Claiming Authority

When you read or listen to an argument, you have every right to ask about the writer’s authority: What does he know about the subject? What experiences does she have that make her especially knowledgeable? Why should I pay attention to this person? When you offer an argument yourself, you have to anticipate and be prepared to answer questions like these, either directly or indirectly.

How does someone construct an authoritative ethos? In examining what he describes as “the fundamental problem with President Obama’s communications ethos,” Ron Fournier, editorial director of National Journal, explains that authority cannot be taken for granted:

He and his advisers are so certain about their moral and political standing that they believe it’s enough to make a declaration. If we say it, the public should believe it.

That’s not how it works. A president must earn the public’s trust. He must teach and persuade; speak clearly, and follow word with action; show empathy toward his rivals, and acknowledge the merits of a critique. A successful president pays careful attention to how his image is projected both to U.S. voters and to the people of the world.

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He knows that to be strong, a leader must look strong. Image matters, especially in an era so dominated by them.

— Ron Fournier, “Is the White House Lying, or Just Bad at Crisis Communications?”

Of course, writers establish their authority in various ways. Sometimes the assertion of ethos will be bold and personal, as it is when writer and activist Terry Tempest Williams attacks those who poisoned the Utah deserts with nuclear radiation. What gives her the right to speak on this subject? Not scientific expertise, but gut-wrenching personal experience:

I belong to the Clan of One-Breasted Women. My mother, my grandmothers, and six aunts have all had mastectomies. Seven are dead. The two who survive have just completed rounds of chemotherapy and radiation.

I’ve had my own problems: two biopsies for breast cancer and a small tumor between my ribs diagnosed as a “borderline malignancy.”

— Terry Tempest Williams, “The Clan of One-Breasted Women”

We are willing to listen to Williams because she has lived with the nuclear peril she will deal with in the remainder of her essay.

Other means of claiming authority are less dramatic. By simply attaching titles to their names, writers assert that they hold medical or legal or engineering degrees, or some other important credentials. Or they may mention the number of years they’ve worked in a given field or the distinguished positions they have held. As a reader, you’ll pay more attention to an argument about global warming offered by a professor of atmospheric and oceanic science at the University of Minnesota than one by your Uncle Sid, who sells tools. But you’ll prefer your uncle to the professor when you need advice about a reliable rotary saw.

When readers might be skeptical of both you and your claims, you may have to be even more specific about your credentials. That’s exactly the strategy Richard Bernstein uses to establish his right to speak on the subject of “Asian culture.” What gives a New York writer named Bernstein the authority to write about Asian peoples? Bernstein tells us in a sparkling example of an argument based on character:

The Asian culture, as it happens, is something I know a bit about, having spent five years at Harvard striving for a Ph.D. in a joint program called History and East Asian Languages and, after that, living either as a student (for one year) or a journalist (six years) in China and Southeast Asia. At least I know enough to know there is no such thing as the “Asian culture.”

— Richard Bernstein, Dictatorship of Virtue

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When you write for readers who trust you and your work, you may not have to make such an open claim to authority. But making this type of appeal is always an option.