There’s a scene in Civil War that scared me more than all the horrors of modern weapons and merciless war crimes. If you haven’t seen the movie, don’t worry, what I’m about to say doesn’t spoil anything.
You may know the premise of the movie: The United States has gone to war with itself, as rebel states battle an authoritarian government in Washington. The political contours of the narrative are never disclosed, so we can all relate to it. It’s an anti-war film designed to send a warning home, as the protagonist says: “Don’t do this.”
The civil war injects violence into daily life, arising from the stresses of scarcity and fear.
The scene I’m referring to takes place in western Pennsylvania. A group of war correspondents approach a gas station — which looks strikingly like the Marathon on Main Street in Mantua — and find it manned by an armed posse. In the open bay of an adjacent car wash, two bloody men are strung up from the rafters, apparently dead but not quite.
“Who are they?” a journalist asks.
“Looters,” a man with a gun replies. “I used to know that guy. Went to high school together. He didn’t talk too much. Much more talkative now. We’ve been debating what to do with them for two days now.”
Neighbors turning on neighbors. One steals from another, who tortures in reprisal.
The production of this movie and its popularity reflect a national anxiety that our country is splitting in two, like the neighbors at the gas station. Division creates hatred, and from there it’s a short walk to violence. Even country artists seem to have retreated from rallying the culture wars to repairing “The Great Divide,” as the Luke Combs and Billy Strings song calls it. “We’re about to fall apart.”
I try to avoid alarm, and I don’t watch cable news. As someone with a mix of values that range from capitalist to communalist, I reject both parties’ platforms and can’t tolerate the fear mongering I hear on Fox and MSNBC. And considering all the good work and collaboration I see in Portage County through my work at The Portager, my baseline assumption is that a civil war will not happen here.
And yet I witnessed glimpses of evil in the summer of 2020, in which a few local residents aired the specter of violence in response to protests following George Floyd’s killing. Their messages and social media comments were chilling:
“I’m locked and loaded for all your asses.”
“I’ll let you live to see another day.”
“You need to be ran over.”
“It’s almost like you want to be found on a milk carton.”
Where on earth did that come from? That is not the face of Portage County I see in the pages of The Portager on most days. In this newspaper, you’ll find Republicans and Democrats working together to feed their community, clean up after a tornado and cheer their kids’ sports teams. Political ideology is irrelevant at the level of our townships and churches. You don’t need to rally your party to fix a pothole.
So why the anger? To me, comments like “I’ll let you live” suggest a dark undercurrent at the fringes fueled by national political rhetoric that could become mainstream under high-stress circumstances, such as the attempted assassination of one of the candidates.
Under the wrong conditions, human brains switch from a collaborative attitude to a tribal one. It’s not necessarily a bad thing — it’s how we evolved to stay safe in more dangerous times. In his book “The Status Game,” author Will Storr demonstrates the human need for status in work, life and politics. If we can’t get it through success or virtue, then we’ll seek it through dominance. Everyone is vulnerable to playing status games, and sometimes dominance games.
We can’t change our brains, but we can learn to recognize when emotional narratives are clouding our own good senses. If someone on TV convinces you Republicans or Democrats are evil, but then you see Republicans and Democrats volunteering at a food bank in your community, you can be sure the TV version is a caricature.
To a politician who wants your vote or a media platform that wants your click, the enemy is manipulative, selfish and trying to harm you.
To you and me reading this article in Portage County, the “enemy” is Rick or Julie or Blake up the street.
They go to your church and complain about the price of eggs in the checkout line. They want their kids to be safe and have enough money to raise a family of their own someday. They want their parents to be healthy as long as they can.
This paper went out to every household in Portage County today, so they’re probably reading this. They see the story about people adopting kittens and the girls who went to state. They’re praying for the Bey family from Brimfield on page 6 who got the news nobody wants. They’re thinking alpacas are cute. And they’re glancing at the obits, where we’re all headed someday, no matter what we do or say, whether it’s “I’ll let you live” or “I’ll lend you a hand.”
This year will be emotional, but we don’t have to give up our goodwill toward neighbors. Portagers, if we treat each other with unshakeable decency, will emerge from 2024 as an object lesson in community solidarity, despite our differences.
Reject dominance games and emotional manipulation.
Embrace the people who will have your back no matter what: your family, your community.
We are a community.
Ben Wolford is the editor and publisher of The Portager.
[email protected]
330-249-1338