Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.
“Here we are, gathered in Mom’s living room. Thanks for coming and being willing to listen, and hopefully, respond with grace and forgiveness to what I’m going to tell you. It has been tremendously difficult holding this back all these years. Dad abandoned us when I was seven. That was 20 twenty years ago. Well, dad didn’t abandon me. When he left he told me where he was going, and to promise to never to tell you. He said he had to leave because Mom and the twins were ‘assholes.’ Huey was too young to earn his ire, so dad had nothing to say about his role in his departure. Oh, he hated our dog Struggles too—he hated feeding Struggles and taking him for walks and having to pick up his poop.”
As soon as I finished Barton, one of the twins, charged at me and knocked me to the floor and started punching me in face yelling “traitor, traitor, traitor.” I fought back and managed to stand up. I called Barton a lot of names and then told him, and everybody else, that I had intended to tell them where dad is all along. Barton made a half-assed apology and we shook hands.
I told them: “Dad’s our next door neighbor. For five years he had surgery on his face. It made him into a different-looking person and now he lives next door! I am breaking a big trust here. Although he’s living next door, he does not want you to know it’s him. He just wants to be close to his family in his final years. It is very sad, but very true. So, leave him in peace.” I knew they wouldn’t as they stalked out the door with angry looks on their faces, I followed them. Barton pounded on the door yelling “Open up you bastard.” The man inside asked: “What do you want?” Mom yelled: “You abandoned us. You ruined our lives.” The man in the house peeked out a crack in the door: “You’re crazy. Go away before I call the police.” “I told you he would deny everything,” I said. The family went back to Mom’s house mumbling curse words and swearing to “get” Dad—maybe even burn down his house.
It was getting late, so I went home. When I got home I called Dad. We had a good laugh. Dad said, “That poor guy next door. Eventually, those assholes will probably force him to give fingerprints and DNA.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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