Now, three readings assigned for this course, and not entirely thanks to my design or intent, make arguments about the constructed or representational nature of history (Lee Patterson does it; White, naturally; and now, Nicholas Mann in the intro to his discussion of humanism). I did not assign Mann to you, so he’s not an extension of my agenda. What we can begin to conclude is that the idea that history is unvarnished, objective truth is not commonly and widely accepted.
It is impossible to gather all facts and all archival documents about one event and put them into a narrative in such a way that one’s writing is as absolute as the voice of a God. As someone who has written and published historical and biographical accounts based on archival research, I can tell you that it is not possible. All interpretation is contingent. That is why Conservatives and Liberals fight over the content of textbooks. It is why we have multiple books on the same subject or period.
Do we really need a thousand books on the French Revolution? Can’t someone just get it right so that authors can write and readers can read about other things? No. No one can nail it down permanently, absolutely, in a totalizing way. All that we can do as historians, and as literary historians (people who tell historical accounts about the history of literature) is to methodically lay out our argument, use evidence in a smart way, find new evidence and hopefully find a flash of brilliance and originality to add to to the mix.
The big subjects like The French Revolution, The Mexican Revolution, The Life of Hitler, The Conquest of the New World, etc., are particularly resistant to “objectivity”, whereas the illusion of impartiality can be easily harnessed for a micro-study of how and when paper money came into general use in the early national period in the U.S., or how certain problems with certain crops affected a certain group in a certain place for a very certain and short period of time. But to sit down and speak objectively about Ronald Reagan, or Winston Churchill or World War I is to enter into the realm of White’s emplotments. I recommend that you all revisit White and Patterson before you get too touchy feely about feelings and “biases” (a very loaded word indeed) and be specific about what he is saying. He is making an argument about language. Can language reflect reality? Is language reality or interpretation?
Just because we see history as narrative does not mean that we reject history as a value. It means that we commit ourselves to being readers and interpreters of history. If we simply consume history, like empty vessels being filled, or as if we were watching T.V., we abdicate our responsibility to think for ourselves and be free. I say we read history, not to kick it down, but to appreciate it and understand it, but always with a critical and able mind capable of discerning the power of language and point of view.
Check out this fascinating exchange on the book Hitler’s Willing Executioners by Daniel Goldhagen on a listserve. It says it all. If you want to read something shorter, just check out one piece of the discussion here.
This piece, about ideology and the writing of histories of the French Revolution, is useful as well. It’s all about how dispassionate views of the past are hard to come by.
In closing, I’d like to share some concrete examples of this whole issue, drawn from my experiences this past week studying different accounts of Texas history and the fall of the Alamo. (I’m working on a book proposal that touches on these subjects, so I am doing alot of reading and writing on the history of Texas).
In one respected, contemporary history of Texas, Mexicans are referred to as having “byzantine minds” and a “phobia” about the United States. This is hardly dispassionate language and the implications psychologize Mexicans in a very negative way. In the same book, the famous stand-off between Texian rebels and the military garrison at Anahuac is described without emphasizing the fact that the dispute arose over runaway slaves being protected by the Mexicans. (Such an emphasis would surely not reflect well on the image of Texians as freedom fighters .) On a separate front, regarding the Battle of Neches of 1839, in which Texians defeated the Cherokee, not all historians mention the story that Chief Bowl was scalped by white men.
Or, let’s talk about the Alamo. There are diverse, conflicting accounts about whether or not Davy Crockett died in battle or was tortured and murdered afterwards. How do we evaluate which nineteenth-century accounts to believe and which to discard? We have to evaluate, reason and critique. Even so, different scholars may arrive at different conclusions. Finally, several Mexican accounts of the Alamo note that men were seen fleeing the battle. What? I thought the defenders of the Alamo stood their ground!
And so it goes… and especially with something as intensely enmeshed in myth as Texas history and the Alamo. How could it be any different? Where it matters the most, where history is most tied up with identity, the truth can become opaque and contradictory. It becomes a web of competing truths.
