Teacher’s Take: History: Worthy of Study On Its Own Merits

When I was asked by The Spectator to write on a topic of my choosing, I was a little hesitant at first. After all, I just completed my first year teaching at Stuyvesant in June. Though my experience teaching at Stuyvesant is as valid as anyone else’s, it is neither broad nor deep. In fact, it has primarily been confined to a slice of the building on the third and second floors where I share an office space and teach my classes. So, instead of writing on Stuyvesant specifically, I felt I should write on something where I might enjoy greater credibility with students and colleagues: history. This will be my eighteenth year teaching history, and frankly, I can’t imagine doing anything else.

I love teaching history. One of my fondest memories is of fishing on the Maine coast with my grandfather while he told me about Hannibal and his army of elephants crossing the Alps. [*] The fascination history held for me then, it holds for me now. For me, the past has always been this distant and unreachable country that is strangely near at the same time. I suppose this is a result of us all being part of something larger than ourselves—the story of humanity—a continuum with all those who came before and all who will follow. I must admit, though, that the future, in a broad sense, holds little interest for me. I’m an antiquarian. What use is this? I’ve often heard this question posed in one form or another, both as a student and as a teacher. That in order for history to justify its inclusion in the curriculum, it needs to possess a utilitarian function. As if something couldn’t possibly have value if it didn’t have a practical application. When I cast my line into the water beside my grandfather as he introduced me to classical history all those years ago, this was the last thing on my mind. It was interesting—that was enough.

Later, as a more serious student of history, I often heard the justification that those who ignore history are bound to repeat its errors. Initially, this thesis appeared sound. I didn’t question it. However, as I learned of its application in both the present and the past, I found that it didn’t bear close scrutiny. As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus once postulated, you can never step in the same river twice. Like a river, the continuum of the story of humanity is constantly changing. The variables are nearly endless. Alexander Kerensky’s decision to launch his July Offensive in 1917 following the overthrow of the czar and establishment of the provisional government comes to mind. Like most of the Russian Revolution’s leading figures, Kerensky was a keen student of the French Revolution. The lesson that he drew from it in this instance was that a free citizenry of a nascent democracy would be able to sweep the forces of autocracy before them by dint of sheer revolutionary enthusiasm, as had the French levée en masse at the Battle of Valmy in 1792. Later, after his most enthusiastic troops had been mowed down by German machine guns, the offensive sputtered out. Kerenesky was left with his authority and credibility permanently eroded, thus paving the way for his great rival, Lenin, to come to power. Kerensky knew his history, but he drew the wrong lessons from it. More recently, I recall quite well the learned opinions of those that confidently predicted the Iraq War would prove to be a repetition of the Vietnam War. To be sure, there were certain similarities between the two. But they were very different wars, motivated by very different lines of thinking, with different outcomes. Did George W. Bush draw lessons from Lyndon Johnson’s actions in an earlier decade? I don’t know. But even if he had—which lessons? Were they the correct ones? This is the problem with using history as some kind of tool. It can provide examples, inspire, and shed light on how others pursued certain courses of action, but it is not a fail-safe predictor of future events (e.g. this policy will absolutely result in X because it did so in the past). Additionally, beware those ambitious minds that craft grand unifying historical theses—Karl Marx comes to mind. In my opinion, his manifesto is brilliant (and prescient), but it conveniently ignores, or trammels over, the power that nationalism and religion wielded in his own times and in our own. Again, there are too many variables for history to be reduced to a formula.

So, if not a tool, then what value is there in learning history? Well, there is the craft of history itself: the analysis of documents, acquirement of familiarity with highly regarded secondary sources, an awareness of how the process of revision makes history a subject that is always becoming (i.e. not static), and effective—and often persuasive—writing. These types of exercises develop one’s intellect and cultivate critical thinking. There is little to criticize here. And yet, as much as I like to emphasize historiography (when possible) and writing, this to me is not the primary reason I believe history is important. Ultimately, it comes back to the story. A story that encompasses all of mankind’s various endeavors and hopes. Art, literature, diplomacy, finance, architecture, industry, science, philosophy, exploration, government, law, faith, war: all are part of this story. And we are part of it. The simple act of taking an interest in one’s surroundings (How was my neighborhood created? Why?) demonstrates a capacity for historical empathy and opens up the possibility of seeing the present in a fresh way. If nothing else, the ability to discern the difference between a Gothic and Romanesque arch, or being able to discuss Zola’s role in the Dreyfus Affair, or the impact of the GI Bill on post-war American society, both makes one a more interesting person to spend time with and causes one’s life simply more interesting as a whole. I think, in this, history is a gift. It binds us, brings vitality to life, and improves our minds. It’s a bit of a mix of Homer and Socrates. And that’s pretty good company to keep.

[*] There is a lack of agreement among historians whether Hannibal was able to get his elephants across the Alps alive to Italy.