Edited by Bonnie K. Goodman
Ms. Goodman is the Editor / Features Editor at HNN. She has a Masters in Library and Information Studies from McGill University, and has done graduate work in history at Concordia University. Her blog is History Musings
Having completed profiling the first 100 historians in our series in 2009, we are now relaunching the series to profile another 100 fascinating and dynamic Top Young Historians making their mark on the profession.
All profiled historians are nominated and undergo a review process before they are chosen. Each historian on this list has made outstanding contributions to the discipline in their area of research through their commitment and achievement to scholarship and teaching. They are also highly regarded outside academia for their expertise, and many are consulted by the popular media.
We are trying to represent all fields within history. We are currently looking for new nominations, and appreciate any suggestions; they can be submitted to Bonnie Goodman for consideration. Click here to send your nominations. (All nominations and suggestions will be given serious consideration.)
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor, Department of History, University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, July, 2009-present.
Personal AnecdoteLUMBEE INDIANS IN THE JIM CROW SOUTH has been living with me for over fifteen years, since I first wrote my undergraduate thesis on Henry Berry Lowrie, an important Recomstruction-era figure in Lumbee history. After that I took a big break from history to become a documentary film producer, but film only intensified my desires to use academic history as a storytelling medium that transcends the boundaries between the academy and the community. When I went back to get my PhD, I remained involved in documentary film, became a part-time theater producer, and began to think visually about historical storytelling, both in terms of narrative as well as argument. Oral tradition and artistic production, of course, has always been a tremendous part of Lumbee culture, so I could not ignore that, especially since I was writing about a relatively recent time period and many people who remember the people and events are still living. There were also plenty of compelling photographs, taken by both insiders and outsiders, that prompted fundamental questions about the documentary record. As I revised my dissertation into a book, I felt comfortable taking a few risks with voice and images to explicate questions of interest to academic historians but also to animate the narrative and give readers an insider look at the Lumbees. I am extremely grateful to all my mentors, in filmmaking, in graduate school, at UNC Press, and at the First Peoples/New Directions publishing initiative for encouraging me on this path. But I have to give my greatest thanks to my family. Like my sister says, "the woman who taught me to read is a dangerous woman!" My mother, an English professor who taught everything from freshman composition to advanced grammar to world lit, taught me to read and remains my first and best writing teacher. My father, political radical in his own way (he would say "because I didn't know any better"), has always nurtured my iconoclastic tendencies while giving me a hefty dose of "respect your elders" training. Finally, my husband is a brilliant Lumbee musician and artist who lacks a formal education. He is not only a moral compass in my responsibilities to my community, but he gives me vital inspiration every day. He once said something which has become a kind of mantra for me in explaining Native attitudes towards history. A student interviewing him asked, "how did you learn Lumbee history?" He simply said, "I lived it." The relevance of history to contemporary life is immediately obvious in the Lumbee case, since the categories of knowledge scholars have used to describe us have often been inadequate at best, and damaging at worst. For example, our 122-year struggle for federal recognition, and the political factionalism it has engendered, has been one of the layers of our identity but it is not the only facet of it. Some believe (and many scholars promote this idea) that Lumbee recognition is a struggle for identity, as if we don't know or don't understand our identities as an Indigenous People. This argument stems from a recognition of the several times our People have been subject to legislation which alters our tribal name. My book argues that this legislation, and the whole debate about the definition of "Indian," was motivated by the prerogatives of white supremacy and Indians' ambivalent relationship to it. But scholars (and more importantly, policy makers) have not looked to this explanation of the name changes, instead selectively revising our history to then justify our exclusion from the ranks of tribes who have government- to-government relationships with the United States. The Lumbee struggle is not for identity, but for sovereignty. Another question about Lumbee history consistently involves our "origins." This is the question I get most often from the general public, and it also sums up the doubt expressed by anti-Indian interests in Congress and people who comment on websites and create Wikipedia entries on us. The argument goes that we're not real Indians and don't deserve federal recognition because we can't prove descent from a "historic" tribe, or that we don't look "Indian." While my book doesn't delve into this research extensively, it is plain that the Lumbees descend from a kin network of extended families, some of whom have had long-standing attachments to our current homeland in Robeson County, and some of whom migrated there in the 18th century. It is the relationship of people and place, and the development and maintenance of a coherent political and social organization, that makes us real Indians. Of course some of our ancestors are non-Indian; nearly every member of every tribe has non-Indian ancestors; it was a fact of colonization. And if you look at the so-called "historic" tribes (i.e. the ones you've heard of: Cherokees, Creeks, Seminoles, Navajos, Sioux, etc.), each one of them has a time in which they were called something else than what they are called now. To pretend that there is some kind of universal definition of a "historic" tribe against which Lumbees should be measured is to deny that Indian people can legitimately change and that colonization itself happened. It's a notion that hurts all of us as Indigenous people, and one that we can refute--to powerful effect on international Indigenous affairs--if we are all on the same epistemological page. QuotesBy Malinda Maynor Lowery
American people, we must also understand the Native peoples whose nations share the land. For Native history is
linked in the most intimate ways with that of America-the land, the people, and the nation. They are linked by
kinship, culture, and economy, but also by race, class, gender, and inequality. Whether the inequalities tied to
citizenship in the American nation can be rectified depends largely on how we know ourselves and each other. Do
we wrestle with categories of knowledge that are different from our own, and assign them equal standing with our
own categories? Or do we decide that some categories are more real, truthful, or scientific than others?" --
Malinda Maynor Lowery in "Lumbee Indians in the Jim Crow South: Race, Identity, and the Making of a Nation"
About Malinda Maynor Lowery |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor, History and American Studies, Indiana University 2009-present.
Personal AnecdoteI grew up in Macon, Georgia, a fall-line city carved out of Creek Indian country that became a major cotton depot. My high school was downtown, near a cluster of historic sites: the Cannonball House, so-named because of damage sustained during the Civil War; the 1916 Beaux Arts train station, with its reliquary of extra water foundations and bathrooms and waiting rooms; the home of Sidney Lanier, a poet, novelist, and critic who famously eulogized the Old South; the Douglass Theater which, throughout the Jim Crow era, featured entertainers including local greats like Little Richard and Otis Redding. Every day we passed a memorial of some kind, markers that begged us to consider the legacies of slavery, the Civil War, segregation, or some combination thereof. Substantial physical reminders were all around us, and they forced an ongoing dialog with our history. I doubt that any Maconite would argue that the past is past. Towering literally over all these historic sites were the Ocmulgee mounds, remnants of a thousand-year-old Native city that had borne silent witness to a much longer scope of Southern history. The tallest mound was built atop a natural plateau, and seemed nearly twice as high as its fifty feet when viewed from the floodplain. When I was about eight years old, I went to summer day-camp there, and I remember trekking around the sweltering, miasmic bottomlands at the base the mounds, wondering about the lives of the chiefs who had lived atop them, including how they had managed without air conditioning. Growing up, this place seemed disjointed from the rest of my historical knowledge: I could connect the dots from the colony's eighteenth-century settlers to the living history museum at the Georgia Agorama, but Ocmulgee seemed an awe-inspiring outlier, a challenge to what I thought I knew about the place I grew up. That challenge has continued to inspire me. Throughout the course of my education, I discovered, of course, that Ocmulgee is not an outlier. It was an early and particularly grand example of the Native chiefdoms that dominated the region prior to European colonization. The Creek or Muscogee Indians, whose ancestors built the site, carried its name with them to Indian Territory, now Oklahoma; their tribal government meets at Okmulgee in a contemporary building shaped like a mound. Indian Removal expelled the Creeks and many other Native peoples from their homelands, and so, too, did it largely erase them from the region's historical memory. When the cotton curtain descended, it obscured the history of an older South, a messier, less biologically determined one. But, as I wrote in my first book, these two Souths were never really separate, and Native people, like their neighbors, struggled with questions of identity and belonging, and the meaning and significance of race, slavery, and freedom. I'm grateful to all of my teachers, especially my hometown, for showing me the complexity and diversity of American history, for exposing its contested meanings and its enduring relevance to us all. QuotesBy Christina Snyder
were African Americans. Captivity, not slavery, belonged to Indian tribes, and they targeted white women. But
bondage cannot be so neatly confined. In 1725, near what is now Natchez, Mississippi, Tattooed Serpent's nameless
Indian servant died not merely because he was loyal, but because he was a slave. In life, the head servant
contributed labor and prestige to his master's household; in death, he confirmed the social order that privileged
elites like Tattooed Serpent. Captivity and its most exploitive form-slavery-was indigenous to North America, it
was widespread, and it took many forms. From Tattooed Serpent's slave to indentured servants in colonial Philadelphia
to Apache women sold in the mission of San Antonio, the unfree were everywhere." --
Christina Snyder in "Slavery in Indian Country The Changing Face of Captivity in Early America"
About Christina Snyder |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor of History, University of Virginia, 2007- present
Personal AnecdoteIn 2006 I was starting my first job as a lecturer at UC Berkeley when the technology office phoned up and asked if I would like to podcast my course "Introduction to United States History Since 1865." I didn't even have an iPod, but I said "yes" without thinking much about it, thus launching the most unexpected and rewarding aspect of my career as a historian. Six months later, my lectures were up on iTunes and had been downloaded nearly 300,000 times. My inbox was bursting with emails from enthusiastic history students around the world. Accustomed to the private sanctuary of my books and my study, I panicked. It felt as though I had lost some cherished measure of privacy, and I wanted the lectures taken down immediately. But then I paused and began to reflect on my goals and values as a historian. I had spent years of advanced study gathering knowledge - was this now to be shared only with specialists in my field? I had always believed historians should seek a broader audience, and now I was living that vision. As a Ph.D. student I had benefited from the intellectual vitality and openness of a public university, and my lectures were one small way to further the Berkeley legacy. Instead of taking the lectures down, I decided to create a website for podcasters and began corresponding regularly with my listeners. Since then, the sense of speaking to a larger audience has shaped and strengthened all of my scholarship. Podcasting helped me craft my first book, Goddess of the Market: Ayn Rand and the American Right, so that it appealed to both academics and general readers. Engaging with the public has deepened my commitment to educational equity and convinced me that there need not be a firewall between professional and popular history. I have learned that even from the ivory tower, our profession can still foster and connect with the ongoing human search for meaning, story, and a shared past. Though I may be an accidental podcaster, I have become and hope to remain a deliberate historian. QuotesBy Jennifer Burns
the heart of an intellectual mystery story. Though Rand's legend was well established among both her fans and
enemies, there was little scholarly work about her life and career. I was the first historian to work in her
personal papers, and thus it was essential to document her life with archival evidence. Then came the challenge
of fitting Rand into the evolving ideological landscape of the American right, which historians were just
beginning to chart. The final step was crafting an analytic narrative that would demystify Rand yet retain the
tension and sense of discovery that animated my years of detective work. --
Jennifer Burns about "Goddess of the Market: Ayn Rand and the American Right"
Goddess of the Market focuses on Rand's contributions as a political philosopher, for it is here that she has exerted her greatest influence. Rand's Romantic Realism has not changed American literature, nor has Objectivism penetrated far into the philosophy profession. She does however, remain a veritable institution within the American right. Atlas Shrugged is still devoured by eager young conservatives, cited by political candidates, and promoted by corporate tycoons. Critics who dismiss Rand as a shallow thinker appealing only to adolescents miss her significance altogether. For over a half a century Rand has been the ultimate gateway drug to life on the right. The story of Ayn Rand is also the story of libertarianism, conservatism, Objectivism, and the three schools of thought that intersected more prominently with her life. - Jennifer Burns in "Goddess of the Market: Ayn Rand and the American Right" About Jennifer Burns "I loved the material presented in this class, it gave me a clearer perspective of todays world. This is really a worthwhile and interesting class."... "GREAT course! I learned so much from Professor Burns and she was one of the most effective and efficient lecturers I have had thus far. Her lectures are very easy to follow and she gives a great synopsis of historical events. LOVED this course." "Listening to Prof. Burns lecture, it's obviously how passionate she is about the subject matter. She's extremely knowledgeable about the subject matter and lectures were neatly organized in an easy-to-follow manner. She did an excellent job of looking at all aspects of events that have (comparatively) occurred so recently so that we could view them in proper historical context."... "She was an excellent lecturer and I could tell she cared about the students."... "This was by far my favorite class at UVA."... "I am a history major, and this was one of the best history classes I have taken here. Professor Burns is an excellent lecturer, the readings were fascinating, and the workload was challenging but manageable."... "Burns is an AMAZING lecturer; very organized, very lively, very articulate. Overall, extremely effective."... "Professor Jennifer Burns is wonderful. It would be a huge mistake not to tenure this brilliant, approachable, unbelievably articulate woman. Her classes were always fascinating, and she has an ability to tie everything together. I can't stress enough how much I admire her ability to articulate not only the history, but the circumstances combining that shaped the events we studied. SHE IS AN INCREDIBLE TEACHER. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TENURE HER SO I CAN TAKE MORE OF HER CLASSES! I almost want to give her a round of applause after each class, and I am not exaggerating."... "Fantastic and well-organized coverage of the material. Readings were well chosen, supplemented the lecture and added depth to the course. Very dynamic professor." -- Undergraduate Student Comments "Dr. Burns was very willing to allow me to use a topic related to my dissertation for my papers in this class. This was extremely helpful for me. Thanks for your patience and help!"... "I found Prof. Burns to be an excellent Professor, and am sure she will teach many great courses in the future, and be a real asset to the department." - Great class - got a lot out of it. -- Grad Student Comments |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Senior University Lecturer in History, and Fellow of Clare College, Cambridge University
Personal AnecdoteI was twenty-five years old in the spring of 1999, and just in the throes of my first intensive research trip to the United States. I was writing a dissertation on McGeorge Bundy, National Security Adviser to Kennedy and Johnson, and his role in the origins of America's war in Vietnam. This trip was to be an extended reconnaissance mission to scope out archives in Washington, New York, Boston/Cambridge, and Austin, and lay the groundwork for a full year of research in 1999-2000. I had also lined up several interviews with many of Bundy's former colleagues. Unlike many students of the war, I had no personal connection to Vietnam. As a Canadian born after U.S. troops withdrew in the spring of 1973, the war was a chapter in history rather than an episode from my own life. My parents had attended a protest or two in Toronto, but they were not activists, and Vietnam had never really been a part of their lives. I became fascinated by Vietnam for purely intellectual reasons, especially after reading David Halberstam's classic The Best and the Brightest. So I was yet unacquainted with the raw emotional power the war still held over generations of Americans. One of my interviewees was Robert S. McNamara, the former Secretary of Defense and probably the best-known Vietnam policymaker. After decades of silence on the subject since leaving the Pentagon in 1968, McNamara had only recently begun granting interviews on Vietnam. In 1995, he published his memoir of the war, In Retrospect, which attracted a good deal of praise but also a firestorm of criticism. McNamara not only possessed a formidable intellect, he had also earned a reputation as a fearsome interviewee who would storm out of the room if he felt the questions-or the questioner-were political, moralistic, or just plain stupid. Despite In Retrospect-or probably because of it-McNamara was still extraordinarily sensitive about Vietnam. Indeed, I was surprised he had agreed to my interview request in the first place. Needless to say, I was extremely nervous. We met in his large, book-lined office in Washington. To break the ice, I began with what I thought was a softball. I pulled out a document I'd photocopied a few weeks before at the LBJ Library in Austin, a 1965 memo to LBJ outlining Bundy and McNamara's reasons for advocating military escalation. I asked him to take me back to 1965 and explain the pressures they faced. To follow up, I had a series of tougher questions about why he and Bundy had not only supported escalation despite evidence-already mounting in early 1965-that it likely wouldn't work, but also why they had so vigorously marginalized and discredited the prescient dissenters within the Kennedy and Johnson administrations. Brandishing the memo, I asked my question. McNamara looked at me blankly, and then down at the piece of paper in my hand. Narrowing his eyes, he fixed his gaze upon me again and blurted out, "Well, just read the damn thing! You're a smart guy, you can obviously read, so just read it for yourself!" I was stunned by the rawness of his anger. I didn't know how to respond, and his comments hovered over us in the awkward silence. But he hadn't asked me to leave, and so I meekly suggested that it was perhaps best if I moved on to the next question. "Yes, I think you should," he replied tersely, and we spoke for another half-hour. He relaxed a bit, as did I. But I never did ask my tough questions about the suppression on internal dissent (though they ended up forming the analytical core of my dissertation). I did, however, receive an invaluable lesson in Vietnam's enduring resonance. QuotesBy Andrew Preston a difficult war in pursuit of murky aims, but they also did not want to risk the domestic and international
consequences that seemed likely to follow disengagement. At this point Bundy and the NSC staff enter the story,
and it is the president's uncertainty that makes them so important. Unlike their chief executive, they were rarely
unsure. Their strong advice, their skill in promoting it, their bureaucratic dexterity, and their professional
intimacy with the president enabled them to skew the internal debate over Vietnam in their favor. This book, then,
is both a bureaucratic history of the changes in presidential decision making and a diplomatic history of the
origins of the Vietnam War. It is a story with two inseparable themes: the acquisition and consolidation of power,
and how that power was then used.
-- Andrew Preston in "The War Council: McGeorge Bundy, the NSC, and Vietnam"
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006)
About Andrew Preston Reviews of The War Council: McGeorge Bundy, the NSC, and VietnamReviews of Nixon in the World American Foreign Relations, 1969-1977 Edited by Fredrik Logevall and Andrew Preston |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor, Department of History, University of Colorado, Denver, Fall, 2007-present
Personal AnecdoteIn less than a week, I was set to give my first-ever conference paper, before the annual meeting of the American Society for Environmental History. A very generous friend who was already out of graduate school and teaching had made room for me on a panel devoted to exploring the implications of Richard White's important 1994 essay, "'Are You an Environmentalist, or Do You Work for a Living?'" The conference organizers had slated the session for a room that sat at least a hundred, not because anyone wanted to hear a Ph.D. candidate from Wisconsin blather on about coal-mine explosions, but instead because my fellow panelists were fast making names for themselves. More important still, Richard White had kindly agreed to comment on the papers. White's "Are You an Environmentalist" had grabbed me the first time I read it (it has yet to let me go). I found myself deeply persuaded by White's central claim: that environmental historians can learn a lot by taking seriously work and those who perform it. The piece taught me the best kind of truth--a simple truth of seemingly boundless explanatory power: Labor, White reminds us, has always encompassed many of the core practices through which human beings have arrived at a knowledge of nature. I don't know what they put in the Koolaid that I imbibed in seminar at Wisconsin, but like most graduate students there and elsewhere, my way of paying homage to the profound influence White's essay had had upon me (and, for that matter, the impact that his whole corpus of scholarship had made upon me since I first encountered The Middle Ground as an undergraduate) was to lash out with that peculiar brand of Oedipal rage that combines the worst aspects of adolescent impudence and twenty-something earnestness. In the months leading up to the ASEH, I must have read "Are You an Environmentalist" at least six times, each time slicing and dicing the essay with my critical knives sharpened to a razor's edge. My near-compulsive re-reading had filled me with unwarranted confidence. I told myself that I had found every weakness, every contradiction, every leap of logic, every hole in White's argument. I could not wait to tell the assembled lights of my discipline about all the things White had gotten wrong. I envisioned myself delivering a devastating critique; I imagined the verbal combat that would ensue as White, one of the greatest historians of his generation in my estimation (a conviction that I hold even more strongly today) devoted his comment to parrying my attack. Those who have seen Richard White engage in debate will understand why this thought was not entirely comforting. At the first historical conference I had ever attended, in fact, I had watched White pretty much eviscerate two junior scholars when they tried a stunt very similar to the one I was plotting. I attempted with little success to maintain my confidence. I told myself that I was smarter than the pair I had seen White tear up. Besides, my critique was as persuasive and elegant as theirs had been tendentious and awkward. Doubt, thank goodness, remained. I sent my advisor, Bill Cronon, a draft of the diatribe I had assembled. Bill gave me very clear and direct advice: Don't be an idiot. File the paper away and write a new one that focused instead on presenting my own research findings. Part of me evidently had a death wish and welcomed the heady risk of committing career suicide at such an early stage. That part of me felt censored by Bill and frustrated at the ways in which professionalism seemed to constrain intellectual exchange within the academy. But overwhelming the compulsions seeking to push me to the edge were cooler, more cautious impulses. And so I pulled back to deliver an altogether safer paper. Bill had averted my juvenile plan. In the process, he spared Richard White the trouble of deciding whether to give me the dressing-down that I deserved, or to look graciously away from my impertinence. If one of my own students were to concoct a similar stunt, I would undoubtedly provide the same advice. For all this, though, I can't help feeling a little uncomfortable with the hard lessons this incident imparted-that our profession is inextricably hierarchical in nature, that some historians are simply smarter and more highly-skilled than others, that what I can do and how I can do it depends at least to some extent on how well I know and keep to my place. With apologies to Borges, I had always imagined academe as a sort of paradise. This was an unusually outrageous delusion on my part; as an academic brat, tales of departmental infighting, administrative folly, and student futility were nightly topics of conversation at the family dinner table. Choosing to hold my fire against Richard White turned out to be a critical first step in my discovery that the historical discipline can offer no real place of grace, no true escape, from the world as it is--not a happy discovery, I know, but perhaps a necessary one. QuotesBy Thomas G. Andrews to achieve basic freedoms. Even though the miners suffered a crushing defeat, the blood sacrifices of Ludlow's
martyrs prompted Rockefeller and his fellow capitalists to mend their ways and set American business on the path
toward today's more enlightened labor relations. A Works Project Administration guidebook summarized this
interpretation. Ludlow, New Deal authors argued, "aroused public opinion and brought about improvement of working
conditions and civil liberties in the coal camps." Like most tales of the bad old days, such stories chart a
narrative of progress. From this starting point, it becomes simply a matter of emphasis and tone to elicit either
complacence or alarm or lest we go back to the dark ages when big business reigned supreme and government forces
served as the mailed fist of concentrated capital. --
Thomas Andrews in "Killing for Coal America's Deadliest Labor War"
I'm a Colorado native, but I never knew anything about Ludlow until I was in graduate school. When I first learned about the massacre, I was appalled that such killing had occurred and I was drawn to the opportunity it provided to bring together a much bigger set of stories: about the deep-seated dependence of westerners on fossil fuels, about the coal mines that generated so much conflict in southern Colorado, and about the men, women, and children who came from around the world to work in and around the mines. Receiving the Bancroft is the greatest validation I could have ever imagined." -- Thomas Andrews on winning the Bancroft Prize for "Killing for Coal America's Deadliest Labor War" About Thomas G. Andrews |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor of History, University of California, Berkeley
Personal AnecdoteEarlier this year, I found myself in San Francisco General Hospital after an athletic accident shattered my left acetabulum. An immobile week in hospital gave me plenty of time to mull my first surgical experience and to reflect on the choices that had brought me here: choices that -- by the happenstance that looks in retrospect like fate -- had carried me to a fast and risky stretch of sidewalk in Berkeley. If truth be told, my doctors intimidated me. Here they were, a group of experts whose competencies complemented each other perfectly: from the nurses and radiologists to the anesthesiologist and the orthopedic surgeon who specialized in pelvic fractures. As my fears about surgery mellowed in the glow of their expertise, I wondered what I -- a putative knowledge professional myself -- had accomplished by comparison? Did my credentials -- a PhD in international history -- accredit me as an expert on a par with these men and women? Did I, by comparison with them, know anything that really mattered? As I pondered, I came to the conclusion that historians may be somewhat anomalous among the ranks of the gowned and capped. In my own work at least, I am more a generalist than specialist, and I imagine that the same could be said about many of us. By comparison with the surgeon or the scientist, the historian knows a little about a lot of things; knowledge in breadth, not in depth, is our stock in trade. But this, I concluded, can serve a valuable purpose. What I have tried to do in my own work, I suppose, is to think about how the pieces of the past might constitute larger frameworks of causation and meaning. In my book manuscript, for example, I ask how the acceleration of globalization contributed to both an apparent crisis of American power in the 1970s and to its surprising revival thereafter. This question has drawn me into a variety of specialist topics, ranging from monetary economics to human rights law. I could not claim real expertise in any of them -- not by the standards of the economist or the lawyer. What I have tried to do as a historian is to learn enough to be able to relate the particular to the general, to see the fragments as part of a larger whole. This, I think, may be the real genius of our profession. The past, especially the recent past, is too vast to permit scholars to acquire a scientific understanding of it. What we do instead is to become adept at navigating its patterns, at distilling understanding from complexity. This may make historians somewhat anomalous in a knowledge economy in which specialization remains the order of the day. (For proof of this, spend a week in the hospital.) Yet it may be that the historian's willingness to synthesize complexity and to think broadly distinguishes us in useful ways from our colleagues in medicine and the sciences. After all, conversation in the public square is too often denuded of context, complexity, and all sense of possible consequences. The historian's sensibility may have value even outside of the academy, as a corrective to the pervasive short-termism that marks our times and our politics. I certainly hope so, although I'll be sticking with the medical specialists for my health care! QuotesBy Daniel J. Sargent "In view of the indifference with which American policy makers engaged globalization in the 1970s, its consequences for the United States in the decades that followed would be serendipitous. As it had in the last third of the nineteenth century, globalization in the late twentieth century fostered a nurturing international environment for the United States. Thanks to expanding global capital markets, the U.S. in the 1980s would be able to draw on the savings of foreigners to sustain its deficits and defense expenditures. The emergence of human rights as an urgent issue reinvigorated America's ideological mission in the Cold War. And if the West experienced the birth pangs of globalization in the 1970s, the consequences for the Eastern Bloc (excepting China) in the 1980s would be catastrophic. Globalization played to American strengths. With their orientation towards limited government and entrepreneurial capitalism, their belief in the universal applicability of their culture and values, and their stubborn conviction in human freedom as history's meta-story, Americans were uniquely positioned to become the hub of an interdependent world-civilization. The Soviet Union, by contrast, could hardly have been worse equipped to compete in an integrating world. If the USSR had been a powerful adversary in an age of steel, industrial planning, and workers' solidarity, it could not easily adapt to a world of microprocessors, information capitalism, and Amnesty International. Indeed, Mikhail Gorbachev's efforts in the 1980s to drag the Soviet system out of isolation and towards participation in an interdependent world led ultimately to the system's collapse. The Cold War's endgame - and the United States' emergence as the world's sole superpower - thus need to be understood in terms of the changes that globalization wrought upon the international system in the late twentieth century." -- Daniel J. Sargent in "A Superpower Transformed: Globalization and the Crisis of American Foreign Policy in the 1970s" (Oxford University Press: Forthcoming).About Daniel J. Sargent
attention away from the familiar narrative and instead places the decade in a new perspective that allows us to
evaluate longer-term trends, including the evolution of global society, the dynamics of the international economy,
the breakup of colonial empires, the impact of popular culture, and the declining realm for autonomous national
choices. This superb work will be greeted with enthusiasm." --
Melvyn P. Leffler, author of "For the Soul of Mankind: The United States, the Soviet Union, and the Cold War""Professor Sargent is extremely helpful and knowledgeable about U.S. foreign policy.... He is fair and does not force his point of view on the students. He knows the subject very well so you can go to him for any question."... "Intelligent, kind, helpful and very informative. Makes a concerted effort to meet the needs of his students, which makes the class fairly easy. Very accessible and easy to talk to in office hours. He's definitely an expert in international and global history. I highly recommed him to history majors.".... -- Anonymous Students |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor of History and Women's Studies, University of Georgia, Athens, GA Personal AnecdoteMy first act of research for To Serve God and Wal-Mart was shoveling fossilized chicken droppings out of a defunct coop on a goat farm in Northwest Arkansas. The farm's owners, friends of my favorite agrarian Jim Scott, evidently took my willingness to pick up a shovel as a character reference, and lost no time making me feel at home in Wal-Mart's backyard. Since we have no Freedom of Information Act for the state-supported institutions we somewhat inaccurately call private corporations, the research could only go so far by relying on formal archives. It was only through the generosity of my hosts in the Ozarks-the original Wal-Mart Country--that I was able to learn to explore how "Wal-Martism" might fill the conceptual hole in the middle of "post-Fordism." If the Detroit auto industry had set the pattern for the first half of the twentieth century-in spatial organization, labor arrangements, finance, family formation, ideology, immigration, art-then surely its successor was a likely site for understanding major developments of the post-war years. When Wal-Mart beat out Exxon-Mobil to become the world's largest company in 2002, what we knew that the first service company to make it to the top of the Fortune 400 was what astute business journalists like Bob Ortega had been telling us since the early 1990s: Wal-Mart had remade retail by achieving such market dominance that it could dictate its terms to the suppliers rather than the other way around. At the fringes of this narrative were the voices of historic preservationists and organized labor, finally roused by the Arkansas company's disruptive penetration of Vermont, Chicago, and Southern California. The reigning questions about the new top multinational were often variations on "Wow--how did Wal-Mart do it?" or "Is Wal-Mart good for America?" While my 2002 dissertation prospectus referenced this literature, though, it also included chapter proposals that ultimately allowed me to explore a question I found much more interesting, the one that Thomas Frank revived from the original Populist mobilization: "What's the matter with Kansas?" -understood now as "Why have Americans on the losing end of the deregulated, off-shored service economy enabled it politically for more than a generation?" To Serve God and Wal-Mart is therefore not so much a book about Wal-Mart as an account of the anointing of free enterprise, the unlikely legitimation of neoliberal economics through evangelical religion. It tells this story through the twinned biographies of the world's largest company and the ideological apparatus it nurtured. It argues that this specific experience of mass service work transformed economic common sense and infused it with evangelical values at precisely the moment that federal redistribution catapulted the Sun Belt to its position of decisive influence within the nation. That moment of waxing power for the old agricultural periphery coincided with American-led economic integration, so that the ethos of Christian free enterprise-the odd pairing of Jerry Falwell and Milton Friedman, so to speak-gave late twentieth-century globalization some of its most distinctive characteristics. Ultimately I join writers like Janet Jakobsen, Ann Pellegrini, Lisa Duggan, Tanya Erzen, and Linda Kintz in arguing that the Left's frustration with the "culture wars" misreads the necessary connection between conservative sexual mores and the post-1973 economy that Wal-Mart ultimately dominated. That I got to learn about this complex relationship while living in the Ozarks, knee-deep in chicken droppings, was my good fortune. QuotesBy Bethany Moreton
helped shape American-led globalization itself. The postindustrial society grew from a specific regional history
an the heritage of Populism. It was built in the aisles and break rooms of Southern discount stores, in small-group
Bible study and vast Sunday-morning worship services. It spread through the marketing classes and mission trips of
Christian colleges, through student business clubs and service projects. Although free-market economic theories
captured the hearts and minds of elite policymakers in the later twentieth century, the animatig spirit of
Christian free enterprise shaped the outcome. The Wal-Mart Moms understood better than their critics: Family
values are an indispensable element of the global service economy, not a distraction from it."
--
Bethany Moreton in "To Serve God and Wal-Mart: The Making of Christian Free Enterprise"
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009)
About Bethany Moreton "Dr. Moreton has the unique ability to present material in a highly intellectual way that everyone can grasp."... "Moreton has the power to comfortably accomodate, yet critically challenge all students. Her lectures are my favorite; they are always well-prepared, brilliantly articulated, intellectually stimulating, and very exciting. She also facilitates powerful discussions among students; she asks the right questions."... "I always leave Dr. Moreton's classes as a better writer than I was before. Her deep discussions into the core of the subject matter encourage and empower students to argue a thoroughly well-written paper. Dr. Moreton offers extensive (positive) criticism and help to improve any student's writing. Also, she challenges me on a greater intellectual level than any other professor."... "Dr. Moreton's material for the class was the most challenging material I have come across in both of my fields of study. Dr. Moreton forced me to think of things that in the past I ran from and for that I am FOREVER grateful to Dr. Moreton. Dr. Moreton's intelligence, passion, patience, and high standards for student performance EMBOLDENED my ability to take on intellectual challenges that first seem impossible."... "Dr. Moreton is one of the most inspirational instructors that I have had at the University. Her passion for her students and unlimited knowledge provided for an amazing classroom environment."... "This class was one of the few at UGA that gave me not only new information or facts, but new concepts." - -- Anonymous Students |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Associate Professor of History,
J.W. McConnell Family Foundation Chair in American Studies, Université de Montréal.
Personal AnecdoteMy grandfather on my mother's side, Félix-Paul Codaccioni, was an historian. He taught in high schools in France for many years and then, when he completed his monumental thèse d'état, a two-volume work on the working class of Lille, an industrial city in the north of France where he had settled with his family, he began teaching at the University. For my grandfather, as for many Corsicans starting with his own father, education was road out of the grinding poverty of the rural peasantry; educational achievement was probably the single most important value for him. I grew up in the United States and only saw my grandfather every other year, when the family went to Corsica on vacation. (As a teacher, he was able to spend the summers in his ancestral home in a small village in the mountains there). No doubt misinterpreting my awkward shyness as intellectual profundity, he imagined I was interested in school and so he would, on occasion, try to mentor me. I have vivid memories of the two of us in the middle of the afternoon on the house's balcony, me sitting on an uncomfortable chair facing my grandfather, my eyes stinging from the blinding white sun, sweating and miserable, as he droned on and on about Hegel's dialectic-thèse, antithèse, synthèse… thèse, antithèse, synthèse-while I listened despondently to the other kids playing in the village, blissfully unaware of nineteenth-century German philosophy. I wish I could say it was he who inspired me to become an historian, but I think the truth is probably more complicated. Other, more powerful and direct influences intervened in college and graduate school to shape my professional choices and intellectual interests. What is strangely true, however, is that I seem to have lived the life that he imagined for himself. My grandfather always dreamed of moving to Canada. I have no idea why. Certainly he wasn't enamored of the cold. I think it must have been the scale that caught his imagination: of the forests and mountains and lakes and rivers, and the great Saint Laurent in particular, all of it so different from the smallness and cramped life of postwar Europe in general and of arid Corsica in particular. My grandmother wouldn't hear of moving to Canada, however, and so they never got further than the north of France. I, on the other hand, not only became a university professor of history, but went on to get a job teaching in French in Québec: exactly the life my grandfather would have chosen had if he had been able to follow through on his dreams. It is a curious fate for me; my education was in English in big-named American universities, and like most Americans I never gave Canada the slightest though-until I got a job and moved there. Historians as much as anyone else lack perspicacity when the benefits of distance and hindsight are absent, so I won't even try to speculate about how it is that, without any conscious intent whatsoever, I fulfilled my grandfather's dream. QuotesBy François Furstenberg
Martha ultimately took it upon herself to free her husband's
slaves early: some two years before her own death. But it was not
humanitarian reasons that drove this early emancipation, the existing
evidence suggests she disapproved of freeing slaves, nor was it from the
expense or difficulty involved in supporting² the slaves. It was out of
fear. It was found necessary, reported Martha¹s grandson, to free the
slaves for prudential reasons. Hidden in this circumlocution was the fact
that George;s deathbed emancipation had put Martha¹s life in jeopardy. As
she and the slaves all recognized, the longer she lived, the longer their
bondage extended. "In the state in which they were left by the General,"
wrote Adams, "she did not feel as tho her Life was safe in their Hands, may
of the [the slaves] would be told that it was [in] their interest to get rid
of her." She therefore was advised to set them free at the close of the year.
Martha Washington, first First Lady, wife of the father of the nation, lived her last days among hundreds of enslaved people she called family, people she believed would try to kill her. -- François Furstenberg in "In the Name of the Father: Washington's Legacy, Slavery, and the Making of a Nation" About François Furstenberg |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Associate Professor of History, University of California, Santa Barbara and
Co-Director of Indigenous Studies Minor
Personal AnecdoteThis happened many times in 2006 and 2007: It is 2 AM, and I'm suddenly wide awake. I've had less than an hour of sleep, but the adrenaline jolt has eliminated any chance of getting more. I know the cause of my unwelcome alertness: panic. The writing is too slow, the tenure deadline is too soon, my kids are growing up too fast, and my insomnia is worse than ever. I suppress the urge to howl in frustration, and instead get dressed and leave the house. I walk the half-mile to the office, convinced that the night is ruined-as is the following day, which will find me exhausted and unable to think or write. I cling to the idea that if I get down just one half-decent sentence tonight, surely it must be better than nothing. I ended up staying in the office for twenty hours, writing more than I had managed in weeks. I couldn't count on this pattern, but it happened often enough for me to finish the book and become a professional historian. I found writing my first book-a book that I knew would be controversial-a dreadful and debilitating task, and I don't think I would have made it without those moments when expectations and self-criticism were temporarily suspended. Most of the thinking and conceptualizing happened while I was busy with other things. They still do. I sleep better these nights, but getting anything worthwhile on paper still requires mind tricks; insights only come when I'm preoccupied with things-running, hanging out with the kids, cleaning the house-that seemingly have nothing to do with the job. This, of course, is commonplace. Anyone who has tried to write on a sustained basis knows the workings of the subconscious. And they know that for mind tricks to work, they must catch one by surprise; they must be-or at least feel-thoroughly accidental. One can't force them, or even be aware of them. One can only appreciate them in hindsight. Like almost all my friends in academia, I wrote my first book slightly scared and enormously annoyed, thinking that there was little in the way of method to my madness. I'm glad that I didn't realize at the time that I did have a method, all along. QuotesBy Pekka Hämäläinen
their dominance. Their overwhelming military force, so evident in their terror-inspiring mounted guerrilla
attacks, would have allowed them to destroy many New Mexico and Texas settlements and drive most of the colonists
out of their borders. Yet they never adopted such a policy of expulsion, preferring instead to have their borders
lined with formally autonomous but economically subservient and dependent outposts that served as economic access
points into the vast resources of the Spanish empire.
The Comanches, then, were an imperial power with a difference: their aim was not to conquer and colonize, but to coexist, control, and exploit. Whereas more traditional imperial powers ruled by making things rigid and predictable, Comanches ruled by keeping them fluid and malleable. This informal, almost ambiguous nature of Comanches' politics not only makes their empire difficult to define; it sometimes makes it difficult to see. New Mexico and Texas existed side by side with Comanchería throughout the colonial era, and though often suffering under Comanche pressure, the twin colonies endured, allowing Spain to claim sweeping imperial command over the Southwest. Yet when examined closely, Spain's uncompromised imperial presence in the Southwest becomes a fiction that existed only in Spanish minds and on European maps, for Comanches controlled a large portion of those material things that could be controlled in New Mexico and Texas. The idea of land as a form of private, revenue-producing property was absent in Comanche culture, and livestock and slaves in a sense took the place of landed private property. This basic observation has enormous repercussions on how we should see the relationship between the Comanches and colonists. When Comanches subjected Texas and New Mexico to systematic raiding of horses, mules, and captives, draining wide sectors of those productive resources, they in effect turned the colonies into imperial possessions. That Spanish Texas and New Mexico remained unconquered by Comanches is not a historical fact; it is a matter of perspective. -- Pekka Hamalainen in "The Comanche Empire" pp. 4-5. About Pekka Hämäläinen |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Associate Professor and Verlin and Howard Kruse '52 Founders Professor and the Director of Programming, Scowcroft
Institute of International Affairs at the Bush School of Texas A&M University.
Personal AnecdoteI did not set out to write my first book. At least, I did not set out to write the book that finally appeared a decade after I began graduate school. The overarching topic never changed. It remained from beginning to end a study of Anglo-American diplomatic competition for control of the vital aerospace marketplace after World War II. The topic never changed. But the book itself changed wholly, completely, and unexpectedly. I like to think for the better. It began, as did I in many ways, as a good example of Wisconsin new-left revisionism. Not only was a I trained by disciples of this powerful strain of diplomatic history, as an undergraduate by Walt LaFeber and in graduate school by Tom McCormick, but revisionism's ingrained bias towards economic considerations and concerted policymaking by elite interests fit well my own red-diaper upbringing. Seminars and books that concluded, to crudely paint with a broad brush, that moneyed interests helped dictate Washington's international priorities simply made intuitive sense following years of similar intergenerational invectives from the host of New York Jewish socialists who gathered around the family dinner table (even after we moved to Nebraska). My dissertation proposal fit this model. Having arrived in Madison-and really, where else would a would-be leftist historian go for grad school?-determined to study what I termed the local impact of diplomacy, that is the measurable human, social, and economic costs and benefits of foreign policy upon communities, I quickly chose Anglo-American aviation diplomacy as my broad topic. Planes during the Cold War were built largely in single sites, thus ensuring that one could quickly discern the effects of plane sales, or their dearth, on the well-being of cities from Seattle to Farnborough. It had to be a topic politically-sexy enough to have garnered the attention of Prime Ministers and Presidents, thus ensuring that diplomacy and sales interacted and produced an extant documentary record. Finally, it had to be an Anglo-American study as well, because good diplomatic work of the era was invariably comparative and transnational, and having studied in England as and undergrad I was determined to get back as quick as possible. I thus wrote what I thought to be a rather eloquent dissertation proposal befitting the best of what I understood to be the Wisconsin tradition. This would be a story of economic competition for markets, I posited. It would show British and American diplomats battling throughout the world to secure sales for their domestic producers, thereby ensuring prosperity at home and influence abroad. Policymakers would invariably ensure that trade followed the flag, I expected to show. And if their Special Relationship took a beating for the sake of national sales, well this was exactly the type of economic primacy trumping allied solidarity I expected to find once I hit the archives. The dissertation proposal proved a beautifully constructed piece of tripe. I was not in England 48 hours, immersed in the documents for the second day of an expected year-long cruise through the archives, when I realized I had the story entirely wrong. This was not a tale of export promotion, the records revealed. It was instead one of export-constraint. The story of Anglo-American aviation diplomacy was not a tale of diplomats fighting to open markets for their own producers. It was instead a saga of policymakers vainly struggling to hold back the tide of eager salespeople, whose lust for exports paid little concern for the potential loss of strategically valuable aviation technologies to communist foes. It was a also, I ultimately discovered, a tale of divergent and contradictory British and American strategies for waging and winning the Cold War, one in which strategic concerns trumped economic considerations; though I first had to accept how wrong I'd originally been before I could see this story emerge. In short, I had it wrong. I won't say the experience of watching my expectations dashed and then reborn destroyed my revisionist leanings in one fell swoop, because in truth these had already begun to both decline in zeal in favor of a (hopefully) more complex worldview colored by different and even contradictory theories of analysis. At the least, it taught a valuable lesson: history is not always what we expect, but more often what we discover. First, however, one has to be willing to look. And to change one's mind, no matter how the final product is received around the dinner table. QuotesBy Jeffrey A. Engel At the start of the year, the globe's strategic map looked much like it had since the end of World War II. A year later, communism would be dead in Eastern Europe and dying in the Soviet Union itself. China would be once more in the grip of hard-liners wary of reform, and once more on the precipice of isolation. Washington would be looking to capitalize on its Cold War victory. Europe would soon by rejoined. The future-our twenty-first century present-would be at hand. And no one had seen it coming. -- Jeffrey Engel in "The Fall of the Berlin Wall: The Revolutionary Legacy of 1989" (Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 1. battles fought by British and American officials over the proper maintenance of the international system following
the horrors of World War II, and ultimately of their contest to see which nation would lead the Western crusade
against global Communism during the ensuing Cold War. The contest would determine which nation was best equipped
to lead the world in its long search for stability, peace, and prosperity in the second half of the twentieth
century. The competitors were not always in conflict. Rarely have two allies worked more closely than the United
States and the United Kingdom, bonded by a common language, political tradition, and the burdens of combating
common enemies. Yet with a fervor rarely appreciated owing to their frequent and public displays of intimacy,
behind closed doors they fought bitterly-not only for their different visions of their "Special Relationship,"
in which the two nations famously operated as a tighter partnership than either capital enjoyed with any other
nation, but more dramatically for their different visions of the future." --
Jeffrey Engel in "Cold War at 30,000 Feet: The Anglo-American Fight for Aviation Supremacy"
(Harvard University Press, 2007), p. 1.
About Jeffrey A. Engel |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor, Department of History,
Co-Chair, Program in Asian and Asian American Studies,
Baruch College, City University of New York.
Personal AnecdoteAlthough born in Los Angeles, I grew up in Auburn, a small town about forty-five minutes outside of Sacramento. At the time, Auburn's boosters played up its status as an old Gold Rush hub to lure tourists; as I grew older, however, I realized that the town also possessed what in those days was a largely unexplored Asian American past. I caught an occasional glimpse in the Shanghai Bar in Old Town, the tumbledown shacks that longtime residents still referred to as the "Chinese section," or a stack of the town's old high school yearbooks, where I discovered that until 1942, one-third of the student body of the now almost all-white school had been Japanese American. Yet it took me many years to explore this past any further. Our high school textbooks didn't discuss Asian American history, nor did Yale offer any courses in the subject when I was a student there. During my undergrad years I tried to remedy what I felt was my general provinciality and weak educational background by taking courses on every area of the world except the US. In the process, I became particularly fascinated with modern China, studying everything from Chinese history to Chinese literature to the Chinese language itself. Desperate to actually visit China, I signed up with a program to teach English there after college, only to find myself placed at the last minute in a xenophobic town in Hubei Province. As the only white person and the only obvious foreigner in the city, I faced not only constant stares but actual harassment on a daily basis. People routinely came up to me and clapped in my face to see how I would react, children threw firecrackers and debris at me with the encouragement of adults, and even students from other departments in my college taunted me on campus. It was one of the most difficult experiences of my life, but at the same time, one of the most important. While I could never escape for a moment my status as an outsider, I had the opportunity to watch China in the midst of a wrenching industrial revolution. My time in Hubei and a subsequent stint in Hong Kong made me think about issues such as race, class, environmental degradation, and economic development in ways I had never considered before. They also inspired to me to apply to graduate school to study U.S. history while further exploring the Chinese past. The question I hear most often from students, friends, and family members is, "Why do you study that?" They're not referring to urban history or 20th century America, but to Asian American history. It's a question I've always struggled to answer satisfactorily, mostly because its racial subtext makes me self-conscious. I know, too, that historians often decide to study their own communities when they focus on fields such as gay and lesbian history, women's history, African American history, or similar subjects. I can't claim to be doing the same in my work, but I do think that my background is the reason I study Asian American history. And I believe that the importance of this field to the larger American story means that while I am not Asian American, Asian American history is my history too. QuotesBy Charlotte Brooks Asian Americans, Housing, and the Transformation of Urban California
About Charlotte Brooks "One of the best professors at Baruch. I took her for History which isn't even my focus, but I learned the most in this class out of the whole semester. She keeps all the lessons interesting. Coming to class was a pleasure for me."... "She is a great teacher!!! I learned a lot in her history class. I strongly recommend her..awesome!!!"... "Love her!Amazing professor!!! extremly helpful and crystal clear. Makes lectures interesting. "... "Great professor, really cares about students succeeding in her class, very enthusiatic and knowledgeable about subject."... "Excellent teacher. Really cares about students' learning the material and makes herself available for extra help."... "You couldnt ask for a better professor. Great person,passionate, interesting lectures, cool sense of humor. " -- Anonymous Students |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor, Harvard University, Kennedy School of Government.
Personal AnecdoteWhen I read or hear other people's accounts of how they wrote their dissertation or their first book-the sojourns in dusty but marvelous out-of-the-way archives, the fateful chance meetings with ousted despots in abandoned mineshafts, the luggage mistakenly switched with that of the shady foreign operative-I can't help but think of the recurring Seinfeld joke about "Rochelle, Rochelle", the film-turned-Broadway musical about "a young girl's strange, erotic journey from Milan to Minsk." In reality, at least in my experience, there's very little glamour or romance involved in getting a PhD in history. Yes, there is often a lot of travel involved, and anyone who spends an inordinate amount of time in airports and hotels is bound to have more than her share of misadventures. I am no exception. But the process of the PhD is in some ways nasty, brutish, and long-sometimes strange, yes, but not necessarily in a good way, and in any case rarely erotic. Still, I like to think I'm not a masochist, so it's reasonable to ask why I wound up walking that road. It wasn't at all obvious, and I can't claim to be following a calling I felt since I was a child. History was one of my worst subjects, my inability to memorize names and dates surpassed perhaps only by my inability to comprehend the most simple geometric axioms. I still recall the big day of the matriculation exam in history-as dictated by the high school curriculum in the frenetic Middle Eastern country where I spent most of my boyhood, we were tested on our knowledge of Second Temple-era Judea, and I bravely chose to answer the question about the differences in religious practices and beliefs between the Pharisees and the Sadducees. I wrote my response with some pride, pleased that I was actually able to remember all the priestly minutiae. It was only later that day that I realized in horror-though not with total surprise-that I had been absolutely correct about all the religious practices and beliefs, but had attributed those of the Pharisees to the Sadducees, and vice versa. I hoped against hope that the exam would be graded by an understanding soul who could appreciate that I had included all the relevant information, just the other way around, but no such luck was forthcoming. In all the time that's passed since then I'm still not sure I've mastered the elusive art of memorization, and I've certainly forgotten most of what I knew about Judea in 70AD. It wasn't until over a decade later that I decided on an academic career (long story), and even after I embarked on the road to becoming a professional historian I was sorely tempted on a few occasions to opt for alternate paths: during one lull in graduate school I considered returning to my previous life as a journalist, and during another-this one more sustained, a probable side effect of the distractions of living in New York and then Paris-I seriously contemplated diving headlong into the world of music. What kept me going in the discipline is, I think, something that I first grasped in college, listening to a talk by wizened scholar of medieval France, and to which I have returned in such moments of doubt: that history should not, cannot, be treated as a "subject", something separate from other domains of life, to be learned in isolation. Eric Hobsbawm was on to something (though maybe not for the right reasons) when he demanded that history not be treated as "merely one damned thing after another." What I try to convey to students as they begin to delve into the past is that history, contrary to what they may have thought or heard, is not a body of knowledge to be absorbed, but "a way of thinking", as Marc Bloch put it, about the world they live in. That may sound banal to those of us professionalized in the discipline, but I wish I realized that twenty years ago. I think that's where I (and my teachers, for that matter) went wrong in high school. Armed with that insight, I might have enjoyed history much more even then, been somewhat more adept with names and dates (though probably still not with those geometric axioms) and maybe even remembered-correctly!-what it was exactly that those pesky Pharisees and Sadducees did differently from each other. QuotesBy Moshik Temkin
I think all this reflects an uncertainty in how they are remembered. Sacco and Vanzetti do not have a clear place in our civic life or historical record. Part of the reason for this has to do with the fact that we still don't know-and never will know-whether they "did it." But in many ways, the Sacco-Vanzetti affair is still with us. Certainly the issues that animated it are very much alive. Americans today still do battle over the issue of immigration, and intolerance toward foreigners is still widespread, sometimes virulent, especially when times are hard. Europeans, Latin Americans, and other non-Americans are still concerned over, and in some cases outright hostile to, America's presence in the world, and the way Americans handle international politics. And then as now, Americans are still divided over what was called, in Sacco and Vanzetti's day, "foreign interference" in American affairs. Whether it is the death penalty, or the health care system, or how to deal with terrorism suspects, or even who should be elected U.S. president, non-Americans have and will continue to have opinions, because the United States is so powerful and what it does domestically reverberates externally. Many Americans bristle at this but many others welcome this. It depends on whether they see the United States as an entity separated in principle from the rest of the world, or as a genuine part of the world-a world in which Americans have a stake in the lives of non-Americans, and vice versa. This issue divided Americans when Sacco and Vanzetti were what one magazine called "the two most famous prisoners in the world," and it still divides Americans today. This, I believe, is the context in which the Sacco-Vanzetti affair took place. My book is not an attempt to end the discussion about Sacco and Vanzetti, or to provide a definitive account. My aim was to start a new conversation, one that would not be about guilt or innocence but rather about the Sacco-Vanzetti affair-its significance and place in history." -- -- Moshik Temkin in an interview with "Rorotoko" about his book "The Sacco-Vanzetti Affair: America on Trial" About Moshik Temkin |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor of History, Tulsa University.
Personal AnecdoteI first became interested in history hearing stories from my grandfather, Oscar Weinstein, who passed away last year at the age of 99 and had an incredible memory. Intellectually, my perspective was first shaped by a course that I took at Dawson College in Montreal on the so-called anti-psychiatrists - R.D. Laing and Erich Fromm - whose idea that mental illness was a social construct and a product of the pathologies and intolerance of society I found to be compelling. At McGill University, I took a course on crime and punishment which introduced me to radical theories of criminology and examined the social roots and construction of deviance in Western society. Then I read Noam Chomsky, whose work on state crime and terrorism was (and remains) highly illuminating, and Alfred W. McCoy's on the CIA's support for the global narcotics trade, which my own research on the topic confirmed to be right on the mark. My first book The Myth of the Addicted Army: Vietnam and the Modern War on Drugs draws on sociological theories about "moral panics" and the construction of deviance in examining the origins and growth of the modern drug war. I try and demonstrate how policy-makers and the media greatly exaggerated the scope and ravages of drug abuse in the army, creating a climate of hysteria over drugs which supplanted public concern about the war itself and resulted in the growth of repressive prohibition measures. The myth of the drug-addicted soldier took hold so widely in my view because it provided a convenient political scapegoat, which helped to deflect attention away from the carnage in Indochina, and to absolve of responsibility those responsible for perpetrating and expanding the war. The second half of the book analyzes the consequences of the War on Drugs, including its link to the growth of the carcerial state in the US and major human rights abuses internationally while at the same time failing to curb supply rates. Building off this work, I am currently completing a book on American international police training programs entitled Modernizing Repression. Adopting a comparative analysis, I chronicle how police programs have served as an important mechanism for expanding American power from the conquest of the Philippines at the turn of the 20th century through the 21st century occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq, and resulted in significant human rights violations. This book combines my interests in criminal justice, US foreign policy and covert operations and draws on many of the formative intellectual influences in my professional career and life. QuotesBy Jeremy Kuzmarov
inability to come to terms with the moral consequences of the Vietnam War. By reimagining their soldiers as victims
and the U.S. military defeat as a "tragedy," Americans were able to deflect responsibility for the massive
destruction and loss of life inflicted on the people of Southeast Asia and thus to avoid serious reconsideration
of the ideological principles that rationalized the American intervention. The silencing and demonizing of
dissenting voices, including antiwar GIs typecast as psychopathic junkies, aided in this process."
--
Jeremy Kuzmarov in "The Myth of the Addicted Army"
About Jeremy Kuzmarov Top Young Historians' profiles edited by Bonnie K. Goodman |
|
1st profile in our relaunch commencing "Top Young Historians: The Next 100" Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor of American Studies and Religious Studies, Yale University;
courtesy appointments in the Department of History and Yale Divinity School
Personal AnecdoteI found myself in his basement after several overeager e-mails and one short walk from campus. "There are the boxes," he said, apologizing for the appealing squalor. "Use whatever you can find." He smiled, waved a little, and left me alone. This is the loneliness which launched 1,000 monographs, the isolation of papers disordered and waiting. Just for what they were waiting I knew, then: I would have said (as I walked to his house, as I poured through large, long histories, as I sat in undergraduate lectures on the Stamp Act and Mesopotamian agriculture) that the papers waited for our story-telling, for our discovery. On that grey day, I would have said simply: I am doing the work of finding out what has not been found, but needs to be heard. Several gorging hours later, I had more then I could have hoped to have: not only meeting minutes, but also typescripts of speeches. For a student of African American religions, such transcriptions of ministerial expression are treasure nonpareil. In 1961, I heard a pastor bellow back at the South East Chicago Commission: "Those people over there have got to realize once and for all that Woodlawn is not their private colony." In 1965, I found the same man-president of The Woodlawn Organization, reverend in a growing Pentecostal parish-arguing, "This proposal is based on the long-standing American assertion that self-determining communities, with sufficient resources, can bring their members into the mainstream of American life." Later, in the middle of the summer of '66, he cajoled, "I don't think we ought to get mad. We ought to get smart." Finally, I heard this same man-the subject of my study, the target of my discovery-steam forward with his success, "The greatest danger to an organization is complacency. Let us stick together. If you stick together, you got to win. I'm sticking to Woodlawn." In his notes accompanying this speech, the annotator remarked, "on several occasions, there was loud applause and/or amens." I think I lived on the pure positivist pleasure of that afternoon for exactly three days. For three days, I felt like the queen of all archiving, mistress of data, and doyenne of detection. I had found what I believed was a critical missing voice in the historiography. I had found him arguing, avidly, against King and his imported political strategies to combat de facto segregation. In one clearinghouse afternoon, I had pulled voices, power, and political consequences from disordered files. There was such a gorgeous cleanliness to my self-satisfaction. Then, of course, the bubble burst. Running behind in my reading for a class, I flew through an assigned chapter from Michel-Rolph Trouillot's Silencing the Past, one which diagnosed Columbus Day and its peculiar formation. One sentence stopped me, cold: "The naming of the 'fact' is itself a narrative power disguised as innocence." Every historian realizes, at some point or another, that what they do is something may be more interpretive, more imaginative, and more manipulative than chatter of "objectivity" suggests. But when Trouillot named my glee an innocence-and my "discovery" an imperial format-I think I began, finally, to commit to history. Not as a romance with data, or a story to unfold, or a voice to ventriloquize, but as a practice of powerful criticism, one in which we unrelentingly seek the mess, especially when anything presents too easily, too neatly, too logically, to be true. QuotesBy Kathryn Lofton What is most tugging to those questing for the religious Michael Jackson is not to be found in biography. Rather, it is, always and forever, in the deus of those songs. It is difficult to think of another singer who has produced more music that serves such ritual function, be it Halloween ("Thriller"), peace summits ("We Are The World"), or the midnight club surge ("Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough"). This musician knew how to capitalize upon the liminal gap between fear and pleasure, between acrimony and unity, between exhaustion and electricity, between rape and desire, between genders, between races, and between ages. He performed on the rite de passage. Perhaps righteously, the reporters and detectives found in that wobble foul play. But in the dancing delight of our most sentimental rites-at the wedding, at the middle school dance, or in the child's bedroom-such talk of Michael's molesting grotesque seems sacrilegious. Or it seems to miss the point: the glory of this voice, and the beats he pulled with a snap, was in its denial of this world, of its codes and clarities. The way you make me feel, you really turn me on, he sang. You give me fever like I've never, ever known, and you knock me off my feet. And so it was. And so it ever will be... - Kathryn Lofton in "The Way You Make Me Feel", The University of Chicago Divinity School About Kathryn Lofton Top Young Historians' profiles edited by Bonnie K. Goodman |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Associate Professor of History, Cornell University, 2008-Present
Personal AnecdoteMuch of history writing, as I understand it, consists of drawing connections between seemingly unrelated events or phenomena. In that tradition, I will try to explain how growing up in South Dakota prepared me for academia and the study of East-Central European history. As is the case with many East-Central European states and sub-state regions (Slovenia, Slovakia, Slavonia, etc.) not many people are able to differentiate between North and South Dakota. Indeed, I have found that, even shortly after hearing that I am from South Dakota, a new acquaintance will invariably ask me what it was like growing up in North Dakota. To confirm my suspicion that the conflation of the two in the minds of non-Dakotans is complete and indiscriminate, for a time I claimed to be from North Dakota. This control experiment-coupled with the testimonies of North Dakotans I knew-cemented the hypothesis I had drawn from previous encounters: namely that "Dakota" is an undifferentiated, static and monolithic near-void in the global collective consciousness (and perhaps even in reality). Similarly, it is hardly uncommon for someone (say, a former president of the United States) to confuse Slovenia with Slovakia during a conversation with the prime minister of the former. Despite the resentment that such conflations invariably arouse, there are advantages to being undifferentiated. I met my now-husband thanks to the manner in which the various small Slavic nationalities are commonly conflated. Some years ago I was in my home town of Mitchell, South Dakota (home of the Corn Palace, a Kremlin-like structure the likes of which North Dakota does not-indeed cannot-possess, by virtue of it being the "world's only") when a local professor friend said he'd like me to meet a Slovak student of his, and wasn't it fortunate that I speak Slovak (which I didn't) so that I could communicate with this young man. It turned out, however, that the young man in question was about as Slovak as I am North Dakotan. In fact he was of an entirely different externally undifferentiated Slavic nationality. It turned out we had a lot in common, and shortly became even less differentiated than we had previously been. QuotesBy Holly Case
much of the war arguing bitterly among themselves over Transylvania's future, and Europe's leaders, Germany and
Italy, were drawn into their dispute to prevent it from spiraling into a regional war. But precisely as a result
of this interaction, the story of the Transylvanian Question offers a new way into the history of the European
idea-how state leaders and national elites have interpreted what "Europe" means and what it does. For tucked
into the folds of the Transylvanian Question's bizarre genealogy is a secret that no one ever tried to keep,
but that has remained a secret nonetheless: small states matter. The perspective of small states puts the
struggle for mastery among its Great Powers into a new and perhaps chastening perspective. In short, when
we look closely at what people in small states think and how they behave, the history of twentieth-century
Europe looks suddenly very different. --
Holly Case in "Between States: The Transylvanian Question and the European Idea during WWII"
About Holly Case |
Note: This is the 100th Top Young Historian HNN has profiled!Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor of History and George C. Wiswell Jr. Research Fellow, Colby College
Personal AnecdoteHistorians should read cozy anecdotes with skepticism, but...well, when I was twelve, my family went to see Les Miserables at the Shubert Theater in Boston. I was swept away by the dramatic tale of hunger and poverty, redemption and rebellion. During the car ride home, I kept pestering my parents and my brother with all manner of questions. Why did so many people suffer? Were things really so bad in nineteenth-century France? Why hadn't the Revolution of 1789 made life better? A few years later, the quick collapse of the Soviet Empire-and the brutal repression of the democratic protests in China-made these historical questions seem all the more real and vital and living. So, I went to college knowing I would major in history and thinking I would study revolutions. Because of the great professors I met at Cornell and then Brandeis, I came to focus on the American Revolution and its aftermath. Where did this revolution come from? What did it accomplish? How does it continue to shape, define, and diminish democracy in America? As a teacher and scholar, I try to use many different strands of analysis so that I can ask big questions and study enduring themes. My first book was a study of ambition in the post-Revolutionary age, especially among the rural households of New England; my new project is about vengeance and its ascent in American foreign policy and nationalism. (My wife, Holly, jokes that I'm writing a series about the seven deadly sins of the early United States. First ambition, now vengeance...) I'm also working on an edited collection of Tom Paine's work, which has allowed me to learn again about a thinker and radical I thought I knew. In any case, corny as it sounds, I try to retain a childish enthusiasm for the study of the past. This is fairly easy to do, because I am more and more convinced that studying history is an ethical as well as intellectual journey. By revealing to us the whole sweep of the human drama, across huge swaths of space and time, and by enabling us to comprehend people unlike ourselves, history jars us out of a narrow, shallow self-regard. It can make us more humble and decent, more compassionate and curious. So I consider myself very lucky to be able to learn and teach and write history for a living. QuotesBy Jason M. Opal One of these cultural shifts began in the United States during the late 1780s, after the narrow victory of the Federal Constitution over more localized hopes for the new states. With the creation of the "extended republic" came a widespread effort to uproot households and communities from their provincial identities and to align them
with national judgments of self and success, value and virtue, public need and personal worth. While trying to
turn a specific kind of ambition into an organizing principle of national life, this effort also took aim at
alternate, more familiar, and typically more viable forms of aspiration for those living in a rural social order
of laboring households and interdependent neighbors. More and less than a set of adaptations to market expansion
and integration, "the installation of ambition" was a discernible project, a drawn-out campaign that entailed
innovations in both the imaginative and discursive realm (how people thought and ideas operated) and the
institutional and social terrain (how people were conditioned and resources deployed). It also occasioned a
moral controversy that mostly ensued, not between social groups or political factions, but within communities,
families, and individuals. This book offers a social history of that personal and cultural struggle-a story of
restless sons and ambivalent fathers, resilient women and defeated men, bright-eyed reformers and hard-bitten
neighbors.
The restless sons were the focal points of the changes and conflicts at hand, because they, more than their sisters, stood to inherit both the local properties that brought independence and the national society that promised (and demanded) something more. For this reason, young men predominate in the pages that follow. But how to study them? Who to investigate and who to leave out? Any attempt to generalize about the young men of the young republic will tend to exaggerate the appeal and momentum of the project to promote ambition. It will also miss the inner struggles that ambitious striving brought (and still brings). A resort to biography, on the other hand, would lose the collective sway and texture of the larger effort in the details of a single life. By way of both narrative design and methodological compromise, then, I have crafted this history of ambition around six young men who found that passion to be compelling, inspiring, or necessary in their lives, and who therefore sought to transcend a social world and personal identity built on independence. -- Jason M. Opal in "Beyond the Farm National Ambitions in Rural New England" As it happened, Hitchcock may have been the perfect man for the delicate job. Contemporaries recall him as an affable gentleman who enjoyed creature comforts and social harmony. Having married into independent wealth, he had a talent for looking on the bright side of things and promoting the virtues espoused by his church, the First or Benevolent Congregational Society. Noting that religion was a blessing to "all nations of the world," its charter welcomed "any good man" to a fellowship based "not on the prejudice of party, but on the broad basis of Christian philanthropy." Ever since his settlement in 1783, Hitchcock had tried to heal the sectarian rifts that raged with special intensity in his adopted state. All of his public addresses during the 1780s stressed the virtues of denominational harmony, and at least two of them closed with his stated hope for a future in which "universal love smiles on all around." If anyone could please everyone, it was the Benevolent pastor. However unique he was for his geniality, though, Hitchcock was not a seminal interpreter of either Christian or Enlightenment morality. Even admiring members of the Benevolent Church recall that he was "seldom original" and "not profound" in the pulpit. Compared to the Rev. Samuel Hopkins of Newport, Rhode Island, among others, Hitchcock was a theological lightweight. And although he belonged to the Society of the Cincinnati and knew many of the leading lights of the infant republic, he had little influence in national politics. Hitchcock's significance derives instead from his earnest, even caricatured embrace of a moral and political identity that peaked during the 1780s; he is important for what he reflects rather than what he accomplished. Along with a wide range of public figures, this pastor considered "liberality" the indispensable quality for the people and institutions of a presumably enlightened age. He was determined both to be liberal and to spread liberal values, and never more so than during his July 4th, 1788 oration. -- Jason M. Opal in "Exciting Emulation: Academies and the Transformation of the Rural North, 1780s-1820s," Journal of American History, 91 (September 2004)" About Jason M. Opal No institution was more important than the academy. In Opal's best chapter, he demonstrates how the national elites' goals for the new republic spurred the proliferation of private academies around New England.... Democratic ambition rejected the classical fear that ambitious elites would threaten society. Instead, it redefined ambition as a healthy spur to self-improvement for all citizens. If today that drive has led to a materialistic, shallow, overly individualistic society, we cannot forget that in the period between the American Revolution and the Civil War it also liberated the human spirit. Let us thank Opal, therefore, for historicizing ambition and its public spiritedness in the past and hope with him that if ambition "worked differently in the past it might do so in the future" (p. 192). -- Johann Neem (Department of History, Western Washington University), H-SHEAR (August, 2008) "Amazing professor - incredibly passionate and transfers the same passion to his students. A must at Colby - you have to take a class with this man, and take advantage of his open door office hours.... Super approachable and endlessly helpful."... "He's the best professor I've ever had! I hate history and now I want to take another class with him."... "He's the best professor I've ever had! I hate history and now I want to take another class with him."... "I love the class. He is so passionate about the subject you can't help but be interested too! He is very helpful outside of class, too, and is a great prof. to just have a quality conversation with."... "I love him. His classes are so interesting, and organized, he always has a very detailed syllabus, and he's a very helpful paper-grader. He also tastefully sprinkles his lectures with jokes, baseball analogies, and references to The Onion."... "sooo engaging, really into the material, young enough to relate to the students." "Prof Opal is a really great teacher and is really enthusiastic about the material. I am definitely going to take another class with him...." "Really great lectures... good guy too... I'd take another class!" -- Anonymous Students |
Teaching Position:
Howard Professor of Humanities & Western Civilization, University of Kansas
Area of Research:
Cultural history of gender, sexuality and the body, modern European intellectual and cultural history, modern France
Education:
Ph.D., History, State University of New York at Buffalo, 1994
Major Publications:
Forth is the author of Masculinity in the Modern West: Gender, Civilization and the Body (Palgrave, 2008),
The Dreyfus Affair and the Crisis of French Manhood (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004; paperback 2006), and
Zarathustra in Paris: The Nietzsche Vogue in France, 1891-1918 (Northern Illinois University Press, 2001).
He has also co-edited Sexuality at the Fin de Siècle: The Makings of a "Central Problem" (University of Delaware Press,
2008), French Masculinities: History, Culture and Politics (Palgrave, 2007),
Cultures of the Abdomen: Diet, Digestion
and Fat in the Modern World (Palgrave, 2005), and Body Parts: Critical Explorations in Corporeality (Lexington, 2005).
Forth has written numerous scholarly articles and book chapters, including "Surviving our Paradoxes? Masculinity,
Modernity, and the Body," Culture, Society and Masculinities, 1, no. 1 (Spring 2009); "Manhood Incorporated:
Diet and the Embodiment of 'Civilized' Masculinity," Men and Masculinities (2009); "The Novelization of the
Dreyfus Affair: Women and Sensation in Fin-de-Siècle France," in Victorian Crime, Madness, and Sensation,
edited by Andrew Maunder and Grace Moore (London: Ashgate, 2004), 163-178; "Neurasthenia and Manhood in
Fin-de-Siècle France," in Cultures of Neurasthenia from Beard to the First World War, Marijke Gijswijt-Hofstra
and Roy Porter, eds. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 329-361; and "Bodies of Christ: Gender, Jewishness, and
Religious Imagery in the Dreyfus Affair." History Workshop Journal, 48 (Autumn 1999): 18-38.
He is currently writing a book entitled Flab: A Cultural History of Obesity, which is under
contract with Reaktion Books (UK).
Awards:
Forth is the recipient of numerous research grants and fellowships, including:
Keeler Intra-University Professorship from the University of Kansas (2010);
Two Discovery Grants from the Australian Research Council (2006);
Two small grants from the Australian Research Council (1999, 2000);
Five faculty research grants from the Australian National University (1998-2004);
Travel grant from the Wellcome Trust for the History of Medicine (2001);
Three faculty research grants from the University of Memphis (1995-97);
Camargo Foundation Fellowship (1993);
Younger Scholars Award from the National Endowment for the Humanities (1987).
While teaching in Australia Forth also won a Carrick Institute Citation for Outstanding Contribution to Student
Learning ["For Developing Innovative and Effective Multimedia Techniques for the Research-Driven Teaching
of European and American Cultural History"] (2006) and a Vice Chancellor's Award for Excellence in
Teaching from the Australian National University (2006).
Additional Info:
Editorial Advisory Board, Men and Masculinities;
Editorial Board, Culture, Society and Masculinities.
When I was in fifth grade my teacher announced to the class that I would grow up to be a historian. Not that I took this very seriously: I just happened to know who Patrick Henry was, and was pretty sure that, whatever a historian did, it must be pretty boring. In fact it was not until tenth grade that the idea of an academic life began to hold any kind of appeal for me. This was not because of what I learned in any high school history class, but from stumbling upon a tattered copy of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment in my English class. My teacher said I could have the book "as long as you read it." I did and it changed my life, generating an interest in the history of ideas that led me to literature, philosophy and social theory. I found each of these fields fascinating, but apparently so hemmed in by disciplinary conventions that focusing on any one of them seemed tantamount to bidding farewell to the others. When I began my university work I settled on history because it seemed like an open intellectual space in which to examine virtually anything pertaining to human society so long as it happened in the past. Ultimately what attracted me to history was its sense of openness and possibility, apparently limited only by the questions one brought to it. I'm not sure what my fifth grade teacher would have to say about this, but it seems she was right after all.
My specific interest in the cultural history of gender, sexuality and the body was sparked during my final semester of graduate school and has never ceased to inform my work. Feeling the need to make sure I had read "everything" on my period before submitting my dissertation on the first French reception of Nietzsche's work, I happened upon Bram Dijkstra's Idols of Perversity: Fantasies of Feminine Evil in Fin-de-Siècle Culture (1986), and quickly became enthralled. Dijkstra's rich analysis of how depictions of women in art and literature were informed by developments in biology, psychology, medicine and social theory - and how many of these representations seemed like compensations for a spectrum of male anxieties - completely changed my view of intellectual and cultural history. I became sensitive to how gendered language is often used to describe social and political phenomena, and reflected on the numerous instances in my dissertation where I had treated such language uncritically. A closer focus on how various groups described Nietzsche and his followers in gendered terms seemed worth pursuing, and while it was impractical to recast the dissertation at that late date, I developed this theme more fully when revising the text for publication. Thanks to these new insights the end result, Zarathustra in Paris: The Nietzsche Vogue in France, 1891-1918, provided a more complex perspective on the dynamics of cultural reception and intellectual politics, and a springboard for much of my subsequent work.
By Christopher E. Forth
perpetuated in the world, it is the capacity to enact and endure violence
that is often represented as one of the most unjustly repressed aspects of male experience. Yet if violence and
warfare are so often celebrated for their "regenerative" potential, it is perhaps because the more positive
ideals of sacrifice and self-denial that defined the warrior code have, since the early eighteenth century,
been systematically challenged by developments that emphasize the value of self-indulgence and softer lifestyles.
While peace has been celebrated throughout modern history, it has also been criticized for its tendency to make
individuals and societies complacent and weak. --
Christopher E. Forth in "Masculinity in the Modern West (2008)"
About Christopher E. Forth
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Associate Professor of History, Southern Illinois University Carbondale, August 2008-Present
Personal AnecdoteAs a teenager, I showed no signs of one day becoming a historian. My parents had been left wing political activists and intellectuals, but I did not appear to be poised to follow in their footsteps. My time was spent watching John Hughes movies like The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles, and somberly listening to The Police and Prince on a very bulky Sony Walkman I lugged around with me everywhere. A mediocre student who graduated from high school with a B average, I struggled with my schoolwork. At the time, I lived alone in a small apartment with my mother, who battled chronic health problems. The particular challenges of my home life, combined with the everyday preoccupations of adolescent girlhood, made it hard for me to focus on my studies. After graduating from high school in 1988, I left my native San Francisco and went to college at the University of California at Santa Cruz. San Francisco and Santa Cruz were only separated by seventy miles of Pacific coastline, but I felt as though I had entered another universe. I would sit in the library with my books in front of me, staring out the window at a canopy of Redwood trees. My dormitory room was steps away from a panoramic view of Monterey Bay. I encountered roaming deer as I walked to and from classes. Freed from the confines of a challenging home life and transplanted into what felt like an enchanted forest, I started to see myself anew--as someone who actually cared about reading, writing, and critical thinking. I blossomed academically as my instructors told me that my interpretations of books mattered and praised my writing. Leaving home for college was the turning point for me: a moment when I simultaneously broke free from my family and experienced the healing power of nature. The combination unlocked an excitement about ideas that had been buried but has been with me ever since. Now, twenty years later, I am a scholar of contemporary American history whose work focuses on U.S. political culture, gender, and the family. The decades during which I came of age-the 1970s and 1980s- have become more than the stuff of personal memory for me. They are now also objects of scholarly inquiry. As such, they have allowed me to see my own personal past in a different light. Yes, I was a girl who was preoccupied with clothes and make up, intent on rebelling against my politically left, intellectual parents. But all along, I was also bearing witness to history. I remember listening with keen interest as my mom and dad expressed their dismay when Ronald Reagan was elected president in 1980. And I remember in the years that followed, walking through the city streets and seeing young gay men who were dying. My work as a scholar has enabled me to see that even the most intimate dimensions of my childhood-the dissolution of my parents' marriage and my experience living with a single mom-were rooted in larger transformations in gender roles and family life in the closing decades of the twentieth century. My study of history has enabled me to cultivate more compassion and respect for all the people-big and small--who populated my childhood and who had to navigate a changing world. History, at its best, has the power to do that. QuotesBy Natasha Zaretsky
political campaigns that have become more and more vitriolic, public perceptions of the nation's world position
since Vietnam have swung back and forth like a pendulum, moving from "alarmism to complacency," from delusions
of invulnerability to fears of an imminent deadly threat, and from fantasies of "impotence to omnipotence and
back again." Propelling the pendulum is not only the fear of foreign danger, but the question that was asked
throughout the 1970s: did the United States possess the will required to protect its national interests?
"After Vietnam," Hodgson writes, "it was not the resources that were in question, but the will to use them,
and the purposes for which they would be used." From 1968 to 1980, the family gave shape to those debates
about the nation that surfaced in the wake of military defeat. Emerging at once as a locus of national
injury and a repository of national will, the family was assigned the paradoxical role of both victim and
perpetrator in a nationalist discourse that swung back and forth between opposite ends of the pendulum.
In one moment, the nation was omnipotent and fortress-like, in the next, vulnerable and endangered. This
earlier history has cast a long shadow over the present, and as of this writing, the pendulum has not stopped
moving. As we continue to watch it swing back and forth, the family will always be there. --
Natasha Zaretsky in "No Direction Home: The American Family and the Fear of National Decline, 1968-1980"
About Natasha Zaretsky "She was a great teacher. She got me interested in American History. I would definitely reccomend her, and would take another course that she taught." Dr. Zaretsky is a great professor. She's helpful and fun. Her lectures are interesting and informing. I recommend her to everyone. I hope to get to take her again." -- Anonymous Students |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor of History at the University of Georgia, 2005-Present
Personal AnecdoteWhile pursuing a Ph.D. at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the early 2000s I formed a band, The Atomic Harvesters, which we declared to be "Boston's Sexiest Lounge-Country Band." Merging the instrumentation of 1950s-60s urban jazz with the raw simplicity of rural country music from the same period, the Atomic Harvesters drew on diverse musical inspirations, ranging from Hank Williams, Sr. to Billie Holiday to the Modern Jazz Quartet and Merle Haggard. The intellectual inspiration for the band name and concept, however, drew directly on a passage in James C. Scott's Seeing Like a State. On page 272, Scott refers to Davis Meltzer's artistic rendering of the "farm of the future" in the February 1970 issue of National Geographic magazine. In the image, two men operate a semi-autonomous farm of enormous scale from a glass-topped dome equipped with a supercomputer. Beef cattle are arrayed in what seems to be a "cattle condo," architecturally not unlike Frank Lloyd Wright's design for the Guggenheim Museum, except that cattle munching on antibiotic-laced feedstuffs fill the places of tourists and art critics. The farmer seated at the supercomputer operates an atomic-powered harvester, processing a grain field of near-infinite size into the foodstuffs of a consumer-driven economy. Meltzer's image channels modernist Charles Scheeler's paintings, in which individual workers are dwarfed by the machines that surround them in techno-pastoralist landscapes. Meltzer's imagery borders on the surreal, yet evokes a very realistic world in which the Jeffersonian vision of independent farmers working the land with simple tools has been subsumed by the technocracy of late-twentieth-century capitalism. Meltzer's image provided the inspiration for my band's name, as well as the title of one of our instrumentals, "Cattle Condo." James Scott's critique of high modernist agriculture, meanwhile, laid a cornerstone for my ongoing intellectual interest in the technology, political economy, social realities, and political culture of rural Americans living in a world of industrial agriculture, hypercapitalist consumerism, and profound antistatism-a world that I described in my first book, Trucking Country: The Road to America's Wal-Mart Economy. Meltzer's 1970 imagining of the "farm of the future" and Jim Scott's critique of high modernism focused on the vast material, political, and ideological gulfs separating urbanites from rural residents in the modern era. I sought in Trucking Country, by contrast, to show how the wrenching transformations of rural life in the mid- twentieth century were deeply intertwined with broader transformations in U.S. politics, economic realities, cultural beliefs, and social experiences. By thus contextualizing the historical experiences of rural Americans- even those country-music-lovin' neopopulist truckers who self-identified as members of Richard Nixon's "Silent Majority"-I demonstrated how rural workers helped to construct, from the 1930s through the 1970s, the economic realities and ideologies of neoliberalism that permeated the entire nation by the 1980s. These rural independent truckers, working in a world of industrial agribusiness, suburban supermarkets, and high modernist agricultural policymakers, found themselves with few choices other than to accept a "Wal-Mart economy"-decades before Wal-Mart became one of the world's largest and most powerful corporations. I no longer have time to play much guitar, and the members of the Atomic Harvesters have spread to the four corners of the world. My fascination with the "farm of the future" and the rural people of the past, however, continues to drive my research-particularly as I work on my second book, "Supermarket USA: Food and Power in the American Century." There are far more country music songs about trucks than there are about supermarkets, so I unfortunately will not be integrating my musical interests and my historical research as tightly as I did in my first book. Unless, of course, I revive the Atomic Harvesters and write a couple of lounge-country tunes about U.S. supermarkets being airlifted into Yugoslavia, Italy, and Latin America in the 1950s and 1960s. If anyone knows of a rhyme for "Yugoslavia," I'm all ears. QuotesBy Shane Hamilton
In the following pages I reveal the motto's deeper meaning, showing how agribusiness relied upon independent truckers
to shift American capitalism into overdrive, introducing lean and mean business strategies and cultivating a culture
of economic conservatism welcomed by both rural producers and suburban consumers. On country stretches of asphalt,
in rural food factories, and in supermarket warehouses and shopping aisles, agribusinesses sowed the seeds of the
anti-statist market populism that defined late-twentieth-century capitalism. Though it may seem surprising to
link the country culture of trucking to the collapse of economic liberalism in America's post-WWII consumer
economy, we might do well to pay heed to the words of country musician Del Reeves. As he twanged in his 1968
jukebox hit, "looking at the world through a windshield" helps put "everything in a little bit different light."
--
Shane Hamilton in "Trucking Country"
About Shane Hamilton |
Basic FactsTeaching Position:
Assistant Professor, Department of History, Stanford University, 2004-Present
Personal AnecdoteThe best thing about being an historian, in my opinion, is working in archives. The research for my book, An Empire Divided: Religion, Republicanism, and the Making of French Colonialism, 1880-1914, took me to almost twenty archives on four continents. They ranged from the high-ceilinged reading room of the Archives Nationales in Paris to a small table next to a photocopy machine in a cramped office of the Papeete, Tahiti archdiocese.
Non-historians often ask me what exactly I do at the archives. For me, it is a little like digging through the old papers left in someone's long abandoned desk. An average box or bundle of documents - at least the ones I look at most - is often a hodgepodge of letters, handwritten notes, receipts, a calling card from some forgotten visitor, official reports, and faded photographs. Spending hours sifting through dead people's refuse is not for everyone. But at no point in researching or writing do I feel more connected to my subject than in the archives. There is something undeniably voyeuristic about archival work: reading letters never meant to be read by outsiders, seeing pictures not taken for posterity's sake, perusing someone else's secrets and exposing their plans. These remnants present great puzzles to be unraveled. Who were these people whose lives we now look into? How did they see their world, and how did they organize their vision of it? Trying to answer such questions inevitably requires looking for more and more sources, opening wider the cast of human characters, complicating the plot, drawing you in like a good mystery. The probing historian can discover things about historical figures - their motives, insecurities and contradictions - that they themselves may have denied or hidden from friends and loved ones. Archives are also much more than repositories of documents. They are often themselves places where memories of the past come alive - sometimes in astonishing ways. One archivist, for example, at a religious archive in Paris assured me that, had the Catholic missionaries of the South Pacific failed to spread Christianity in the nineteenth century, the cannibal Polynesians would have eaten one another into extinction. On another occasion, a French woman working in the departmental archives in Tahiti told me that she did not know why so many people wrote critically of colonialism when it was obvious that the Tahitians were happy to have gained the great cultural traditions of the French. While this struck me as a misguided assessment, I was equally surprised to have an octogenarian Vietnamese historian at the national archives in Hanoi wax nostalgic about the 1930s when he and his friends spoke French and devoured the latest books and music from Paris. I have been in archives where I saw a rat scurry across the floor. I have unearthed worms gnawing through documents. I have seen people weep, sleep, and get angry in archives. I have even seen an archivist pass out from too much drinking at lunchtime. But I have never been bored in an archive. It is a place where Faulkner's often quoted observation - "The past is never dead. It's not even past." - takes on real meaning. QuotesBy James Patrick Daughton
reform and develop colonial societies - was in fact much less an extension of revolutionary republican values
than a set of individual projects defined by degrees of dissent, debate, competition, and collaboration between
people both at home and abroad. Differences of opinion over strategies of colonizing... forced administrators,
missionaries, colonists, local inhabitants, and others to present, critique, and defend plans for expansion and
control.... The "civilizing" policies ultimately adopted were neither strictly republican nor Catholic. Instead,
they were shaped by the anxieties and aspirations of a variety of French men and women faced with the challenge
of living with one another and ruling large indigenous populations.
--
James Patrick Daughton in "An Empire Divided"
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