For the most part, I don’t give President Trump and his executive orders much attention. For one thing, these epistles are often challenged in court and sometimes overturned. The exception is when it touches on something important to me. Right now, that means his insistence that the Smithsonian must have its collections and public displays audited by his inspectors so they tell only the ‘right’ story. He intimated that perhaps all museums should be subjected to the same treatment so that only good things are presented to the public.
Good luck on that one, Mr. President, because you have no idea just how big a hornet’s nest you have kicked. There is nothing more difficult than trying to corral a group of historians into agreeing to just one idea or agenda. You will be getting into the middle of something you might regret, because even a small herd of novice amateur historians can be more tenacious than a pack of terriers.
My sister is the genealogist in our family, and she has traced several branches of the family tree back to the Middle Ages. She is what can be described as a ‘names and number’ historian. Think of her in terms of Sergeant Friday from Dragnet: just the facts. When was [name] born, and where? When did he join the Virginia militia and fight under Washington’s command? Who were his ancestors? Where did they live? Who begat whom? What happened to him and his family after the American Revolution?
She did the same thing with our father’s side. Who, what, when, where, why, and how. Those were her questions, and that was, more or less, the extent her interest.
To be honest with you, those names and dates are important, but it isn’t long before I start looking for the exit. That is because I am far more of a ‘story or narrative’ historian. I’ll take my sister’s facts and figures, then weave in a story that, with luck, will not be a cure for insomnia.
It is the sort of method that our finest historians have used – writers such as Bruce Catton, James Michener, and David McCullough – in their bestselling books. The basic information is correct, but the narrative is what keeps it alive.
When Winston Churchill was booted out of office in 1945, and was kicking around for a paying job, he decided to write a multi-volume set of books on the history of World War Two. He wrote about 3000 words a day, thanks to the help of secretaries and clerk-typists. Once a section was completed, he would send a copy of the first (i.e. rough) draft to a former member of his War Cabinet to check for content. Once, when Lord Beaverbrook fussed that the story was not accurate, Churchill fired back, “I made the history! I will write the history – my way!”
Mr. Trump, that is only the beginning of the mess into which you are stepping. There is more.
As any law enforcement officer will tell you, when there are witnesses to an accident or other event, every witness will see or hear things just a bit differently. It is not that they are intentionally trying to deceive anyone; just that they see things from different angles and distances and are pre-disposed to notice certain things and ignore others.
To make matters more confusing, almost immediately memories begin to shift and alter, and with each retelling of the event, a new version of the memory becomes imprinted on our brain. Then, if we hear of the event from another person, we might add their interpretation to our memory.
A quick example: My sister and I were planning our Christmas holiday, and she said the last time I had been at her home for the big day I arrived on Christmas Eve. I told her that was impossible because I officiated at the service at Good Shepherd, drove home, and took a 6 AM flight on Christmas morning. We discussed this for a while, and she finally said, “Oh,” to avoid a debate. It’s a good thing, too, because she was wrong and I was right.
The principle applies to almost everything in our life. Then, if the story is committed to paper, the debates continue.
This is what makes one of the final scenes in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance so important. Jimmy Stewart was telling a reporter of his life’s history, and how the turning point came when everyone thought he had shot the town’s bully in a fair fight. The story was not accurate, but it became settled in everyone’s mind.
The reporter closed his notebook, put away his pen, and said quietly, “When the story is better than the truth, print the story.”
This is one reason why I don’t go to art museums merely to see pretty pictures, nor history museums to be spoon fed someone’s narrative I do not read books that are nice little stories. Rather, we go to museums and galleries, read books and listen to music, to be challenged and to learn something new.
This happened a few years ago Pat and I went to an exhibit of the deconstructionist art by the Spanish artist Jean Miro. I never cared for his work, nor abstract art, and it is still not a favorite. But going to the museum and seeing what the Bavarian corporal would later call ‘decadent art,’ I realized it was so well done because it explained the background and the rationale behind his work. I finished seeing the exhibit before Pat and had time to sit and reflect on his philosophy of art.
Simply because I do not like it, or someone else does not understand it, does not make it wrong or ugly. Simply because my interpretation of a historical event or person is different from another’s does not matter. We continue our quest for knowledge and understanding.
It appears to me that only a craven coward is afraid of history. The worst of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs demonstrated this when they attempted to complete excise from history the existence of some of their predecessors. They had their workmen chisel away the images and destroyed their coffins. More recently, when the Taliban took over Afghanistan they announced their intention to dynamite some large 2000+ year old statues of Buddha. They claimed that it was to get rid of wrong-minded religious beliefs. In reality, it was to send a message to their people: history began with us; there was nothing of value before we took control.
Life doesn’t work that way.
