Obamacore and Hopepunk

Why we need 'Parks and Rec' right now.

Bruce Springsteen is currently traveling the country on his Land of Hope and Dreams American Tour, launching it in Minneapolis and ending in Washington, D.C., for a reason. “This tour is going to be political and very topical about what’s going on in the country,” he told the Minnesota Star Tribune. “Minneapolis and St. Paul, that was the place that I wanted to begin it, and I wanted to end it in Washington.”

He announced the tour not long after releasing the first major-artist protest song of the Trump 2 era, “Streets of Minneapolis,” referring to “King Trump” and his “federal thugs” in a straightforward screed.

Reviewing the tour’s opening night, Chris Willman wrote in Variety:

It’s a flex, and surely seems like an unnecessary one to Springsteen’s many detractors on the MAGA side, who are chagrined—after all that “go woke, go broke” talk—to learn that 20,000 people a night welcome the chance to hear their favorite artist be as disturbed about the downfall of civility and empathy as they are. They will say that everyone attending these shows is suffering from “TDS.” But looking around the Target Center, where I saw a lot of Minnesotans relieved to be in the company of others who have felt as sad or chagrined as they have, I thought: Somehow, Trump Derangement Syndrome feels good in a place like this.

This is where our political malaise has landed: At least we can feel bad together.

I have another suggestion: We can hearken back to a better time together, and gather hope for the future there. And we can do that by watching, or rewatching, Parks and Recreation, which originally aired from 2009-15 but feels more relevant than ever. That is exactly why I wrote a book about it that was recently published.

Parks and Recreation was a product of the 2008 election and the hopeful messaging of the era, highlighting not just the promise of women in politics but also the Obama-inspired idea of good, forward change. Now people turn to it during a very divided political time for a glimpse of when that seemed possible. It’s also a reflection of its setting: specifically, the Midwest. I’m from the Midwest, where we pride ourselves on niceness, authenticity, decency, and community. It’s rare, in television, for its focus on the local, but for many Americans, and certainly small-town Midwesterners, the local is the point, the level at which their lives take on meaning.

All of these ideas became infinitely more appealing—and, indeed, radical—with, first, the election of Donald Trump as president and, second, the inconceivable nightmare that was the covid pandemic of 2020. This is borne out in the show’s viewership: While it barely stayed on the air each of its seven seasons as it lagged in ratings behind contemporaries like The Office and 30 Rock, it became one of the most streamed series after Trump’s election, during the pandemic, and beyond, as viewers searched for comfort and hope.

It continues to be more relevant than ever, giving us a vision for a civic life that works, if imperfectly, at a time when it feels like most institutions are crumbling around us. In its world, people can disagree, but ultimately reach consensus to work together to make community life better. That work is often frustrating, but worthwhile. And community is the secret to change, growth, and life satisfaction.

Parks and Recreation, in fact, turns out to be the quintessential example of two terms I learned while researching the book: Obamacore and hopepunk.

The Obamacore part is obvious; Parks and Recreation and the musical Hamilton are two of the most distinctive pieces of culture to embody the Obama era. Obamacore has been deemed “cringe” by some, and I can appreciate the argument that these works’ overconfidence in the fact that the liberal experiment had, essentially, won contributed to some of our current horrific political moment.

I prefer the term hopepunk when it comes to Parks, and I think it applies, at least now. It was a term coined on Tumblr by fantasy author Alexandra Rowland in 2017, notably after Parks and Rec’s broadcast run conclu­­­ded. I’m applying it more broadly than it was originally intended, which was specifically for a subgenre of speculative fiction that’s the opposite of grimdark. But in hopepunk, kindness and hope are regarded as true acts of rebellion against the cynicism of the world—the real punk response to the evil and darkness. Hopepunk celebrates community and collectives rather than rugged individualism, and it believes that things can get better in the future.

Perhaps Parks’ lack of cultural saturation during its original run saved it from the cringe factor. Even as a Hamilton superfan, I agree that it plays with an undercurrent of embarrassment now, in the fact that so many of us were so proud of ourselves for becoming the tolerant and multicultural melting pot we were always meant to be. Hands washed, situation handled, racism, sexism and every -ism solved.

Parks, on the other hand, was a bit countercultural even in its time, peddling hope when its brethren were trafficking in irony. Other shows since, like Ted Lasso and Schitt’s Creek, have only recently caught up to its ultimately sunny outlook and focus on human connection. They all remind us that the only way out is to hold hands and have hope, a message very much at odds with the 2000s, but very much in tune with what we’re facing now.

We should heed its messages.