The power of narrative
Presenting something of a counterintuitive argument: it isn’t guns that provide protection for you and yours, but something a lot more ethereal, abstract, and difficult to pin down.
Jordan Neely Was Not a Victim of White Supremacy – Nor of Lack of Services
The leftists celebrating Neely wield a weapon that will hurt more like him.I was debating gun control. Someone insisted that his gun was his best protection. I told him that his best protection is something he can’t even see, something he’s probably never thought about. His best protection is something ephemeral, something multisyllabic; something you can’t explain in a soundbite. “Your best protection,” I insisted, “is narrative.”
My family lived in the same house for almost seventy years. I was in and out of that house for decades. Not only did I never use a key, I don’t even know if a key existed. We slept with doors and windows open. Neighbors walked in and out without knocking. We lived in New Jersey, America’s most densely populated state. Our town was mostly white but there were blacks, Ramapo Mountain People, Chinese, Indians, Filipinos, Arabs, and Hispanics as well.
It wasn’t paradise. My hometown exposed me to the slings and arrows that flesh is heir to. In just three short blocks, I know of four women who had serious mental health or cognitive issues. This was back in the bad old days when doctors would irresponsibly over-prescribe drugs like Thorazine and Miltown. There was substance abuse, domestic abuse, suicides attempted and completed, and the very rare ax murder. Our town was industrial and cancer was ubiquitous. One family seemed targeted by God: cancer, crippling injury, chronic illness. And we were poor.
What made the town so safe? My best guess. We shared narrative. We were all working class, and religiously observant, largely church-going Catholics. We were children or grandchildren of immigrants. We were patriotic Americans who realized how lucky we were to be here, and not there, where our cousins lived under Communism or otherwise in poverty. The kids played together. The adults socialized together. We thought of ourselves as characters in each other’s narrative.
Some envision ideal love as A staring at B and B staring back at A. That love eventually tarnishes. Passion cools and familiarity breeds contempt. A more long-lasting love is structured as A and B staring, together, at C. C could be God. C could be the kids. C could be a shared business or home ownership. The C that binds people together could be a shared narrative. That shared narrative, like a quilt, can connect diverse people who have never met. Many Americans felt this after 9-11. That stunning attack caused normally quarreling and remote people to feel invested in each others’ lives.
There were bad things I could have done, that many kids do, that I never did, because they went against our narrative. Shoplifting. Smoking. Getting drunk. Taking drugs. Teen pregnancy. Skipping homework. Everyone around me, in what they said on these topics, informed me that they went against our narrative. If I did them, I’d feel guilty and ashamed. I would feel that I had taken a step down in status; I’d feel degraded. I would feel that I had hurt and betrayed people to whom I was connected, not just my parents, but my town and my ancestors.
Narrative: God bless America. Narrative: young people owe older people respect. Narrative: sex before marriage is a sin. Narrative: “Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit.” Narrative: men and women are different and they have different roles they must fulfill. Men support their kids. Women nurture life. Narrative: drug abuse is shameful and deadly and a terrible burden for loved ones. Addicts are responsible for their own recovery. Narrative: you are part of a larger society and you share important values and history with that larger society. You donate to charity. You stand for the national anthem. You give your seat to an older person on public transportation. You stand up for the little guy. If you are drafted, you serve, even if the Vietnam War is controversial. You stop at red lights. You wear a slip under a skirt. You owe other people your participation in the larger narrative.
Again, my little town hosted the same challenges humans face everywhere. I know of at least two victims of domestic violence who went to live with neighbors for a time in order to escape what was going on at home. We were unaware of domestic violence shelters. Addicts were pressured to attend Twelve Step meetings that were held in the basement of the Catholic church down the street. In one case, my dad personally prevented a neighbor from committing suicide. I don’t know if this man ever saw a therapist; he saw my dad, a neighbor. It wasn’t paradise. There was a lot of human pain. But it was extremely safe.
This is one hell of a fascinating piece, presenting an argument that never once occurred to me before. The author goes on from there to provide even more support for it, all of which is quite convincing. If he’s right on this, and I for one think he is, it explains…well, damned near everything. The only real flaw I can see is that it suggests an intelligence and a patient, sure-handed competence on the part of the Left that is absolutely nowhere else in evidence, undermining certain assumptions about them we’ve all been making for years.
On the other hand, though, they have managed to take over America That Was entire—gradually, bit by bit, piece by piece—without ever a shot needing to be fired, or not very many of them, and those few only in recent years. Which is a genuinely alarming prospect in and of itself: if they really ARE this smart, then we’re probably all doomed and should give up and sue for mercy, before it’s too late.
This is another of those articles that is extremely difficult to excerpt because it’s just too tempting to hijack most if not all of it; selecting which parts of it to run is a tough choice indeed. A bit more, just to prove the point:
An infamous story signals a hideous rent in the American narrative. On March 27, 1964, the New York Times published history-making coverage of the stalking, stabbing, rape, murder and robbery of 28-year-old New York bar manager Kitty Genovese by 29-year-old Winston Moseley. Moseley was a serial killer, rapist, and necrophiliac. He was also a husband, father, and home-owner. “I chose women to kill because they were easier and didn’t fight back,” Moseley would say. Asked how he could commit such a heinous and drawn-out attack in a heavily populated area, Moseley said, “‘I knew they wouldn’t do anything; people never do.” Moseley’s attack lasted a half an hour. Genovese fought back, as wounds on her hands show.
Initial Times coverage alleged that 38 witnesses saw or heard the attack, but did not help or call police, because they “did not want to get involved.” The Times report began melodramatically. “For more than half an hour 38 respectable, law-abiding citizens in Queens watched a killer stalk and stab a woman in three separate attacks in Kew Gardens. Twice their chatter and the sudden glow of their bedroom lights interrupted him and frightened him off. Each time he returned, sought her out, and stabbed her again. Not one person telephoned the police during the assault.” The Genovese murder epitomized a shocking change in the American narrative. Now, the story suggested, anomie and chaos replaced community and mutual concern.
There were significant errors in the Times story. There were not 38 witnesses who saw and understood the attack and did not help or phone for help because they “didn’t want to get involved.” Some witnesses did attempt to call police. Robert Mozer yelled at Moseley to “Let that girl alone!” Moseley left the scene and waited for Mozer to return to bed. Then Moseley returned and completed his attack. Many heard something but weren’t sure what they heard. Sophia Farrar, Genovese’s friend and neighbor, rushed downstairs in her nightgown to investigate, and cradled Genovese’s head as she lay dying. The Times’ image of 38 people seeing, understanding, and refusing to act was simply false.
Times editor A.M. Rosenthal resented attempts to correct the Times’ record on this story. He took pride in the positive impact the story had, for example the creation of the 911 emergency call system. Rosenthal would later say to Kitty Genovese’s younger brother, Bill, “What was true? People all over the world were affected by it. Did it do anything? You bet your eye it did something. And I’m glad it did.” Bill was devastated by his sister’s death. The 2016 film The Witness recounts his efforts to come to terms with the tragedy.
On one hand, the Kitty Genovese story is a hideous rent in the American narrative. On the other hand, Kitty Genovese reaffirms the American narrative. Inspired by her story, others chose service. Kitty’s brother Bill volunteered to serve in Vietnam, where he lost his legs to a landmine. Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger “said he was always haunted by the story of Kitty Genovese.” In Texas, when he heard the coverage, “I made a pledge to myself, right then at age thirteen, that if I was ever in a situation where someone such as Kitty Genovese needed my help, I would choose to act. I would do whatever I could…I felt this real resolve…to live in a certain way.” Citizens struggle to find a way to “rescue” Kitty long after her horrific death. They don’t want to redeem Kitty alone. They want to redeem themselves. They want to redeem their society. They work toward a redeemed narrative.
See what I mean? If there ever was a case where I mean every word of it when I say you really MUST read all of it, it would have to be this one. Happily enough, the piece is a long ‘un, so there’s plenty more left from there; actually, I haven’t quite finished it yet myself, but was moved enough when I got around two-thirds in to take time out and write this post. It’s wide-ranging—up to and including a Biblical reference in support of the central thesis, with direct textual quotes—well-written and -reasoned, compelling, and legitimately brilliant throughout. So don’t make me say it again, people. Believe me, you won’t be sorry.