“This week,” comedian and former Obama administration speechwriter Jon Lovett said Thursday on NBC, “has been about a story.”
In the discourse of American politics, this kind of talk from both sides is unsurprising – fitting, even. Because in the campaign season of 2024, just as in the fabric of American culture at large, the notion of “story” is everywhere.
This year’s political conventions were, like so many of their kind, curated collections of elaborate stories carefully spun to accomplish one goal – getting elected. But lurking behind them was a pitched, high-stakes battle over how to frame the biggest story of all – the one about America that, as Harris put it, should be “the next great chapter in the most extraordinary story ever told.”
The American story – an unlikely one, filled with twists that sometimes feel, as so many enjoy saying, “just like a movie” – sits at the nucleus of American culture for a unique reason.
Americans live in one of the only societies that was built not upon hundreds of years of common culture but upon stories themselves – “the shining city upon the hill,” “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” “all men are created equal.” Even memorable ad campaigns – “See the USA in your Chevrolet” – are part of this. In some ways, the United States – not coincidentally, the place where the frontier myth, Hollywood and Madison Avenue were all born – willed itself into existence and significance by iterating and reiterating its story as it went. The campaigns understand that. So they are putting forward to voters two varying – starkly opposite, some might say – versions of the American story. How the two parties are using stories From the Republicans comes one flavor of story: an insistence that to “make America great again” in the future we must fight to reinvigorate traditional values and reclaim the moral fiber and stoutheartedness of generations past. In his convention speech last month, Trump invoked three separate conflicts – the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and World War II – in summoning American history’s glories.
To reinforce its vision, the GOP deployed the likes of musician Kid Rock, celebrity wrestler Hulk Hogan and Lee Greenwood singing “God Bless the USA.” Trump genuflected to the firefighting gear of Corey Comperatore, who had been killed in an assassination attempt on the candidate days earlier. Vance spoke of “villains” and offered up the Appalachian coming-of-age story he told in “Hillbilly Elegy.”
The Republicans, as they often do, leaned into military storylines, bringing forth families of slain servicemen to critique President Joe Biden’s “weak” leadership. And they made all efforts to manage their constituencies. Vance’s wife, Usha, who is of Indian descent, lauded him as “a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy” – a classic American trope – while underscoring that he respected her vegetarian diet and had learned how to cook Indian food for her mother.
“What could I say that hasn’t already been said before?” she said, introducing Vance. “After all, the man was already the subject of a Ron Howard movie. “
And the Democrats? Their convention last week focused on a new and different future full of “joy” and free of what Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg called “Trump’s politics of darkness.” It was an implied “Star Wars” metaphor if there ever was one.
It was hard to miss that the Democrats were not only coalescing around the multiracial, multicultural nation that Harris personifies but at the same time methodically trying to reclaim the plainspoken slivers of the American story that have rested in Republican hands in recent years.
The flag was everywhere, as was the notion of freedom. Tim Walz entered to the tune of John Mellencamp’s “Small Town,” an ode to the vision of America that Republicans usually trumpet. Sen. Amy Klobuchar of Minnesota expounded upon the regular-guy traits that Walz embodies – someone who can change a car light, a hunter, a “dad in plaid.”
The former geography teacher’s football-coach history was mined as well, with beefy guys in Mankato West Scarlets jerseys fanning out across the stage to the marching-band strains of “The Halls of Montezuma.” They even enlisted a former GOP member of Congress to reinforce all the imagery by saying the quiet part loud.
“I want to let my fellow Republicans in on the secret: The Democrats are as patriotic as us,” said Adam Kinzinger, an Illinois Republican critical of Trump.
Bringing it all together Watching the videos and testimonials at both conventions, one storytelling technique stood tall: what journalists call “character-driven” tales. Whether it’s advocating for abortion rights or warning about mass illegal immigration or channeling anger about inflation, “regular” Americans became the narrative building blocks for national concerns.
Historian Heather Cox Richardson put it this way about the DNC in her Substack, “Letters from an American,” this past week: “The many stories in which ordinary Americans rise from adversity through hard work, decency, and service to others implicitly conflates those individual struggles with the struggles of the United States itself.”
In the past generation, the tools of storytelling have become more democratic. We are all publishers now – on X, on TikTok, on Instagram, on Truth Social. And we are all storytellers, telling mini versions of the American story in whatever ways we wish. Perspectives that have been long silenced and suppressed are making their way into the light.
Putting aside questions of truth and misinformation for a moment, how can a unifying American story be summoned when hundreds of millions of people are now able to tell it differently and from their own vantage points? Democratization is beneficial, but it can also be chaotic and hard to understand.
“A people who cannot stand together cannot stand at all,” poet Amanda Gorman said in her remarks at the DNC. But with so many stories to sort through, is unity more difficult than ever? Is there even a single, unifying “American story” at all? Should there be?
In the end, that’s why this election is about storytelling more than ever. Because the loudest, most persuasive tale – told slickly with the industrial-strength communications tools of the 21st century – will likely win the day.
In the meantime, the attempts to commandeer and amplify versions of that story will continue to Election Day and beyond. As long as there is an American nation, there will be millions of people trying to tell us what it means – desperately, angrily, optimistically, compellingly. Stories are a powerful weapon, and a potent metaphor as well. As Walz said about leaving Trump and Vance behind: “I’m ready to turn the page.”