Associate Professor, University of Massachusetts, Amherst, 2004-
Area of Research: 19th century American history
Education: Ph.D., Harvard University (American Civilization), 1992.
Major Publications: Richardson is the author of The Death of Reconstruction: Race, Labor, and Politics in the Post-Civil War North, 1865-1901, (Harvard University Press, 2001), A main selection of the History Book Club; The Greatest Nation of the Earth: Republic Economic Policies during the Civil War, (Harvard University Press, 1997).
Richardson is the co-editor with Sidney Andrews of The South Since the War, (Louisiana State University Press, 2004).
Works in progress include: Race, Riots, and Rodeos: The Reconstruction of America After the Civil War, 1865- 1901. (Yale University Press, forthcoming, 2007).
Awards: Charles Warren Center Fellowship, Harvard University (1999);
Runner-up, Allan Nevins Prize (awarded for the best dissertation on an important theme in American history)
Additional Info: Formerly Visiting Lecturer, Fitchburg State College (2003--); Master Lecturer II, Suffolk University (2003-2004); and Associate Professor of History, Massachusetts Institute of Technology teaching there from 1993-2002.
Richardson has also participated in: The Woodward Dissertation Award Committee, Southern Historical Association, 2004-2005;
Guest Editor, Cobblestone Magazine, American Inventions of the Nineteenth-Century, 2004;
Consultant, PBS documentary,"Sinews of War: Money, War, and the Building of America", 2004-;
Consultant, Primary Source and Teachers as Scholars, educational consulting firms, 2002-;
Consultant and Lead Teacher, Brookline, Massachusetts, public schools on Teaching American History project:"Defining Justice", 2002-;
National Advisory Board, Tredegar National Civil War Center Foundation, 2002-;
Editorial Board, American Nineteenth Century History, 2001-;
Consultant, Bill Moyers documentary,"The Chinese in America," 2001-2002. Richardson is also a regular contributor to the Business History Review, Chicago Tribune, Civil War History, The Historian, Journal of the Abraham Lincoln Association, Journal of American History, Journal of Interdisciplinary History, Journal of Southern History, Labor History, Law and History Review.
History was tangible to me, growing up. Literally. No one in my town ever threw anything away. Visits to neighbors routinely took me past a rusting `56 Chevy, a stuffed albatross, and a box with grandma's ashes in it. My family was the worst. The 1975 Newsweek with Springsteen on the cover? Still got it. The 1923 National Geographic that announced the opening of Tutankhamen's tomb? Still got it. My great-great-grandmother's shoes from the 1850s? Yep. Still got them. (Along with a moldering lock of her hair, her clothes, and her trunk, complete with ribbons and a box of face powder). As if our own predilections weren't enough, my parents bought a home that came with a barn, crammed to the rafters with things the previous owners had never thrown away: a nineteenth- century grinding wheel, a settlement house cookbook, a half-full whiskey bottle from 1913 (my husband tried the whiskey last year and pronounced it very smooth). The junk around us wasn't saved for its historical value. It was just that no one had ever gotten around to throwing it out.
As kids, we thought of it largely as junk. Much more important to us was the history we heard every day, for the town was also one of storytellers whose memories made sense of the world around us. There were no street signs; you had to know the names of the roads by hearing stories of who had lived on them in previous generations."Harding Road," on the map, for instance, was actually Carter's Lane, or even The Colony, after a group of summer cottages built there in the 1920s. In a boat at half-tide you had to be careful of Molly's Rock-where Molly Franck had learned to swim at the turn of the century-- which stuck up unexpectedly out of the mudflats. Stories not only passed on knowledge vital to our everyday lives, they also explained why people acted the way they did. The Island women chasing off the stuttering Civil War draft officer by pelting him with boiling hot potatoes ("G-G-Give them a b-b-barrel and they'd take Richmond," he allegedly remarked) helped to explain why islanders hated the government. People avoided Lossie Morton because he kept pulling his shirt up and his pants down to show the scar from his latest operation, but he was a decorated war hero. Nate's parents were mad at him because he accidentally shot the dishwasher. Even as children we knew that stories changed according to who told them, and that, ultimately, they said more about who told then than about what actually had happened. Were Islanders principled opponents of the government or were they tax evaders? Was Lossie a figure of fun or admiration? Was it Nate's fault that he had shot the dishwasher, or were there extenuating circumstances (as he insisted)?
In college I studied in both the history and in the folklore and mythology departments, fascinated with the distance between the facts of history and the stories people told to make sense of their lives. I believed in the historical record, but I could not dismiss the way people talked about things as central to their behavior. Reagan was elected in my freshman year, and listening to the political rhetoric around me only confirmed my sense that people most often made decisions based not on facts, but on their beliefs. Ultimately I concluded that one could not really understand the past without taking seriously the way people imagined their world. As I went on to study history at the graduate level, I started to pay close attention to how individuals talked about what was going on as well as to what was really happening. Not surprisingly, the two didn't often agree, and the gap between them tells us a great deal, I think, about the people themselves. My work explores how beliefs and facts interact in American life, primarily in politics.
Chinese historian Stephen Platt and I have just started to write a history of the late nineteenth-century trans-Pacific world. Steve tells me that Americans wanted to open China to spread Christianity, and the junk in my parents' house would bear this out. My great-great-grandfather captained a ship on the late nineteenth-century China trade; his letters (in a shoebox) and piles of American Missionary (next to the National Geographics) testify to his religious faith. But local legend says he was an autocrat who loved making money. There is truth, I have to think, in both.
By Heather Cox Richardson
About Heather Cox Richardson
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