Re-Storying Ourselves

As I watched the television, disbelief and shock danced in my body. Crowds of angry men shouted from street corners that I had walked just months prior with my daughter. Yet there was a voice in my head that said, this is exactly how it was always going to go. I fought within myself between my utter surprise and the predictability of privilege when it is challenged. 

On January 6, 2021, thousands of individuals tied together by a story of deceit stormed the United States Capitol Building in hopes of obstructing the verification of the 2020 election using whatever means necessary. A story hypnotized these people, weaponized to convince the masses that the election was rigged and their votes did not count. Photos from the day show signs bearing the election slogan, “Make America Great Again,” representing yet another hypnotizing story that infiltrated the imaginations of the masses to make a case for regression to Ronald Reagan-era policies. Perhaps more disturbing are the images of insurrectionists posing with a Bible or videos of MAGA-clad insurrectionists singing popular worship songs, including the beloved hymn “Amazing Grace.” The story of the stolen election, woven together with a story of Christianity—albeit bastardized-–created a disgraceful meta-narrative that compelled thousands of people to act with anger, hatred, and violence. 

The story of the “Big Lie” sent thousands of individuals to the U.S. Capitol that day to “take back their country.”

Stories are a motivating and animating force in our world. The stories we believe are not just entertaining narratives, but powerful forces that shape our actions, our beliefs, our relationships, and even our thoughts. Understanding this influence can be enlightening, as it reveals the profound impact of storytelling on our lives. 

The people storming the Capitol on that brisk Epiphany day believed a story. Despite its falsehood, it still drove them to horrific actions that culminated in injuries, trauma, and even death. From my living room in Georgia, I hoped that the visible and violent manifestation of that incendiary story would be the final chapter; the conclusion to the years of lies and deceptions woven into the public story. 

But unfortunately, I was wrong. 

Over the last few months, Americans have spoken. Donald J. Trump will be the forty-seventh president of the United States, taking power in January 2025, just four years after his supporters stormed the U.S. Capitol, causing havoc and destruction, to try to overturn a free and fair election. His return to the White House is a failure of storytelling. We have collectively forgotten the havoc and chaos of his first term because the stories we have traditionally turned to for wisdom, comfort, and direction have been co-opted. 

Looking ahead to the next 4 years is a frightening exercise. I fear for many people that I love. I wonder what kind of disasters lurk around the corner – from global wars to pandemics, from stripping LGBTQ+ folx of basic human rights to deporting millions of legally protected individuals. 

When facing this kind of existential dread and fear, I often find myself looking for stories that can inspire, stories that can offer wisdom, stories that take that despair and subvert it. Some people turn to the Bible for stories like this and there is certainly a place for those stories. And, I wonder if incorporating more stories–modern stories, stories with queer characters, stories written by Black and Brown people with real experiences with dread and despair, stories by women who are grappling with how to resist the male gaze–might be an effective way of subverting this meta-narrative that has co-opted Christian stories for its uses. 

We need to re-story our society. But that starts with re-storying ourselves. It starts with immersing ourselves in stories created by and for those in our contexts. 

This Great Hemisphere by Mateo Askaripour is one of those stories that could give us direction, inspiration, camaraderie, and wisdom in this subversive work of re-storying ourselves. 

I’ll be honest and say that I have a bit of trepidation to begin such a mighty task of re-storying with a work that has been out in the world for less than a year. But this book–this story–is well worth it. 

It’s a story set 500 years in the future where there are two races of humans: invisibles and Dominant Population (DPs as they are called throughout the story). Among the invisibles is a young woman named Sweetmint who seeks to climb the ladder of dignity among DPs by becoming the first invisible apprentice to the hemisphere’s great inventor. Eventually, the Chief Executive (read: President or Prime Minister) is assassinated and Sweetmint’s brother, who she thought to be dead, is blamed for the crime. The rest of the book is a hunt for Sweetmint’s brother, both from government officials and Sweetmint herself. Along the way, readers get a glimpse into the life of the invisible race – their challenges, joys, heartbreaks, and betrayals. Ultimately, this is a book about the mechanism of scapegoating, unconscious (and conscious, for that matter) bias, and the ways power can be wielded. 

Over the next few posts, we will explore themes and excerpts from this novel, treating it as a sacred text that could possibly give us insight and wisdom about how to live in today’s world as a person of hope. As we endeavor to re-story the public, we must seek out new ways of understanding our reality through stories written in and for contexts like the one in which we find ourselves. 

The notion of invisibility Askaripour centers his novel around has been explored plenty of times in literature (See Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison written in 1952 and Hell of a Book by Jason Mott written in 2021). It’s been a recurring theme in literature, particularly literature by Black and Brown writers. The experience of invisibility–of not being seen, or being seen through–is not just a literary symbol. It is a reality for many people. 

Many of us bear a measure of invisibility – parts of ourselves that are not seen or ignored. I read this novel as the election drew near and wondered about my own invisibility as a woman. I recognize my own association with whiteness that makes me a part of the DPs of our society. Yet, the fact of invisibility that Askaripour raises in this novel is that everyone has a measure of invisibility in them. For me, reading this novel during the lead up to the election, I grew more in touch with the parts of myself that felt more invisible to the world.

In This Great Hemisphere, Sweetmint converses with a woman named Sister Blackstone who is educating her about this dynamic, that dominance and visibility have varied throughout time and contexts. 

The text reads: 

“These people you see here” – she pointed a dusty finger at the illumination– “were marching for freedom, from their own oppressors, who believed they were the ‘Dominant Population.”

“I don’t understand, Sweetmint said, feeling as though her ignorance had formed into two fists beating upon her head. “These people are visible. Why would visible people oppress other visible people?” 

“Human beings will always find a way to differentiate and subjugate, Sister Sweetmint. Especially when they closely resemble one another.”

This Great Hemisphere raises an important question about the visible and invisible realities that humans allow to impact our relationships with one another. We construct systems of power upon these realities. We form voting blocs based on these realities. 

Like any great story in its attempt to re-story society, This Great Hemisphere also subverts that dynamic of society by showing the nuances of the DPs. As a reader, I wanted to hate the DPs, but there were some that had qualities that I would want in a friend. Likewise, I wanted to be on the side of the invisibles because of the systemic oppression they experience throughout the narrative, but there were plenty of invisibles that victimized others. 

Sister Blackstone’s words provide wisdom and insight into the reality that our society has shown us: humans will find otherness in our neighbors. Problems come when the otherness is unconsciously and often given a negative value. Xenophobia, racism, homophobia, and misogyny all can be attributed to otherness taking on a negative value. 

Moments later, when Sister Blackstone and Sweetmint talk about what will happen if the invisibles are able to create a “Fundamental Flip” of society where the DPs are no longer in charge, Sister Blackstone says, 

“We will not treat them as they’ve treated us. We will not torture or enslave them. But they will no longer be allowed to nurture their baser natures. We will give [them] the choice of where to live and how to live, creating new industries with our people in mind, freeing them from the shackles of the rhitelling (read: dollar; currency), of bonds visible and hidden. It will take place in phases, starting with a period of improving the image they have of themselves, and of our people, but then we will thrive.” 

What this text gives is a roadmap for how to treat one’s former oppressors. Have these things been said before? Yes. Can we find parallels to this in the Biblical narratives? Yes, with some work. It is by no means new. But the story is new and the mode of telling it is certainly novel. 

These are the words, however, that I will share with my kid when she asks what it means to be in charge and how we treat people who have been mean to us before. These words reorient me around the stories I hold near and dear to my heart, but have been co-opted by a version of faith and politics that I can barely recognize. These words have begun the process of re-storying my soul. Maybe they will help yours too. 

If you’ve gotten this far and you’re still interested, stay tuned for two more posts about this book. In the meantime, check it out at my bookshop and check out an interview with author Mateo Askaripour on The Stacks podcast.