The Deep Story

Unpacking Our Collective Experience

A deep story, as Arlie Hochschild illuminated, isn't about the cold, hard facts we so often cling to in our political debates. No, it's something far more primal, a "feels-as-if" narrative woven from the very fabric of our emotions, told in the symbolic language of the heart. It's a story that, if we allow it, grants us a rare vantage point: the ability to step back from our own entrenched positions and peer through the subjective prism that shapes the worldview of those on the "other side." And as I've come to believe, navigating the complexities of our political landscape, left or right, demands this kind of empathetic exploration, for beneath the surface of every ideology lies a deep story waiting to be heard.

This very notion resurfaced for me just last year at a gathering – let's call it a workshop – here in Austria. The air, still thick with the residue of the September 29th election results, hummed with a shared sense of unease, a collective grappling with what had transpired. The question that echoed through the room, again and again, was a familiar one: how do we even begin to speak to the "other side"?

Yet, what struck me was the persistent tendency, even amongst those seeking connection, to fall back on the well-worn crutches of identity politics. The "other side" was so often depicted through simplistic monikers, a stark division drawn between "them" and "us," a linguistic barrier that only served to reinforce the very polarization we yearned to dismantle.

Interestingly, Kenan Göngör was present at this workshop, and I found myself wishing he'd had more time to elaborate on the intricacies of our current societal condition. His perspective, even in its brevity, offered a unique lens, a way of seeing that transcended the usual frameworks.

We didn't quite reach the crucial point of how to bridge this divide, which, in my mind, remains the ultimate objective. However, Kenan painted a picture of a bygone era, a time when the "middle" was a more defined and controlled space, anchored by the archetype of the male breadwinner, with women primarily in the home and everyone else relegated to the periphery. The body politic we navigate today, of course, bears little resemblance to that antiquated structure. And it was this very description that sparked a thought within me: perhaps "polarization," the term we so readily employ, is itself a misdirection, a way we categorize a far more nuanced and perhaps less binary reality. What Kenan was hinting at felt less like a simple opposition and more like a fundamental reshaping of the societal landscape.

But let's pivot to the foundational concept of the deep story, so eloquently articulated by Hochschild. Her insights, gleaned from her time immersed in the culture of Louisiana, documented in her compelling 2016 book, Strangers in Their Own Land, offered a powerful framework for understanding these seemingly intractable divides. Driven by a desire to comprehend the chasm she observed from her own Berkeley vantage point, she sought to answer the fundamental question: how did we arrive at this state of profound division?

Through her patient and empathetic conversations, Hochschild began to unravel the deep story, a narrative that begins with a shared understanding: we are, by and large, brave citizens striving to adhere to the rules. This notion, ingrained in us from our earliest schooling, suggests a clear contract: follow the prescribed path, stand in line, and you will be rewarded. The American Dream, in its various iterations across cultures, carries this implicit promise.

But something, Hochschild discovered, went profoundly astray for many as they stood in that metaphorical line. A dawning realization emerged: the line wasn't moving forward. And as anyone who has ever stood in a frustratingly slow queue can attest – perhaps less so in the more assertive queuing culture of Austria – there's a particular kind of unease that sets in. It's not just the lack of progress; it's the creeping suspicion that the line is, in fact, moving in the wrong direction, inching backward. How can this be?

Hochschild's analogy of the backward-moving line resonated deeply, especially when considering the very real pressures of inflation that so many are experiencing. For those who haven't seen a meaningful raise in years, the rising cost of living creates the undeniable sensation of financial regression. This wasn't part of the expected bargain. The promise of reward for obedience and patience felt increasingly hollow.

It's crucial to remember, as Hochschild pointed out, that this sense of a broken contract has been brewing in certain regions for decades, perhaps as far back as fifty years in the American context. We may have registered it, but perhaps we dismissed it, assuming those affected had little recourse but to suck it up. The turning point, however, seemed to arrive with the 2008 financial crisis. The backward trajectory of the line accelerated, and a profound sense of injustice took root. How could the banks, the very institutions implicated in the crisis, be bailed out while ordinary citizens faced foreclosure? The inherent unfairness of this felt like a blatant violation of the queuing order.

And then came the figure of Barack Obama. Hochschild astutely observed that the reaction to his presidency, for some, wasn't solely about policy. It tapped into that deep story of the line. Trained in an older paradigm, where the middle was perceived differently, some saw Obama's rise as a fundamental disruption of the established order. How did he cut in line? they wondered, unable to reconcile his trajectory with their understanding of how society was supposed to function.

Even more potent was the emotional resonance of Obama's presence. For those whose line felt like it was moving backward despite their best efforts, the sight of someone from what they perceived as the margins rising to the highest office evoked a particular kind of unease. The questions about his education, the unspoken doubts about his qualifications – these weren't necessarily rooted in factual analysis, but in a deep-seated feeling that the natural order had been upended. Hochschild didn't explicitly mention affirmative action, but it's easy to see how that concept could be woven into this narrative of unfair advancement.

The resentment extended to Michelle Obama, the anger directed at her seemingly incongruous emotion given her perceived cutting in line. And the line continued to shift in their deep story: women entering the workforce, immigrants arriving, even the environmental protections for the brown pelican after the oil spill – all became symbols of others supposedly leaping ahead in a line they felt stuck in. These weren't necessarily logical arguments, but powerful emotional touchstones in their understanding of a world that felt increasingly unfair and out of their control.

And it's these very tendencies, this underlying emotional narrative of the backward-moving line and the perceived line-cutters, that I believe we are seeing echoed in various forms across different countries, including our own Austria.