Crisis, Storytelling, and the Humanities: Rereading Davis’s "Ecology of Fear" and a Case for Applied Health Humanities in California Studies

Crisis, Storytelling, and the Humanities: Rereading Davis’s Ecology of Fear and a Case for Applied Health Humanities in California Studies

The intensifying climate crisis, the spread of populist authoritarianism, and the rapid expansion of artificial intelligence all point to a world where the stakes for human wellbeing—psychological, social, and ecological—are higher than ever. In my recent exploration of these interwoven challenges, I argue that storytelling is central to how societies comprehend and respond to large-scale upheavals, and that the humanities must adopt an “applied” framework to remain relevant. By this, I mean a humanities engaged not only in theoretical critique but in practical, health-focused interventions aimed at understanding and alleviating human suffering. This perspective, which I call “applied health humanities,” recognizes that crises are not merely abstract problems but lived realities that demand ethical care—care rooted in narrative, cultural analysis, and a commitment to illuminating hidden histories. In the context of California Studies, such an approach can shine new light on the entire state’s intricate tapestry of environmental, social, and psychological realities.

Yet this orientation toward “applied” engagement becomes even more critical when placed alongside the arguments I have made elsewhere about the urgency of grappling with populist authoritarian storytelling, the climate emergency, and AI-driven transformations. As I have written in my blog post, "Crisis, the Humanities, and Storytelling in the Age of Climate Change, AI, and Populist Authoritarianism," the formation of public narratives is often hijacked by demagogic figures who rely on fear-based rhetoric to consolidate power. These dystopian or apocalyptic narratives take on the sheen of inevitability, discouraging collective action and numbing our moral imagination. An applied health humanities framework, by contrast, insists that we interrogate these narratives, expose their manipulative core, and introduce counter-narratives emphasizing agency, interdependence, and the possibility of transformative social change.

Mike Davis’s Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster offers a valuable starting point for understanding how narratives of crisis shape public consciousness and policy decisions. Davis vividly details how Los Angeles has long been framed in apocalyptic terms—a city perpetually besieged by wildfires, earthquakes, floods, and civil unrest—and he shows that these dire portrayals can mask the political and economic decisions fueling catastrophe. One key argument in Ecology of Fear involves what Davis terms “Fortress L.A.,” a phenomenon in which privatized security systems, gated communities, and militarized police forces emerge in response to perceived threats, effectively excluding vulnerable populations from shared urban space. This process not only reinforces inequality but also generates a kind of collective moral injury in marginalized communities who suffer both the literal and symbolic violence of exclusion. Another of Davis’s readings focuses on how local governments and developers leverage disaster narratives—particularly around wildfires—to push forward infrastructure projects and real-estate speculations, often resulting in “disaster profiteering.” By normalizing the notion that these crises are inevitable, policymakers and investors shirk responsibility for the human and environmental cost. A third important argument that resonates with an applied health humanities perspective is Davis’s examination of how fear-based narratives around crime and social unrest obscure historical inequities, allowing city planners to blame “disorder” on the very communities they have systematically disenfranchised rather than interrogating deeper socioeconomic or racial injustices.

When we consider these dynamics in light of “populist authoritarianism,” as I discussed in my blog post on crisis and storytelling, we see how fear-driven narratives in public discourse can parallel the rhetorical moves of authoritarian figures on the national or global stage. Whether in the context of climate denial, reactionary immigration policies, or the demonization of political opponents, the central mechanism is often the same: harness fear to divert attention from systemic failings, then claim that nothing can be done except to yield to the strong hand of those in power. In Ecology of Fear, Davis’s focus is more localized—on developers, city councils, and business interests—but the pattern of fear exploitation to justify exclusion and profiteering is nearly identical. An applied health humanities approach, aware of these broader manipulations, would not only analyze how fear is wielded politically but also ask how such narratives affect the psychological well-being and moral orientation of individuals and communities.

Although Davis’s critique foregrounds the social and material roots of catastrophe, a rereading of Ecology of Fear from an applied health humanities standpoint can expand the conversation to include the psychological and moral dimensions of crisis. My background in psychoanalysis and existential philosophy reveals how fear-driven storylines do more than distort facts—they also affect how communities emotionally metabolize threats, often leading to paralysis or despair. By contrast, alternative frameworks can promote a healing process that emphasizes agency, relationality, and moral accountability. It is not enough to dissect the political economy behind privatized security or real-estate opportunism; we must also examine the emotional toll of these narratives on local populations, particularly on those who are already socially vulnerable. An “applied health humanities” perspective thus demands that we investigate not only how fear-laden stories arise, but also how new stories—centered on resilience, empathy, and shared responsibility—might be generated to foster collective wellbeing.

This focus on generating new stories, rather than merely deconstructing old ones, aligns with another crucial aspect of my work: the role of deconstruction in challenging entrenched or rigid interpretations of texts, histories, and laws, as I discussed in my post "Originalism, Derrida, and the Urgent Need for an Applied Humanities in Our Courts and Beyond." In that piece, I argue that Derrida’s insights into the instability of meaning can help us see how big-T Truth claims—like those often found in legal originalism—are not fixed certainties but interpretive moves shaped by power and context. Likewise, in Davis’s narrative of Los Angeles, the “truth” that these disasters must be endured or that certain communities are inherently prone to lawlessness emerges from a selective reading of history and a fear-based ideology rather than any natural inevitability. By applying a Derridean lens, we uncover the ways these narratives are constructed and maintained, and how they operate to reproduce moral injury on a large scale.

Viewed through this lens, storytelling becomes a form of cultural care. When a college or university undertakes a genuinely comprehensive California Studies curriculum that spans the entire state’s history, it can incorporate wide-ranging cultural materials—literary works, oral histories, community art, archival documents—and reinterpret them in ways that acknowledge moral injuries suffered by marginalized groups. In doing so, it can tackle issues such as colonial dispossession, environmental racism, exploitative labor practices, and the politicized neglect of mental health. An applied health humanities approach insists on attending to the interwoven nature of social injustice, ecological devastation, and psychological trauma, demonstrating that collective crises often correlate with injuries at the individual and communal levels. Especially in the age of climate change, AI, and populist authoritarianism, this integrated perspective becomes a moral imperative: without it, we risk perpetuating narratives that undermine our capacity for empathic, inclusive action.

By reexamining Davis’s narrower focus on Los Angeles within this more expansive framework, California Studies can open a path for students and researchers to explore how crisis narratives shape lived experience across the entire state. It can also encourage engagement with communities that have historically been relegated to the margins of disaster narratives, whether rural agricultural workers confronting water scarcity or Indigenous groups seeking to restore ecological balance to ancestral lands. In place of simply documenting calamities, this approach pushes for constructive interventions, encouraging new narratives that highlight ethical responsibility, historical awareness, and sustainable action. Most crucially, it reframes the humanities not just as an academic pursuit of knowledge, but as a public endeavor dedicated to alleviating human suffering and fostering cultural renewal.

Moreover, by linking Davis’s insights to the threats posed by climate change and AI, we see that these large-scale global crises are intimately connected to local experiences of fear and vulnerability. As I have noted in my writing on the potential of AI to be harnessed for populist authoritarian tactics, advanced technologies can amplify fear-based messaging to unprecedented levels. When integrated into a “diseased cultural unconscious”—another concept I often foreground—AI can accelerate destructive narratives while further marginalizing vulnerable populations. The solution, again, lies in forging an applied humanities approach that insists on rigorous textual, cultural, and psychoanalytic analysis of the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, what we fear, and how we respond to crisis. A student in California Studies, for instance, might use these tools to examine how AI-driven predictive policing, combined with climate refugee crises due to wildfire displacement, replays many of the dynamics Davis critiques in Ecology of Fear—but now on an even broader and more technologically mediated scale.

Such a comprehensive, health-centered practice underscores that California is not merely a backdrop for crisis but a complex site of reinvention, contested memory, and potential transformation. By merging Davis’s incisive critique with psychoanalytic and existential insights, the humanities can probe how fear, desire, imagination, and identity converge to produce or mitigate the conditions that generate crises. This “applied health humanities” paradigm in California Studies thus unveils the profound link between storytelling and healing—an urgent link in a world beset by ecological, political, and moral turbulence.

Through a conscientious rereading of Ecology of Fear that speaks to the entire state’s experiences, institutions of higher learning can foster nuanced critical discourse, cultivate empathetic leadership, and instill a renewed commitment to collective well-being. In this sense, “applied health humanities” becomes not merely an academic exercise but a sustained practice of engaging communities, creating spaces for dialogue, and actively challenging the narratives of inevitability or fatalism that often accompany disasters. The objective is not only to read or reread Davis’s text but to reenvision the humanities themselves: to see them as dynamic catalysts for social, political, and environmental healing.

Ultimately, such a transformative role for the humanities aligns with the arguments I have developed about the urgent need to break away from the oppressive discourses of big-T Truth—in law, in politics, and in cultural narratives—and to embrace the more flexible, ethically oriented approach that Derrida’s deconstruction enables. Whether we are speaking of judicial originalism or climate fatalism, fear-based narratives solidify into rigid frameworks that stifle both compassion and innovation. The path forward, then, lies in forging a robust, engaged, and ethically grounded scholarship that elevates the voices of those harmed by entrenched power structures while offering alternative stories capable of galvanizing hope and collective action. Applied health humanities, grounded in the insights of psychoanalysis, cultural studies, and critical theory, can lead this charge—helping us recognize the stories that harm us and fostering the ones that can begin to heal us.