An interpretation of the Brown, Maher, and Losh readings suggests a deconstruction of the human/machine (human/animal-machine) binary, as they argue that both entities operate – or have the potential to operate – along the same procedural lines, whether it is rhetorically or ethically. Brown makes this claim through the figure of the “robot rhetor,” Losh through the idea of computer as both shaper of and audience to human rhetoric, and Maher through possibility of artificial moral agents (AMAs). Essentially, while computers generate output based on their programmed input, humans communicate or make decisions based on their own “input” (information systems based on ideologies, past experiences, beliefs, drives, affects, etc.). As the two continue to shape one another’s products and modes of production, the characteristics that are “natural” to each become blurred.

I had a bit of trouble envisioning the “humanity” (for lack of a better term) of machines until I was able to conceptualize the mechanical nature of human procedures, something that became uncomfortably lucid through an analysis of my own pedagogical experiences. Though this revelation (which I will flesh out) was rather grim, Brown does note, “rigid machines are ‘only one type of machine among many other types of machines’” (508). Thus, as is often the case in structured systems, the possibility of resistance, creativity, or innovation, lies within the manipulation and interpretation of boundaries from within the system. In accordance with the arguments presented in these texts, I’d like to briefly sketch out two personal examples of humans performing in a mechanical manner due to both human and machine enforced limitations, and then open up the possibility to explore flexibility within these limitations specifically in the case of human and computational procedural rhetoric.

In the fall of 2014, I taught a remedial composition course at a community college that services a rural demographic. I was presented with a textbook, another instructor’s syllabus, and the directions to teach the students how to perform to the standards of college writing. We started with parts of speech, worked our way through appropriate sentence structure, and ended on the five-paragraph essay. Articulating the fears of many rhetoricians, Brown notes, “describing rhetoric in terms of procedures might be seen as reducing the art to mere rules” (496). For me, teaching writing became a procedure of “programming” these rules into my students. When I explained my misgivings to a professor at my undergraduate university (“But grammar is a tool of the oppressor! Am I merely another gatekeeper?”), she explained that it was a necessary evil; they needed these skills to function in the real world. Thus, I became a teaching machine limited by a series of other social systems. If I did not teach my students how to write a five-paragraph essay, they would fail at the procedure of the college English course progression and, in turn, fail at the procedure of functioning in the “real world.”

I was fortunate enough to be granted the opportunity to see this pedagogical procedure from another angle – that of the enforcer. I briefly held the position of a standardized test-scoring drone for a major educational products and services company (hint: not ETS). Here, I was instructed to read student essays and score them on the numerical scale 0 through 5. These scores were determined by a series of formulaic standards not all that different from Brown’s aforementioned “rules.” I could not sway from these rules due to random validity checks: essays that had already been assigned scores that I was required to match. In accordance with Losh’s account of the responses to Miller’s attempt to employ AutoSpeech-EasyTM (a computer that reads and reviews student English assignments), I became a scoring machine. Losh states that “the primary theme that she observed in the responses that she collected was skepticism that a computer could ever appreciate the nuances of human affect and recognize ‘creativity, appropriateness to context, the expression of emotion, and individual and cultural differences’” (8). Likewise, due to the established standards for scoring and the computerized enforcement of the validity test, even if I appreciated human “affect,” “creativity,” “emotion,” or “cultural difference,” I could not score according to it. Thus, my performance became no different from that of a computer grader. Losh goes on to explain, “The secondary theme…was anxiety about the potential loss of a dynamic public sphere in which audiences participate in complex and messy feedback loops of communication in which power relationships can be challenged” (8). Again, based on this anxiety, I fulfilled the role of a computer. Because the scoring mechanism was limited to the assignation of a numerical score, I was unable to communicate with the student or give any sort of constructive feedback. Additionally, because the student was unable to revise or explain, I always held the dominant role in the power relation (or at least acted as an extension of the formulaic standards’ dominant role).

At times, then, scenarios that detail humans working in accordance with procedures and machines reveal the mechanical nature of human performance. However, modes of resistance to these limitations exist within the systems themselves both in the model of human as machine and that of machine as human. I have a few ideas pertaining to the pedagogical implications of both models, but also many questions.

Citing Bogost, Brown explains, “what we typically think of as ‘breaking procedure’ is actually just the process of crafting and implementation of a new procedure. In this sense, all rhetorical action…is machinic” (498). We see this “crafting and implementation of new procedure” occurring in composition classrooms all the time – even within the school and social sanctioned requirements. While I was required to teach my students the mechanics of writing and essay structure, I had the possibility of allowing them to demonstrate their knowledge through a variety of procedures. For instance, instead of having them take a grammar final, I scored them based on their performance in a grammar Jeopardy game. Additionally, final papers take many different forms. Students can create blogs, newsletters, texts with visuals, and other multi-modal projects to demonstrate their understanding of writing and argument. While these alternatives may appear to break the procedure of a traditional composition classroom, they are really just a series of new or adapted procedures that fall within the limitations of the same system. They do, however, demonstrate the flexibility of the teacher machine.

With the machine as human model, I’m still having a bit of trouble conceptualizing possibilities, though these, of course, lie within the flexibility of software (perhaps, even, software that has yet to be written). In terms of my experience as a test scorer, software was definitely a limiting factor, as it did not allow me to score for creativity or provide feedback. Vee and Brown cite Leblanc’s argument, stating, “writing teachers should write their own software not only because of the constraints that programs put on composition but also because of the deeply intertwined relationship between writing code and the writing of human language” (5). This idea of the limitations of software is reiterated through the other articles as well, so I’d like to finish by posing a few questions about the possibility of software design to a pedagogical end.

What might software designed by writing teachers look like?

What possibilities do the limitations of current writing software prevent students and writers from achieving?

If students were asked to articulate their frustrations with the current composition classroom, what software could they craft with their teachers to combat these issues?

Would a coding language designed by rhetoricians look different than those written by computer scientists? How?