Civil War

When I worked as a corporate trainer, I was taught to use a four quadrant model of facilitation. It graded the effectiveness of a class by measuring how well students know, comprehend, enjoy, and recall class content. We used paper tests and hands-on exams to quantify the first two quadrants, opinion surveys for the third, and the final quadrant was determined by how well the employees performed in production after graduating training.

The Q4 model is just a simplified version of Bloom’s Taxonomy. This teaching structure (created by Benjamin S Bloom in the 60s) divided a student’s retention into six categories: knowledge, comprehension, application, analysis, synthesis, and evaluation.

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I learned about Bloom’s Taxonomy in second grade. Was it the primary teaching method in the Marysville school district? Nope. They clung to the pattern of teacher led presentations and rote memorization. I was a special kid though. In second grade, my parents subjected me to IQ testing to figure out what was wrong with me. Apparently, my defect was being really smart. For all I knew, people asked me questions and I answered them. The result placed me in the top five percent of all students my age. As a reward, I got to leave my class one day a week to attend Enhanced Learning.

In enhanced learning, we studied topics not taught in any normal elementary school curriculum, like bridge engineering and Greek mythology. One other feature setting Enhanced Learning apart from typical grade school classes: it used Bloom’s Taxonomy. For every year long study, we had to demonstrate that we knew the topic and comprehended it. The we had to apply what we learned, analyze it, and synthesize it into our own remixed creation. Finally, at the end of the year, the teacher submitted us to evaluation - not just her own testing but also to the judgment of our peers as we had to evaluate each other.

The first topic our class studied during my tenure was all about American geography. We learned about the Highway system, the fifty states, and the national parks. We had a race on paper where our team’s “car” could move across a giant map every time we completed specific tasks. In addition, we had to calculate traveling times between destinations - all in the era before Google Maps existed. I created a board game about Mt Rainier for the synthesis section of our class, foreshadowing the love of mountains I discovered as a teenager. My game was the final solo project my classmates judged for evaluation.

The other solo project in class came during the analysis section. Our teacher took a pair of scissors to a map of the United States, slicing America into puzzle pieces. Each of us students were given a section of map and instructed “it’s a new country.” Ms Wilson told us the USA broke apart and these bits distributed between us became independent nations. There was no rhyme or reason to the shapes. She didn’t cut lines based on cultural, regional, or ideological divisions. Her obligation was to split the American map into a number of sections equal to the amount of kids in the class.

Once we had our individual maps, we had to research - analyze - the area to know what jobs existed in our borders. We compiled lists of industries done there: forestry, agriculture, tourism, manufacturing, etc. We added up the populations of the metropolitan areas to estimate how many people lived in our nations. We determined which city would become the capital. My country contained parts of Northern California, western Nevada, and Eastern Oregon. This project helped feed my lifelong obsession with maps. I loved it.

There was another lesson I learned during this analysis project, even if unintentional: the United States of America wasn’t permanent. This land of ours was something different before we got here and it could just as easily become something different again. Our borders could change. Our neighbors could change. Our anthems could change. Despite not having any frame of reference for military conflict (it was the mid 80’s before the first Gulf War) this was the first time the idea of a civil war formed in my brain.

These are not normal concepts for a seven year old to ponder but I wasn’t a normal kid.

Then I got older and school classes taught us about the real Civil War. I realized if it happened once, it could happen again. Then I got older and saw the news about the bombing that destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. I learned the culprit and his co-conspirator were American citizens and military veterans. I realized if Americans could attack America, it could happen again. Then I got older and studied political science and statistics and saw the accelerating political divisions steering this nation. I realized if it could happen in government, it could happen with the wider populace. Then I got older and watched the rise of the Tea Party and the alt right, the endless mass shootings, the proliferation of conspiracy theories and hate groups, and the riots intending to overthrow our government. I realized we are on the brink of another civil war.

I am saddened to see how many of my fellow Americans, including many who have worked their way into elected positions, have embraced ignorance as a virtue. I am heartbroken so many adhere to the doctrine declaring anyone who disagrees with you to be an enemy.

I’m not a prophet. I’m not psychic. I’m not a fortune teller. I don’t know what the future holds. What I do know is our existence is fragile. I know the freedoms and luxuries we enjoy could vanish at any moment. I know the same thing I’ve known since second grade: the United States of America isn’t permanent.

This is the perspective I carried with me into the theater this week when I finally got a chance to watch Alex Garland’s Civil War. The movie follows a small group of journalists trying to capture photos of the front line and secure an interview with the president before the opposition forces conquer Washington DC.

Image courtesy of A24

The movie doesn’t explain why the separatists seceded or how the civil war started. It doesn’t identify the politics of either side of the war. It doesn’t even ask the audience to pick a side. The heroes are the journalists - incredible performances from Kirsten Dunst, Wagner Moura, Cailee Spaeny, and Stephen McKinley Henderson. You see the conflict through their eyes and camera lenses. You feel their fear and their grief.


In one scene, Moura’s character screams in anguish (although his audio is muted) and for that moment, the filmmakers tell you everything you need to know about civil wars - real or cinematic: everyone thinks they’re fighting for the right side. No matter who wins, there are no winners.

Image courtesy of A24

Civil War gave me a lot of feelings. As a father, as a writer who married a photographer, as a minister, as a pacifist observing the genocidal war between Israel and Palestine, as an American who hates seeing what is happening in my real-life country, as a storyteller, as a cinephile … Civil War was an emotional ride. It’s also the first time I’ve cried in the theater since the death of Tony Stark. It’s a difficult movie to watch but a master-class presentation in scriptwriting, acting, and cinematography. Considering our current political climate, it’s also probably one of the most important movies released in the last few years.

The movie also brought me back to the seven year old kid I once was, realizing for the first time that the unifying bonds of our nation are fragile. Alex Garland provided most realistic demonstration of the facts I’ve known for twenty some odd years. It’s happened before, it could easily happen again. If we can’t learn from the mistakes of our past, Civil War might not just be a movie; it could be a warning of things to come.

A swing and a ...

It is baseball season. Which means my brother is probably recording for his First Pitch Strike podcast. And if he’s not working on the podcast, he’s probably watching baseball. I know for a fact he was in Denver yesterday to watch the Mariners annihilate the Rockies in their home stadium.

Baseball runs in my family. My dad was a pitcher in high school. Growing up, the Mariners were broadcasted somewhere in our home, either on TV or the radio - sometimes both. The voice of Dave Niehaus is the sound of my childhood. Even though I didn’t play baseball, there was nothing more special than a trip to the Kingdome to watch the boys of summer play, fireworks ignited every time one of the M’s hit a home run. During my nephew’s high school days in Cheyenne, he was a star pitcher and he’s now returned to join his old team’s coaching staff. So far, two of my five kids have entered the world of America’s past time. Last summer, my eleven year old’s softball team took first place in their league.

Peewee baseball/softball is a bizarre creature. I’d call it organized chaos but there is very little organization present. I’ve observed this curiosity twice now and it wouldn’t surprise me if our youngest follows her older siblings’ footsteps.

First there’s t-ball: everybody swings and everybody runs. Sometimes they run even when they don’t get a hit. This phase is pure comedy. There are kids who don’t know what to do when they hit the ball so they stand at home plate until one of the adults drags them to first base. Other kids run the wrong direction after the hit. Inevitably, the helmets are far too big for some players, permanently obscuring their vision. Once on base, nearly every kid will keep on running until they reach home.

Years later they have it figured out. Uniforms fit and teams are sponsored by local businesses. There are strike outs and line drives. Fielders dive for balls and runners slide into bases. Kids stop swinging at every pitch, they make fewer errors, and teams become more competitive. Wins and losses suddenly matter.

Between these two stages there is another form of the game, one where the rules don’t matter and the goal is giving players experience. This is the transition time, the first year without a batting T. Coaches pitch for their own team and batters are up until they get a hit. Strike one? Cool. Keep going. Strike 13? It’ll happen eventually. Keep trying. Batters at this age are given infinite strikes. The moment their bat makes contact, everyone cheers - even if it’s a foul ball.

In the creation of a novel, there are phases. First is the raw work: plotting and planning, researching, drafting, editing, rewriting, beta readers, and more editing. Eventually you figure it out. There’s a contract signed with a publisher - perhaps with one of the big five or a small regional press or you decide to self publish. Then one day, an author walks into their favorite book store and finds their novel under new releases, debut authors, or local writers. There are no real wrong paths here. Publishing a book is a gargantuan task.

But somewhere between those two stages is something different and a million times more chaotic. Publishers don’t accept submissions from authors but they will accept them from agents. If an author hopes to get traditionally published, they need to find an agent who will sell the book to a publishing house. To secure an agent, authors submit queries to various agents. It is time consuming because every agent wants something different. If you’re not prepared for rejection, it can also be a little soul crushing.

Writers on social media jokingly call this period the query trenches as if we’re dug in for battle and we must be careful not to lift our head above ground at the wrong time.

But for me, it feels a little like peewee baseball - that first year after the batting T is removed. I get infinite pitches. I send agents information about me and my book. That’s the pitch. I’m swinging every time. I’m aiming for the fences. If your query isn’t a good fit for an agent, or they’re just not interested, they send you a rejection letter - usually a form email. That’s a strike. However, don’t despair - just like little leagues, there are no strikeouts. I get another pitch. I get another chance to swing. If it’s another strike, I’m still up to bat.

The writing community is a lot like those little league teams. As soon as an author gets a hit - an agent request for a full or partial copy of their book, or makes an offer of representation, everyone cheers. We don’t care if that author is a friend or a stranger or a competitor. A success for them means we have a chance when it’s our turn to bat. That’s what we do in the trenches. We root for other writers while we swing at pitch after pitch after pitch. From the first rejection to the fiftieth, the only way we can strike out is if we quit playing. As long as our heart is in the game, there’s always another agent.

I’m not a big baseball person. Not like my dad, brother, and nephew. I’ll attend an occasional Spokane Indians game and make it to as many of my kids’ little league games as possible. The only time I’ll watch baseball on TV is if the Mariners are playing. Being an M’s fan is a labor of love. It is truly a practice of long suffering. Perhaps being a fan of the best team to never win the World Series prepared me for the query trenches. At the end of every season, Mariners fans confidently declare “next year will be our year.” In a similar fashion, after every rejection, I tell myself “here’s to the next one.” I step back into the batter’s box ready to take another swing.