9.2: Thesis Is Not Doesn’t Have to Be a Bad Thing (Or Why Write Antithesis Essays in the First Place)

Somewhere along the way, “thesis” became a dirty word in a lot of writing courses, inherently bound up and attached to all that is wrong with what composition historians and the writing scholars call the “Current-Traditional” paradigm of writing instruction. Essentially, this approach emphasizes the product and forms of writing (in most nineteenth century American rhetoric textbooks, these forms were Exposition, Description, Narration, and Argument), issues of syntax and grammar, correctness, and so forth. It didn’t matter so much what position a writer took; what mattered most was that the writer got the form correct.

“Thesis” is often caught in/lumped into this current-traditional paradigm, I think mainly because of the rigid role and placement of a thesis in the classic form of the five-paragraph essay. Most of you and your classmates already know about this: in the five-paragraph formula, the thesis is the last sentence of the introduction, is divided into three parts, and it rigidly controls the structure of the following four paragraphs. Certainly this overly prescriptive and narrow definition of thesis is not useful. Jasper Neel describes this sort of formula in his book Plato, Derrida, and Writing as “anti-writing,” and I think that Sharon Crowley is correct in arguing that the kind of teaching exemplified by the five-paragraph essay is more akin to filling out a form than it is to actual “writing.”

But when I discuss “thesis” here, I mean something much more broad and organic. I mean an initial direction that every research writing project must take. A thesis advocates a specific and debatable position, is not a statement of fact nor a summary of events, and it answers the questions “what’s your point?” and “why should I care?” You should begin with a working thesis that attempts to answer these questions simply as a way of getting your research process started. True, these initial working theses are usually broad and unwieldy, but the emphasis here is on working, because as you research and think more carefully, you will inevitably change your thesis. And this is good—change is the by-product of learning, and seeing a working thesis differently is both the purpose and the opportunity of the antithesis exercise.

So, I think the first and probably most important reason to consider antithesis writing is to test and strengthen the validity of the working thesis. After all, there isn’t much “debatable” about a working thesis like “crime is bad” or “cleaning up the environment is good,” which suggests that there probably isn’t a viable answer to the questions “what’s your point?” and “why should I care?” Considering opposing and differing views can help you find the path to make a vague generalization like “crime is bad” into a more pointed, researchable, and interesting observation.

The second general value for antithesis exercises is to raise more awareness of your audience—the potential readers who would disagree with your working thesis, along with readers who are more favorable to your point. Sometimes, readers won’t be convinced no matter what evidence or logic a writer presents; but it seems to me that writers have an obligation to at least try.