I have been musing about the ritual process in American political culture and thinking about where we are as a country following the midterm election results. When I think about cultural rituals such as elections in this way I revisit the ideas of Victor Turner, a Scottish anthropologist who studied the Ndembu in Africa and wrote about the social drama involved in, among many other things, the making of a tribal chief.

“I can only answer the question ‘What am I to do?’

if I can answer the prior question ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’”

--Alastair MacIntyre, On Virtue

For those of us who study narratives there is no easy agreement about what, in fact, a “narrative” is. Academics disagree, so do practitioners. Academics disagree because humanistic and social science scholars use separate sets of theoretical and historical references to define the term and because our diverse definitions are contextually employed differently to define a particular event or inform a particular research purpose. Hence, it matters a lot to the individual researcher whether “narrative” refers to data drawn from someone’s account of something that they claim happened, or whether it refers to an historical text disconnected from the present that may be interpreted by readers in any number of ways.

Disagreements about definitions duly noted, the word “narrative” is very popular these days. It was, according to one study, the most popular buzzword in politics for 2010. Certainly it was one of the most overused, given that “narrative,” in all of its rhetorical splendor made to mean all kinds of things, was attached to such a wide array of imperatives—from campaign slogans to speeches to takes on American history and culture. In practice outside academic culture, it would seem to be the case it isn’t so much important what narratives “are”—meaning how they are defined—as it is what narratives “do.” It’s their influence that matters.

Like most Americans who pay attention to world affairs, I stand in mediated awe of the protests in Egypt. Part of me cheers the protester’s rallying cry for democracy and the end of tyranny, and part of me worries about what happens next. As the co-author of a new book on the role of master narratives in Islamic extremism I am confident that calling for the end of Mubarak’s regime by labeling him the last Pharaoh has deep cultural resonance with Muslims, Christians, and Jews, but I know that this revolution has nothing to do with extremism of an Islamic kind. It is a protest, a movement, that should be understood as a political unity organized by an emerging story of hope rather than one organized by a political party or extremist ideology rooted in fear.

The Egyptian protester’s story could be called “the audacity of hope,” although that title has already been used and this revolution has nothing to do with Obama. It is the hope of a youthful population—the average age of an Egyptian is 24—for the better life they see elsewhere in the world, and the idea that it can also be theirs. It is the hope that springs from the promise of economic opportunity and equality more so than freedom, although at least some freedom from repression and corruption of the sort they have endured under a military dictatorship is certainly part of it. It is the hope that food will be more affordable, wages will be higher, and that promised reforms will bring an unprecedented ability to get ahead and to enjoy their lives. In this way, the “story” on the street is one of hope for the future. It is hope chanted in poetry, sung in popular songs, and cried out in slogans that echo other popular uprisings both at home and abroad.

One of the lessons from the successful (so far) revolution in Egypt is the importance of voice in creating and keeping a democracy.  I say that with some obvious bias, of course, as I am a communication scholar.  But you don’t need a Ph.D. in my field to recognize that one reason Mubarak remained in power so long was because he cultivated a tyranny of silence that controlled the speech of citizens and suppressed the media. It is that same kind of fear that has characterized America since 9/11.

I don’t think it is possible to overstate my case.  From my first blog back in October I have explored this fear of speaking out against tyranny, whether the tyrant was a blowhard right-winger parroting Rush Limbaugh in a parking lot or a politician on television calling for second amendment solutions or a former president reconstructing a past through fabrications and fantasies that go largely unchallenged, we have been numbed into silence by the rich and the dumb.  And, as brutal prison guards and Rupert Murdoch know so well, a people quieted by fear for so long lose the will and the ability to speak.

We gotta get out of this place!

If it’s the last thing we ever do …

We gotta get out of this place,

Cause girl there’s a better life … for me and you.

--Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil/recorded by The Animals (1965)

On Monday at 6 a.m. I awoke after a good night’s sleep (but no dreams) to my regimen of pills: one for nausea, two for pain, two more for bone marrow inflammation, one for blood sugar regulation, one for blood pressure regulation, and one in case I get heartburn, gas, or that “burning sensation.” San pricked my finger for a blood sugar reading. I took my temperature. Max oversaw the operation with his usual casual detachment.

I feel better than “okay.” I feel good!

We took Max for his morning walk around the neighborhood while the coffee brewed. It was already warm enough to bring on a good sweat and the accompanying clouds locked in an unpleasant humidity that added to the “dry heat” a layer of thick, wet discomfort. Max pooped. I bagged. San greeted an oldster whose name I’ve forgotten. We headed back indoors.