Marked for Death by James Hamilton-Patterson is about the World War I air war. It features a lot of interesting things about pilots and the planes they flew. You can read it if you wouldd like. It is a free country.
Did you like my impersonation of middle school writing? Having read precious little of it, I daresay I got it spot on. When it comes to teaching the World Wars, I feel a dearth of knowledge. This comes about because there is so much to know about these two events. Part of it, too, is that there are the sexy, well-known aspects that are, maybe, focused on too frequently. For example, trench warfare and gas--two staples of the discussion about World War I. But a lot of important things happened during that time period, and sometimes learning about the battles and conditions of the men become emotionally draining for me. Enter Marked for Death. I snagged this one so that I could be listening to a World War I book whilst teaching the unit, since moving on to the Second World War in my research would mess with my feeble brain. And, since I'd finished Blueprint for Armageddon, I was in the market for a book that corresponded with the First. It didn't take too long before I realized that this audiobook was insufficient for my needs, and I went ahead and purchased the book itself. I don't know how often I'll revisit it, save for a couple of key details that will show up each year from now on. I do have some ghostly forms of a sequel idea for my War Golems book that could really use the information in Hamilton-Patterson's book, so it's useful for that, too. The book is more about the history of the Royal Air Force as a nascent, then crucially important, and eventually obsolete aspect of the British military, with the majority of the focus being on the men who sacrificed so much to bring men into the air. Because of the failure on the part of both sides of the war to really recognize the potential of air superiority--an error that will be corrected with chilling effect twenty-odd years later--the air war of 1914-1918 was not as decisive as it could have been. There was a lot of innovation, including in the constant iterations of new and refined designs, each desperate to make the other side's technology inferior, and that innovation spurred great leaps forward into the air. In fact, one of the parts that made me shake my head was when I learned on the military brass' insistence that the only true reconnaissance roles were in the form of cavalry, and a pilot couldn't possibly help reconnoiter enemy positions in a reliable way. (Though, to be fair, the "reliable" way of returning information that a downed pilot might have gained would be returned via homing pigeon. Yup. The Great War relied on homing pigeons to transmit messages, and that was only 100 years ago.) One of the things that I enjoyed learning about was the why behind so many of the apparent quirks of WWI flying "aces"*. For example, I assumed that the scarves were to make the pilots look sexier--they certainly had a reputation as philanderers--but it turns out that, not only is it nice to have a scarf on you when flying at 12,000 feet (with some of the planes, by the end of the war, capable of flying over 20,000 feet, and rarely with oxygen), but that it cuts down on chafing as a pilot would pivot his head constantly in order to try to spot his enemies. Another piece of insight that the book gave me was how much personal, at home issues can have drastic effects in other parts of the world. Workers--mostly women, due to the men being otherwise engaged in blowing each other up--would often strike because of the horrendous working conditions. As Hamilton-Patterson puts it, "Once the war began and production increased, so did the number of aero industry workers reporting ill with nausea, back pain, headaches and jaundice. Several died…" (33). I can't blame the ladies for striking. Unsurprisingly, this had far-reaching consequences, not the least of which would be shortages of planes (or, as they were abbreviated back in the day, 'planes, as the apostrophe would have indicated dropped letters) for the men on the front. Of course, as the planes weren't utilized to their maximum potential, it's unclear if any deficit was critical. Then again, had there been more planes, maybe there would have been a more decisive victory at some of the crucial moments? We'll never know. I did enjoy learning about the American volunteers who formed the Lafayette Squadron, men from North Carolina (at first…more showed up later) who went Over There to fight the Huns without their country. Some of these men were fighting over Verdun in 1916, a full year before America officially got involved in the war. My relationship with my country is complicated, but I am always happy to hear of dedicated Americans who want to see a change in the world and set about to make that happen. The book as a whole is well-written and highly informative; its appeal, however, is limited, I think. Unlike The Last of the Doughboys, which sets out to record a piece of history that we can no longer reclaim--and the importance of having a greater appreciation for the Forgotten Generation--I don't as readily recommend Marked for Death. It's a great book, don't get me wrong. But, again, the appeal is limited. If you're interested in World War I but are tired of the blood and guts of the trenches, then this book will work for you. Sure, there is still blood and guts--it's a book about war--but it's less shocking and unnerving than other aspects you could study. If you're interested in the history of aviation, then, yeah. You probably already know about this book (though it came out in 2015). If you read to the end just because you're a nice person who reads what I write, thank you for reading my stuff. I appreciate that! You can read this book if you would like. It is a free country. --- * I put "aces" in quotes because the term, as is discussed in the book, is rather vague. Pilots who shot down five planes in 1914 were called aces, but that appellation is more impressive when one thinks about how few planes there were to shoot down at all. Later, as more men took to the air, more targets abounded, which meant that a lot of men would have become aces according to an older standard. As that changed, the title started to mean more. Still, a great many of the men that Hamilton-Patterson talks about weren't aces. In one chapter, he talks about how poorly the training worked, and how sometimes new recruits would find themselves in the air, alone, "after only one and a half hours' dual experience in the air" (135). Young chaps like that tended not to become aces, turning, instead, into flaming wrecks who never made it out of flight school. Early this morning, I got an email from a friend. In it, she said something along the lines of "Hey, you should check this out!" and included a link. The this was a guest lecture at BYU about Milton and Mormonism.
I snorted to myself. A bit of a waste: I wouldn't likely be going. Now, this might sound odd, particularly if you know how much I love anything related to John Milton. But another thing about me is that I have a hard time extending myself for rare opportunities. A lot of it is guilt--if I'm not working, I should be a dad, and anything other than that is self-indulgent. Some of it is difficulty--it's often a nuisance to get to special events, and sometimes they're costly. Lastly, I have certain things that I have to do--teaching, for one thing--and that would preclude me from going to this event. Needless to say (though I'm saying it anyway…I don't know why that phrase is a thing), I was dubious about what would be on the other side of that link. I clicked the link, thinking as I did so, Unless it's John Rogers, I don't think I'll be going to this. John Rogers is my favorite Miltonist. I love his work. I bought his out-of-print book, The Matter of Revolution years back. Though I haven't read it--yet--it's one of those things that I bought as much out of principle as a desire to read. His lectures on Milton have significantly informed the way that I read and think about Paradise Lost, and his passion has infused my own teaching. Though he doesn't really know it, I'm a bit of a fanboy of his. So, whatever this lecturer was going to say, I figured…meh. If it's not John Rogers… No surprise: It was the John Rogers, professor at Yale University, who had been invited to speak about Milton and his influence on early Church history. My jaw dropped as I looked at the picture. First of all, he'd aged since I'd seen his YouTube videos. Secondly, what? John Rogers was coming? When? I felt my stomach drop. He was scheduled to come today. As in, 30 March 2018. I scanned the announcement. Okay, so today, sure…but when, in the evening? Will I have to drive back into town to get there? Then I saw it: 3:00pm. God smiled upon me today, friends. Normally, that would be impossible--absolutely impossible. My classes don't get out until 3:30pm…except on Fridays, when we dismiss at 12:30pm. My heart leapt. I quickly arranged for my mother-in-law to take care of my boys whilst I figured out the timing for the afternoon. I had to play D&D (yes, had to; sometimes a teacher tells students that he'll support an activity, and so he supports that activity), but I ended the game about a quarter after two. Scooping up my things, I hurried out the door and began mapping a way to BYU campus. It isn't particularly far, but there isn't a simple, direct route from my job to the BYU campus. Additionally, I don't know BYU very well, having only spent a couple weeks there while at Mormon summer camp (called EFY, Especially For Youth) and an occasional visit for random reasons. I decided to take the freeway all the way down to center Provo, then double back. Big mistake. Not only did I make the wrong turn into what I thought would be a through-road but ended up being a completely full parking lot, but I also got snarled in some tricky traffic. By the time I was pulling into the Museum of Art parking lot, it was dangerously close to the beginning of the presentation. I trolled through the MoA parking lot. God frowned upon me then, friends. I couldn't find a single space--and neither could the other three or four cars that were prowling between the rows. At last, desperate, I parked in the faculty parking, hopped out of my car, and scurried in what I hoped was the right direction. God turned His frown upside down, friends, because I managed to get to the lecture hall just as John Rogers was being introduced. I stepped on too many people's toes (on accident) in order to get to my seat, saved by my coworker who had gone down earlier to save us a place. Soon thereafter, John Rogers spoke. He was just as engaging, thoughtful, enthusiastic, and well-prepared as I would expect. His mannerisms and way of speaking were identical to his lectures of a decade ago, though, as I mentioned earlier, he was older. But what I didn't expect was his approach to the topic: Essentially, the parallels between questions of succession within the early Mormon church and Heaven in Book V of Paradise Lost. He pulled all sorts of fascinating evidences from the writings of Orson Pratt, whose radical theology was completely unfamiliar to me. He added in pieces from Joseph Smith's "King Follet Discourse" and quotes from Brigham Young and Parley P. Pratt, all while weaving in pertinent details from Paradise Lost. His presentation was dense, yet accessible, though the dutiful husband next to the enthusiastic wife in the row ahead of me apparently disagreed. At least he didn't snore. After the presentation was over, I talked to some friends whilst awaiting a turn to talk to John (can I call him John? He introduced himself like that, so I guess we're buds now and on a first name basis, basically). When I finally did, I expressed my gratitude for his incredible work, made a couple of jokes, and thanked him for helping me so much, as his reading of the poem makes all the difference when I'm teaching my classes. He shook his head as if to clear it. "You teach it to sophomores?" My coworker and I smiled and nodded our heads. "For the most part, it's one of their favorite things to study. A lot of them really like it." He made impressed, incredulous sounds. Then, though slightly embarrassed, I explained that, having not known he was coming to speak until that very day, I hadn't grabbed my copy of his book. Somewhat sheepishly, I handed him my notebook and asked for his autograph. He looked immensely flattered, and said that he'd never been asked to do that before. So he signed my book. I was--and still am, if I'm being honest--rather dizzy about this. It's hard to express what it's like to meet someone who has unknowingly deeply influenced me. Maybe it's because a lot of my literary "heroes" are dead, so the closest I can do is go on pilgrimages (e.g. Milton's and Shakespeare's grave). But a bigger piece is there's gratitude for helping me to see. I really like understanding things--particularly stuff within my wheelhouse of interests--and I think Rogers' enthusiasm for Milton really made the difference for me. When I first picked up the poem, I was hooked. I've enjoyed Paradise Lost since I first tackled it. But the depth of the poem was lost on me. Rogers helped me to see the light inside a poem written by a blind man, and getting to introduce myself, shake his hand, and enjoy a few minutes' conversation was an incredible thrill and honor. God smiled upon me today, my friends. When I got to my car, I found a $60 ticket waiting for me. What a day. The first part is here.
When Sword Art Online ends the first season, it feels completed. Yes, Kirito and Asuna will have to figure out a life post-SAO, but that's doable. That's an epilogue that the viewers can write themselves. The conflict of the story is essentially over. Even if there's supposed to be justice to the guy who turned an MMORPG into a death game, that justice doesn't require our main characters to be there. It's done. So when season two starts up, I didn't know what they would be exploring. Maybe how to rebuild after immense trauma? Kind of a look at PTSD in the kids who somehow survived two years stuck inside a game? Maybe the difficulty they have with coming into a real world when they'd been living inside fantasy where they had so much of their lives taken care of? I mean, when I discuss video games in a critical setting, I always like to focus on the idea of the ideal: The game is the ideal in sundry ways. In an RPG, the entire world relies and awaits the player. There's nothing going on that isn't instigated and solved by the player. That's the point of those games. And though an MMORPG is different in some ways, there are ideal things about them. For example, players in Sword Art Online (and real-life counterparts like World of Warcraft) don't have to physically carry around anything. Their menu system lets them haul around weapons, money, items, and anything else they want. With a single movement, SAO players can conjure up food, look at their equipment, and any number of additional things. Even Asuna points out when she's making a dinner for her and Kirito that cooking is easier in the game than real life. She pulls out a kitchen knife, touches the ingredients, and they morph into perfectly prepared slices, ready for the pot. To me, that's what season two should have been looking at: How do the kids adapt to real life when they've gone through this deep trauma that, in some ways, was superior to reality? How do the adults reacclimate to society after being in a digital coma for two years? There's a lot to explore, a lot to consider, a lot to build upon. In fact, what I thought would be the real conflict would be internal: That Kirito, despite everything he'd been through, still found the allure of VRMMO games too strong to resist. Like a junkie going in for another hit, he would be found in the next VRMMO, playing again despite the potential risks. And season two does see Kirito in another game, ALfheim Online. This one's different because there's magic and they can fly, and their avatars have elf ears. It's…cool. Alfheim itself isn't as interesting as the previous world, and it's less well developed, which works against the investment of the second part of the story. ALO has more logic to it--like, people can log out and they don't die in real life if they die in the game. But the stakes feel reduced. That's not really surprising--it's just a game, not a life that people have tried to carve out whilst held hostage inside a game. In order to up the ante, Asuna's been kidnapped. And that's my main problem with the entire second season. Even though there were a lot of interesting ideas that they ignored, I could have forgiven that if Kirito and his adopted sister's relationship were the primary focus. ALO could have been the playground in which some of their relationship issues are worked out. That would have been fine. But they had to have Asuna kidnapped. Ugh. It's so frustrating. Asuna's character goes from an intriguing, powerful, capable, multi-dimensional woman in the first season to a to-the-T Damsel in Distress. She's literally locked in a cage for the majority of the season. Yeah, she gets out once--and the way she does it is cool and much more in line with her character from before--but she just…isn't interesting as a character. At all. To try to make the danger against Asuna real, an actual villain comes into play, a creep of a guy who is despicable from the outset and has no real motivation except that he's a perv and likes having power--which is why he's in charge of an MMO. And he wants to be a god in the game. I mean, anime, as a genre, is kind of weird to an American sensibility. So that preceding paragraph is, generically speaking, not too bizarre, as far as anime goes. But there's weird and there's bad: this second season was bad. I'm glad that there's a season three just to wash the taste out of my mouth. Why? Well, at the end, the villain chains up Asuna, rips off her clothes, and moves in like he's about to rape her in front of a defeated Kirito, only to lose when Kirito--a la Neo from The Matrix, except less convincingly--gets access to the code of the game and turns the tables. I'm going to pause here for a second and say that Kirito, as a character, has often been shown as thoughtful, compassionate, and, despite his own hang ups and loner attitude, concerned about other people. So, when he defeats the villain (whose name I never bothered to remember) and spends a couple of minutes talking smack and posing with his sword, I got really upset. He's in charge of the game: He should get Asuna out of her chains and generate her clothes immediately. Like, she should have been his first priority…but she isn't. Gah. It bothers me so much. Not because it happened, but because of who it happened to. I really enjoyed both of the characters in the first season, and to see them so terribly reduced, to have their nuance stripped away for a tired and troubled trope--it just makes me sad. I don't think the writers meant for it to come off this way, but it did. You know what else is strange? To be so frustrated with a franchise and eager for the next installment anyway. Part of it is that I hope SAO II will redeem itself. I've watched the first couple of episodes, and I think it's on its way. But more than that, I want to have some of the bigger implications, the larger questions that the premise introduces explored. I want to give it another chance. Here's hoping that season three leaves me with a better feeling. Whoo-boy.
Anime. Okay, so, on Netflix, they have twenty-five episodes of an anime called Sword Art Online. The series started in 2012, so I figured that, with two seasons worth of episodes, I would wait until I finished the series before writing about it. Turns out, there's a third season that's out now, so the story isn't really done. That's kind of frustrating because, had I known, I would have written up some thoughts about just season one (which is vastly better than season two, spoilers spoilers) instead of having to deal with both. Oh, well. That's my life, I s'pose. At this point, if you're not interested in having the story spoiled in any way, you'd best skip out on this essay. If you're not interested in the series at all…well, you'd probably spend your time better elsewhere, for obvious reason. We all set? Okay. Tl;dr from the get-go: Season one of Sword Art Online raises all sorts of questions, and though it falls into The Chosen One trope a bit too much by the end, there are enough subversions and interesting premises that it can be forgiven for some of those storytelling barbs. Season two is a frustrating reversal of all the progress of the first season, with a Damsel in Distress motivation and an embarrassing ending that's one part deus ex machina and another part rape-as-plot point. I'm surprisingly frustrated with SAO. Long form goes like this: The premise of Sword Art Online is to take the obsessive nature of MMORPGs and their addictive properties, the thrill of VR gaming, and pushing it to (pardon me) the next level. Before the first episode is over, we have spent a handful of seconds in the "real world" where the main character, Kirito (yes, I know he has a real life name, but I always think of him with his avatar's name), plugs into SAO with his "deep-dive VR", which essentially hijacks a person's nervous system and makes it so that whatever happens in the game is directly controlled by the player--but the outside world is kept out. In other words, the thought of running with your legs would mean your in-game self would run using those normal mental commands, while your real life legs are stationary in your bed. That is an interesting idea. Because we're heavy on the idea of immersive realities (just look at the premise of Ready Player One, for example) even now, this in-the-near-future is a tantalizing glimpse at what could be. By the end of the first episode, however, Kirito and the other 10,000 players learn that their systems have, much like their nervous systems, been hijacked. The creator of the game has sabotaged it so that all of the players are stuck inside the game. If their NERVGear (the deep-dive VR system) is removed by, say, a parent or spouse, it will fry their brains, killing them. And if their character dies in the game, they die in real life. That premise is fantastic. Well, not for anyone stuck in it, but as far as a story goes, that's pretty interesting. The logistics of what's happening to the "real world" people's bodies isn't answered until the end of the first season, but the story's less interested in establishing how this could work, but what would happen if it did. Season one shows Kirito go through personal growth and trials as the virtual world becomes more and more his actual world. He's an exceptional player, and he gets to be good enough that there are very few challenges. Nevertheless, he decides, because of a trauma early on in his time in Sword Art Online, that he won't join a guild. Themes of isolation as a form of protection for someone's feelings are underscored by the way that Kirito is physically isolated from his entire life, yet he's integrated fully into a fictional world. But within that fictional world, he chooses to isolate himself, as well. He mentions at one point that playing games was where he felt like he had an identity, where he felt as though he fit in. Kirito's struggles to help beat the game through escalating levels of difficulty shifts when he meets Asuna. Asuna is a strong fighter in the game, and as a character she's an excellent foil. Their relationship and personalities are also opposite-yet-complementary. While Kirito is interested in working alone, Asuna is an integral part of her guild. Asuna is fiery (a standard redhead in that sense), while Kirito is more cool and aloof. Heck, Kirito wears black and Asuna white. Despite their differences, the two soon begin working together and discovering that they have grown to care for each other. And that's what I liked so much about season one. The two characters grew together--both as a couple and as characters--to the point that they end up getting married "in game". This is an interesting point, because it raises questions about what a relationship means. There are plenty of people who meet in real life, have courtships online, and end up meeting, marrying, and having happy relationships. But that isn't an option for Kirito and Asuna. While they live close to each other--they both go to the same high school (meaning they're teenagers when they get kidnapped by the game--because anime), for example--they never knew one another before Sword Art Online. The person they fall in love with is a digital manifestation of a true self, but because the game world is so convincingly rendered, they're falling in love with almost the person in real life. While the legalities of saying they're married are obviously less than germane here, it intrigues me to consider the implications of what this kind of connection means. Often, people poo-poo high school relationships as being trite or trivial. I won't deny that many--perhaps even most--high school couples are that: They're based upon mutual attraction, an overabundance of hormones, and often rest more on physicality than any depth of love. But there are exceptions: I've been in love with my wife since we were in high school, way back at the turn of the millennium. It's possible for a relationship to be substantial and real, even at a young age. So what does that mean for Kirito and Asuna? They are in one of the most traumatic experiences that they're ever like to face (until the next season, of course) and they're not only surviving, but finding love in what is, essentially, a protracted, digital Hunger Games. They're forced to fight to survive, with real life death on the other end of their digital mistakes. They're kidnapped and having to navigate a complicated, complex world, complete with politics, game rules, and a requirement to push ever onward if they ever hope to get free of the game. That is a deep trauma that they're pushing through. Little wonder they turn to each other to find consolation, hope, security, and, yes, love. The end of the season comes along and, sure enough, Kirito manages to defeat the final boss and free everyone from the game. He's killed in the process, but through some random twist that's not explained, he manages to survive dying in game and not actually dying in real life. Maybe it was because he killed the boss at the same time, so the death algorithm didn't count it? I don't know. The point is, Kirito becomes the savior of Sword Art Online, both the game and the anime series, and he's a stronger, more interesting character at the ending than he was at the beginning*. Then season two happened. Well, that's a critique for another day. Would I recommend it? Yup. As far as animes go, it's not particularly bizarre, and though there are some distinctly Japanese sensibilities within it, the story is so competently done (for the most part) that it's quite enjoyable. The voice acting is a little better than I'm used to with anime--it's an acquired taste on that front, to be sure--and the animation is always great to look at. I really enjoyed it. So…yeah, check it out, if that's your bag. Um…sorry about the spoilers if you're going to watch the series. Then again, if you are, why did you read through this essay? Your fault, yo. Not mine. --- * Kirito is a good kid from the outset. Yeah, he has his quirks, but, despite his goth getup, he's not a brooding, moody hero. Asuna is spunky and high-spirited, but she doesn't give me the Manic Pixie Dream Girl vibe that some love interests have. She pulls him into a partnership…but he also takes her out of her guild. In other words, they both leave their comfort zones in order to be together. That's an enjoyable story arc, in my mind. Listening
As frequent readers of my writings know, I find reasons to get myself to Barnes and Noble. This past weekend, I went because my son had a coupon for a free treat at the café there, so I went. Since I had some extra cash to spend thanks to legislative money (a perk I didn't know I had: I can spend up to $200 and be reimbursed for it, provided what I purchase is for the benefit of my classes. I've purchased some tech for my computer, a couple of history books, and even some Dungeons and Dragons stuff for the mentoring class I'm teaching), I picked up a book called Okinawa: The Last Battle of World War II and Dungeon Tiles Reincarnated (essentially, board pieces for D&D campaigns). Tonight, due to family circumstances, I found myself there again. Normally, I don't protest at going to Barnes and Noble, but twice within five days is a bit excessive for me, unless I have a specific thing I'm looking for. But, at the same time, I'm not about to not go to Barnes and Noble. I mean, they need the foot traffic, right? To look busy? Anyway, my wife and I were floating around the "Buy 2, Get One Free!" table when I saw Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together In The Cafeteria? I'm (always) trying to wrap my head around the race issue in America, so, despite the fact the book is twenty years old (though this is a revised and updated version), I picked it up. If I get this, I thought to myself, and Ancillary Justice by Anne Leckie* and The Fifth Season by N. K. Jemisin, I'll be able to pick up a lot of good stuff for about thirty bucks. Hey! That's how much Christmas money I still have! With these hopeful thoughts, I tucked Why Are All the Black Kids under my arm and shifted to move away from the table. A voice behind me asked what I was thinking about when I picked up the book. Surprised--this is Barnes and Noble, after all, and one does not usually make eye contact there, to say nothing of striking up a conversation--I turned to see an older gentleman pointing at the book in my hand. Having picked up so many titles in just the last few minutes, I couldn't remember which one I was holding. I glanced down at the title, then up at the speaker. "Oh, yeah," I said, unsure of exactly how I ought to feel. "I'm still trying to understand why we struggle so much on the racial issue." I could feel my face heating up in a flush of embarrassment. He smiled, then started talking to me, saying that the biggest issue--the reason we still struggle with racism--is because of our inability to listen. That started a forty-or-so minute long conversation with the man, during which time my wife and I were given a wide-ranging travelogue of the man's life. His time in the Army; that he'd served for nine years; his time as an aspiring physicist; his ideas about patents; his sister who had a master's in nursing; how many trees he'd cut down; the time he'd had a medical student miss his vein and puncture his left bicep; why he lived in Utah; how important grants were; how he taught second graders scientific notation; the time he was almost arrested in SoCal because the cop thought he was a gang banger; and much, much more. It was a dizzying experience, one reminiscent of plenty of conversations I had whilst serving my mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints down in Miami. While what he had to say was obviously important to him--and I didn't want to interrupt, especially since he started off chatting with us by saying that America's problems come about because we don't listen--the thing that I most wanted to know about was what his thoughts were about the racial divide. And though part of me wanted to engage him on the topic, it didn't take long to see that it probably would've roved away. I don't know what he did in the Army--he wore both an Army Corps shirt and baseball cap--or whether or not he saw action. He told us--twice--that he was sixty-two, so there's a chance that he went into some dangerous territory on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, one of the things that I try to teach my students during these World War units is that, regardless of what one thinks about war, veterans deserve our respect and gratitude. I also thought of one of the things that my professor said while I was studying the Wars in university: "Basically, 98% of veterans return crazy. The other 2% were crazy before they left." I disagree with that statement on a practical level, but I think he was speaking from an emotional point of view, not a statistical one. The point that I always take off of that is the fact that no one passes through war unchanged. And, as I consider it more carefully, the majority of veterans that I've met have a similar tendency to rove and roam in their discourse, or--on the opposite end--be hyper focused in everything that they do, say, and think with an unparalleled intensity. This veteran was more soft-spoken than other vets I've met, and eager to share and explain what he'd learned. So I listened. And listened. And listened some more. Eventually, we parted ways, me shaking his warm, brown hand and thanking him for his service. I said it was nice talking with him--which was true--and then I wandered the store another few minutes until my wife's hunger put us homeward bound. One of the things that I've been trying really hard to do--and, I believe, is part of the reason I'm still on Twitter so often--is to understand other people, other points of view. To try to keep my own point of view from being the default, to recognize my own biases. I can't do that if I'm not willing to listen. So I shut my mouth and I listened to a Black man who was an Army vet and a second grade teacher and an owner of dozens of patents pending. I think, even if I don't remember everything he said, that I learned something as a result. --- * As I typed this, I realized that Okinawa and Ancillary Justice are both by people named Leckie. The late Robert Leckie is, according to Wikipedia, a Purple Heart veteran, having fought in the Pacific during the Second World War. Ann is a much-buzzed-about science fiction author. I don't know if there's any relation, but I thought it was kind of a funny coincidence. Sprawling along the highway that leads to my hometown there is a section of the adjoining city that feels like the French countryside. I can't do much more than pretend to know what it's like to pass over those fertile lands, as the best I've done is drive over it at 100kph in a chartered bus as we trundled from Belgium to Paris, then from Paris to Normandy. Still, the way that mist can cling to the trees and the sprawling flatness of the area, punctuated by the shrubs or the occasional shape of the livestock is reminiscent of those fleeting hours driving through France. If the day is much like today was, with mountain-erasing smudges of clouds, I can almost, for a moment or two, pretend that I'm back in Europe, steeped in the history and sadness of the country.
The bend in the road comes, the illusion shatters, and Lehi, Utah, with Utah Lake spreading its polluted waters ever southward, snap back into my reality. I'm not in France: I'm in Utah, and I likely always will be. When it comes to Paul Bäumer and his experience within the covers of Erich Maria Remarque's moving and traumatic book, All Quiet on the Western Front, I'm transported to a very different version of France than what I saw. Every year, as the February frosts retreat before a more hopeful March, only to make a last-ditch effort to reclaim control of the weather, I wade into the noise and hunger and madness and melancholy and desperate longing for squadmates that is All Quiet. Paul's experience in the Great War, pushing through a chunk of Belgium--though maybe he's in areas of France, too, it's not perfectly clear--are chilling and shocking and cause me to pause every time I read them. This is the seventh or eighth time I've gone through this novel, but it still surprises me. Last year, it was the way that a butterfly landed on the teeth of a skull in the middle of No Man's Land, a splash of color on the otherwise grim grimace of death. This year, it was the last page. The entire book is written from the point of view of Paul. It's the only novel* that we read that's written in first person. On page 295, Paul stands up, declaring within himself that his life will escape from him, regardless of what he wills. Upon turning the page, the reader is surprised to see two paragraphs on the bottom of the next page. Written in third-person (and past tense, as opposed to the present tense of the rest of the novel), the "narrator" describes that when they found "him", it was clear that he hadn't "suffered very long" before dying. This happened, writes the narrator, on the day that, all along the line, the army reported "All quiet on the Western front". This is, in some ways, the most shocking death in a book that's brim full of gruesome exits from life. Body parts adorn some of the battles, and for those that survive the bullets there's always a bombardment. Dodging daisy-cutters one day, a person may die of disease the next. Noise, chaos, pain, terror--the book is loaded with all of these and much, much more. So to have Paul die in quiet, to die without us seeing it, to have it transpire when the war is approaching its peace…it's startling. More than that, though, it's the phrase that he didn't "suffer very long" that really got to me this year. I had just reread almost three hundred pages of suffering. The pain and agony attacked from almost every angle--the inhumane treatment of volunteers and draftees in the training camps; the sleep-deprived nights** filled with the screams of dying men and horses; the agony of being on leave and seeing family again, only to know that this would likely be the last time; the feeling of being unhappy unless on the front with the men he called his friends. With these resurfaced memories fresh in my mind, seeing the way that the narrator assumes the man hadn't suffered much or for very long is almost insulting. I understand, of course, that Paul is a character from Remarque's imagination, but Paul's experiences are culled from disparate sources, including Remarque's own time in the trenches. The misery and confusion, the trauma of the war ripples throughout this book, and--as does all great literature--it leaves an impression on the reader. My students didn't like this book this year. And by that I mean that the pain of the war was harder for a lot of them to stomach. I don't know why. Maybe my own storytelling abilities have increased to the point that the history and the literature finally fused in their minds. Perhaps it's the book itself (the more likely answer) that has a perverse power over its audience--perverse not because of what the men do, but what's done to them, all in the name of patriotic duty. There's a senselessness to the story, the realization that all the killing and death were done for no true purpose. This is the conclusion that many people make of the First World War*** and I can't fault them for that. And maybe that's why I feel so strongly about the Great War, why I drive myself into depression in preparing for this annual wallowing in the misery and sadness. Part of it is that I know a lot about it, and, on a purely practical level, it's satisfying to be able to share things I know about. Indeed, that's partly why I love my job so much: It gives me an excuse to do that often. But more than that is the fact that saying the Great War "didn't matter" because it was pointless seems to me a miscarriage of justice and an insult to the Forgotten Generation that fought it, died in it, suffered through it, starved through it, and persevered through it in order to keep it from happening again. Sure, the Second World War is flashier, with bigger guns, larger explosions, and more dynamic villains. But pushing away or dismissing the Great War for those reasons denies the meaning of the sacrifice of the millions who died in the conflict. The millions. The European war of 1914-1918 wasn't "meaningless" to those who went through it. Quite the contrary: It meant everything to them. Especially those who lost it all. That's why I read this book. Every year. Despite the pain and heartache it causes me and my students. Despite the sadness that I have to study. In whatever small way, as the inheritor of the future they fought for over one hundred years ago, I feel an obligation to the people of the War to End All Wars, a duty to remember their deeds, their names, their sacrifices, and their miseries--to teach about them as pointedly, powerfully, and profoundly as I can. If you, perchance, have not read All Quiet on the Western Front, I would immediately recommend it. --- * We also read Maus, which is a graphic novel--part memoir, part biography, part oral history of Auschwitz, Maus defies categorization. In one sense, then, we read two novels in first person. ** Though it doesn't happen to Paul, it was not uncommon for soldiers who fought at Verdun (1916) to go eleven consecutive nights without sleep. *** People, I've noticed, are fond of considering the Second World War as one with a purpose, a clearer delineation of good and evil. While that certainly is true, the idea that World War II--an event that would have been impossible without World War I--has meaning and purpose when it came out of meaninglessness and purposelessness is a strange gestation indeed. I'm not sure how I feel about that concept, so I'm going to table it for now. In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, weekly sermons are colloquially called "talks" and the speakers are culled from the members of the congregation--the ward. Considering the fact that, on a local level, the Church relies on lay clergy, this isn't really surprising. The bishops who oversee the ward have full-time jobs on top of what is, essentially, a full-time calling don't have the spare hours to come up with a weekly sermon as some denominations allow. And, since there's a quasi-democratic feel to a lot of Mormonism, we have members speak to each other.
For some, this is exciting, as they like to talk about the Gospel and they don't mind being in front of other people. My wife and I fall into that category: Speaking in church doesn't really distress us and the biggest concern is that there be someone sitting with our three rambunctious boys during the meeting. For others, this is one of the hardest trials of their faith. They hate being in front of people, and public speaking is one of their greatest fears. Today, as I was listening to the speaker's talk, I noticed something that would help Sacrament Meeting talks go a lot better. It's a small thing, but I think it's worthwhile. I think LDS speakers need to stop introducing their families, themselves, or even greeting the congregation (particularly if the ward isn't in Hawaii where saying, "Aloha!" to each other is fun, whereas here it's just painful and awkward). In other words, public speaking should take a page from comedians. So, this is uncomfortable, but back before we all learned what a dirtbag Louis C.K. is, I watched one of his comedy routines. He had some really funny stuff, but I don't recommend it for people who would prefer that they don't have tons of swearing and filthy jokes in their comedy. Since I'd watched his special, I remember hearing somewhere that one of the things that Louis C.K. did that made him so popular was that he never gives up the first thing he says. It's never filler--not a "Hello Salt Lake City! How are you tonight?" or "Thanks for being here! Wow! There sure are a lot of you here. Heh heh." He starts straight out of the gate and doesn't let up. Again, we now know that Louis C.K. is an abuser, which does make it awkward to use him as an example--especially for something like speaking in church--but I think the lesson (rather than the man) is what matters. Church talks would be a lot better if the speaker stood up and spoke instead of dithered. Because first impressions only happen once. There's one moment when everybody is on your side, ready to jump in with you, and it's when you first take the mic. After that, they tune out, they get distracted, they get bored, or, if you're really lucky, they get interested. Imagine this: Sister Jones stands up at the pulpit. She adjusts the microphone and says, her voice wobbly with nerves, "Good morning, brothers and sisters. Or is it good afternoon?" Then she giggles and a couple of polite smiles wend their way toward her. "I got a call from the bishop last week asking if I could speak today. I don't like speaking, but I said yes anyway. I'm going to talk about temples, but first I wanted to introduce myself and my family…" Aside from the fact that, from an active church-going position, almost everything there is a cliché (a major strike against the ward's interest in her talk), but I've just learned that there's nothing about the topic that I need to pay attention to for the next few minutes. It's going to be autobiography, and while that's cool, it's not what I came to church to hear. Second scenario: Sister Johnson stands up at the pulpit. She adjusts the microphone. She stares out for a long pause--maybe even a few seconds. Long enough that people look up, curious. Did she forget her notes? Is she too nervous to talk? Is she already crying (a real possibility in a Mormon meeting)? No, none of those things. She's actually waiting for people to pay attention to what she has to say, because what she has to say is important. "The temple has saved my life," she then says without preamble or introduction. The statement is shocking (in a safe, Mormonic way), intriguing, and definitely makes an impression. She can then go on, expanding on the statement. As she goes, she can drop additional details about her family--how she and her husband, who met at BYU-Idaho, always wanted to go to the temple together to be sealed to their adopted son--and then continue to use the story to pull the congregation in deeper. Of the two, I'm already more interested in fictional Sister Johnson than I am Sister Jones (who, for the record, is also fictional…though I'm pretty sure that it's in the Church Handbook somewhere that every English-speaking ward in the country has to have at least one Sister Jones and one Sister Johnson). And here's the thing: It isn't about how well Sister Johnson speaks. That isn't what matters. The reason I bring this up is because, as a church filled with lay clergy, it's the onus of each member to help fortify one another's testimony, to bear their burdens, and teach from the unique, lived experiences that each member has. The topic per se isn't new, but Sister Johnson's take on it is, and that take ought to be understood and appreciated by each person in the audience. That's the point of having speakers at a Sacrament Meeting in the first place. If what they said was trite, there's no reason for them to speak at all. From a doctrinal point of view, the most important part of the entire three hours of church meetings is partaking of the sacrament. So why stick around? Well, we're supposed to gain something from the talks. And that, I submit, is why I spent my time in that meeting thinking about how the speaker could do a better job speaking. Wow. When I put it that way, I sound like a hypocritical jerk, don't I? Well, that's not what I meant to be. Maybe I should be more careful about how I talk about church, huh? The latest news on Facebook ought to be more and more alarming for most users. There's always been a problem with Facebook's privacy, and the fact that the private data of 50 million users in order to target advertisements in order to sway the 2016 election is just one of many examples of the danger that the platform provides.
While there are plenty of articles and posts that can help you to modify your Facebook settings, the crux of the problem is that Facebook is a pretty horrible place (no offense to those of you on the site, or who come here through Facebook). I get a weird feeling whenever I login, which is why I went on a Facebook-fast last year for Lent. Last year, I would jump on only to post a link to my latest essay. That was it. I disabled it on my phone (since it comes already installed and I can't delete it…which is another reason why I don't like Facebook), so my photos that I've taken tend not to get posted anymore--definitely a downside--but, on the whole, I'm satisfied with my decision. Though I kept my Messenger app (which I hate, but it's a major avenue of communication with a lot of people), I really reduced my Facebook usage. So what do I do now? I visit it maybe once a day to check on any comments or notifications and to keep up on what's going on in my writing group. I also post links to my website for my daily essays. That's pretty much it. I find myself scrolling down after posting something, and it takes only a couple of minutes before I start to feel weird and I turn it off. I don't know why that is. I know a lot of people say that Facebooks makes people unhappy because it looks like everyone else is having such a great time. Most of my Facebook friends are pretty honest: Today went well, today didn't go well. Here's a picture of a cool thing, here's a thing that doesn't work for me. Like, it doesn't sound like a fantasy land of perpetual joy that I'm missing out on. I do see a lot of frustration and anger on Facebook, particularly in this political climate. I have a lot of conservative family and a lot of liberal friends, so the dichotomy of the two takes on every issue can become a frustration. Maybe that's why I spend such little time there? Then again, I love Twitter, and to say that there's political speech on Facebook is a mild observation compared to the trash fire of political shouting on that website. So that can't be the thing that bothers me. Perhaps it's the familiarity? That seems silly: The whole point of Facebook is to keep track of one's friends, right? To stay in the know, to keep in contact, even if it is only in a simple way? I do know that I hate the fact that Facebook decides what my "top posts" are. I've marked my wife's posts to always show first. Other than that, I always want my screen to be chronological. Especially since I spend such little time on the site, it can really feel like a waste of time when I jump on, say, the day after the Superbowl. Almost all of the posts are shouting about plays, commentary on the halftime show, or voicing preference for a commercial or two. The entire experience has been over for hours, but people are "still" talking about it as if it's happening live. That's so irritating to me. (And don't worry: I know that you can change how the feed is sorted. The fact that I can't get it to stay that way is a huge part of what bugs me about Facebook.) You know the saying, "If you don't pay for it, you're the product"? Now that I think about it, Facebook has reduced this to a science. I went through, many years ago, and filled out more information in my profile. Music I liked. Movies I enjoyed. Personal interests. I thought I was documenting that stuff for me, but I really was doing that so that advertisers (whom I almost always ignore*) would know better what to pitch to me. That feels…disingenuous somehow. I definitely understand I agreed to the TOS. But I can also admit that I didn't know what's in the TOS. And that's a problem. I'm not saying that it has to be laid out in pop-up book form, but…seriously. It's kind of ridiculous. Another thing: The complicated way in which terms of service are described is a deliberate obfuscation, and that keeps coming up as Facebook tries to get out of the hot water it's found itself in. Losing billions overnight isn't something that makes me feel bad for Facebook. They keep doing shady things, their CEO is incapable of living in reality, and their platform's ubiquity is dangerously monopolistic. The power of the platform was laid bare recently as we see that Facebook absolutely had a role in the 2016 election--and that a lot of that influence came from outside the country. That's a danger that strikes at our independence as a country--you know, the very thing that we went to war over back in the 1770s? Look, you may like Facebook. That's great. It has definitely blessed a lot of lives, and there have been times when it's been a godsend. There's something about being able to share defeats and victories with others online. It's the primary way that people read any of my essays. And, according to the website that hosts this blog, I have hundreds of unique visitors every week (a mindboggling thing for me to consider, even while knowing that a bunch of them are probably bots). So I'm not denying its usefulness. But there's still something about Facebook that makes me uncomfortable, that feels…wrong. Then again, maybe it's just me. Maybe I want to keep things more private than I think Facebook will allow. I really don't think that's a bad thing. --- * I do a couple of things when I see a Facebook ad. 1) Ignore it. 2) If I think the product looks cool, I open up a new tab and type in the product website. The only time I clicked on an ad recently was because it was for a Shane Koyczan poetry reading that's happening and I really wanted to go…but it was expensive and, though in Park City, that's too far for me to justify the time away. But, I'm not joking, that was the first time I've clicked on a Facebook ad since, like 2012 or something like that. The advertisers are paying money to try to talk to me, and that money is going to Facebook. They aren't getting almost any of it back through me. Today.
Today was a pinball experience, with me playing Superfight with two different classes, teaching my Shakespeare class how to cook, having that soup we were working on not finishing in time, plus my wife and son coming to the school, on top of an assembly at the end of the day. Then, once that was all finished, a two hour long session with ten people in the party led to a very chaotic and raucous gaming session of D&D. When I got out of school--which ended with me talking to a coworker about potential ways of writing a memoir she's thinking of--I took my two older boys to Barnes and Noble for a celebratory birthday treat and to buy some books. We then went to Toys "R" us to see if there were any good deals (there weren't; they're closing, but everything is only 10% off right now). Then I came home, inviting my little brother over to create a character for a D&D campaign that I'm running tomorrow with my boys. Needless to say, I'm surprised that I'm not falling asleep in my chair as I write this. So, in order to maximize my time (Gayle wants to watch Sword Art Online and I'm not one to dissuade her), I'm going to use my daily writing as a chance to sketch out an idea for tomorrow's campaign. Since I bought some city tiles that I can use to make a map, I think I'll start off with the adventurers in a city… The heroes will already be in a party, ready for what may come. They're in the streets when they hear a cry. I'll get them to investigate the shout, only to see that there's a person being attacked by a couple of kobolds. This is odd, since the city normally has a pretty good police force. The heroes will engage and defeat the kobolds. The victim will be dead by the time they finish. On the person--who will definitely be looted, since one of the characters is a greedy rogue--will be information that will let them know that the victim was going to be waiting to help someone through the city gate at midnight. At this point, the sun will be setting, so that'll give them a chance to look around the city and move across the map. Then, once I'm bored with them dinking around, I'll flashforward to midnight and they'll arrive at the gate. Then there will be an advance scout crew of kobolds who are there to ransack the city. The adventurers will choose between helping out--taking the role of the victim--and stopping the kobolds. Odds are almost certain they'll stop them, since most of the adventurers are good or neutral good. Since I'm pretty sure they're going to attack the kobolds, I'll have one of them escape, running toward the sewers. In his hand, there is a glittering key. They can either chase him down or they can go to the guards to report the problem. Either way, the heroes will end up down into the bowels of the city, where they will hunt through some typical monsters--spiders, rats, bats, and maybe a wild-boar that got lost in the tunnels beneath the city. After dispatching these creatures--and maybe having to restore some health--they'll arrive at an underground warren where the kobold has led them. They'll have a chance to sneak in and try to get the key. If they're successful, they will be faced with a choice of taking it to the guards or, if the guard is with them, giving it over. When they do, the guard will attack them, claiming this prize for the Prince of Thieves. If the adventurers agree to join the guard, they'll be shown into a deeper recess, unlocked with the key. If they disagree, they'll attack him and his kobold minions. Provided they survive, they will then have to choose: Destroy the key and keep the kobold thieves out of the city, or use it to explore deeper into the recesses below the city…. And that's as far as I got. I don't want to go too much farther, because I don't know if my kids can maintain that kind of concentration with anything that isn't also a glowing rectangle (they can play Minecraft for three hours straight and forget that they haven't eaten, but if I try to carry on a conversation with them, they space out within three minutes). I don't think this is a really thrilling or exciting adventure, but I'm also trying to think of ways of making the story more involved than a "You walk down the street. Oh, no, you're being attacked by robbers. You killed them. Now you're at an inn" kind of story. There's nothing wrong with that, of course: I just want to do something with a bit of intrigue and the possibility of having them accomplish other tasks that don't involve swinging a sword or, in the case of Puck, completely misfiring yet another magical cantrip and missing his target entirely. Anyway, I know this isn't the most thought-provoking or profound essay I've ever written, but I hope that tomorrow's campaign will be enjoyable and that everyone will end wanting to play some more of it. And, hey, if it's really that much fun, then maybe I'll be writing a "sequel" to this campaign next Friday. Who knows? Stranger things have happened. Every year, as I march through the Wars, there are times when things are harder to talk about than others. This year, I've taken the time to change my approach to World War I. In the past, I would teach things thematically: The life of the soldiers bled into the life of the civilians which led me to talk about Herbert Hoover. That sort of thing. The big change, then, has been a greater focus on putting things in a more deliberate chronology, with information from pre-1914, the assassination and beginning of the war in the 1914 section, then important moments from each year. Today, we talked about shell shock, PTSD, and the Armenian genocide of 1915.
It was a heavy day. To help alleviate that sadness, I ended the day by talking about Edith Clavell and the Christmas Truce of 1914. These stories of comparative happiness helped to leaven the whole experience, as did having my writers' group in the evening. That led me to think about relaxation. Like most* good Mormons, if I could find a way to monetize my feelings of shame and/or guilt, I'd be able to retire. Of course, if I did that, I'd feel bad that I made money that way, which would make me more money, which would make me feel more guilty, which would get me more money… Anyway, because of this puritanical ability to be perpetually terrified that somebody, somewhere is having a good time, I often feel that if I do end up having a good time, I've probably done something wrong. I guess it's an idea that any pleasure is, by definition, a guilty one. Maybe that's why, when I do something I really want to do--go to the bookstore, spending an afternoon writing--it doesn't necessarily make me happy. I can feel less sad that I do those things, and they all work as a coping mechanism for my dysthymia, but I often do them with a sense that I ought to be doing something else. I recognize that this is problematic. And inaccurate. That isn't the point, though: It's what happens. There are times when I can quash these feelings. Back when I went to LTUE, I had to set up substitutes to cover my classes. Whilst at the conference, I would glance at my watch and catch myself thinking, It's 12:15. I hope my fifth period is doing okay…There's nothing wrong with caring about my students or how they were doing. But that wasn't what I should be doing at that moment; in fact, part of the reason why I was at the conference was so that I could teach my fifth period better. It's all confusing and counterintuitive and… Well, you can see the conundrum. I want to relax. I take advantage of times without the kids and other responsibility to go to the bookstore, to play a videogame, or some other conjoined word phrase. I enjoy the time with my wife--our dates and our couple of hours together in the evening. And, importantly, I can have enjoyable moments. Laughing with group. Playing with the kids. Reading a book. Those individual moments I can accept in that nonce. But in retrospect--and, sometimes, in future planning--I have twinges. "Can you help at a dance this Thursday?" No, because I always keep Thursdays sacred for my writers' group and I'm not going to give that up. I'm being selfish, so I feel bad. I do it anyway. That's what I have to overcome. I need to be content and willing to accept the ways I cope, the ways I relax. With all of the stresses in my life--which, I'll be the first to admit, are of the first-world variety--I shouldn't let my ways of decompressing continue to be an additional avenue for my stress. Now I'm anxious. I'd better go relax. --- * I have no idea how many Mormons feel this way. |
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