Today would be former President Richard Nixon's 100th birthday.
That calls for a celebration!
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
The Personal and the Printable
I just finished reading Laura Kalman's Right Star Rising: A New Politics, 1974-1980 (W. W. Norton, 2010). On the whole I found it quite informative, but I was struck once again by an observation I have made of many scholars who came of age during the 1970s: for her, the Nixon/Ford/Carter years were personal, and she has no qualms letting the reader know this is so. Nor does she have the slightest shred of concern about identifying her position on the political spectrum. I cite, for example, from the epilogue:
"Experts today disagree about the extent to which Reagan's victory represented a repudiation of Carter or a triumph of conservatism. As a historian and a liberal I give greater weight to the former than the latter." (363)
I do not mean to imply that Kalman's analysis is wildly partisan. On the contrary, she asserts in the last paragraph of the volume that "[r]easonable people disagree about the directions in which [Reagan] took the country" (366) while awarding the Californian kudos for leading in the first place -- her signal critique of both Ford and Carter being that neither was an effective leader and that these failures at the top both broadened and deepened the real structural problems of the 1970s. I enjoyed many things about Kalman's book, her dexterity in making use of amusing chestnuts not least among them. (I was intrigued to note, for example, that Jimmy Carter's 1976 campaign symbol was a "fourteen-foot-high, 450-point 'monster peanut' built of hoops, chicken wire, tinfoil, and foam" [155].)
That said, Kalman's book confronts me once again with two questions I have grappled with previously (and reintroduce partly because due to a recent cross-posting on GFU's Facebook page some of you reading this may be of college age). First, what, if any, is the proper role of personal commentary in published historical analysis? Second, how do we cope with separating personal/lived experience from our scholarly analysis of recent history?
I've been told by numerous people that they have not been able to deduce my political orientation from the content of my first book. I take that as a compliment. I want my published work to reflect an informed and -- to the extent this is possible for any human -- objective interpretation of historical data. True objectivity may be impossible to attain, but at the very least I aim for fairness. I want to be fair to my subjects, even when I disagree with them personally. At some point a line must be drawn; fair historical analysis of Japanese internment during World War II would not, in my opinion, preclude concluding that it was unwarranted and anathema to the declared principles upon which American society rests. Should I self-identify my political persuasion in a historical monograph? I'd argue no, but others differ. I'd be curious to hear your thoughts and reflections. Informal writing -- this blog, for example -- offers greater latitude for expression of personal perspective, and readers of past entries will be aware I do engage my own story much more extensively here than I would in an article submitted to a journal or a book chapter destined for publication.
Scholars of my generation -- people with no memory of the 1970s -- are just now coming to an age of academic majority. I am and will continue to be intrigued to watch and see how our dominant perceptions of the 1960s and 1970s change and develop over time. I have no memories of Vietnam or of the counterculture; I can study the Nixon era but I will never have the visceral reaction to Watergate that someone who lived through that era might have experienced. I operate at a remove. At the same time, as the content of the second half of the U.S. survey marches on into the 21st century I am aware of how my own impressions of Clinton and the Bushes, the 1990s and 9/11 may well operate upon my historical interpretation as those of Lyndon Johnson or Watergate did upon my elders. How do we make wise use of personal experience without allowing the personal to overshadow or disfigure the analytical? I am not sure there is one answer, but these are important questions to ponder deeply.
"Experts today disagree about the extent to which Reagan's victory represented a repudiation of Carter or a triumph of conservatism. As a historian and a liberal I give greater weight to the former than the latter." (363)
I do not mean to imply that Kalman's analysis is wildly partisan. On the contrary, she asserts in the last paragraph of the volume that "[r]easonable people disagree about the directions in which [Reagan] took the country" (366) while awarding the Californian kudos for leading in the first place -- her signal critique of both Ford and Carter being that neither was an effective leader and that these failures at the top both broadened and deepened the real structural problems of the 1970s. I enjoyed many things about Kalman's book, her dexterity in making use of amusing chestnuts not least among them. (I was intrigued to note, for example, that Jimmy Carter's 1976 campaign symbol was a "fourteen-foot-high, 450-point 'monster peanut' built of hoops, chicken wire, tinfoil, and foam" [155].)
That said, Kalman's book confronts me once again with two questions I have grappled with previously (and reintroduce partly because due to a recent cross-posting on GFU's Facebook page some of you reading this may be of college age). First, what, if any, is the proper role of personal commentary in published historical analysis? Second, how do we cope with separating personal/lived experience from our scholarly analysis of recent history?
I've been told by numerous people that they have not been able to deduce my political orientation from the content of my first book. I take that as a compliment. I want my published work to reflect an informed and -- to the extent this is possible for any human -- objective interpretation of historical data. True objectivity may be impossible to attain, but at the very least I aim for fairness. I want to be fair to my subjects, even when I disagree with them personally. At some point a line must be drawn; fair historical analysis of Japanese internment during World War II would not, in my opinion, preclude concluding that it was unwarranted and anathema to the declared principles upon which American society rests. Should I self-identify my political persuasion in a historical monograph? I'd argue no, but others differ. I'd be curious to hear your thoughts and reflections. Informal writing -- this blog, for example -- offers greater latitude for expression of personal perspective, and readers of past entries will be aware I do engage my own story much more extensively here than I would in an article submitted to a journal or a book chapter destined for publication.
Scholars of my generation -- people with no memory of the 1970s -- are just now coming to an age of academic majority. I am and will continue to be intrigued to watch and see how our dominant perceptions of the 1960s and 1970s change and develop over time. I have no memories of Vietnam or of the counterculture; I can study the Nixon era but I will never have the visceral reaction to Watergate that someone who lived through that era might have experienced. I operate at a remove. At the same time, as the content of the second half of the U.S. survey marches on into the 21st century I am aware of how my own impressions of Clinton and the Bushes, the 1990s and 9/11 may well operate upon my historical interpretation as those of Lyndon Johnson or Watergate did upon my elders. How do we make wise use of personal experience without allowing the personal to overshadow or disfigure the analytical? I am not sure there is one answer, but these are important questions to ponder deeply.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Watch Night
Tonight marks the 150th anniversary of the moment the Emancipation Proclamation became law. In September 1862, President Abraham Lincoln declared his intent to emancipate all slaves living in rebellious states or sections of states unless the authorities in question agreed to re-join the Union by December 31, 1862. It is important to note that this proclamation did not outlaw slavery everywhere in the United States; slaves in sections of the country not in rebellion remained slaves until the ratification of the 13th Amendment in 1865. Even so, January 1, 1863 marked the beginning of the end of slavery as an American institution.
As the author of this interesting Denver Post article points out, the moral question we deem so central was one among several reasons for emancipating southern slaves. Despite the legacy of the revolutionary conflict and the War of 1812, our most important international relationship was with Great Britain, and throughout 1862 and 1863 the British remained divided on the question of recognition for the Confederate government. On one hand, these were states in rebellion from the perspective of the United States; on the other, they were important purveyors of raw cotton for the burgeoning textile industry of industrial Manchester and other British manufacturing centers. Britain had outlawed slavery years before, but until the Emancipation Proclamation placed slavery squarely at the center of the Civil War conflict it remained possible to view the war as a question of state's rights versus federal prerogatives. Once Lincoln signed his proclamation, the War Between the States became unquestionably a war about slavery--and public opinion in Britain would not stand for an alliance with southern slaveholders. The rhetoric of defending slavery was present from the earliest days of the conflict. C.S.A. vice president Alexander Stephens memorably declared slavery the "cornerstone of the Confederacy." After January 1, 1863 this rhetoric could no longer be minimized or ignored.
African Americans were, of course, eager to see the Emancipation Proclamation take effect, organizing "Watch Nights" on December 31, 1862 to stand vigil in hopes that Lincoln would keep his promise to undertake such a revolutionary action. On this 150th anniversary, the National Archives will stay open past midnight as the original document is put on display alongside the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution. Others around the country will keep vigil in remembrance of this transformative event. Emancipation did not bring the end of suffering, but it marked an tremendously important beginning. I am thankful for the step toward freedom Lincoln took on behalf of this nation 150 years ago tonight.
As the author of this interesting Denver Post article points out, the moral question we deem so central was one among several reasons for emancipating southern slaves. Despite the legacy of the revolutionary conflict and the War of 1812, our most important international relationship was with Great Britain, and throughout 1862 and 1863 the British remained divided on the question of recognition for the Confederate government. On one hand, these were states in rebellion from the perspective of the United States; on the other, they were important purveyors of raw cotton for the burgeoning textile industry of industrial Manchester and other British manufacturing centers. Britain had outlawed slavery years before, but until the Emancipation Proclamation placed slavery squarely at the center of the Civil War conflict it remained possible to view the war as a question of state's rights versus federal prerogatives. Once Lincoln signed his proclamation, the War Between the States became unquestionably a war about slavery--and public opinion in Britain would not stand for an alliance with southern slaveholders. The rhetoric of defending slavery was present from the earliest days of the conflict. C.S.A. vice president Alexander Stephens memorably declared slavery the "cornerstone of the Confederacy." After January 1, 1863 this rhetoric could no longer be minimized or ignored.
African Americans were, of course, eager to see the Emancipation Proclamation take effect, organizing "Watch Nights" on December 31, 1862 to stand vigil in hopes that Lincoln would keep his promise to undertake such a revolutionary action. On this 150th anniversary, the National Archives will stay open past midnight as the original document is put on display alongside the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution. Others around the country will keep vigil in remembrance of this transformative event. Emancipation did not bring the end of suffering, but it marked an tremendously important beginning. I am thankful for the step toward freedom Lincoln took on behalf of this nation 150 years ago tonight.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Rustin on compromise
I am preparing for my last session of American political thought this semester (!). We will focus this week on the 1960s, examining texts of the New Left, civil rights and women's rights movements. No wonder each week feels like a 2.5-hour whirlwind...
I'm enjoying the opportunity to read again through texts like Martin Luther King, Jr.'s moving "Letter from Birmingham Jail." The power of his prose and the eloquence of his arguments is fresh and invigorating -- and deeply troubling -- every time I read it. When in the course of this response to a plea from fellow clergymen for "moderation" he begins to write of what it's like to see the injustices and pain of segregation mirrored in the faces of your children, the personal torment of racism leaps from the page in a flurry of searing, semi-coloned clauses. I'm sure it's the most masterful piece of prose ever smuggled out of a prison on the margins of old newspapers; I suspect it is one of the more masterful ever written in America on paper of any variety.
Today, though, I was especially intrigued by a sentence from a Commentary journal article written by civil rights leader and King ally Bayard Rustin in 1965. Rustin was speaking to the structural problems remaining in American life even as de jure, or legalized, segregation crumbled to oblivion. In contrast to some in the broader civil rights movement he favored alliances with other progressive groups, arguing that strength and, thus, political power would come only in numbers. He cautioned against equating compromise with disavowal of core values. His words rang true for me in a manner that transcends the context of his movement:
"...the difference between expediency and morality in politics is the difference between selling out a principle and making smaller concessions to win larger ones."*
Our contemporary political leaders would do well to heed Rustin's words.
* Bayard Rustin, "From Protest to Politics: The Future of the Civil Rights Movement," quoted in Isaac Kramnick and Theodore J. Lowi, American Political Thought: A Norton Anthology (New York: W. W. Norton, 2009), p. 1337.
I'm enjoying the opportunity to read again through texts like Martin Luther King, Jr.'s moving "Letter from Birmingham Jail." The power of his prose and the eloquence of his arguments is fresh and invigorating -- and deeply troubling -- every time I read it. When in the course of this response to a plea from fellow clergymen for "moderation" he begins to write of what it's like to see the injustices and pain of segregation mirrored in the faces of your children, the personal torment of racism leaps from the page in a flurry of searing, semi-coloned clauses. I'm sure it's the most masterful piece of prose ever smuggled out of a prison on the margins of old newspapers; I suspect it is one of the more masterful ever written in America on paper of any variety.
Today, though, I was especially intrigued by a sentence from a Commentary journal article written by civil rights leader and King ally Bayard Rustin in 1965. Rustin was speaking to the structural problems remaining in American life even as de jure, or legalized, segregation crumbled to oblivion. In contrast to some in the broader civil rights movement he favored alliances with other progressive groups, arguing that strength and, thus, political power would come only in numbers. He cautioned against equating compromise with disavowal of core values. His words rang true for me in a manner that transcends the context of his movement:
"...the difference between expediency and morality in politics is the difference between selling out a principle and making smaller concessions to win larger ones."*
Our contemporary political leaders would do well to heed Rustin's words.
* Bayard Rustin, "From Protest to Politics: The Future of the Civil Rights Movement," quoted in Isaac Kramnick and Theodore J. Lowi, American Political Thought: A Norton Anthology (New York: W. W. Norton, 2009), p. 1337.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
on the election
While yesterday's presidential election wasn't the squeaker some predicted, Americans clearly differ in their views regarding the direction our country should head. I realize not all readers of this blog will be pleased with President Obama's reelection, and that's okay. Regardless of one's views on the parties or the candidates, however, I think we can all be very pleased by the reality that prompts my reflection this morning:
Last night I led a bunch of (very squirrelly, excited-about-their-first-presidential-votes) students through a discussion of the political thought of three important African American leaders at the turn of the 20th century: Booker T. Washington, W. E. B. Du Bois and Marcus Garvey. Each of these men grappled deeply with the question of how best to protect and develop the rights and aspirations of their people in a desperately oppressive environment.
Then, I came home (having let the squirrelly enthusiasts go forth and celebrate or mourn as the occasion required) and watched an African American president deliver his reelection speech. These United States have elected a black man to the presidency. Twice.
I suspect that even today, Washington, Du Bois and Garvey would find themselves with different political priorities. But boy, would they be proud... and amazed.
Romney's election would not have meant Americans were opposed to the reelection of an African American president -- not in most cases, although I suspect we can all point toward instances in which race played a role in voting decisions. In this election, of course, we faced the unusual -- and in itself, horizon-broadening -- situation of having a Mormon candidate representing the other party, and it's safe to say the odd individual refused to support Romney for those reasons, too.
That said, the very fact that a black presidential candidate was nominated, and did win, and now has been reelected, speaks volumes for the distance we have traveled.
And I think that's something we all can be proud of.
Last night I led a bunch of (very squirrelly, excited-about-their-first-presidential-votes) students through a discussion of the political thought of three important African American leaders at the turn of the 20th century: Booker T. Washington, W. E. B. Du Bois and Marcus Garvey. Each of these men grappled deeply with the question of how best to protect and develop the rights and aspirations of their people in a desperately oppressive environment.
Then, I came home (having let the squirrelly enthusiasts go forth and celebrate or mourn as the occasion required) and watched an African American president deliver his reelection speech. These United States have elected a black man to the presidency. Twice.
I suspect that even today, Washington, Du Bois and Garvey would find themselves with different political priorities. But boy, would they be proud... and amazed.
Romney's election would not have meant Americans were opposed to the reelection of an African American president -- not in most cases, although I suspect we can all point toward instances in which race played a role in voting decisions. In this election, of course, we faced the unusual -- and in itself, horizon-broadening -- situation of having a Mormon candidate representing the other party, and it's safe to say the odd individual refused to support Romney for those reasons, too.
That said, the very fact that a black presidential candidate was nominated, and did win, and now has been reelected, speaks volumes for the distance we have traveled.
And I think that's something we all can be proud of.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Informal reflection on women's rights
This is more of a rambling reflection than a properly composed piece, but I wanted to share something that blew my mind the other day -- even though it really shouldn't have. The information wasn't anything new; I'd known for years, and yet: you know how sometimes knowledge you already possessed can suddenly hit you with particular and even personal force? This was one of those moments. I was talking with my 6-year-old daughter about voting. I can't even remember specifically how the subject arose -- probably something to do with the election and her interest in the "olden days" -- when I commented that women couldn't vote in national elections until 1920.
1920.
My grandmother -- who, I'm blessed to say, is still living -- was four years old. My daughter, whose personality resembles her great-grandmother's so strongly it would force one to believe in reincarnation were the elder representative not still with us, is only two years older than that. The time when she would not have grown up with a right to vote... when I, the political historian (not that I would've been one then) would not have the right to vote... is in living memory.
Ninety-two years. That's not very long ago. I've taught many students about suffrage, but somehow it hadn't struck me so personally before now. My daughter's presence in this conversation probably had a lot to do with that. It was one of those moments when the professional becomes personal and for a moment I could glimpse just how important it was -- it is -- to protect, to defend and to advocate women's rights... and just how important it is to teach these things.
My students read several excerpts of documents written by women's rights advocates during the antebellum period in preparation for class last week. In one of them, Sarah Grimké spoke of "the disproportionate value set on the time and labor of men and of women"* -- in other words, of wage inequality. In 1837. The work continues.
* Sarah M. Grimké, Letter VIII, Letters on the Equality of the Sexes and the Condition of Woman (1837), in Isaac Kramnick and Theodore J. Lowi, American Political Thought (W.W. Norton, 2009), p. 520.
1920.
My grandmother -- who, I'm blessed to say, is still living -- was four years old. My daughter, whose personality resembles her great-grandmother's so strongly it would force one to believe in reincarnation were the elder representative not still with us, is only two years older than that. The time when she would not have grown up with a right to vote... when I, the political historian (not that I would've been one then) would not have the right to vote... is in living memory.
Ninety-two years. That's not very long ago. I've taught many students about suffrage, but somehow it hadn't struck me so personally before now. My daughter's presence in this conversation probably had a lot to do with that. It was one of those moments when the professional becomes personal and for a moment I could glimpse just how important it was -- it is -- to protect, to defend and to advocate women's rights... and just how important it is to teach these things.
My students read several excerpts of documents written by women's rights advocates during the antebellum period in preparation for class last week. In one of them, Sarah Grimké spoke of "the disproportionate value set on the time and labor of men and of women"* -- in other words, of wage inequality. In 1837. The work continues.
* Sarah M. Grimké, Letter VIII, Letters on the Equality of the Sexes and the Condition of Woman (1837), in Isaac Kramnick and Theodore J. Lowi, American Political Thought (W.W. Norton, 2009), p. 520.
Friday, October 5, 2012
A few historically-related thoughts on the first debate
I spent the first presidential debate with an enthusiastic group of GFU students, preparing to be an "expert" on the talk-back professor Q&A panel that followed. Our subsequent conversation was a rich one, and as consequence of all this I took a few notes that might perhaps be worth sharing as one historian's take...
ROMNEY: Proposed returning responsibility for job training to the states.
This sounded much like the "new federalism" of some Nixon era policies--and like the type of thing Mitt's dad, George, would very much have favored. This concept of devolving power to the lowest practical level is nothing new (indeed, it's been part of the American political dialogue since our founding). George, however, was equally concerned with fostering interactions between business and government that emphasized mutual responsibility. Talking about devolution is all well and good (and we do need to keep trying new ideas); how do we put policy into practice? This is the essential element I felt was missing. It's an easy sell to small-government advocates to talk about devolution, but without accompanying structure they're just words. Perhaps the structure of a debate does not allow for such detail, but it was a recurring theme for me, and not necessarily limited to one candidate or the other.
ROMNEY (but Obama didn't challenge this, so in a sense it refers to both): Three percent of small businesses employ half of all small-business employees.
If they employ that great a percentage, how can they still be considered "small businesses"? Here's an example of where rhetoric (again, not necessarily limited to either side) overshadows critical thinking. Small businesses are essential and should be protected and encouraged; "small business" has become a shibboleth.
OBAMA: A drop in revenues would lead to severe hardship for people, "but more importantly not help us grow."
Whaaaa?! I'm sorry, but hardship trumps growth. Taking care of the least of these is more important than an upward line on the stock market charts. (I realize one can lead to the other, but the present "recovery" is a good demonstration that the correlation is far from absolute.) Severe hardship should be a paramount concern for both parties. Both Roosevelts (TR and FDR) are spinning in their graves...
ROMNEY: "Expensive things hurt families."
Here he was referring to something like taxes, and I'm sorry I don't remember the specifics... but what about such "expensive things" as Social Security and Medicare--each of which he'd spent the past several minutes defending in context of his programs proposals' ability to provide for their longterm stability. Simplicity in everyday living = good. Simplicity in politics = often problematic. The world is more complicated than that.
BOTH: "Middle class families" [times a jillion]
Gee... what about the poor? What about the working class? What about single people? What about empty nesters? See above comment re: oversimplification.
I realize this is predominantly a list of quibbles, and while critical analysis is important I suspect we'd all be better off if we spent more time appreciating the positive. In that spirit, here are a couple observations...
ROMNEY: That joke about how delighted Obama no doubt was to be spending his anniversary with him.
I see it as an unmitigated good that with this comment, well delivered and without a hint of malice, Romney demonstrated he has a sense of humor. Obama has done so on other occasions. Lightheartedness is, for me, an essential element in a president. Nobody who can't take or make a joke should have their fingers anywhere near the nuclear trigger codes.
OBAMA: Health care rates have gone up less per year over the past two years than the average rate of increase over the previous 50 years.
First: yay for any deceleration in the rate of health care cost increases. Second: a long-term historical view! This pleased me greatly. Our tendency to see the past as irrelevant to the present and the future harms humanity so. Any time a politician of either party draws on historical context to give us a deeper and more relevant understanding of the present, I am a very happy camper.
ROMNEY: Proposed returning responsibility for job training to the states.
This sounded much like the "new federalism" of some Nixon era policies--and like the type of thing Mitt's dad, George, would very much have favored. This concept of devolving power to the lowest practical level is nothing new (indeed, it's been part of the American political dialogue since our founding). George, however, was equally concerned with fostering interactions between business and government that emphasized mutual responsibility. Talking about devolution is all well and good (and we do need to keep trying new ideas); how do we put policy into practice? This is the essential element I felt was missing. It's an easy sell to small-government advocates to talk about devolution, but without accompanying structure they're just words. Perhaps the structure of a debate does not allow for such detail, but it was a recurring theme for me, and not necessarily limited to one candidate or the other.
ROMNEY (but Obama didn't challenge this, so in a sense it refers to both): Three percent of small businesses employ half of all small-business employees.
If they employ that great a percentage, how can they still be considered "small businesses"? Here's an example of where rhetoric (again, not necessarily limited to either side) overshadows critical thinking. Small businesses are essential and should be protected and encouraged; "small business" has become a shibboleth.
OBAMA: A drop in revenues would lead to severe hardship for people, "but more importantly not help us grow."
Whaaaa?! I'm sorry, but hardship trumps growth. Taking care of the least of these is more important than an upward line on the stock market charts. (I realize one can lead to the other, but the present "recovery" is a good demonstration that the correlation is far from absolute.) Severe hardship should be a paramount concern for both parties. Both Roosevelts (TR and FDR) are spinning in their graves...
ROMNEY: "Expensive things hurt families."
Here he was referring to something like taxes, and I'm sorry I don't remember the specifics... but what about such "expensive things" as Social Security and Medicare--each of which he'd spent the past several minutes defending in context of his programs proposals' ability to provide for their longterm stability. Simplicity in everyday living = good. Simplicity in politics = often problematic. The world is more complicated than that.
BOTH: "Middle class families" [times a jillion]
Gee... what about the poor? What about the working class? What about single people? What about empty nesters? See above comment re: oversimplification.
I realize this is predominantly a list of quibbles, and while critical analysis is important I suspect we'd all be better off if we spent more time appreciating the positive. In that spirit, here are a couple observations...
ROMNEY: That joke about how delighted Obama no doubt was to be spending his anniversary with him.
I see it as an unmitigated good that with this comment, well delivered and without a hint of malice, Romney demonstrated he has a sense of humor. Obama has done so on other occasions. Lightheartedness is, for me, an essential element in a president. Nobody who can't take or make a joke should have their fingers anywhere near the nuclear trigger codes.
OBAMA: Health care rates have gone up less per year over the past two years than the average rate of increase over the previous 50 years.
First: yay for any deceleration in the rate of health care cost increases. Second: a long-term historical view! This pleased me greatly. Our tendency to see the past as irrelevant to the present and the future harms humanity so. Any time a politician of either party draws on historical context to give us a deeper and more relevant understanding of the present, I am a very happy camper.
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