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I want you to read the 3 readings I have provided down below and take some notes on them. They don’t need to be the craziest notes, just a good amount so my teachers sees that I’ve participated and did what he asked me to do. Please take notes on these readings. We are going to be analyzing this author’s rhetorical strategies and appeals. What do you find interesting about this author’s writing?These are all things you should include in your notes.To get started on our analysis of Gladwell, I want you to take notes on a couple of things:The rhetorical appeals — ethos, pathos and logos (you know what those are and we’ve talked about them in conference).Certain style elements, strategies and/or patterns that you notice in his writing. These are three essays by the same author:we’re trying to identify some elements of style.The last reading is a PDF:…You don’t have to analyze the readings, just do what my teacher asked by trying to identify the appeals he uses, the certain elements, and identify some elements of style. These notes just need to be 1 page should not be no more. Thanks


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Small Change
Why the revolution will not be tweeted.
From The New Yorker, October 4, 2010
By Malcolm Gladwell
Social media can’t provide what social change has always required.
At four-thirty in the afternoon on Monday, February 1, 1960, four college students sat
down at the lunch counter at the Woolworth’s in downtown Greensboro, North Carolina.
They were freshmen at North Carolina A. & T., a black college a mile or so away.
“I’d like a cup of coffee, please,” one of the four, Ezell Blair, said to the waitress.
“We don’t serve Negroes here,” she replied.
The Woolworth’s lunch counter was a long L-shaped bar that could seat sixty-six people,
with a standup snack bar at one end. The seats were for whites. The snack bar was for
blacks. Another employee, a black woman who worked at the steam table, approached
the students and tried to warn them away. “You’re acting stupid, ignorant!” she said.
They didn’t move. Around five-thirty, the front doors to the store were locked. The four
still didn’t move. Finally, they left by a side door. Outside, a small crowd had gathered,
including a photographer from the Greensboro Record. “I’ll be back tomorrow with A. &
T. College,” one of the students said.
By next morning, the protest had grown to twenty-seven men and four women, most from
the same dormitory as the original four. The men were dressed in suits and ties. The
students had brought their schoolwork, and studied as they sat at the counter. On
Wednesday, students from Greensboro’s “Negro” secondary school, Dudley High, joined
in, and the number of protesters swelled to eighty. By Thursday, the protesters numbered
three hundred, including three white women, from the Greensboro campus of the
University of North Carolina. By Saturday, the sit-in had reached six hundred. People
spilled out onto the street. White teen-agers waved Confederate flags. Someone threw a
firecracker. At noon, the A. & T. football team arrived. “Here comes the wrecking crew,”
one of the white students shouted.
By the following Monday, sit-ins had spread to Winston-Salem, twenty-five miles away,
and Durham, fifty miles away. The day after that, students at Fayetteville State Teachers
College and at Johnson C. Smith College, in Charlotte, joined in, followed on Wednesday
by students at St. Augustine’s College and Shaw University, in Raleigh. On Thursday and
Friday, the protest crossed state lines, surfacing in Hampton and Portsmouth, Virginia, in
Rock Hill, South Carolina, and in Chattanooga, Tennessee. By the end of the month,
there were sit-ins throughout the South, as far west as Texas. “I asked every student I met
what the first day of the sitdowns had been like on his campus,” the political theorist
Michael Walzer wrote in Dissent. “The answer was always the same: ‘It was like a fever.
Everyone wanted to go.’ ” Some seventy thousand students eventually took part.
Thousands were arrested and untold thousands more radicalized. These events in the
early sixties became a civil-rights war that engulfed the South for the rest of the decade—
and it happened without e-mail, texting, Facebook, or Twitter.
The world, we are told, is in the midst of a revolution. The new tools of social media
have reinvented social activism. With Facebook and Twitter and the like, the traditional
relationship between political authority and popular will has been upended, making it
easier for the powerless to collaborate, coördinate, and give voice to their concerns.
When ten thousand protesters took to the streets in Moldova in the spring of 2009 to
protest against their country’s Communist government, the action was dubbed the Twitter
Revolution, because of the means by which the demonstrators had been brought together.
A few months after that, when student protests rocked Tehran, the State Department took
the unusual step of asking Twitter to suspend scheduled maintenance of its Web site,
because the Administration didn’t want such a critical organizing tool out of service at
the height of the demonstrations. “Without Twitter the people of Iran would not have felt
empowered and confident to stand up for freedom and democracy,” Mark Pfeifle, a
former national-security adviser, later wrote, calling for Twitter to be nominated for the
Nobel Peace Prize. Where activists were once defined by their causes, they are now
defined by their tools. Facebook warriors go online to push for change. “You are the best
hope for us all,” James K. Glassman, a former senior State Department official, told a
crowd of cyber activists at a recent conference sponsored by Facebook, A. T. & T.,
Howcast, MTV, and Google. Sites like Facebook, Glassman said, “give the U.S. a
significant competitive advantage over terrorists. Some time ago, I said that Al Qaeda
was ‘eating our lunch on the Internet.’ That is no longer the case. Al Qaeda is stuck in
Web 1.0. The Internet is now about interactivity and conversation.”
These are strong, and puzzling, claims. Why does it matter who is eating whose lunch on
the Internet? Are people who log on to their Facebook page really the best hope for us
all? As for Moldova’s so-called Twitter Revolution, Evgeny Morozov, a scholar at
Stanford who has been the most persistent of digital evangelism’s critics, points out that
Twitter had scant internal significance in Moldova, a country where very few Twitter
accounts exist. Nor does it seem to have been a revolution, not least because the
protests—as Anne Applebaum suggested in the Washington Post—may well have been a
bit of stagecraft cooked up by the government. (In a country paranoid about Romanian
revanchism, the protesters flew a Romanian flag over the Parliament building.) In the
Iranian case, meanwhile, the people tweeting about the demonstrations were almost all in
the West. “It is time to get Twitter’s role in the events in Iran right,” Golnaz Esfandiari
wrote, this past summer, in Foreign Policy. “Simply put: There was no Twitter
Revolution inside Iran.” The cadre of prominent bloggers, like Andrew Sullivan, who
championed the role of social media in Iran, Esfandiari continued, misunderstood the
situation. “Western journalists who couldn’t reach—or didn’t bother reaching?—people
on the ground in Iran simply scrolled through the English-language tweets post with tag
#iranelection,” she wrote. “Through it all, no one seemed to wonder why people trying to
coordinate protests in Iran would be writing in any language other than Farsi.”
Some of this grandiosity is to be expected. Innovators tend to be solipsists. They often
want to cram every stray fact and experience into their new model. As the historian
Robert Darnton has written, “The marvels of communication technology in the present
have produced a false consciousness about the past—even a sense that communication
has no history, or had nothing of importance to consider before the days of television and
the Internet.” But there is something else at work here, in the outsized enthusiasm for
social media. Fifty years after one of the most extraordinary episodes of social upheaval
in American history, we seem to have forgotten what activism is.
Greensboro in the early nineteen-sixties was the kind of place where racial
insubordination was routinely met with violence. The four students who first sat down at
the lunch counter were terrified. “I suppose if anyone had come up behind me and yelled
‘Boo,’ I think I would have fallen off my seat,” one of them said later. On the first day,
the store manager notified the police chief, who immediately sent two officers to the
store. On the third day, a gang of white toughs showed up at the lunch counter and stood
ostentatiously behind the protesters, ominously muttering epithets such as “burr-head
nigger.” A local Ku Klux Klan leader made an appearance. On Saturday, as tensions
grew, someone called in a bomb threat, and the entire store had to be evacuated.
The dangers were even clearer in the Mississippi Freedom Summer Project of 1964,
another of the sentinel campaigns of the civil-rights movement. The Student Nonviolent
Coordinating Committee recruited hundreds of Northern, largely white unpaid volunteers
to run Freedom Schools, register black voters, and raise civil-rights awareness in the
Deep South. “No one should go anywhere alone, but certainly not in an automobile and
certainly not at night,” they were instructed. Within days of arriving in Mississippi, three
volunteers—Michael Schwerner, James Chaney, and Andrew Goodman—were
kidnapped and killed, and, during the rest of the summer, thirty-seven black churches
were set on fire and dozens of safe houses were bombed; volunteers were beaten, shot at,
arrested, and trailed by pickup trucks full of armed men. A quarter of those in the
program dropped out. Activism that challenges the status quo—that attacks deeply rooted
problems—is not for the faint of heart.
What makes people capable of this kind of activism? The Stanford sociologist Doug
McAdam compared the Freedom Summer dropouts with the participants who stayed, and
discovered that the key difference wasn’t, as might be expected, ideological fervor. “All
of the applicants—participants and withdrawals alike—emerge as highly committed,
articulate supporters of the goals and values of the summer program,” he concluded.
What mattered more was an applicant’s degree of personal connection to the civil-rights
movement. All the volunteers were required to provide a list of personal contacts—the
people they wanted kept apprised of their activities—and participants were far more
likely than dropouts to have close friends who were also going to Mississippi. High-risk
activism, McAdam concluded, is a “strong-tie” phenomenon.
This pattern shows up again and again. One study of the Red Brigades, the Italian
terrorist group of the nineteen-seventies, found that seventy per cent of recruits had at
least one good friend already in the organization. The same is true of the men who joined
the mujahideen in Afghanistan. Even revolutionary actions that look spontaneous, like
the demonstrations in East Germany that led to the fall of the Berlin Wall, are, at core,
strong-tie phenomena. The opposition movement in East Germany consisted of several
hundred groups, each with roughly a dozen members. Each group was in limited contact
with the others: at the time, only thirteen per cent of East Germans even had a phone. All
they knew was that on Monday nights, outside St. Nicholas Church in downtown Leipzig,
people gathered to voice their anger at the state. And the primary determinant of who
showed up was “critical friends”—the more friends you had who were critical of the
regime the more likely you were to join the protest.
So one crucial fact about the four freshmen at the Greensboro lunch counter—David
Richmond, Franklin McCain, Ezell Blair, and Joseph McNeil—was their relationship
with one another. McNeil was a roommate of Blair’s in A. & T.’s Scott Hall dormitory.
Richmond roomed with McCain one floor up, and Blair, Richmond, and McCain had all
gone to Dudley High School. The four would smuggle beer into the dorm and talk late
into the night in Blair and McNeil’s room. They would all have remembered the murder
of Emmett Till in 1955, the Montgomery bus boycott that same year, and the showdown
in Little Rock in 1957. It was McNeil who brought up the idea of a sit-in at Woolworth’s.
They’d discussed it for nearly a month. Then McNeil came into the dorm room and asked
the others if they were ready. There was a pause, and McCain said, in a way that works
only with people who talk late into the night with one another, “Are you guys chicken or
not?” Ezell Blair worked up the courage the next day to ask for a cup of coffee because
he was flanked by his roommate and two good friends from high school.
The kind of activism associated with social media isn’t like this at all. The platforms of
social media are built around weak ties. Twitter is a way of following (or being followed
by) people you may never have met. Facebook is a tool for efficiently managing your
acquaintances, for keeping up with the people you would not otherwise be able to stay in
touch with. That’s why you can have a thousand “friends” on Facebook, as you never
could in real life.
This is in many ways a wonderful thing. There is strength in weak ties, as the sociologist
Mark Granovetter has observed. Our acquaintances—not our friends—are our greatest
source of new ideas and information. The Internet lets us exploit the power of these kinds
of distant connections with marvellous efficiency. It’s terrific at the diffusion of
innovation, interdisciplinary collaboration, seamlessly matching up buyers and sellers,
and the logistical functions of the dating world. But weak ties seldom lead to high-risk
In a new book called “The Dragonfly Effect: Quick, Effective, and Powerful Ways to Use
Social Media to Drive Social Change,” the business consultant Andy Smith and the
Stanford Business School professor Jennifer Aaker tell the story of Sameer Bhatia, a
young Silicon Valley entrepreneur who came down with acute myelogenous leukemia.
It’s a perfect illustration of social media’s strengths. Bhatia needed a bone-marrow
transplant, but he could not find a match among his relatives and friends. The odds were
best with a donor of his ethnicity, and there were few South Asians in the national bonemarrow database. So Bhatia’s business partner sent out an e-mail explaining Bhatia’s
plight to more than four hundred of their acquaintances, who forwarded the e-mail to
their personal contacts; Facebook pages and YouTube videos were devoted to the Help
Sameer campaign. Eventually, nearly twenty-five thousand new people were registered in
the bone-marrow database, and Bhatia found a match.
But how did the campaign get so many people to sign up? By not asking too much of
them. That’s the only way you can get someone you don’t really know to do something
on your behalf. You can get thousands of people to sign up for a donor registry, because
doing so is pretty easy. You have to send in a cheek swab and—in the highly unlikely
event that your bone marrow is a good match for someone in need—spend a few hours at
the hospital. Donating bone marrow isn’t a trivial matter. But it doesn’t involve financial
or personal risk; it doesn’t mean spending a summer being chased by armed men in
pickup trucks. It doesn’t require that you confront socially entrenched norms and
practices. In fact, it’s the kind of commitment that will bring only social acknowledgment
and praise.
The evangelists of social media don’t understand this distinction; they seem to believe
that a Facebook friend is the same as a real friend and that signing up for a donor registry
in Silicon Valley today is activism in the same sense as sitting at a segregated lunch
counter in Greensboro in 1960. “Social networks are particularly effective at increasing
motivation,” Aaker and Smith write. But that’s not true. Social networks are effective at
increasing participation—by lessening the level of motivation that participation requires.
The Facebook page of the Save Darfur Coalition has 1,282,339 members, who have
donated an average of nine cents apiece. The next biggest Darfur charity on Facebook has
22,073 members, who have donated an average of thirty-five cents. Help Save Darfur has
2,797 members, who have given, on average, fifteen cents. A spokesperson for the Save
Darfur Coalition told Newsweek, “We wouldn’t necessarily gauge someone’s value to the
advocacy movement based on what they’ve given. This is a powerful mechanism to
engage this critical population. They inform their community, attend events, volunteer.
It’s not something you can measure by looking at a ledger.” In other words, Facebook
activism succeeds not by motivating people to make a real sacrifice but by motivating
them to do the things that people do when they are not motivated enough to make a real
sacrifice. We are a long way from the lunch counters of Greensboro.
The students who joined the sit-ins across the South during the winter of 1960 described
the movement as a “fever.” But the civil-rights movement was more like a military
campaign than like a contagion. In the late nineteen-fifties, there had been sixteen sit-ins
in various cities throughout the South, fifteen of which were formally organized by civilrights organizations like the N.A.A.C.P. and CORE. Possible locations for activism were
scouted. Plans were drawn up. Movement activists held training sessions and retreats for
would-be protesters. The Greensboro Four were a product of this groundwork: all were
members of the N.A.A.C.P. Youth Council. They had close ties with the head of the local
N.A.A.C.P. chapter. They had been briefed on the earlier wave of sit-ins in Durham, and
had been part of a series of movement meetings in activist churches. When the sit-in
movement spread from Greensboro throughout the South, it did not spread
indiscriminately. It spread to those cities which had preëxisting “movement centers”—a
core of dedicated and trained activists ready to turn the “fever” into action.
The civil-rights movement was high-risk activism. It was also, crucially, strategic
activism: a challenge to the establishment mounted with precision and discipline. The
N.A.A.C.P. was a centralized organization, run from New York according to highly
formalized operating procedures. At the Southern Christian Leadership Conference,
Martin Luther King, Jr., was the unquestioned authority. At the center of the movement
was the black church, which had, as Aldon D. Morris points out in his superb 1984 study,
“The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement,” a carefully demarcated division of labor,
with various standing committees and disciplined groups. “Each group was task-oriented
and coordinated its activities through authority structures,” Morris writes. “Individuals
were held accountable for their assigned duties, and important conflicts were resolved by
the minister, who usually exercised ultimate authority over the congregation.”
This is the second crucial distinction between traditional activism and its online variant:
social media are not about this kind of hierarchical organization. Facebook and the like
are tools for building networks, which are the opposite, in structure and character, of
hierarchies. Unlike hierarchies, with their rules and procedures, networks aren’t
controlled by a single central authority. Decisions are made through consensus, and the
ties that bind people to the group are loose.
This structure makes networks enormously resilient and adaptable in low-risk situations.
Wikipedia is a perfect example. It doesn’t have an editor, sitting in New York, who
directs and corrects each entry. The effort of putting together each entry is self-organized.
If every entry in Wikipedia were to be erased tomorrow, the content would swiftly be
restored, because that’s what happens when a network of thousands spontaneously devote
their time to a task.
There are many things, though, that networks don’t do well. Car companies sensibly use
a network to organize their hundreds of suppliers, but not to design their cars. No one
believes that the articulation of a coherent design philosophy is best handled by a
sprawling, leaderless organizational system. Because networks don’t have a centralized
leadership structure and clear lines of authority, they have real difficulty reaching
consensus and setting goals. They can’t think strategically; they are chronically prone to
conflict and error. How do you make difficult choices about tactics or strategy or
philosophical direction when everyone has an equal say?
The Palestine Li …
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