by Gretchen Long (grlong@vassar.edu)
In Signs of Recognition, one of Keane’s main points is that all communicative efforts in social encounters are liable to misinterpretation, resulting in a “hazardous” outcome for the unfortunate speaker. He writes that scenes of encounter “iconically represent social action as a form of dialogue between a pair of speakers” (139): in other words, a situational exchange of speech becomes a complete icon of a larger conflict, so that any discrepancy in the deliverance of linguistic cues and meanings threatens to render the issue at hand beyond resolution. Since all that is known to both parties is that which is expressed in the presence of both parties (i.e. a scene of encounter), “nothing is known except that which has been presented formally… within the… frame of the event.” (156) Therefore, that which is presented becomes the only source of knowledge for negotiation, so presenting things “correctly” becomes very important.
Keane outlines the roles in everyday speech in the beginning of Chapter Six: the animator “voices the words;” the author “determines what words are… said;” and “the words are attributed” to the principal “who is held responsible for them.” (Goffman 1979 in Keane 1997:139) Balancing all three roles may be difficult as one may have clear intentions but lack oratorical charisma, or possess a strong speaking voice but have difficulty forming thoughts into coherent phrases. The difficulty of balancing these three roles is a potential cause of misfires in speech acts. Another source of hazard is in-group “debates over procedure” (148) in which members of a party bicker amongst themselves over correct protocol, further inhibiting the party’s ability to clearly articulate its intents.
As such linguistic errors would be hazardous (in the sense of invoking social embarrassment and stalling the negotiation’s progress,) one way that actors can ensure the efficacy of a social encounter is to employ mediators they know will correctly communicate the necessary information. The Anakalangese accomplish this by appointing wunang to act as mediators between two opposing parties (in events such as bridal negotiations); similarly, other cultures appoint specialists like lawyers to act out similar roles in similar events requiring compromise. Both the wunang and the lawyers take on the role of author and animator, as they are skilled in articulating and composing their principals’ intents in the formal discourse of the situation (the wunang employing structured formal speech and the lawyer using law jargon). There is safety in the explicit nature of formality, and employing a specialist to present one’s case in such terms lessens the likelihood of hazardous speech acts while working towards a negotiation.
Lawyers and wunang also use their expertise “to restrain the excesses and tempers of their principals” (154), preventing their clients from saying something that will ruin the state of their negotiations. How many times have we seen a character in a book or movie lose their case because they wanted to “act as their own lawyer?” The same consequences befall any principal not well-versed in the terms of the conflict. Keane writes that people are often prompted to defend themselves because “the public forum… places… pressure on people’s pride and reputation… [and] gives so many people a say in what transpires” (149), but by electing a representative (“one who represents” the sentiments of another party) to act as a mediator between potentially combative forces in a forum, the principals ensure correct and safe conduct throughout the discussion.
Lawyers can represent anyone (and we actually use the phrase “represent”) just as wunang can stand in for men and women of any class. Likewise, there are not specialized lawyers for men, women, or age groups—any lawyer can represent anyone. Lawyers tend to use deictic, demonstrative speech (“My client says that he left at six o’ clock”), while the wunang actually personifies the person they are referring to by “adopting the ‘voice'” of an individual they are representing (i.e. by using “female speaker kin terms” in formal address [163]). Nonetheless, both forms of speech are still highly presentational in that they emphasize the intentions of the principals in formalized, structured discourse.
One major difference is that there are actually two wunang per Anakalangese party (the “sitting” wunang and the “traveling” wunang) while there is only one lawyer per side (they communicate information to the principals and the larger court, fulfilling the roles of both types of wunang.) A lawyer still engages in their own form of motion, moving between the judge, witness, and jury, and conferring with all. The more public the principals’ intentions are made through the mediator (wunang/lawyer), the more likely it is that negotiations will go smoothly.
To highlight a few crucial differences between wunang and lawyers, I direct you towards the following clip— I recommend watching first minute or so, then skipping to 3:50 and watching to the end (unless you just really like Legally Blonde, which is also fine):
While acknowledging that this is a highly dramatized clip, for all of the wunang’s idiosyncratic alterations in couplet-choice to match the context of their principals’ debate (161), no Anakalangese speaker could ever do what Elle Woods just did. I do not mean that wunang would be incapable of making such a dramatic performance, but that committing such infractions against the formal structure of negotiations would be hazardous to the point of an ancestral intervention resulting in bad luck or an actual fatality. For the Anakalangese, going against an ancestral structure literally endangers the natural order of things, whereas (Western) lawyers going against the grain are often viewed as martyrs, heroes, or geniuses. Even as a principal, Mrs. Windham makes what would be a startling choice to the Anakalangese by choosing Elle to represent her; she chooses a personal favorite over her appointed representative, and values Elle’s creativity over the former lawyer’s formal technique.
Elle’s informal speech actually threatens the breakdown of the scene of encounter, but “formality… may open up possibilities as much as foreclose them.” (144) While methodically and formulaically approaching a case ensures a scrutinizing objectivity, if Elle hadn’t deviated from the formal approach of question-and-answer to deliver an anecdote about her sorority days, the witness never would have been prompted to confess the murder. Nonetheless, Elle’s individualistic approach is largely a Western ideal. Keane warns how “the necessary delegation of voice” to the wunang “threatens to become full detachment” (170) if the wunang is too free with their interpretations, which would fully separate them from the principals’ intents. Thus, if any Anakalangese wunang stepped forward like Elle in a social encounter, the current negotiations would be in danger of immediate termination, and social or spiritual punishments would be brought upon the affronting wunang for such “bald speech” (164) (see 164 for an example).
This is not to say that the Anakalangese dismiss all personal talent in this sphere. When Elle announces her desire to take the case, Mrs. Windham’s former lawyer snaps, “She’s a law student— she can’t defend you.” Practicing law requires specific credentials, whereas “the knowledge just comes” to wunang. (155) Personal skill is valued as not just anyone can become a wunang, but at the same time the specialists’ skill is expected to accentuate ancestral values (and thus, value formal structure) as opposed to developing a new form of negotiation.
* What are some other similarities and differences between Western and Anakalangese legal structures?
* How does the materiality of language play a part in wunangs’ affects? How does a different ideology of language affect Western lawyers’ presentations?
* What are some other examples of delegation of voice?
Like Gretchen said, lawyers and wunang are emploed to prevent errors in communication between parties. Think about what that says about our faith in our ability to speak and compose ourselves in situations. I do not have a problem with the wunang or Western court room system; I think they are necessary but just to play devil’s advocate, I think about how scared we are about hazards of representation. While the Anakalangese see physical danger in a badly expressed speech, Western cultures do not. We instead run the more tangible risks of losing money, friends, or credibility. We seem to need the protection of other, trained people to help come to conclusions. These days, so much is at risk while engaged in a lawsuit that one requires a lawyer to represent them. I see a very strong parallel between them and the Anakalangese, who fear the repercussions of informal representation as well.
Midnight Thoughts….
Your post reminded me of an episode of Law of Order: SVU in which a lawyer accused of sexual assault chooses to represent himself. The lawyer/defendant must adhere to proper courtroom decorum (per his role as attorney) while keeping his emotions in check. In the Anakalangese communities the wunang stands in for the ‘defendant”, but they do not inhabit the emotional demeanor of the represented. This scenario made me wonder what would happen in Anakalang if a wunang was in the defendants chair (is this even allowed?) The wunang serve as preselected mediators, but does this position change if one of the chosen few is involved in a negotiation? In adhering to the speech regulations and avoiding the hazardous, is it possible for the wunang to represent himself in an objective manner?
Reading this I was first reminded of the actions of a designated peer mediator, both in what I have observed from other people mediating for me and what I remember from the times when I myself mediated for others. The difference between the position of a peer mediator and that of a lawyer is that, in contrast to the wunang who are assigned two people per side, one mediator or one team of mediators speaks to both sides of the argument alternately. This means that a very different dynamic is produced, because the mediator is not supposed to “side” with any party in the exchange. Another difference is that the mediator, who will frequently behave much like a lawyer by basically cross-examining the claimants, is simultaneously seen as the representative voice of both parties AND the representative voice of authority with power over all participants. Particularly in the case of peer mediators, this unique, undefined “authority” usually stems from no apparent source, but instead is attributed to the status of the mediator itself — the ritual of (semi-)formal mediation creates the space of an authority figure where none previously existed and invents its own investiture. I’ve been in both mediations where the mediator and all parties are present, and mediations where the claimants are separated. In the latter case, the mediator is given the right and responsibility of interpreting the comments of each party and conveying those wishes across; however, it is practically guaranteed that the mediator will intentionally change the wording of the demands in order to appease both parties. In this way the mediator is given full agency by the claimants, who are completely aware of this tendency of the mediator.
I could keep going about this, but this post is already getting too long so I’ll stop here.
Delegating voice can serve as a multiplier for agency and power. In my own experience as an activist, I’ve come across this phenomenon both in a positive and negative way. In dealing with county legislators, they’ve deferred direct communication to “aides” that represent legislators but can deflect confrontation because they are not directly responsible for the legislators’ actions. Their use comes from the fact that they simultaneously “speak” and “can’t speak” for the legislators. This can be frustrating.
They also serve a symbol for the “importance” of the legislators, much like the slave in Keane’s ethnography, as an (usefully limited) extension of the legislator’s agency.
Speaking overall in the campaign is important because us campaigners are always speaking as a form of action — trying to get law makers to do this or that, officially proposing changes to legislation, communicating with other activists with the promise of collaboration, education the public etc. etc. etc. The thing is we are always “speaking” for the campaign. These speech acts don’t delegate voice from one person to another, but from a group entity endowed with agency to one person. This can be quite empowering for the person.
In these ways delegating voice can multiply agency and power.
In both of the examples of the lawyer and the wunang, delegation of voice is used as a means of circumventing hazards. In these cases, removing the animator and author from the principal is hoped to ensure that the negotiation or legal proceeding flows smoothly and ends successfully.
Initially, I assumed that this principle applies in other contexts as well. However, as I began thinking of other examples, I realized that this “stylization of dialogue” (139) can often have the reverse effect of propagating misinterpretation. To illustrate, this very blog post exhibits the separation of participant roles: Gretchen, the author, chooses how to represent the principal, Keane, and–hypothetically–if someone other than Gretchen read this aloud in class, they would take up the position as the animator. While I believe Gretchen has done an excellent job in conveying Keane’s writing on the Anakalangese, the responsibility of her post puts her in a position where she can easily misrepresent his ideas. Further, if someone else read the post to the rest of the class, tone and inflection could be used to skew Gretchen’s intentions. The more removed the principal is from the actor of representation, the greater potential there seems to be for representational hazard. Sometimes, this distancing of roles is used intentionally to induce such a result; shows like Glenn Beck’s and John Stewart’s angle the presentation of political events to cater to a specific agenda. Assuming that they do not always author their own material, the two show hosts instead take on the role of animator for the various political principal figures that they are portraying to the public. The comedic success of these shows hinges on the separation between actor, animator, and principal.
I wonder, though, if the effectiveness of these roles in accurately communicating original intention depends on the formality of the situation. Obviously, people rely on the delegation of voice in a variety of circumstances, like in court rooms or bridal negotiations. Is the ritualized nature of these scenes of encounter the key for the necessity of voice delegation?
The difference between Elle Woods and the wunang goes far beyond speech. As Gretchen pointed out, “if any Anakalangese wunang stepped forward like Elle in a social encounter, the current negotiations would be in danger of immediate termination, and social or spiritual punishments would be brought upon the affronting wunang.” This relates to how incorrect use of ritual speech is believed to have real, physical effects in Anakalangese society. Because of these physical effects, if wunang break the codes of negotiations, they will suffer real punishments. They do not have very much agency. This all goes back to the main belief system of the Anakalangese and how that differs from Western belief systems. Westerners have more individual freedom (depending on your definition of “freedom”), which enables Elle to break the codes of being a lawyer in a court room. Anakalnagese wunang cannot do this. Furthermore, because the Anakalangese have such strict social and linguistic codes, one could argue that their culture is more collectivist. Their errors have a greater effect on the overall Anakalangese community than would a lawyer’s have on his or her community (because Western cultures tend to be highly individualistic).
Since the Judicial Board appeal is still fresh in my mind, the issue of legal representations brings to mind the system used here.
In general, participants in a hearing are expected to represent themselves. But the appeal yesterday was an interesting case in which actors were sometimes secondary or tertiary representers.
Judicial Board Chair normally presides over meetings but does not vote. But in the case of the appeal he was the respondent representing the four members of the Judicial Board who had made the original decision. In this case normally the Vice President for Operations would stand in to preside, but she was acting as a representative of the appealing party, the Board of Elections. In this case normally the VSA President would preside, but he was both unable to attend the hearing and already serving as a Constitutional Advisor to the Judicial Board (which would have been the VP for Operations were she not already filling her role), so the Vice President for Student Life presided over the proceedings.
So there were multiple and frankly, confusing, layers of representation in this case. Officially we take the VP for Operations’s words to be the words of the Board of Elections and so on, but how literally can we treat one persons words to be the words of another?