So I have wanted to update my blog for awhile now but I’ve been, as they say, “busier than a one-armed paper hanger.” That hasn’t changed. However, when I was writing this review essay for class I thought it was particularly relevant to current issues Americans are facing in media circles, with the rise of partisan cable channels/blogs and also history circles, with the Texas history textbook controversy. What does it mean to be objective? Whose history is the correct history? If there is any “take-away” thought from this, it seems that many people confuse “objectivity” with “authority”. Although it is a fine distinction between the concepts, my intellectual gut tells me that the two are different.
Here’s the review:
Could Looking Backward be the Key to Reframing the Future of Post-Objective Thought in Historical Scholarship?
The title of my essay admittedly sounds parodoxical. Yet, when I was reading Peter Novick’s 1999 edition of That Noble Dream: The ‘Objectivity Question’ and the American Historical Profession, I was struck by this passage: “Graduate or professional training [in History] worthy of the name hardly existed in the United States until the [nineteenth] century was well advanced” (Novick, 22). This seemed to imply that Americans weren’t concerned with the integrity of the American historical record until the 1890s. As I read on, I was struck by another passage similar in tone: “But the most important influence leading to the abandonment of the [Teutonic Germ] theory was Frederick Jackson Turner’s alternative explanation of the expanding frontier and the availability of free land as the foundation of American democratic institutions” (Novick, 88). This led to a nagging question of my own which was never really answered in the book: “What about Americanist historical thought before Turner?”
It seems natural to assume that Americans in the antebellum years were concerned about the historical record in ways that would go beyond antiquarianism. In the case of journalism during the antebellum period, which was seen in many circles as the definitive historical record, the goal was not “objectivity” but the best version of the truth arrived through vigorous public debate. When the integrity of the debate was violated, it was referred to a system of public arbitration known as the code of honor, which sometimes led to dueling. How history was perceived and interpreted played a critical role in this arbitration.
To be clear, I am not advocating “history to the death”. However, when Novick writes about “objectivity enthroned” in American historical thought, there seems to be the fewest voices participating in the debate. Not surprisingly, in “objectivity besieged” when “the assault on objectivist epistemology…opened up a long-overdue consideration of what historical scholarship could and should do; what it couldn’t , and shouldn’t do” (Novick, 277) it seemed to destabilize the profession when more voices were added to the debate.
What seems to be needed is a framework of arbitration that focuses not on convergence, or one historical theory supplanting the other, but whose endgame is vigorous debate.
Modern history, although not perfect, in the end seems stronger with more voices and perspectives added to the discussion. Although Novick in his conclusion suggests history as a profession has strayed farther than ever before from “the objective question.” It would seem that we are closer than ever before to his definition of historical objectivity, which is not a single idea, “but rather a sprawling collection of assumptions, attitudes, aspirations, and antipathies” (Novick, 1). With objectivity often getting confused with authority, perhaps historical truth is better served through vigorous debate.
to Barry Manilow’s version (don’t hold it against me) of “Rudolph” on CD. It was actually pretty good, so I started listening to it again. On the second time around, it occurred to me that one of the undercurrents of the song is “alienation” from the elements of Christmas.
For some reason, I’ve been fascinated with my recent discovery that many famous Christmas songs were written by Jewish songwriters. “Rudolph”, it turns out, is no exception. However, before for I delve too deep, I just want to differentiate that there is “Rudolph” the original story written by Robert L. May and “Rudolph” the popular song adapted by his brother-in-law Johnny Marks.
So the story goes, in 1939 Robert L. May was a copywriter for the Montgomery-Ward department store chain and created the original story of “Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed Reindeer” as a promotional gimmick. Yes, that’s right, the most famous reindeer of all started out as a commercial. The popular history is that May drew from the “Ugly Duckling” tale and pitched it to his boss, who after some coaxing green-lighted the project and the story became a runaway success. In the midst of creating the story, May’s wife had a terminal illness and died around the same time May finished “Rudolph”. Not only was May deeply in debt from medical bills, Montgomery-Ward owned the rights to “Rudolph” and so he did not see a cent in the beginning from the licensing. Eventually, May was able to secure the license from Montgomery-Ward and he and his family lived comfortably for the rest of his days.
However, if you consider that May was drawing from the Jewish-American experience around Christmastime, the story seems to take on a new dimension. Imagine if you are a Jewish copywriter in the 1930s mid-west trying to come up with ideas for Christmas promotions or being ostracized around the Christmas season by your peers. Phrases such as “People used to laugh and call him names” or “They never let poor Rudolph, join in any reindeer games” take on a whole new meaning. However, It is unclear from the 15 minutes of in-depth research that I did whether May himself was actually Jewish. However, his brother-in-law Johnny Marks was definitely Jewish. So that strongly suggests that at the very least his wife was Jewish.
However, as sources such as snopes.com point out, the original story “Rudolph” differs significantly from the song written by Marks. One can safely say then that the song version of “Rudolph” comes from the Jewish-American perspective. Although this is wild speculation, one wonders if Marks was thinking about Mays’ or his own Jewish-American experience when he penned these lyrics about a once-ostracized Rudolph who gained acceptance from his peers at Christmas: “Then all the reindeer loved him/As they shouted out with glee,/Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,/You’ll go down in history!”
Either way, it’s still a great song and undeniably gets everyone, perhaps even a few Jewish listeners, in the holiday spirit.
As anyone who is friends with me knows, I have been reading a LOT of colonial history over the course of the last few months.
One thing that has always been a mild source of rhetorical confusion for me is the difference between the term “Pilgrim” and “Puritan”. Were Pilgrims coming over on the Mayflower Puritans? Or did Pilgrims have a separate, nuanced identity apart from Puritans? Or were Pilgrims the non-religious people coming over with the Puritans? I wasn’t quite a 100 percent sure.
To answer this question, I turned to the distinctly non-American online version of the Oxford English Dictionary. According to the OED, a common U.S. usage of the term Pilgrim refers to the settlers of the Plymouth Colony.:
1630, William Bradford (the second governor of Plymouth) uses pilgrim of the settlers figuratively, alluding to Hebrews 11:13 (cf. sense 3). The same phraseology was repeated by Cotton Mather and others, and became familiar in New England. By the late 18th cent. commemorative toasts were often given to ‘the Pilgrims’ or ‘the Sons of the Pilgrims’, and through such celebration Pilgrim and Pilgrim Father eventually passed into use as historical designation
So then I looked up the definition of Puritan in the OED. According to them, a Puritan was:
A member of a group of English Protestants of the late 16th and 17th centuries, who regarded the reformation of the Church under Elizabeth I as incomplete and sought to remove any remaining elements of church practice (such as ceremonies, church ornaments, the use of musical instruments, and in some cases episcopal authority) which they considered corrupt, idolatrous, or unscriptural.
So in essence, the term Pilgrim seems to become a term to separate Puritans in America with those Puritans left behind in England.
However, the Pilgrim Hall Museum (yes, there is one), suggests that the Puritans that came over on the Mayflower in 1620 and founded the Plymouth Colony were different than the Puritans who came in 1630 on ships such as the Arbella to start the Massachussetts Bay Colony. In a piece on their Web site called Pilgrim and Puritan: A Delicate Distinction, Richard Howard Maxwell writes:
In other words, the Pilgrims who settled Plymouth were puritans seeking to reform their church [in England], and the Puritans who settled Massachusetts Bay were pilgrims (with that lower-case “p”) who moved to a whole new land because of their religious convictions. Now you know why I call it a “delicate distinction!”
As far as the first Thanksgiving goes, below is an account of the first Thanksgiving in August 1621 from William Bradford’s History Of Plimoth Plantation (FYI—he’s a terrible speller). Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
They begane now to gather in ye small harvest they had, and to fitte up their houses and dwellings against winter, being all well recovered in health & strenght, and had all things in good plenty; for as some were thus imployed in affairs abroad, others were excersised in fishing, aboute codd, & bass, & other fish, of which y ey tooke good store, of which every family had their portion. All y e somer ther was no wante. And now begane to come in store of foule, as winter aproached, of which this place did abound when they came first (but afterward decreased by degrees). And besids water foule, ther was great store of wild Turkies, of which they tooke many, besids venison, &c. Besids they had aboute a peck a meale a weeke to a person, or now since harvest, Indean corne to y* proportion. Which made many afterwards write so largly of their plenty hear to their freinds in England, which were not fained, but true reports.
I recently attended a wedding and the music from the procession was not “Here Comes the Bride” as is popular in many American weddings and probably most weddings portrayed on American TV/Film in the last forty years. Some lamented its absence, some did not. Naturally, the discussion turned to “Where did ‘Here Comes the Bride’ come from?”
What most Americans think of as the song “Here Comes the Bride” is actually the bridal chorus from the Wagner opera Lohengrin. There are lyrics, but contrary to popular belief they do not begin with “Here comes the bride all dressed in white . . .”
It’s more like (translated from German): “Faithfully guided, draw near/to where the blessing of love shall preserve you!/Triumphant courage, the reward of love,/joins you in faith as the happiest of couples!”
Writes Dan Fox in 2007’s World’s Greatest Wedding Music: 50 of the Most Requested Wedding Pieces:
Wagner’s opera Lohengrin, first produced in 1850, is set in medieval Antwerp. Lohengrin is a Knight of the Holy Grail who defends and then marries Elsa of Brabant. In the opera, this march is used to announce the arrival of the bridal procession. In modern weddings, as “Here Comes the Bride,” it announces the arrival of the bride at the head of the aisle.
What is ironic, is that the marriage between Lohengrin and Elsa is doomed from the start. So in essence, one of the most popular songs used in American wedding celebrations is about a failed marriage. Perhaps it’s better that the song is falling out of tradition.
So someone commented yesterday that it had been a long time since I had posted to my blog. I checked the date of my last post and I couldn’t believe it had been almost two months? Wow. Time flies. Part of the reason for the delay is because I have started my coursework on my Ph.d. in history and have been under a mountain of reading/writing. Of course, one of the first questions that I get is: “What are you studying?” The short answer is a lot of historiography. Naturally, the second question I usually get is “What is historiography?” To answer basically, it is the history of history. One of the first books I read to introduce me to the study of historiography is Edward Hallett Carr’s book “What is History?” Carr’s book is a collection of lectures delivered at the University of Cambridge January circa March 1961. So I thought it would be interesting to post some of his more interesting quotes that get at the heart of the question: What is history?
BTW – I’m using the Vintage Books paperback version for my citations.
- It used to be said that facts speak for themselves. This is, of course, untrue. The facts speak only when the historian calls on them: it is he who decides to which facts to give the floor, and in what order or context. It was, I think, one of Pirandello’s characters who said that a fact is like a sack—it won’t stand up till you’ve put something in it. (page 9)
- The belief that a hard core of historical facts existing objectively and independently of the interpretation of the historian is a preposterous fallacy, but one which it is very hard to eradicate. (page10)
- By and large, the historian will get the kind of facts he wants. History means interpretation. Indeed, if, standing Sir George Clark on his head, I were to call history “a hard core of interpretation surrounded by a pulp of disreputable facts. (26)
- History cannot be written unless the historian can achieve some kind of contact with the mind of those about whom he is writing. (27)
- The third point is that we can view the past, and achieve our understanding of the past, only through the eyes of the present. (28)
- Yet the historian is obliged to choose [terms to describe]: the use of language forbids him to be neutral. (28)
- The function of the historian is neither to love the past nor to emancipate himself from the past, but to master and understand it as the key to the understanding of the present. (29)
- What is history?, is that is a continuous process of interaction between the historian and his facts, an unending dialogue between the present and the past. (35)
- My purpose is to merely show how closely the work of the historian mirrors the society in which he works. It is not merely the events that are in flux. The historian himself is in flux. When you take up a historical work, it is not enough to look for the author’s name in the title-page: look also for the date of publication or writing—it is sometimes even more revealing. (51)
- There is no more significant pointer to the character of a society than the kind of history it writes or fails to write. (53)
The idea of this post started from a casual conversation about food seasonings. The person I was talking to referred to peanut butter as, “her favorite condiment.”
I retorted, “Peanut-butter is not a condiment.”
“Yes, it is. It’s not a standalone food.”
“No it’s not. It is not used as a garnish like ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise.”
“Then what exactly defines a ‘condiment’?”
Neither one of us could come up with what exactly characterized a condiment. Furthermore, when I asked other people what exactly the definition of a condiment was, no one could really answer me definitively (pun intended). So to satisfy my curiosity, I did some research on the history of condiments.
First I went to Merriam-Webster for the definition of condiment, which defines it as “something used to enhanced food; especially: a pungent seasoning.” According to the dictionary, the term dates back in various forms to the 15th century.
Next, I looked up the definition of peanut butter, which was defined as “a paste made from ground roasted peanuts.”
Neither definition offered a real solution to the question, “Is peanut butter a condiment?”
So I dug back deeper to the writings of the great agricultural chemist and inventor George Washington Carver, who is widely regarded as developing and popularizing modern peanut butter. In his famous How to Grow the Peanut and 105 Ways of Preparing it for Human Consumption, here is Carver’s original recipe:
“Shell the peanuts; roast just enough so that the hulls will slip off easily; remove all the hulls by gently rolling, fanning, and screening; grind very fine in any sort of mill, passing through several times if necessary; pack in cans, bottles, or jars, and seal if not for immediate use. Some manufacturers add a little salt and a small amount of olive oil; others do not, according to taste. For small quantities of butter a good meat grinder will answer the purpose. If the nuts are ground fine enough no additional oil will be necessary.”
Carver clearly sees peanut butter in the same class as a “butter” and not, say, as a type of spread such as ham salad. But is it a condiment?
In A Treatise on Diet by John Ayrton Paris, defines condiments as, “substances which are, in themselves, incapable of nourishing, but which, in concert with our food, promote its digestion, or correct some of its deleterious properties.”
This definition of condiments would lead one to believe that peanut butter is not a condiment, since it has nourishing qualities.
However, Paris classifies condiments in three categories:
- Spicy or aromatic
The oil category is what concerns us most here. According to Paris, plain butter is considered part of this category of oleaginous condiments. So if plain butter is considered a condiment, logic goes that peanut butter would also be considered an oleaginous condiment based on Carver’s original conception of the food product.
But could you put it on a hot dog?
The historical piece that I’ve been working on recently takes place in the 1850s. As I was writing dialogue, I wanted use the term, “sniper.” But then it occurred to me that “sniper” might be a twentieth-century term and therefore would be incorrect to use in this instance. I decided to do some research on when the term was introduced into the English lexicon. What I discovered was a little surprising.
According to most sources, the origin of the term sniper was associated with one’s ability to shoot a “snipe.” What is a snipe you say? Glad you asked. According to Shorebirds by Arthur Morris :
Snipes are bulky shorebirds with relatively short legs, long bills, boldy striped heads, and rusty reddish tails. The upperparts are blackish-brown variously streaked and barred buff. Broad buff strips run above the scapulars. All three plumages are virtually identical.
So how did this seemingly innocuous bird come to represent one of the most highly trained soldiers in any army? According to Out of Nowhere by Martin Pegler, the term was popularized as a military term in the early twentieth century:
By the late 18th century the word ‘sniper’ was being used in letters sent home by English officers serving in India, some of whom took to referring to a day’s rough shooting as ‘going out sniping’. The snipe is a small, fast-flying game bird with mottled black and brown plumage and a particularly erratic, twisting flight that make it difficult to see and even more difficult to hit. It took a skilled sportsman with a flintlock gun to bring down a snipe in flight. Such an accomplished shot was regarded as above average and inevitably during the 18th century the term ‘snipe shooting’ was simplified to ‘sniping.’ However in a military context, soldiers who were particularly able shots were referred to as sharpshooters or marksmen, but never snipers, and its use appears to come from the press during the early months of the First World War.
Having discovered this evidence, I decided not to go with the term sniper for my historical project. I also debated using the term “skirmisher”, which was a popular term for military marksmen during the Civil War, but decided in the end to go with marksman.