Strong Narratives and Deep Stories
From the cover of The Leftovers, by Tom Perrotta
Tom Perrotta chose an unexplainable event, a rapture-like disappearance of two percent of the population, as the backdrop of his brilliant novel The Leftovers and equally brilliant HBO series by the same name (2014-2017) to explore “the emotional and psychological cost of a collective trauma”, but coronavirus has shown that this literary device seems unnecessary in the real world.
“What has been interesting for me is that I thought it was the opposite of a pandemic. You know, because in the Leftovers, this thing happens and science can’t explain it and religion can’t explain it and it creates a vacuum. This story is really about how people rush in to fill that vacuum with new religious forms, and stories, and new theories. I thought that is really the opposite of a pandemic, where we have something that scientists do understand, but you can see already the trauma that we have suffered so far has created a space for all kinds of pseudoscience and wishful thinking…The Leftovers takes place three years after the event. It spawns these entirely new cultural phenomena. I think what’s happening right now is that the pandemic is being subsumed into our culture war and so what we are seeing is that narrative is still really strong.”
Or, as the case may be, narratives plural, activating those fault lines of the culture war and amplifying splinters, fractures, and fissures. In the WBUR salon, Geraldine Brooks, author of the Bubonic Plague novel, Year of Wonders takes up the thread from Perrotta observing, “My book was set at a time where science and superstition were still fighting it out…I would have thought that we had moved on from there but unfortunately all this crackpot superstitious, anti-vaxxer, the deep state is coming for our liberties craziness makes me think that we haven’t really moved on at all.”
The Atlantic identified two kinds of conspiracy theories to have emerged in response to the coronavirus. The first doubts the severity of the virus, even as states reopen only to close again in the face of spikes in the number of cases. The second considers coronavirus as a bioweapon that has been released on an unsuspecting public. These theories overlap and interconnect in some places. They come in a range of variations and expressions. Many predate the outbreak of the virus, conspiracy classics, and alt-right greatest hits, remixed with a COVID-19 focus. As Paul Farmer, physician and anthropologist, once noted: “Blame was, after all, a calling card of all transnational epidemics.”
Zignal Labs, a media insights company, tracked the spread of coronavirus misinformation online for a week in early May and identified the five most widespread misinformation topics on COVID-19. They are a microcosmic snapshot of broader myths expressed throughout this infodemic timeline and throughout the entire timeline of infodemics past. Echoes of earlier searches for answers crashing into this present-day search. Chaldean sorcerers become Wuhan scientists. Biomedical labs and biological warfare stand-in for ancient curses. New age hucksters hawking their Glycon-esque shrines and political agendas are grafted onto the fear, ignorance, and powerlessness experienced at this moment.
That George Soros, a conspiracy strawman favorite for the American right over the past 15 years, any week before or since. Or, it was Democrat-funded or China or Russia or the World Health Organization itself as a deep state effort to seize liberties or an outside agitator destroying the US economy or more.
Claims of hydroxychloroquine as a treatment were the second most popular measured by Zignal that same week with 88,166 mentions. Only the most recent topic on treatments trending in the lineage of snake-headed Gods and snake oil salesman even that week. That disinfectants like bleach as a cure for the virus, a concept that spurned a cult in Florida and caught the President’s attention, received 85,240 mentions in that same span.
Meanwhile, QAnon enthusiasts glommed onto the 5G cellphone upgrade as the cause of the outbreak, accounted for 87,776 mentions, which led to the more zealous of enthusiasts to damage cell towers in Europe. The “Plandemic” theory, a kind of conspiracy mash-up, got 28,607 mentions that week and a half-hour documentary that received over a million views online before Facebook removed it. The “Plan” is an Illuminati-esque cabal, including Gates and others, to dominate and control the public using the pandemic and the measures put in place to contain it. Incorporating elements of the anti-vaxxer movement and adopted as part of the Lockdown Protests, the Plandemic is a pastiche of grassroots anti-government arguments aimed at appealing to a populist base.
There are some elements of truth, often class-based, that run through many conspiracy theories. Whitney Phillips, assistant professor of communication and rhetorical studies at Syracuse University, argues that conspiracy often operates along our “deep mimetic frames“—a theoretical fusion of sociologist Arlie Hochschild, “deep stories”, George Lakoff’s metaphorical “frame” constructs, and Ryan Milner’s “mimetic logics”—that encompass “what we believe in our bones to be true about the world.”
As a disillusioned former QAnon devotee called “Sam” tells Kevin Roose on his podcast Rabbit Hole, “I know the financial system is rigged against us. I’ve watched it. I lived it.” The entire Rabbit Hole series is a meditation on the ways our “deep mimetic frames” operate accelerated by social media algorithms.
After Hurricane Irma struck Florida, the former QAnon devotee was unemployed, living with a friend, spending most of her time viewing YouTube videos. She describes the clicks it took to move video after video from Elizabeth Warren’s economic analysis to QAnon conspiracy theories. The conspiracies appealed to her because it explained her experience and the economic reality she was living.
When Delaney Hall, an editor for the podcast 99% Invisible set out to determine if the coronavirus pandemic—the first pandemic in the era of widespread vaccinations—was shifting anti-vaxxer sentiment she found the reverse was often true. Those who held hardcore, politically motivated anti-vax arguments doubled down, but a second group—referred to as “vaccine-hesitant”—held conflicting beliefs in their head about the issue. They wanted what was best for their children, but were swayed by arguments on both sides. This group could be persuaded.
Earthquakes in Fractured States
An actual earthquake occurs when the energy generated by the friction of jagged-edged fault plates is released. The racial health disparities ignored for decades— African Americans have higher rates of diabetes, higher rates of chronic illness in general, higher rates of cancer, higher rates of anxiety and depression— revealed by the pandemic is one such jagged edge. A novel virus, scarcely understood. Overwhelmed hospitals. Mass unemployment. One in four US workers claiming jobless benefits. A shuddered economy. Jagged edges, all.
Inequities of the American health system. Jagged edge. Inequities of the American justice system. Jagged edge. The disproportionate rates by which communities of color are impacted by the disease. Jagged edge. Systemic structural racism implicit in the systems designed to treat, to heal, to cure, to serve, to protect, revealed. Jagged edges. Released energy radiates out in all directions, like ripples on a pond, shaking the earth’s surface violently.
I have been spending a lot of time going down rabbit holes these past few months—always tethered to a mission, always seeking to message for the equivalent of Delaney Hall’s “vaccine-hesitant” audiences in these discourses—consuming the fringier elements of these conversations. I have been reading a lot of chatter about a Second Civil War from the latest incarnation of the Patriot Movement-turned-Tea Party-turned-alt-right driving the Lockdown Protests.
The most postmodern of extremist groups, the Boogaloo Bois, named for Sam Firstenberg’s breakdancing film, Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo (1984) originally emerged from racist posts in the early 2010s, now exist as walking memes with an iconography composed of inside jokes and weird wordplay. A loose confederation in the way the alt-right brought together a broad range of disenfranchised whites—militiamen and neo-fascists alongside land rights activists and libertarians— trading Michigan Militia camo for Hawaiian shirts because boogaloo sounds vaguely like a big luau. They have been staples on the periphery of lockdown protests and some Black Lives Matter demos alike, arguing that they are for protecting liberties, not white supremacy.
Absurdist characters from a Pynchon novel, that might be more ridiculous than frightening, if it weren’t for the success in shutting down the Michigan capital and the number of cities where Boogaloo Bois were arrested with weapons at Black Lives Matter protests. Though Pynchon would probably have a Hawaiian shirt designer, a competitor of Tommy Bahama, as the villainous puppet master of a Civil War that was a publicity stunt to kick-off an advertising campaign.
The aftermath of a Second Civil War is a stalwart of science fiction. Margaret Atwood’s 1985 dystopian novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, and the subsequent Hulu series that kicked off in 2017 envision the aftermath of an American Civil War won by religious fundamentalists. Phillip K. Dick wrote a quintessentially Phillip K. Dick novel, Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said (1974) set in a police state following the Second Civil War with a pop-singer half-consumed by an identity stealing parasite. The video games Mass Effect (2007) and Shattered Union (2005) the second season of TV show Jericho, and at least one live action role-playing game that plays out scenarios nationwide, involves a Second American Civil War.
In 2017’s American War by Omar El Akkad, a former conflict journalist turned novelist, it is simply called “the second”. Set a half-century in the future the novel follows Sarat, a young woman trying to navigate life in a refugee camp in Tennessee while being radicalized and recruited by the resistance. The conflict is over a ban on fossil fuels at a time where climate change is raging out of control. The country splits North and South along these new political divides and goes to war after the President is assassinated. The novel has an eerie pacing that reads like dispatches from the future. There is a strange and threatening familiarity with his depiction.
El Akkad refers to it as “dislocative” fiction rather than a strict speculative work. “I take things that happen over there and I make them happen over here,” he said in an interview. “Over there” being his beat as a Foreign Correspondent covering the war in Afghanistan and the Arab Spring, but El Akkad also covered protests in Ferguson, Missouri, and the effects of climate change in the south that informed the main thrust of the novel. He followed these issues—the police brutality, the uprising in response to Michael Brown’s murder, the creeping spread of climate change, the devastating loss of an estimated football field worth of wetland disappearing every hour along the Gulf Coast of Louisiana—and the arguments against them in his research and he played them out into the future. In short, it may not be as dislocative as we would like to believe.
There is an odd detachment in places. Sarat is a young woman of color in America, but these aspects of her identity are never explored or even considered, which makes for a slightly uncomfortable read in some places for all the wrong reasons. Some of the artefacts that drive the narrative are repurposed missives from El Akkad’s time as a journalist and read as such. Overall, this detachment has its benefits, because paradoxically, unlike the right-wing fever dreams of wannabe warriors play acting in life or online, unlike the video games or the TV shows or the comic books, certainly unlike Phillip K. Dick’s head trippy work, or even Offred’s allegorical adventures, the reverse Hero Journey undertaken by Sarat has unsettling plausibility. It is a rebuke to Sinclair Lewis; it can happen here.
Throughout Europe, The Plague by Albert Camus has been selling out. The existential novel about an epidemic that ravages the quarantined city in Oran, Algeria served as an allegory for fascism for decades. Today, sales skyrocket as the search for meaning in a time of outbreak has made it a must-read. “Almost as though this novel were a vaccine — not just a novel that can help us think about what we’re experiencing, but something that can help heal us,” explains Alice Kaplan, a French Literature Professor at Yale, in an interview with NPR. I have been thinking about the “scarcity of plague fiction” that Lawrence Wright observed; the scarcity of pandemic artifacts in general. And, what our world might look like if that were not the case.
There is an image that I keep coming back to in my mind. It is an imagined scene. Edvard Munch, dragging out his paints and easel. His movements slowed by aching joints and fever. He is sick with flu. This lethal flu that claimed his contemporaries Gustav Klimt, Egon Schiele, and his wife, Edith, their child, alongside some 675,000 Americans and a total of 50 to 100 million people. Munch feels like death. With his features—gaunt cheeks, sallow skin, weary-eyed—he looks like death. Yet, he moves from the bed to the chair, covering his lap in a thick blanket to ward the chills, as he takes up a brush to paint himself. He has spent his entire existence obsessing about his own death— “Illness, insanity, and death…kept watch over my cradle,” the artist once said, “and accompanied me all my life.”— and here he looks it directly in the eyes to capture the image, his own reflection.
That is one of the few artefacts that existed from the Flu of 1918. It is one of the few artifacts that that exists from our long history of pandemics, period. Pandemics hold up a mirror to our society, to our culture, showing us the best and worst all at once. We often look away. When the threat has passed, we forget. We wrest art from its context and forget. Delany Hall in her exploration of the anti-vaxxer movement sat down with Dr. Bernice Hausman in the Department of Humanities at Penn State College of Medicine, who observed:
Science-based medicine is a tremendous advantage that we have in the modern world. The fact that they could sequence the genome of the coronavirus so quickly, the fact that they’re talking about a vaccine within 18 months to two years is phenomenal, right? All of that is based on advancements in medicine. But the experience of the pandemic, the social disruption that it has caused, the difficulties of discrimination and unequal treatment that the pandemic has uncovered. We already knew it. But now we know it even more. All of that is the realm of the social world. And all of that is much more difficult in some ways to handle.
Hall concludes the science is easy, the people are hard.
Cory Doctorow, author and activist, writes of pandemic and political divisions in his 2019 novella Masque of the Red Death. A reboot of the Edgar Allen Poe story with the same name, Masque follows a finance bro prepper who has built a super bunker that he populates with a hand chosen team of equally obnoxious figures. The characters are essentially their own unmaking, so paranoid that social collapse equals certain death. I don’t know if a story first written in 1842 warrants a spoiler, but if so, head’s up. Even at the cost of the characters own lives, they fail to participate in the messy rebuilding that is going on around them. Opting out of community and even actively avoiding assistance when it is offered.
Doctorow often explores themes of solidarity vs. selfishness, survivalism vs. community. In an essay titled Don’t Look for the Helpers on Joseph Fink’s Our Plague Year podcast, Doctorow admits that he is often branded a dystopian, but considers himself a realist at worst—“Engineers that design systems on the assumption that nothing could possibly go wrong with them are not utopians. They are dangerous idiots and they kill people.”—and thematically reads more like an optimist, really. Humanity finds a way. Community organizes under the worst circumstances. Crisis can draw us together.
“The tales we tell ourselves about what we can expect in a crisis informs our intuition about what we should do come that crisis…I have been telling stories about humanity rising to the challenge of crisis for decades. Now I am telling them to myself. I hope that you will keep that story in mind today as plutocrats seek to weaponize narratives to turn our crisis into their self-serving catastrophe.”
In determining what kind of world, we want next, we have to be willing to look. We have to see what is being revealed and develop new stories to change it. If we want to defund police and fund science-based medicine and equitable health care for all—we need new stories. If we want to address climate change and social justice and keep fault lines from being activated—we need to look in the mirror and see.
Doezema, Marie. “For Omar El Akkad, journalism and fiction are ‘interlocking muscles'”. Columbia Journalism Review. 31 October 2018.