Sunday, August 7, 2016

Truth and Beauty: How Stories Can Save Our Nation

            On August 9th, 2014, a young black man named Michael Brown was shot in Ferguson, Missouri by a police officer named Darren Wilson. To millions of Americans, this event highlighted the institutional racism entrenched within the justice system. Widespread protests began, both in Ferguson and across the nation. “Hands up, don’t shoot,” the phrase which Brown supposedly shouted at Wilson moments before he was pointlessly slaughtered, became the rallying cry for and universal gesture of the Black Lives Matter movement. In fact, in late November, five football players from the St. Louis Rams entered the field doing the “hands up, don’t shoot” routine, to the sound of a deafening cheer from the crowd.

            There’s just one problem. “Hands up, don’t shoot” never happened.

            Not only did “hands up, don’t shoot” never happen, a legal investigation by the authorities—including President Obama’s own justice department—demonstrated that Michael Brown had attempted to attack Officer Wilson, tried to take his gun from him, and had been subsequently shot while charging toward the officer. Even Jonathan Capehart, a journalist for the Washington Post and a believer in the reality of institutional racism, was forced to admit in an editorial that Officer Wilson was justified in shooting Brown. All the forensic evidence showed it. The grand jury acquitted Officer Wilson. The story, it seems, ends here.

            But it doesn’t.

            Two weeks ago, Lezley McSpadden, the mother of Michael Brown, spoke at the Democratic National Convention. She spoke about racism, about the need to protect black lives from the prejudices of white cops, and about the unjust death of her son.

            Why is it that no one seemed to notice that this narrative was built on a lie? Why was McSpadden, the mother of a criminal who attacked a police officer, met with the same approval and appreciation as the mother of a war veteran might be?

            The same question could be asked about a thousand political questions in our day and age. Why is it that evidence so often falls on deaf ears? As a conservative, I often wonder why it is that the good sense of the conservative movement is ignored—even in the face of all the facts.

            Why do conservatives fight a losing battle? Why is it that we walk into the courtroom armed with statistics, evidence, and numbers, only to be beaten soundly by the left and then to retreat, confused by our own loss? Until we can identify why we lose, we cannot hope to change anything.

            The answer is simple.

            We are not storytellers.

            The left wins because it is masterful—masterful—at telling stories. It weaves a narrative more compelling and memorable than any chart or statistic that we have to offer.

            If I were to tell you that 3.1 million children die of hunger in Africa each year, you would likely consider it solemnly for a moment and then move along. The number would not mean anything to you.

But if I were to tell you the story of a poor four-year-old girl who lives every day without enough food, who cries herself to sleep at night because of the gnawing pain in her stomach, who is wasting slowly away and who will die within a month if there is no one to save her—you would care. It would matter to you. You would be far more likely to act in order to save one child than to save 3.1 million children. The difference lies only in my method of delivering information.

In the same way, politicians and the media control people’s beliefs by telling them stories. Look at the Ferguson case. Conservative commentary on the situation looked at the DOJ report, examined the diagrams of the bullet wounds, and then concluded that based on the forensic evidence, Darren Wilson was justified in shooting Michael Brown. Case closed.

But liberal commentary told the story of a young man, oppressed and downtrodden by a rigged system, who made his last stand in the humid streets of Ferguson, staring into the hateful eyes of the persecutor, with his hands raised in a sign of peace and his voice calling out an unheard plea. They told the story of a martyr, whose sacred blood stains the hands of every individual who supports the wicked crime committed by the police officer who shot the gentle giant.

The martyr’s tale is much more compelling than the evidence. That is why the evidence is so often dismissed. Mankind is drawn to beauty, and we experience beauty through stories. So often we are more than willing to reject every fact that does not fit within our favorite narrative.

Hardly anyone is interested in the true facts and statistics of history—that is, until he is able to see it as a story. Few people knew anything about Alexander Hamilton before the popular musical Hamilton came to Broadway, and now thousands of people sing about his life daily.

The unfortunate truth is that truth is dull to the average citizen of the United States. We are much more excited by stories, so much so that we will willingly reject the truth in favor of a well-told narrative.

That is why conservatism consistently fails, and why leftism consistently wins. Leftism knows how to tell a story. Conservatism knows how to quote true facts. Combined, these two skills would be powerful beyond belief.

So what must we do?

Conservatives must stop believing that we can win people over with our statistics.

Instead of merely pointing to the DOJ study on Officer Wilson’s innocence, we must add to that the story of a hero, sworn to protect a small town in Missouri, committed to the safety of whites and blacks alike—sacrificed on the altar of a lie, made unemployable, cursed and threatened, hated by the masses, all for the sake of a crime he did not commit. We must tell the story of our own martyr, a martyr for justice.

If we care about our ideas, like the philosophers of old, we must learn to tell stories.

The difference is that our stories must be based in the truth.

After all, truth and beauty together are unstoppable.

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