The Westmoreland County Historical Society responded to my email about their mock hanging reenactment yesterday. There is good news, on the one hand, as the organization has decided to no longer engage in this particular reenactment in the future. On the other hand, the email was a pre-written pseudo apology, and it’s evident that my message (and probably anyone else who wrote one) was not read by any staff members. This is a particularly disingenuous action given the fact that the organization’s previous Facebook statement encouraged discussion about “this sensitive aspect of American history in a constructive way.” Why encourage constructive feedback but then ignore that feedback and write a second pre-written statement?
Here is the email response in full:
I don’t want to belabor my complaints here, but really? “We deeply regret that people were offended” instead of simply apologizing and/or acknowledging that engaging in a public hanging reenactment might be problematic. Also, the person who posted the video to YouTube is truly at fault because the video took things out of context. Everything would make sense if it weren’t for this video. Really?
Once again, the historical society gets it wrong by defending their program through harping on their obligation to discuss “sensitive” aspects of history, “even those that are unacceptable to our modern sensibilities.” No one is questioning that obligation. Most visitors can handle programs about sensitive topics and public historians in the field applaud that approach, as we have an obligation to discuss difficult topics in human history. The problem that the critics had was with how the program was organized, the medium by which it was conducted, and the lack of an explanation about the educational purpose a mock hanging serves towards understanding this particular event in American history.
As I mentioned in my email, there are many different ways public history institutions can discuss difficult topics like slavery, genocide, the Holocaust, or a public hanging without having to literally reenact the particular event. I can visit Manzanar National Historic Site and understand the significance of the site without having to watch a reenactment of a Japanese American family being thrown into an internment camp. I can read a historic marker commemorating the 1866 Memphis Massacre and understand the significance of the event without living history performers reenacting a scene of angry whites torching the homes of black neighbors and then firing gunshots into those homes when their inhabitants tried to get out. I can visit a place like the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, as I did in 2015, and engage in thoughtful discussions with fellow visitors and staff about sensitive aspects of history without watching performers reenacting SS guards torturing the camp’s inmates.
In sum, a living history reenactment of someone’s death is a tasteless, wholly unnecessary exercise that does little to enhance understanding or empathy of a given historical topic.
The online publication Indian Country Media Network recently reported on a public history site that engaged in a public hanging reenactment of a Native American man this past summer. The article garnered some attention among public historians on social media, many of which expressed serious concerns about the appropriateness of this program. The Westmoreland County Historical Society attempted to defend their program with the following statement on Facebook:
I decided to respond to this statement. Here’s my email to the organization:
To whom it may concern at the Westmoreland Historical Society,
This message is in response to your statement on Facebook about a recent program your institution hosted in which living history performers reenacted an eighteenth century court case, including the gruesome hanging of the Native American Mamachtaga. I am a public historian who occasionally participates in living history programs, and I heard about this particular program through social media. While I respect your dedication to educating visitors about eighteenth century American history—particularly complex legal cases that involve thorny issues of race, gender, and indigenous rights—I have serious concerns about your institution continuing to engage in this mock hanging and similar reenactments in the future.
I found your Facebook statement in defense of your institution’s program to be inadequate. The statement appears to fundamentally misunderstand what many critics of this program are saying. Several Facebook users who commented on your statement also missed the point. The genesis of your statement is that your institution worked very hard to present a historically accurate program; your team engaged in primary source research and worked to provide context for the “historic political climate and social attitudes as well.” That’s good, but it’s not enough.
By focusing your statement on the historical accuracy of the program, you seem to suggest that your critics must either have a problem with the idea of doing any program on the Mamachtaga case, or that they can’t handle the idea of a historic education program that focuses on the “bad” parts of history. In any case, the program was historically accurate, so what’s the problem? That is a mistaken argument. On the contrary, few professionals in the public history field would have any problem with doing a program about Mamachtaga or similar cases like his. The problem that many of us have with your program is the lack of consideration about how the story is being told and the interpretive medium in which it is being told.
Interpretive programs take many shapes and forms, including tours led by trained guides, public lectures, video presentations, historical markers, digital presentations, living history programs, and other mediums. As educators, we want these programs to foster understanding and appreciation for history and the role it shapes in our daily lives. But what educational value does a hanging reenactment offer for the visitors who come to your site? What is it that you want your visitors to take away from this program?
There are have been numerous controversial living history programs about slavery in recent years that you may have heard about. In 2011, the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial in St. Louis, Missouri, hosted a “slave auction” reenactment on the steps of the Old Courthouse, and Conner Prairie Interactive History Park in Fishers, Indiana, hosts an award-winning living history program about the Underground Railroad entitled “Follow the North Star.” These programs have received both praise and criticism, which I think is fair. The problem with any program that attempts to literally “reenact” a historical experience like slavery, genocide, the Holocaust, or in this case a hanging, is that such a program cannot be accurately recreated for a modern audience, which in turn trivializes the experience. Furthermore, such a program runs the risk of de-humanizing the historical figures these performers are attempting to portray, and they can be emotionally hurtful to people who are watching regardless of what their particular background may be.
What makes the Old Courthouse slave auction and “Follow the North Star” largely successful, however, is that they incorporate pre- and post-event activities to allow people a chance to become emotionally prepared for what they are about to see and then share their feelings with a trained professional in a facilitated dialogue setting afterwards. Rather than coming to the site unprepared and leaving with a bunch of bottled-up emotions, these dialogue activities allow people to unwind and feel welcome in an environment that promotes learning and inclusiveness. Attendance in these activities is mandatory for visitors who want to participate in the main event. Your statement does not indicate whether or not such activities were incorporated into your program.
I have no doubt that the Westmoreland Historical Society is dedicated to conveying accurate history to its audiences. But at the end of the day, making sure that living history programs are historically accurate is only half the challenge of creating a successful program. Considerations of audience, setting, and interpretive medium must also be considered, and I believe the Mamachtaga program failed to account for these considerations. I believe a living history program focused on the hanging of a Native American or anyone else distracts from the history you want to impart on your audiences and is ultimately a program in poor taste. American history is drenched in the blood of victims of state violence, whether that be the largest mass hanging in U.S. history after the Dakota Uprising in 1862, the Memphis Massacre of 1866, the East St. Louis riots of 1919, or any other countless instances of bloodshed. Must we reenact these stories in a literal fashion in order to attract visitors and dollars? In the future, I hope you reconsider the merits of doing a mock hanging and consider other ways of bringing American history to life.
One of the last things I did in 2016 involved taking a short trip to New Orleans, Louisiana, to visit a good friend of mine and explore some of the historical sites in the area. The trip was wonderful and I also enjoyed the eighty-degree temperature outside, a nice contrast to winter in the Midwest.
About three years ago I had the opportunity to visit the National World War I museum in Kansas City. The National World War II museum just so happens to be located in New Orleans, and we made a point of spending nearly an entire day visiting the site. I came away from the World War II museum impressed with some aspects and less impressed with others. I’ve been thinking about the similarities and differences of my experiences at both museums since the trip, and what follows are some rough thoughts on those experiences.
One of the major aspects of the World War II museum is its use of technology throughout the museum. Upon arriving at the museum, visitors have the option of obtaining a “Dog Tag” card that looks like a credit card. Computer stations throughout the museum have a spot where you can put your card on a scanner, upon which the computer shows a short video of a World War II solider who is assigned to your card. Five stations throughout the museum tell a different aspect of your soldier’s experiences before, during, and after the war (if they survived it). Notwithstanding the difficulty of finding some of the computer stations (I missed two of them) and the lack of available computers (I don’t think I’ve been to a museum that was so busy and people were almost always hounded around the computers), I though the activity was thoughtful and educational. My “Dog Tag” had the story of four-star General Benjamin O. Davis, who happens to be an extremely important and heroic figure in U.S. military history. Elsewhere there was an interactive activity about the USS Tang, a ship that sunk thirty-three enemy ships during the war, that was immersive and interesting. Visitors were assigned to a station within a recreated model of the Tang and given a specific duty on the ship to complete during a mission.
Other uses of technology in the World War II museum were not as successful, in my opinion. The museum was full of videos throughout the exhibits, all of which had sound. The sounds from each of the videos often bled into each other, creating a wall of cacophonous sound that distracted from the exhibit text and artifacts in a given area. Equally frustrating was how the walkways throughout the exhibits were not large enough to isolate video-watchers from the rest of the crowd. People would stop to watch the videos and block the walkways for other museum-goers, creating cramped hallways and little breathing room to maneuver through the museum. The World War I museum, by contrast, doesn’t utilize as much digital technology in its exhibits but uses its resources in ways that are more user-friendly. Videos about the political situation in the 1910s, the coming of World War I, and the United States’ decision to enter the war are isolated from the rest of the museum exhibits, allowing visitors who want to see the videos the freedom to do so while not distracting from others who want to visit the museum’s other exhibits. While the World War I museum doesn’t offer a “Dog Tag”-type activity for visitors, it did offer one interactive activity in which visitors created their own propaganda posters using graphics and artwork from posters used in various countries at the time.
The other noticeable aspect of both museums is the role of politics in their interpretive exhibits. The World War I museum does a masterful job in both its exhibits and videos of analyzing the political conditions that existed in Europe before the coming of the Great War. Topics such as nationalism, colonialism, imperialism, racism, and entangling alliances are explained with clarity and precision without sacrificing complexity. Equally important, the World War I museum places particular interpretive emphasis on conditions in Europe, not the United States. I believe this distinction is really important. While the museum is tasked with educating visitors about the American role in war, the staff at the museum astutely understand that this role must be fit within a larger story that spends several years in Germany, England, France, Austria-Hungary, Serbia, and the rest of Europe before the U.S. became a leading actor. The museum’s splitting into two sections between the years of 1914-1916 and 1917-1918 (when the U.S. entered the war) reinforces the importance of not focusing on the war’s history through too strong of an American lens.
The World War II museum, however, struggles to address the equally messy politics of that conflict. The exhibits throughout the museum barely touch political matters beyond the interactions between politicians and generals with regards to military strategy and tactics. A film narrated by the actor Tom Hanks does acknowledge that the U.S. faced two growing enemies in fascist Europe and imperial Japan, but doesn’t explain how these two forces came to be. Visitors are told, for example, that the Nazi party ruled Germany through the ideological lens of hatred and Aryan racial purity, but doesn’t explain how the Nazi party appealed to a wide swath of German voters or point out that Hitler was democratically elected. Likewise, Japan is portrayed as a militaristic, land- and -resource-hungry empire bent on conquering all of Asia, but why Japan held these ambitions and how they gained such power in the first place is left unexplained.
Another contrast of equal interest is the use of patriotic themes through these museums. The World War I museum takes a somber, reflective tone throughout its exhibits. The most notable example is the Paul Sunderland Glass Bridge. Underneath the bridge lies 9,000 poppy flowers in a field. Each flower represents 1,000 deaths during World War I, symbolizing the nine million people worldwide (not just Americans) who died in that conflict. No such display is exhibited in the World War II museum, and while the Tom Hanks film points out that 65 million people worldwide died in World War II, it becomes evident in the film and surrounding exhibits that the 400,000-plus Americans who died during the war will get particular attention in the interpretive programs. Nothing demonstrated this fact more than a musical program in one of the World War II museum’s buildings. Three women in 1940s-style dresses–one red, one white, and one blue–sang patriotic songs for roughly thirty minutes, including the songs of each military branch and Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.” During Greenwood’s song the women pulled out a U.S. flag, which in turn led to rancorous applause among the museum’s visitors. This exercise isn’t necessarily wrong or out of place at a museum of American history, but I can’t help but feel like such a display would feel unusual at the World War I museum. Likewise, similar exercises would feel awkward in a German museum like the Jewish Museum, Berlin, or the German Historical Museum, both of which I visited in 2015, where such open displays of patriotism and nationalism are fraught with their own difficulties and historical baggage. The musical program reinforces the history of World War II as a “Good War” in American memory, as historian John Bodnar explains in his 2010 book on the topic. U.S. involvement in World War II was good, of course, but the story is more complicated than singing a Lee Greenwood song.
In sum, the interpretive focus of the World War I Museum is a warning in the dangers of excessive nationalist sentiment and an elegiac meditation on the destructiveness of war, particularly one in which modern technology further amplifies the killing. Conversely, the interpretive focus of the World War II Museum is openly nationalist, Ameri-centric, and a borderline glorification of war. The World War I museum explains the causes of the war, its effect on world affairs, and the consequences of an inadequate peace treaty that helped foster another tragic world war just a few decades later. The World War II museum only mentions the causes of the war in passing through a video. While it does highlight the bloodshed of the war, particularly the blood shed by American soldiers, it struggles to tie in the conflict with other global affairs and chooses to stop at the war itself. The messy politics of the Cold War are put to the side in favor of a simple narrative of American progress and freedom.
I enjoyed both museums and believe that everyone would benefit from visiting both, but I believe that the World War I museum is superior in its interpretive programming and educational themes. It remains one of the best museums I have ever visited.
It is common in history, government, and political science classes to stress that the United States has a republican form of government, not a democracy. Article Four, Section Four, Clause One of the U.S. Constitution stipulates that “the United States shall guarantee to every State in this Union a Republican Form of Government . . .” James Madison, one of the Constitution’s leading architects and an author of the pro-Constitution Federalist Papers, expressed fears in Federalist No. 10 that “factions” (what many folks might call “identities” today) would look inward towards the interests of their group at the expense of the common good, which in turn would lead them to vote in ways that were harmful to the public interest. A republic, according to Madison, would provide a check against the excesses of direct democracy and factional politics. Elsewhere it’s been argued that in a republic, a written constitution establishes a list of inalienable rights that cannot be taken away by the government, whereas in a democracy no such protections are offered to the populace and everything is based on the will of the majority.
Case closed, right? Maybe not.
Here is what the late political scientist Robert Dahl wrote in How Democratic is the American Constitution? about the contradictory and confused views of Madison towards republics and democracies (pages 159-162). It’s good food for thought and worth considering if the distinction between the two terms is as stark as many of us often assume it is at first blush.
The view that the Framers intended to create a republic, not a democracy, probably had its origins in Federalist no. 10. Although there as elsewhere [Madison] also used the expression “popular government” as a kind of generic term, he distinguished further between “a pure democracy, by which I mean a society consisting of a small number of persons, who assemble and administer the government in person,” and a “republic, by which I mean a government in which the scheme of representation takes place . . . The two great points of difference between a democracy and a republic are: first, the delegation of the government, in the latter, to a small number of citizens elected by the rest; secondly, the greater number of citizens, and greater sphere of the country, over which the latter may be extended.”
Here Madison was making the common distinction that political scientists and others would later differentiate between “direct democracy” and “representative democracy.” For it was as evident to the Framers as it is to us that given the size of the nation composed of the thirteen existing states, with more to come, “the people” could not possibly assemble directly to enact laws, as they did at the time in New England town meetings and had done two millennia earlier in Greece, where the term “democracy” was invented. It was perfectly obvious to the Framers, then, that in such a large country, a republican government would have to be a representative government, where national laws would be enacted by a representative legislative body consisting of members chosen directly or indirectly by the people.
Madison was probably also influenced by a long tradition of “republicanism” that in both theory and practice leaned somewhat more towards aristocracy, limited suffrage, concern for property rights, and fear of the populace than toward a broadly based popular government more dependent on “the will of the people.”
It is also true, however, that during the eighteenth century the terms “democracy” and “republic” were used rather interchangeably in both common and philosophical usage. Madison, in fact, was well aware of the difficulty of defining “republic.” In Federalist No. 39, he posed the question “What, then, are the distinctive characters [sic] of the republican form?” “Were an answer to this question be sought . . . in the application of the term by political writers, to the constitutions of different states, no satisfactory one could be found. Holland, in which no particle of the supreme authority is derived from the people, has passed almost universally under the denomination of a republic. The same title has been bestowed on Venice, where absolute power over the great body of the people is exercised, in the most absolute manner, by a small body of hereditary nobles.”
In view of this ambiguity, Madison proposed that “we may define a republic to be . . . a government which derives all its power directly or indirectly from great body of the people, and is administered by persons holding their offices during pleasure, or for a limited period, or during good behavior.” By defining a republic as a government which derives all its powers “directly or indirectly from the great body of the people,” Madison now seems to be contradicting the distinction he had drawn earlier in Federalist No. 10. We might read his struggle with definitions as a further illustration of the prevailing confusion over the two terms.
If further evidence were needed of the ambiguity of terminology, we could turn to a highly influential writer whose work was well known to Madison and many of his contemporaries. In The Spirit of the Laws (1748) Montesquieu had distinguished three kinds of government: republican, monarchic, and despotic. Republican governments were of two kinds: “When, in a republic, the people as a body have the sovereign power, it is a Democracy. When the sovereign power is in the hands of a part of the people, it is called an Aristocracy.” But Montesquieu also insisted that “It is in the nature of a Republic that it has only a small territory: without that it could scarcely exist.”
Although the Framers differed among themselves as to how democratic they wanted their republic to be, for obvious reasons they were of one mind about the need for a representative government. But as events soon showed, they could not fully determine just how democratic that representative government would become–under the leadership of, among others, James Madison.
The Washington Post recently wrote an article about an ongoing debate between economic historians and historians of capitalism (the two are not the same) about the role of slavery in the U.S. economy before the Civil War, particularly the relationship between slavery and capitalism. This debate has been taking place for a number of years, from what I can gather, but I find the Post’s handling of this extended conversation to be mildly annoying.
Generally speaking, the historians of capitalism argue that the two were intimately related and that slavery thrived and expanded in the U.S. precisely because of capitalism. Sven Beckert and Seth Rockman have recently argued that the sheer number of enslaved people throughout the South, combined with Northern (and British) capital investment in the institution renders “an unclear line of demarcation between a capitalist North and a slave South, with consequences for how we understand North and South as discrete economies—and whether we should do so in the first place.” In the Post article we hear from Edward Baptist, another historian of capitalism, who argues that the torturing of enslaved people was foundational to slavery’s growth and expansion by forcing them to produce at higher and higher rates to account for the increased demand in slave-picked cotton during the first half of the nineteenth century.
Economic historians, on the other hand, generally caution that collapsing the distinctions between Northern and Southern economies runs the risk of complicating our ability to explain how the Civil War came about. If the institution of slavery was so strongly supported in the North, then how do you explain the rise of popular anti-slavery parties in the North during the 1840s and 1850s that campaigned on the argument that slavery was a threat to the value of one’s labor and a less efficient production system than one based on free labor principles? How do you explain the origins of a bloody civil war between the two sections if their economic systems were so intimately connected? Where do discussions over sectional disagreements about economic policies like tariffs, taxes, public land sales, and government involvement in infrastructure projects fit within the capitalist historians’ focus? Furthermore, in responding to Baptist, Alan Olmstead argues that new seed technologies accelerated cotton production and played the most crucial role in fostering slavery’s growth, not slave torture.
I don’t propose to offer any concrete answers to this discussion other than to say that I find the way the Post has framed the issue isn’t really productive. Must historians’ explanation for slavery’s growth in the United States–an incredibly complex topic that could take a lifetime to study–be whittled down to a single cause: torture or seeds? Isn’t it more plausible to suggest that the two ideas (and probably more) of the various camps can coexist and complement each other? I think so. Increased cotton production in the South by enslaved labor before the Civil War was possible because of political and economic policies (national, state, and local), social practices, scientific and religious beliefs, and a strong law enforcement/police state that allowed for this state of affairs to flourish and grow.
I do not mean to suggest that historians must put equal weight to all factors when explaining a particular historical event or topic; weighing out these factors is part of the fun in debating these issues. Whenever possible, I think the quantification of empirical evidence allows historians a chance to put more weight into their claims for one particular factor over another. But historians should always strive for complexity and nuance rather than either-or propositions as the Post would have us understand this topic. When the goal becomes over-simplification and monocausal explanations for complex historical processes, I think we end up doing more harm than good to the historical record.
Public historians who work in interpretation and education often find themselves in a uniquely different setting from that of a classroom history teacher. A classroom teacher typically has at least sixteen weeks to learn about his or her students and to build a relationship with them. The teacher typically works with those students from sixty to ninety minutes per classroom session, and the really good ones blend a range of pedagogical techniques throughout the semester that simultaneously foster teamwork, historical empathy, a better understanding of historical content for a given time period, enhanced reading, writing, and research skills, and a heightened appreciation of the importance of history in our daily lives.
Public historians share many of these same goals when working with their many publics, but the amount of time we have to communicate with them is much shorter. In my work with the National Park Service I typically get one ten-minute introductory talk to build a relationship with visitors of all different backgrounds and spark an interest in history within them. My interpretive narrative changes and evolves with each group I work with in the hope that I can meet people where they are on their own journey through history. In the public history world you must quickly learn how to work in small time spaces like mine. Moreover, you never know who will walk through that door to visit your site on a given day, which is simultaneously exciting and nerve-racking.
Those who work the front lines with their many publics are often trained to study historical content, put together an interpretive program based on a knowledge of that content, focus on exposing “multiple perspectives” to the past through the eyes of various historical actors and, if possible, make connections to present-day circumstances. These objectives are noble and challenging, especially because the historical content we interpret and the present-day connections we make are inherently political. If you work in public history long enough, you will run into a visitor who will object to the historical content you share, your intent to go beyond the historical perspective of White Anglo Saxon men, and the connections you make between the past and the present. These interactions can be difficult and emotionally draining. The recent news of increasingly hostile anti-immigrant comments from visitors to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum in New York City is but one example of tour guides experiencing a great deal of challenging visitor feedback about their interpretive stories and the messy politics of the present.
We are trained to understand the past but less often trained to deal with the present. While public historians should be prepared for confrontational visitors, how to work with these visitors to turn heated confrontations into meaningful interactions that promote learning and understanding is often left unsaid. What follows are a few simple tips that I’ve employed in my own interactions with confrontational visitors over the years.
Respectfully challenge visitors to further explain and defend their claims.
The purpose of education in my view is to encourage learning, which I broadly define as a change in thinking about and understanding of the world through experience, study, and interaction. When I experience a confrontational visitor, my first desire is to turn the interaction into a learning opportunity through dialogue. Public historians need to be well-versed in historical content and methods, but they also need to be effective conversationalists. Good public history practice is as much about being a respectful, attentive listener to visitor feedback as it is about effectively communicating historical content. When public historians demonstrate their willingness to listen, they establish trust with visitors and open the door for respectful interactions. They might also learn something from a visitor during the process!
When a visitor says something I might disagree with, I try to respectfully challenge that claim by encouraging the visitor to keep talking rather than telling them outright that they’re wrong. I like to use the following prompts:
“Tell me more.”
“What sources did you rely on to make that conclusion?”
“Where did you hear that claim? I’ve heard a few different viewpoints on this topic.”
“I want to better understand your perspective. What you do mean when you say…”
“There’s been a lot of debate about this topic. Have you read [enter a relevant work of scholarship] before? It might offer a different perspective worth considering.”
“Thanks for sharing your perspective. What made you interested in this topic?”
Each of these prompts challenges visitors to defend their position while also encouraging them to continue sharing their perspective with someone who’s willing to respectfully listen to them. I particularly like “tell me more” and “what sources did you rely on” because they put the onus on the visitor to explain and defend themselves. After listening and providing a few prompts to get the visitor talking, you then put yourself in a position to share your perspective and use your historical knowledge to direct the visitor towards resources they can use to learn more after the interaction has taken place. None of this is rocket science, but these prompts have been my best tools for challenging confrontational visitors.
Different circumstances require different sorts of responses from public historians.
While public historians should always strive to encourage visitor feedback and constructive dialogue, there are times when the best option is to stop the conversation and let it go. Some visitors will simply refuse to listen to you or give you the respect you deserve as an educator and scholar. Your emotions, self-respect, and dignity come first, and sometimes saying “we’ll just have to agree to disagree” is the only path forward.
There are other times where clearing up misinformation and historical inaccuracies stated by visitors requires a response more forceful than a dialogic method. For example, a visitor once argued to me that Abraham Lincoln was a slaveholder. It was necessary, in my view, to simply state right off the bat that such a claim is inaccurate and to explain that Lincoln lived in free states his entire adult life save for his time in Washington, D.C. I felt like we needed to be on the same page on this matter before engaging in a dialogue about Lincoln’s political views towards slavery.
So, in sum, each individual interaction with a visitor has unique circumstances attached to it. Public historians must determine on an individual basis how they’ll respond to the confrontational visitor, whether that be through dialogue, a more assertive approach that corrects inaccurate information, or a decision that the conversation is too heated and should be ended.
Never put labels on visitors. Challenge what they say and do rather than making claims about who they are.
The social commentator Jay Smooth says it best in the below video when he argues that if you hope to get through to a person and give yourself a chance to change their perspective, it’s more effective to focus on what they say then making claims about who they are. We don’t know the personal lives of our visitors or how their life experiences have shaped their particular perspective of the world. When the focus is on speculating about someone’s motives or putting labels on that person, the conversation turns into name-calling and the potential for a genuine learning opportunity is lost. Furthermore, your ability to hold someone accountable for their views becomes much tougher when you focus on names instead of words and actions. In my own work I often encounter visitors who believe the American Civil War had nothing to do with slavery. The easy response would be to call out the person’s incorrect view and accuse them of being a neo-Confederate. A more productive response would challenge that person using the above prompts to ask them how they came to that conclusion. Rather that saying that the person is a neo-Confederate, I can respectuflly state, using my knowledge of historical scholarship and contemporary debate, that what they’re arguing sounds like something a neo-Confederate might say.
What do you think? What strategies and technique do you utilize for working with confrontational visitors?
The historiography of the Reconstruction era has and continues to be overwhelmingly focused on questions of race, citizenship, and equal protection under the law in the years after the American Civil War. For an era of remarkable constitutional change and the dramatic transition of four million formerly enslaved people into citizens (and, for some, into voters and elected leaders), this focus is understandable. Reconstruction-era scholars almost unanimously agree today that Reconstruction was a noble but “unfinished revolution” undone by an end to military rule in the South in 1877 and an apathetic white North no longer interested in protecting black rights, which in turn allowed unrepentant, racist white Southern Democrats to overtake their state governments and impose Jim Crow laws that ushered in a long era of white political supremacy throughout the region.
The “unfinished revolution” thesis is undoubtedly true, but there is more to the story of Reconstruction than the question of Black Civil Rights (although the importance of that story cannot be overstated). The country’s finances were in shambles and questions emerged about the best way to pay down the federal deficit and establish sound credit; women fought for the right to vote but were denied this right when the 15th amendment limited suffrage to men only; Indian tribes throughout the west faced the prospect of rapid white westward expansion and a federal government that simultaneously preached peace with the tribes but also did little to stop white encroachment of their lands; and immigrants from mostly Southern and Eastern Europe began to settle in the United States, causing a great deal of consternation among political leaders about how to best assimilate these people into American culture.
Regarding the latter issue, historian Ward McAfee’s 1998 publication Religion, Race, and Reconstruction: The Public School in the Politics of the 1870s is a masterful treatment of the role of public education during the Reconstruction era. I just finished reading the book and I learned a ton from it.
McAfee’s thesis is essentially three-pronged. The first argument is that increasing numbers of immigrants to the U.S. during Reconstruction raised a great deal of concern within the Republican Party, especially those who had flirted with Know-Nothingism in the 1850s and held anti-immigrant and anti-Catholic prejudices. Republicans feared that these immigrants held their allegiance to the Pope above their allegiance to the U.S. and that the Catholic church kept their parishioners illiterate, superstitious, and ignorant of the larger world. These immigrants would attempt to subvert the country’s republican institutions and make America a bulwark of the Vatican. The emergence of public education during Reconstruction, therefore, was not just an effort to educate the formerly enslaved but also an effort to promote (Protestant) morals, good citizenship, and obedience to republican institutions among immigrant children ostensibly being raised on Catholic principles.
The second argument relates to the division of taxpayer funds for public schools during Reconstruction. These emerging public schools during the era often incorporated Bible readings in class without much complaint. Republicans argued that Bible readings would teach good morals to students and that these teachings were appropriate as long as they took a “nonsectarian” approach that didn’t cater to any particular denomination. Most of these readings were done out of King James Bibles originally translated by the Church of England, however, and Catholics accused public school teachers of engaging in pro-Protestant, anti-Catholic teachings. To remedy this issue, Catholics established their own private, parochial schools and called upon the federal government to ensure that state tax funds for education be equally distributed between public “Protestant” schools and private Catholic schools. Republicans led the charge against splitting these funds and undertook an effort to ban public funding for “sectarian” schools. Towards the end of Reconstruction the Republicans made this issue a centerpiece of their party platform, and in 1875 Congressman James Blaine led an unsuccessful effort to pass an amendment banning public funding for sectarian schools (although “nonsectarian” religious instruction and Bible readings could still hypothetically take place in the public school classroom). While this amendment failed, 38 of 50 states today still have their own state “Blaine amendments” banning the funding of sectarian schools.
The third and arguably most provocative argument from McAfee is his contention that Reconstruction failed largely because of an initiative by the radical wing of the Republican party to mandate racially integrated “mixed-race” schooling in 1874. Most Republicans were skeptical if not outright hostile to racially integrated public schools (in stark contrast to their desire to have children from Protestant, Catholic, and other religious backgrounds intermingled together in public schools). Massachusetts Senator Charles Sumner, however, was a dedicated proponent of racial integration in the schools and refused to compromise on the issue. When Congress began debating the merits of a new Civil Rights bill in 1874 that would mandate equal treatment in public accommodations, public transportation, and jury service, Sumner insisted on including a clause on racially integrated public schools. When news of Sumner’s demands became public, Democrats and conservative Republicans in both the North and South responded with outrage. Conservative Republicans in particular stated that while equal treatment in public facilities was acceptable, mandating mixed schools was a bridge too far. Republicans lost control of Congress after the 1874 midterm elections, and, according to McAfee, the cause of this loss was the insistence of Radical Republicans to mandate racial integration in schools.
Prior to reading McAfee I was of the belief that the devastating Panic of 1873 was the primary reason why Republicans lost the 1874 midterms, but McAfee presents convincing evidence that the mixed-schools initiative also contributed to those losses in a significant way. With Democratic control of Congress now assured, Reconstruction’s future was doomed. A Civil Rights Act was passed in 1875–largely in tribute to Sumner after he died in 1874–that mandated equal treatment in public facilities and jury service, but the clause mandating racial integration of public schools was removed. In any case, the Supreme Court in 1883 determined in Civil Rights Cases that parts of the Civil Rights of Act of 1875 were unconstitutional because, according to the court, the 14th amendment requiring equal protection of the laws only applied to the actions of the state and not the actions of private individuals and organizations.
Religion, Race, and Reconstruction is a fine piece of intellectual history that brings life to a long-forgotten element of Reconstruction history, and I highly recommend the book to readers of this blog.
The Ulysses S. Grant Association recently announced the death of Michael B. Ballard, a well-renowned Civil War historian and archivist, at the age of 70 from a massive heart attack. Dr. Ballard wrote more than a dozen books on the Civil War, including his 2005 work U.S. Grant: The Making of a General, 1861-1863, which I found to be a critical yet fair assessment of Grant’s generalship leading up to his command of U.S. forces at Vicksburg in 1862-63. Dr. Ballard wrote the following essay about Grant’s drinking habits shortly before passing away, and it’s included in the most recent Grant Association newsletter. I think it’s a succinct treatment of the topic and am sharing it here. Again, I did not write this essay. Enjoy!
U.S. Grant’s reputation for drinking too much liquor began with his time spent on the west coast before the Civil War. He missed his wife and children greatly and sought solace in whiskey. His problem was that he had a low tolerance for alcohol. Unfortunately, his reputation for drinking followed him for the rest of his career, both in the military, his presidency, and thereafter.
Almost all, if not all, the stories about various drunken states are apocryphal. For example, the few times he had accidental falls from his horse, stories immediately circulated that he had been drunk at the time. A well-publicized incident on a Grant boat trip up the Yazoo River during the Vicksburg siege was particularly damning, since it included a letter from his chief aide, John Rawlins, chastising Grant for drinking, seemingly on the trip. But the letter was written before the trip and apparently based on a wine bottle seen near Grant’s tent. Ironically, the story would not become widespread until long after the war.
Charles Dana, a representative of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, who reported to Stanton from Vicksburg, was on board Grant’s boat, and he stated that Grant got ill and spent most of the trip in the boat’s cabin. Grant did have a problem with headaches, but when he had a severe one, many jumped to the conclusion that it was a cover for drunkenness. The boat never reached its intended destination, Sartartia, a village on the Yazoo where Union forces had been operating. Newspaperman Sylvanus Cadwallader wrote later that Grant had been in an advanced state of drunkenness during the trip, had acted wildly at Sartartia, and had been drinking copiously at a sutler’s wagon after the return to Chickasaw Bayou, the Union supply depot on the Yazoo. Then Grant had allegedly crawled astride his horse and ridden wildly through the camps of some of his men. It is worth noting that Union soldiers who would have witnessed such a ride wrote nothing about it in their numerous diaries and letters.
Cadwallader was not on the boat, but, if he had been, surely some Union soldiers on another boat that followed Grant’s vessel back to the supply depot, would have written about it, and the sailors on the boat would likewise have left accounts. If any did, their letters or reports have never surfaced. William T. Sherman, Grant’s close friend, said that on occasion Grant might drink too much, but that he encouraged Sherman to keep an eye on him and caution him. Sherman also said that, no matter how much Grant might drink, he would sleep for an hour and wake up totally sober. This would hardly classify Grant as an alcoholic, and Dana’s description of Grant’s conduct on the boat mirrors Sherman’s description.
Cadwallader wrote his account long after Grant’s death. He and James Harrison Wilson, who had been a Grant staffer during the Vicksburg campaign, were furious when Grant’s two-volume memoirs came out, after Grant’s death, because Grant had not praised Rawlins to their satisfaction. Rawlins acted as if he was Grant’s father, and he bullied Grant about the drinking stories, probably because Rawlins’ father was a drunk. Grant put up with much abuse from Rawlins, mainly because they were old friends, and Rawlins was a sound advisor. Cadwallader and Wilson put Rawlins on a pedestal, so they decided to bring up every story they could find about Grant’s alleged drunkenness. It was easy to seek revenge against a man who was dead.
But when Wilson saw what Cadwallader had written in a manuscript that would not be published until 1955 (Three Years with Grant), he wrote Cadwallader that he remembered no such incidents on the boat trip. Wilson contacted Dana, and Dana responded that Cadwallader had not been on the boat. Wilson so informed Cadwallader who responded that he had not seen Dana either. Therefore there must have been two trips. The record is clear; there was only one trip. Once the story was made public due to Cadwallader’s book, it became widely accepted and endorsed by many well-known historians who did not bother checking its veracity. Lost-cause Southerners loved it, and even though it has been proven false, it is nevertheless an ingrained part of Grant mythology. Grant would have been furious and Cadwallader disappointed that he did not live to see it in print. But, now that it is known that the tale was intentionally concocted, perhaps someday justice will prevail.
The bottom line is that there is no evidence that any of the things Cadwallader wrote about the trip up the Yazoo, and the wild ride after the return to the landing north of Vicksburg, ever happened.