Can we bridge division?

Disagree Better. That’s the name of an interesting initiative at the National Governors Association this year, spearheaded by the organization’s current chair, Utah Republican Gov. Spencer Cox. The idea, in a nutshell, is to “reduce partisan animosity and foster healthy debate by modeling a more positive and optimistic way of working through policy problems,” as the NGA puts it.

It would be easy to scoff, of course. In this era of bitter political hostility, as we head into a presidential election that is likely to prove even more negative and divisive than the last one, talk of reducing animosity and boosting healthy and constructive debate seems like a nice dream that’s got no chance of becoming reality.

But the thing about governors is that most are not dreamers. They’re confronted every day by the nuts and bolts of making their states work. Unlike, say, Congress, they have no choice but to tackle the issues challenging their residents, towns, cities, and counties. Or as Cox put it not long ago, “Potholes aren’t partisan.”

Which means governors are also in a position to make a difference. As the NGA writes on its page about Cox’s effort, “We need to learn to disagree in a way that allows us to find solutions and solve problems instead of endlessly bickering. An ‘ exhausted majority’ of Americans want this, and the science is clear about interventions that reduce polarization. As doers and builders, Governors are in a unique position to model what healthy conflict looks like.”

And, in fact, there do seem to be “interventions” that reduce polarization. One example comes from Cox himself. In the 2020 gubernatorial election, as he sought to move up from the lieutenant governorship, he and his Democratic opponent, law professor Christopher Peterson, cut an ad together in which they pledged to abide by the election results. “Win or lose, in Utah, we work together,” Peterson said in the ad.

It was a nice, hopeful touch, but it was also more than that. That agreement between the two candidates was one of several dozen approaches noted in a Stanford University megastudy (basically, a study of studies) aimed at finding practical, real-world strategies for reducing polarization that might lead to violence. Highlighting “endorsements of democratic principles by political elites,” the study found—with the Cox-Peterson example front and center—was one of the most effective strategies for reducing public support for undemocratic practices. So were correcting exaggerated stereotypes of supporters of the other party—basically, providing hard evidence that people’s worst fears about people on the other side of the partisan fence were unfounded—and showing them graphic evidence (including the storming of the US Capitol on Jan. 6) of the violence that can happen when democratic norms collapse.

There is good evidence that on the whole, Americans are closer together than we often think we are, even on some hot-button issues—and that some political leaders exaggerate division and play on our fears for political gain. The challenge, of course, is how to lower the temperature to the point where we can hear, and even sympathize with, one another.

Utah’s Cox isn’t the only governor who’s cut an ad trying to advance that cause. Maryland’s Democratic governor, Wes Moore, recently made one with

Jack Coburn, the Republican mayor of Lonaconing, a small town in western Maryland not far from the West Virginia line. “We can have our differences without being divisive or hateful,” Moore says, to which Coburn responds, “We can listen to the other side, ask questions, have important conversations.” The point, they go on, isn’t that differences don’t matter, but that, as Coburn says, “We’re just saying there’s a better way to disagree.” “And who knows,” Moore adds. “In the end we might not be as far apart as we thought.”

PHOENIX - I was a follower, certainly, but I wasn’t among the rabid evangelicals constantly spouting his praises. I wasn’t among those who would swear that if you saw him in person, you would see the spiritual light.

Then I went to a Bruce Springsteen concert last week, and now I’m among those singing his praises to the high heavens.

Attending a Springsteen concert is like going to a religious revival, and I think the only people who would disagree are those who haven’t seen Bruce live. People sing along to his songs word for word, as if quoting holy books or singing old spirituals, and do so at the tops of their voices. People spin in rapture. People cry with joy.

I’ve been a Springsteen fan for about 45 years. I own many of his vinyl albums, many of his CDs. I love most of his songs.

While I’m not as rabid a devotee as many of his fans, I am a dedicated one. I not only love his music, I admire Bruce Springsteen as a person. He speaks for the common man, for the downtrodden, for the abused, for the hungry for food and for love, and he does so not only in his music but in his personal life.

He seems to be one of the few megastars not ruined by the trappings of mass idolatry. He tries hard to remain just another guy from the Jersey

Shore, even though that may be impossible considering how much money, influence and fame he has.

Because of my admiration for him and because people say Springsteen’s shows are like no others, I’d wanted for decades to see him play in person. Whenever I tried, though, the lines

– in person, on the phone, or online – were daunting. I was never able to get tickets.

My wife, though, is on a mission to see all the aging legends while they’re still touring, and she managed to get two tickets for a Bruce show in Phoenix in November. That show was postponed because of Springsteen’s peptic ulcer disease. He rescheduled for March, and we were there as he opened this year’s tour.

Our seats were behind the stage and near the top row of the arena. I was not discouraged, though. I knew this was my chance to see Springsteen, and I’m 65 and he’s 74, so it might be the last chance.

And damn Bruce was great, and energetic, and fun-loving. With his lifetime wingman, Steven Van Zandt, at his side, he smiled, sang and danced throughout. It was obvious Bruce, and Steven, loved what they were doing and loved doing it together.

People, en masse, sang along to “Dancing in the Dark,” “Rosalita,”

“10th Avenue Freeze- Out,” “Prove It All Night,” “Because the Night,” “The Rising,” “Glory Days,” “Spirit in the Night,” Badlands,” “Darkness on the Edge of Town,” and, of course, the incomparable “Born to Run.” Each of those songs in an anthem, and the crowd sang along to each, as one, with fervor.

That Bruce didn’t play “Streets of Philadelphia,” “Born in the U.S.A.” “Atlantic City” or other of his most famous songs did not seem to bother his devotees.

Springsteen performed for 2 hours and 42 minutes. While his band members, including Steven, took breaks and left the stage, Bruce didn’t. He was on the stage performing from start to finish. The only “political” remark he made was asking people to contribute to the local food bank, which was a concert cosponsor.

Other than that, it was music. It was Bruce.

It was beautiful.

We met people that night who had been to 32, 35, even 51 Springsteen shows. They said each show is different, each show is thrilling, each show is like a religious experience.

Now I’m a convert. Now I’m a believer.

Bret Kofford is a screenwriter and an emeritus lecturer in writing and film at San Diego State University-Imperial Valley. He can be reached at bmkofford@outlook.com.