Bringing History Home

Noongar Elder Uncle Angus shared his personal experience as a child of the Stolen Generations with Colgate students at Marribank, formerly Carrolup, in Western Australia. June 2008.

“How can you criticize our history? You did the same thing in America to the Indians.”

I was on the Perth subway with several classmates two days after arriving in Australia. In a casual conversation with the stranger, a classmate had explained that we were spending time with members of the Noongar tribe in Western Australia. “Oh, watch out for those aboriginals. They steal,” he had told us.

This answer had taken us aback. While we knew Aboriginal people in Australia still faced racism in daily life, we didn’t expect to encounter it ourselves in the first days of our trip. Further, we had not anticipated this criticism of our own history when another classmate mentioned that we had been studying Australia’s Stolen Generations. But the man on the subway was right about one thing: both our nations have checkered pasts in terms of the treatment of our native populations. Even our country’s history with Indian Boarding Schools mirrors Australia’s efforts to “smooth the dying pillow” of Aboriginal cultures through harsh, assimilatory educational efforts.

As I read Sherman Alexie’s An Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, I started to think about this encounter on the subway and I realized we were both wrong. In so intensely focusing on Australian Aboriginal issues, we had forgotten to look at home, while by treating the Stolen Generations as a historical issue, the man on the subway failed to see the continuing issue of racism. Moreover, we were speaking in broad institutional terms, instead of the daily lives of people whom none of us represented.

Based on his own experiences growing up, Alexie’s novel is told through the eyes (and cartoons) of fictional teenager Arnold Spirit, Jr. who lives on the Spokane Indian Reservation. Urged by his high school teacher, Mr. P, Junior leaves the reservation and enrolls at the all-white Reardon High School 20 miles from his home. Throughout the rest of the book, Junior grapples with his outsider status both racially and socio-economically at school and amongst his community on the reservation.

The true highlight of Alexie’s young adult novel is the complex portrayal of a life on and off the Spokane Reservation from the perspective of multiple characters. Many characters like Rowdy, Junior’s best friend, do not support his decision to attend Reardon High School and feel that he is abandoning his community and Indian culture. Yet others such as Junior’s father’s best friend, Eugene, support the teenager and recognize the bravery that it takes to try breaking the cycle of poverty on the reservation by pursuing a better education elsewhere. Ultimately, Alexie’s novel clearly presents the tension between the individual and community, personal and collective experience.

In 1969 a non-profit organization called Indians of All Nations occupied Alcatraz Island. Courtesy of nativelegalupdate.com

This complexity is an important part of American Indian history, which so often focuses on the collective while neglecting the individual perspective. In the late 1960s a Pan-American Indian movement began to develop, influenced by the Civil Rights movement of the previous decade. In 1969 a group of Bay Area Indians occupied Alcatraz Island under the banner of “Indians of All Tribes.” Through the 1970 “Planning Grant Proposal to Develop an All-Indian University and Cultural Complex on Indian Land, Alcatraz,” the group asserted that “we don’t speak for Indians all over the country. The Indians all over the country speak for themselves.” Indians of All Tribes recognized the need for an overarching movement to lobby for the greater American Indian community, while also still representing individual voices and perspectives.

Bringing varied individual perspectives into a community history certainly presents a challenge. For Indians of All Tribes, the similarities of personal experiences across the country became a rallying point for the Pan-American Indian organization, while for Sherman Alexie’s Arnold Spirit, Jr., the varying personal perspectives created a challenging social web for him to navigate as he set out to find personal hope and freedom through an education off of the reservation.

By the end of my study trip to Australia, I found my understanding of the Aboriginal issues had been equally complicated, bringing the historical into present day and the community story to the individual level. Intimate conversations with members of the Stolen Generations in culturally significant spaces only underscored the serious problems that still exist today. The conversation on the subway now stands out as an example of confusing institutional faults with individual perspectives. Change must come from both sources, though at times they may seem diametrically opposed. However, without the Sherman Alexies a la Arnold Spirits of the world in tandem with larger movements like Indians of All Tribes, we have no chance at making even the smallest change.

Who Owns History?

Thinking more about our discussion on Tuesday, and having read this New York Times article and the reactions to it, I want to explore the topic of “ownership” of the Holocaust a little more.  I am increasingly frustrated with the point of view that any one group should “own” history. It is critical that we respect those who lived through traumatic events, and those who are still affected by them today.  These survivors and descendants deserve the chance to tell their story and have their voices heard.  However, they do not “own” history.

The centrality of Jews in the story of Auschwitz and the Holocaust must remain.  However, efforts to overhaul the exhibitions at Auschwitz in order to serve a more educational purpose are a natural evolution.  Critical sites like these should not become historical footnotes of interest to small, directly affected groups.  Rather, they should share their lessons with the world.

Shared authority is one of our guiding concepts as public historians.  While we usually look at it from the perspective of museum professionals needing to give up some of their control, we shouldn’t forget that shared authority works both ways.  This concept also means that the “owners” of history also need to be less protective of their story, and allow it to be told in a way that will be instructive to a broader audience.

Living with the Enemy: Bringing Domestic Abuse into Public View

Donna Ferrato's documentary photography has recorded instances of domestic abuse previously hidden within the home. Source: abuseaware.com

True or false: Domestic violence is not a problem in my hometown.

While some might believe this to be a true statement, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimate that each year, 5.3 million women ages 18 and older are victimized by an intimate partner. One in four women faces physical, emotional, or sexual abuse during her lifetime. [1] Domestic abuse is a pervasive problem in this country. Hidden from public view for generations within the privacy of the home, documentation efforts within the last 40 years have cast a spotlight on these crimes.

In 1982, documentary photographer Donna Ferrato caught a glimpse of an abusive relationship on film.

I began to realize how he manipulated her into doing crazy things for his entertainment….Her husband patted her bare skin and told her she could feel confident walking around naked while her daughter’s friends were partying for Halloween….She was the only naked woman at the party in a house of teenagers.[2]

For the next nine years, Ferrato spent over 6,000 hours riding along with police officers as they responded to calls about domestic abuse. After securing permission to photograph, she would document intimate moments of family turmoil. In 1991, her images were compiled into a book, Living with the Enemy.

Shortly thereafter, a New York City women’s shelter approached Ferrato about mounting a benefit exhibition featuring 47 images from the book. With the success of the show, Ferrato was besieged with requests from around the country and the Living with the Enemy exhibition began to travel. From November 1991 to October 2006, art galleries, U.S. embassies, YWCA’s, and college campuses around the world hosted the exhibition. [3]

This documentary photograph by Donna Ferrato records sheds light on domestic violence in the home. Source: http://www.higherpictures.com

Ferrato’s works capture emotionally charged moments in bold, black and white images. Inspired by this project, Ferrato formed Domestic Abuse Awareness, Inc. as an advocacy non-profit. Describing the tension between her work as an advocate and a documentary photographer, Ferrato explained, “If I chose to put down my camera and stop one man from hitting one woman I’ll be helping just one woman. However, if I get the picture I can help countless more. By taking the picture I am defending the truth.”[4]

Public consciousness about domestic abuse has only surfaced within the last hundred years. In the early 1900s, blues music emerged as one of the first public spaces in which female artists began to discuss violence towards women. According to Angela Davis in Blues Legacies and Black Feminism, “The historically omnipresent secrecy and silence regarding male violence is linked to its social construction as a private problem sequestered behind impermeable domestic walls, rather than a social problem deserving political attention.” Blues artists like Bessie Smith and “Ma” Rainey brought such domestic troubles into public light, often through complicated and often satirical lyrics such as the following lines from “Sweet Rough Man:” “He keeps my lips split, my eyes as black as jet/But the way he love me makes me soon forget.” [5]

Despite these blues references to violence within personal relationships and the home, domestic abuse did not surface as a national issue until the 1970s. As second-wave feminists advocated that the personal was the political, women publicly began to share stories of their physical, emotional, and sexual victimization. [6] Through events such as the Take Back the Night protest walk that started in 1975, violence within the home has gained critical, public attention. [7]

Ferrato’s work has provided the intimate, graphic depiction of domestic abuse that early protests lacked. Living with the Enemy is now accessible as a book, traveling exhibition, and section on the Domestic Abuse Awareness, Inc. website. Through Ferrato’s photographic work paired with her first hand account of years documenting domestic abuse, advocates for domestic abuse victims can point to graphic representation of the societal problem hidden within the home. A picture is worth a thousand words, but Ferrato’s work is worth protecting 5.3 million lives.

[1] National Center for Injury Prevention and Control. Costs of Intimate Partner Violence Against Women in the United States. Atlanta, GA: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 2003.

[2] Bachevanova, Svetlana. “INTERVIEW : Donna Ferrato.” FotoEvidence, January 24, 2011. http://www.fotoevidence.com/interview-donna-ferrato.

[3] Ferrato, Donna. “Abuse Aware.” Domestic Abuse Awareness, Inc., n.d. http://www.abuseaware.com/daa_inc.php.

[4] Bachevanova, “INTERVIEW : Donna Ferrato.”

[5] Davis, Angela Y. Blues Legacies and Black Feminism: Gertrude “Ma” Rainey, Bessie Smith, and Billie Holiday. New York: Vintage, 1999, 28-32.

[6] Ibid., 25.

[7] “Take Back The Night – History.” Take Back the Night, n.d. http://www.takebackthenight.org/history.html.

Hidden Elves in Denver: The Artistry of the Museum Diorama

There are elves hidden in the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. They live amongst white-tailed deer, pronghorns, and blue herons in the museum’s dioramas. Some hide in trees, while one is perched on a dinosaur’s back. But all of these elves are the creation of one man – artist Kent R. Pendleton.

According to museum lore, Pendleton was not allowed to sign his name to diorama backgrounds he painted. Instead, he hid the elves as a way to leave his mark on the exhibitions. Interested in finding all of the known elves? A “Seek and Find” of museum secrets is available at the front desk, as the DMNS has truly embraced the tiny, mythical creatures.

This acceptance signals two recent trends in museum dioramas: the reconsideration of dioramas as composed artworks and the recognition of those diorama artists. Today museum dioramas are problematic for many museums, as they generally represent turn-of-the-century colonial views within museology. However, for many visitors, dioramas continue to offer moments of wonder inspired by the natural world. By considering the artistry behind dioramas, museums can redefine the place of these exhibitions within the contemporary museum.

Created as scientific educational tools, dioramas pose taxidermied animals in a natural scene to offer a sense of the animal’s native habitat. At the American Museum of Natural History, artists went into the field to collect animal and plant specimens; each diorama is representative of an actual place in the natural world.

Artist Raymond deLucia works on a diorama at the American Museum of Natural History in 1939. Source: the American Museum of Natural History website

Still, taxidermy, background, and foreground artists played a huge part in crafting the scene: how are the animals posed? Do they interact? How does the weather reflect the mood of the diorama? What is the spatial relationship between the taxidermies and the botanical models?

AMNH has developed online exhibition resources to shed greater light on its beloved dioramas. From biographies of the diorama artists to virtual tours and behind the scenes views, the dioramas website is replete with information about the creation of these composed scenes. The online video collection ranks among the best of these features. Many are recorded by Stephen Quinn, author of Windows On Nature: The Great Habitat Dioramas of the American Museum of Natural History, and use the backdrop of dioramas to situate historical research on their creation.

However, the website also includes archival footage of background artist James Perry Wilson painting the scene for the Fisher and Porcupine diorama in the Hall of North American Mammals. By illustrating the process and challenges of painting a large-scale diorama background as Wilson works, the narrator emphasizes the technical technique and artistry in the exhibitions.

In sharing the archival footage on the internet, the museum is able to recast the dioramas as artworks derived from scientific observation and study. This artistic perspective helps alleviate some of the problems of maintaining exhibitions of a different era. Above all, it elevates the work of talented museum professionals, obviously illuminating personal perspective and curatorial decisions to dioramas intended to mimic nature.

Texas Textbooks Revisited

Given Audrey’s post on the Texas textbook controversy several weeks ago, I was excited to see the issue pop up again, this time framed in an interesting context and with some connection to this week’s discussion.

“Studies in Crap” is a weekly blog written by Alan Scherstuhl for The Pitch (a Kansas City news/entertainment/events website). This week’s find is a 1932 Texas history textbook entitled The Lone Star State: A School History, by C.R. Wharton. Given this week’s emphasis on issues of Native American and Latino identity, the post’s focus on these two groups was particularly interesting.

In an attitude derived from the philosophy of states’ rights, Wharton decries the reservation system as an example of unnecessary federal spending: “Nor did this handling of the Indians suit the white people. They worked hard to make a living without the assistance of the government and they resented the government’s aid to the Indians.”[1] Nowhere does it mention the forced relocation, broken promises, and crippling poverty that have too often defined relations between the US government and Native Americans. According to Wharton, this “aid” was purely benign and completely undeserved. Looking back a couple weeks to our discussion of feminism, Wharton’s argument is resurrected by the Reagan administration 50 years later in the form of the lazy, conniving welfare queen.

Shifting focus to relations with Mexico (specifically the Mexican-American War), Wharton’s words provide an interesting dimension to the arguments surrounding Hispanic immigration to the United States today. He decries Mexican President Bustamante, who in an effort to halt American migration into Texas (then held by Mexico), passed an 1830 law “prohibiting further immigration from the United States.”[2] Such a measure was cruel, Wharton argues, since “[s]uch an act would have kept relatives and friends of the settlers from joining them in their new homes.”[3]

History with a Banjo

Class, Race, and Gender opened this semester to the toe tapping soundtrack of Ken Burns’ documentary Unforgivable Blackness. In fact, throughout the semester, music has been a constant accompaniment to our readings, from the spirituals written about by W.E.B. Dubois to the dancing in Junot Diaz’s story, “Fiesta 1980.”  Every age, region, and culture has a musical story, and as I read David Hollinger’s “National Culture and Communities of Descent,” I began to hear music in my head.

Hollinger introduces in his article the idea of “the will to descend” which he describes as “the claiming, on behalf of a particular descent-community, of contributions to civilization the value of which is already recognized in a social arena well beyond the particular descent-community on behalf of which genetic ownership of those contributions is being asserted.”[1]  This concept is similar to a idea that inspires the work of one of my favorite current musical acts, The Carolina Chocolate Drops.  The Carolina Chocolate Drops are a trio of young black musicians who explore the folk music of the Piedmont region through the use of traditional instruments such as the banjo, fiddle, jugs, kazoos, and bones.  In an interview with Terry Gross of NPR’s Fresh Air in 2010, they explained how their music is shaped by the West African phrase Sankofa.  Sankofa is a proverb which means “go back and fetch it and bring it forward.” [2]  The title track from their most recent album which was released this spring is called “Genuine Negro Jig,” and the story behind it captures both the idea of Sankofa and “the will to descend.”  In the video below the band explains the history of the song at a live show in Chicago.

As you can see, the Carolina Chocolate Drops are interested not only in preserving the heritage of black string music, but also acknowledgement of the presence of black musicians in the work of Dan Emmitt, the white father of the minstrel show.  While I have not read the book they reference, Way Up North in Dixie: A Black Families Claim to the Confederate Anthem, it seems to be a credible example of Hollinger’s idea of “the will to descend.”  What better symbol for the African American community to claim than the politically charged song of the south.  Hopefully the future will see more communities of descent become interested in the rich musical heritage of the United States.

[1] David Hollinger, “National Culture and Communities of Descent,” in The Challenge of American History: 319.

[2]Audio Transcript, “Carolina Chocolate Drops: Tradition From Jug to Kazoo,” Fresh Air March 1, 2010.

Miss Chief Eagle Testickle

Native Americans wearing thigh-high platform moccasins?  A head dress made of pink feather boas?  A recreated tipi decorated with Louis Vuitton suitcases and a chandelier?  Kent Monkman, a noted Canadian artist, has used his native Cree heritage to create paintings, films, installations and performances that question and challenge traditional perspectives of native peoples.  His artwork also addresses the strong gender roles associated with native peoples and overly masculine frontier cowboys.  Jessica Lack, from The Guardian newspaper, noted of Monkman in 2008: “Funny and politically incisive, his injection of some Cher-like glamour into the heart of America’s butch psyche is like throwing a Versace wedge into an auto-repair shop.” Monkman’s alter-ego, Miss Chief Eagle Testickle, is a modern interpretation of a berdache or a two-spirit, a native person who fulfills mixed gender roles. 

George Catlin first documented a two-spirit in his painting, Dance to the Berdache (1832-1839), in which a tribe is shown celebrating an individual wearing both male and female dress.  Catlin and now Monkman have completely flipped the universal view of the warrior or noble savage.  Miss Chief appears in Monkman’s paintings which usually depict a traditional nineteenth century landscape and figures representing or engaging in mixed gender roles. 

So far, Monkman has been warmly received and reviewed by the art community, but it is unclear how other native peoples view his representations.  Do Monkman’s interpretations actually challenge traditional masculine perceptions of native peoples?  Is this method of art and performance too obscure and limiting for broader audiences?  Should Monkman focus more on accurate historical representations such as that in Catlin’s work instead of using a combination of traditional and modern interpretation?

Toyota Throwback

It seems that Toyota is looking to fashion a new image for itself after the company’s recent legal issues.  Their new television commercial for their popular Avalon model harkens back to a time when products were thought to be safely and solidly built.  The commercial features an extravagant Art Deco train station set that is arguably representative of any time period between the 1930s and early 1960s.  The locomotive is a streamlined Hudson which was popular in the mid 1930s.  The song, Mr. Sandman, was a hit in 1955.  The first time I saw it I was mesmerized by the beautiful set and bouncy music.  Upon closer viewing though I was struck by what was actually playing out.  The actors and actresses are not just beautiful people enjoying their luxurious new car; they seem to be awkwardly constructed modern stereotypes placed within a false historical situation.  The actors are blatantly representing a situation that didn’t exist.  A white couple and an African American couple enjoying a beautiful new car within the context of the created time period present a situation at odds with itself. 

While Toyota seems to have worked so hard to rewrite racial history, the women remain completely unaltered.  The white man is shown driving the car with his prototype wife beside him.  And while he promotes the newest technology (“I got mine with voice activated navigation”) his wife follows it up with a statement about getting to go to the city…presumably to go shopping.  What do commercials like this say to young people, especially young girls, about women in America during this time period?  Is the commercial actually passively condoning past sexual discrimination since the actress seems to thoroughly enjoy her constructed identity?  What does this commercial mean to young individuals who did not personally experience this time period in America?

The Pill Turns 50

There’s no such thing as the Car or the Shoe or the Laundry Soap. But everyone knows the Pill, whose FDA approval 50 years ago rearranged the furniture of human relations in ways that we’ve argued about ever since.[1]

This weekend, I ran across an article on Time.com memorializing the 50th birthday of the birth control pill. While not talked about in much detail during our readings, giving women authority over their reproductive system had dramatic consequences for heterosexual sex lives and the demographics of the American family. While such a shift in social attitudes did not occur immediately, by the 1970s, couples were marrying later and having fewer children, while women were increasingly interested in pursuing careers outside the home.

As with any major social change, the Pill was not universally accepted. The Vatican strongly rejected the use of any form of artificial birth control with the publication of Pope Paul VI’s encyclical Humanae Vitae in 1968, and many African-American leaders in the Black Power movement equated the use of birth control to “black genocide.”[2] Despite opposition, however, two-thirds of Catholic women were using birth control by 1970, and many black women fought for access to contraception. As the Time article states, “when contraception was put under a woman’s control, it put many other things under her control as well.”[3] This newfound sense of power might very well have appealed to women without regard to race or religion.

Looking at my own family history, it’s not hard to see the impact of birth control on families. My paternal grandfather was one of eleven children, and my maternal great-grandparents had four children in five years (if my great-grandfather hadn’t been killed while my great-grandmother was pregnant with their fourth, I’m guessing there would have been many more siblings). The trend continued even into my parents’ generation; after my maternal grandfather died, my grandmother remarried a widower with nine children from his first marriage. Granted, coming from a Catholic background, my data might be a little skewed, but families of that size are nowhere near as common as they used to be. Out of all my (step-)aunts and (step-)uncles, no one has more than four children. I’m one of two. While I have no plans to go around asking about birth control usage at the next family get-together, it’s clear that birth control had a major impact on American families, even moderately conservative ones like mine.

I find the quote that begins this post (and the Time article) incredibly interesting. We can simply call the Pill “the Pill,” and everyone knows what pill we’re talking about. I’m hard-pressed to think of another product that has that degree of recognition. Given our fascination with the Gosselins, Duggars, and other so-called “mega-families,” the introduction of series like MTV’s “16 & Pregnant” and “Teen Mom,” and the ever-present debate over the extent and type of sex education in schools, it will be interesting to see if and how use of the Pill changes over the next several decades.

[1] Nancy Gibbs, “The Pill at 50: Sex, Freedom and Paradox,” Time website, 22 April 2010.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Ibid.

“My Baby Left Me All Alone”: Blues Men and Relationships

After reading about how relationships were a popular subject for female blues singers, I wondered how their male counterparts approached the subject.  How did they feel about infidelity, love, and the opposite sex? Expecting to have to search hard for examples, I was surprised to find many male singers of the era broaching these topics.

Robert Johnson’s “Come On in My Kitchen” provides an interesting perspective in relation to many of the female songs we read about.  It begins with Johnson bemoaning the loss of “the woman I love,” a glimpse into the aftermath of a breakup. However, rather than dwelling on his own bad fortune, Johnson goes on to acknowledge his own wrongdoing. “Oh, she’s gone, I know she won’t come back/I’ve taken the last nickel out of her nation sack,” he sings, admitting openly that he stole money from the woman he supposedly cared about. Furthermore, he expresses sympathy for the sexual double standard applied to women: “When a woman gets in trouble, everybody throws her down/Lookin’ for her good friend, none can be found.” Despite the emotional hardness associated with masculinity, “Come On in My Kitchen” is a surprisingly sensitive, regretful song mourning the loss of a lover.