumption

This recent article in the Chronicle of Higher Education tells a story as to how a professor realized that it is ok to say that she doesn’t know the answer to a question, or that she might be uncertain about something a student has said in class.
My response is quite simply disappointment that this still counts as an interesting observation. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be anywhere near the category of things that one learns after teaching for years. On the contrary, it should be a first-order principle of teaching: It’s fine not to know. The most dangerous assumption about teaching is that a teacher knows, and students do not. 
A couple of times a year I work with high school teachers, and it always amazes me how quick they are to jump in and fill the uncomfortable silences and moments of student exchange that I try to craft with my pedagogy. Once the tension gets to the point of simmering, the high school teacher breaks the tension with a cool, refreshing dose of  “here’s how it is” which the students gleefully write down, happy to once again be deposited with valuable information. The script is familiar and comfortable. The students and teacher experience pleasure by filling out these roles. But is it teaching? Is learning happening? Unfortunately, it is, and it is teaching some dangerous assumptions.
I am always a bit surprised that the high school teacher is not immune, or does not celebrate the moment where the students are adrift and questioning one another. I too, participate in these moments, explaining that I am uncertain as well about them, and perhaps we should investigate further. I feel this is the best way to teach students that the solution to their recognized gaps in knowledge is not to guess, not to depend on an authority figure (which is pretty much all a high school teacher is these days), but to make a plan to address the lack of knowledge and shore it up as best they can for their purposes. Usually, this is the purpose of trying to sway an audience on an issue, one way or another, since I’m mostly teaching debate.
I think the reason that the above article is still interesting and a bit surprising, and the reason that high school teachers can’t help but jump into and disrupt productive silences with banking-model discourse is because the trope governing the reality behind both is the same. That trope is that knowledge is at the root of authority. By this logic, the teacher risks losing all authority and control of the classroom if he or she is not the source of knowledge. 
This is present in the rhetoric of the Chronicle essay as well. Discomfort at presenting a professorial subject that is not complete, or that is fragmented in some way is to risk upending the entire value of the course. It seems equally reasonable that a course in anything would teach you how to find out about it, not just information about it. Why does this trope hold so much power?
One reason might be that it dovetails nicely with capitalist narratives and capitalist desire. When someone is in a relationship in capitalism, the exchange must be even, or even for those involved. Not providing the right answer to a student question, or suggesting that you don’t know the answer to a student’s question is a very uncomfortable response in an exchange-system rhetoric. Not being able to provide what the customer wants is a terrible mistake, and can cost you everything. 
The alternative trope is one where authority in the classroom, or perhaps the more soft version of the word for professors – quality in the classroom – is connected to the professor’s ability to manage questions or the art of questioning. For this is the life-blood of the university, not providing an exchangeable service. The university should be equally preparing people for career and civic life – a life where the answers are not forthcoming, and we are generally operating on a best-guess basis. Those who can sift through the questions, reframe them, and suggest directions for answers are of the most value to society.
Training young people that older people will come along and spout out the unsatisfying, yet appropriate answer to everything is not the way to prepare people for a functioning society of any kind. What the author of the Chronicle piece has as her conclusion – that a student confronted with a professor who willingly admits she does not know the answers can inform career and life choices – should be the introduction to the preparation of future faculty and teachers for the classroom. 

Robin Williams and Immersive Invention

This New York Times article about Robin Williams’s habits of preparation for engagement with audiences raises a lot of interesting ideas when rhetoricians talk about invention – the art of coming up with what to say, or as I like to call it “putting something together.” I often talk about argument construction in terms of assembly, and it seems Williams had created quite the assembly method for his own practice of inventio.


Rhetoricians most regularly teach invention when they are teaching debaters or when they are teaching a course such as public speaking, or another “performance” course, as some in the field call them. We generally seem to teach a trajectory where we claim that rhetoric is a powerful, meaning-making field that is capable of creating everything from emotion to fact. Then we turn around and deduct lots of grading points off of student work that doesn’t include “quality” citations or information. That information needs to come from good sources, which, according to our own rhetoric, come from somewhere other than rhetoric. This can leave an aftertaste in students’ mouths that rhetoric is something of a servile art, something that dresses up information that is determined to be valid and meaningful elsewhere, through other methods that are far removed from the rhetorical world.

Contrast this approach to how Williams created his rhetoric. He immersed himself in topical readings and held conversations with many people. He secretly polled the audience for their pathos, yet at the same time respected the ethics of the Perelman/Olbrechts-Tyteca Universal Audience – making sure that his words were not just pandering to those who might uncritically accept them. What’s missing from this article is how Williams decided to combine what he was reading with what would get his audience to adhere or assent to his desire – he wanted them to laugh, to “get it” whenever he would perform, I am assuming. Perhaps an explanation is the ancient rhetorical method of copiousness – surrounding and immersing oneself in topoi in order to have the invention come out of the soup, so to speak. But it seems Williams was much more selective than that. He chose his books, moments, and topics with precision, based on the situation he was facing, and the issues that the public were attuned to.

Tribute after tribute to Williams indicates his ability to very quickly generate relevant, effective material that did not rely on old jokes, or previous methods to get a laugh. This might not be the marker of genius, which is what CNN and other news outlets call it. Genius might be the pathos we feel as the result of watching a master of invention display the results of the immersion-invention he spent his life developing. I see it as an excellent model for teaching invention to those who wish to be constantly engaged with audiences in ways that parallel the work that Williams was doing.

What would public speaking be like if we assigned each student to become immersed in a relevant, topical issue facing the public which we imagine they will be addressing in life? Would each student come up with a different way to generate new material week to week about the same thing? Instead of the horrible public speaking textbook, why not require them to spend $80 to $100 on books about their issue? Have them keep a notebook, digital or otherwise, where they are engaged and combining this material to keep the class interested and excited about their weekly presentation? Could examples such as Williams finally push public speaking out of the delivery business, as formal and cold as the scientific facts that is supposedly services in our classes and into the warm world of ancient rhetoric, where it was not only the source of knowledge, but provided the boundaries for the recognition of knowledge as such?

Another way to ask that last question might be – Would we recognize Williams as a genius without his method of invention, uniquely his, but something we identify in our responses to his rhetoric?