A new generation of historians finds new meanings in the past
The American . . . seems to bear lightly the sorrowful burden of human knowledge. In a word, he is young . . .The American has never yet had to face the trials of Job.
—George Santayana, 1920
The Fourth of July speech today is seldom the shapely purple cloud of bombast that it once was. That style is nearly extinct. The old eagle-screaming rhapsody, the Everlasting Yea, survives mostly in wistful, or merely empty, references to Jefferson, in Smithsonian pageants or in the elegiac drone of a speaker recalling something that happened a long, long time ago, almost in another country.
This year a note of truculence may thrum now and then in the holiday; prayers for the hostages will sound and some rhetorical menace will be aimed at ayatullahs and other Iranians. The nation will brighten itself with parades and fireworks and concerts in the park, and cute local events like the porcupine race in Council, Idaho. Patriotism and nostalgia will gust among the picnickers. But on the whole, American morale may not be up to a convincingly exuberant Fourth. In the years since Viet Nam, the U.S. has accumulated a few sorrows that, if not worthy of Job, are at least chastening.
A deepening recession is closing automobile plants; unemployment has gone to 7.8%. Inflation has subverted the traditional apparatus of American hope and self-improvement: hard work and saving. The nation’s allies have developed the habit of treating it with public condescension and private contempt. Voters face a choice for President in November that leaves many of them shaking their heads. An uneasy suspicion has formed that the U.S. is about to leave the sweeping interstate highway it has cruised along for more than a generation, and return to a two-lane blacktop. Or worse. That is a heretical direction of thought for Americans. For most of the nation’s 204 years, pessimism has been considered un-American —in an official way, at least.
Americans have an almost physiological need to think well of themselves, to be likable and to be liked. More than most people, they seem to have a passion for self-analysis. If the nation was constructed upon abstractions, Americans somehow need to be reassured constantly about who they are, about what they are up to and what they mean in the scheme of things. They are less certain now about their moral place in the world; that is a possibly promising readjustment of the national psychology.
The answers may lie in the past or in the nation’s changing understanding of its past. Moral uncertainty has made American historians considerably more restless in their research. It has opened new passageways, created new standards by which to make judgments. The Viet Nam era stirred a wave of indignant revisionists, who attacked the American tradition and the “consensus historians” who had for so long been its custodians. The revisionists of a decade ago—Eugene Genovese of the University of Rochester, William Appleman Williams of Oregon State, Barton Bernstein of Stanford, for example—bore down upon the old American interpretation like young prosecutors or old Calvinist divines on the trail of some innate national depravity. As they saw it, the Horatio Alger myth was mostly bunk; the land was not so much a tapestry of accommodation, compromise and progress as a battlefield of nearly irreconcilable differences. For all its panoply of “Free World” virtue, the U.S. was portrayed as the villain of the cold war; U.S. diplomacy, beneath its pretensions, teemed with the brute cupidity of capitalists in search of new markets.
Much of the revisionist research has been discredited. But in its wake has come an outpouring of historical study focused on social history: the American experience viewed from the bottom up. Where traditional histories emphasized politics and economics, institutions and elites, the newer work concentrates upon the American family, upon women, upon blacks and Indians, upon the poor and those without power. The purpose now, says Columbia University Historian James Shenton, is “inclusionism”—a mildly offensive academic term for enlarging the embrace and imagination of history.
Such historians, many of whom set up their academic homestead in the intellectual wreckage of the ’60s, are sometimes given to triviality and fad, to preserving the last outposts of Consciousness III. In Looking for America: The People’s History, Stanley Kutler writes about people “doing their thing,” and observes, with a banality that is almost touching, “The reality of past human experience is that life is hard, life is struggle, life is ceaseless toil; yet people are resilient, people endure—sometimes with pleasure and joy, sometimes with pain and tragedy.” The People, Yes! The approach in some ways merely takes up where the WPA history projects of the Depression left off when they were interrupted by World War II:
This trend demonstrates more emphatically than most intellectual realignments the way the past alters under the gaze of new generations. Children raised on the stultifying history textbooks of the past—especially those of the ’40s and ’50s—are apt to think of the past as a mass of impermeable and indigestible facts: a huge and useless object, as lifeless and impassive as a moonscape. But the past actually teems with an almost irrepressible life, especially in a nation as widely literate and elaborately documented as the U.S. The past constantly achieves renewals and transmogrifications as political symbol and polemical weapon. The present and the past are always in an almost constant state of argument and consultation. The past is shimmeringly changeable, always different with every change of angle, of perspective. Read the history of the Civil War from the South of perspective. Read the history of the Civil War from the Southern point of view, or of the American Revolution from the standpoint of the English. The past has almost as many possibilities as the future.
The women’s movement, for example, has opened up studies that are not merely ideological fads (which they sometimes are), but new regions of historical perception. Ann Douglas’ brilliant book, The Feminization of America, suggests that a 19th century alliance between sentimental female writers and clergymen dominated popular culture and created “the passive consumerism and anti-intellectualism which characterize mass culture.” Carl Degler’s At Odds fascinatingly traces the decline of the patriarchy and the liberalization of the family from the Revolution to the present. Many of the new social views of history amount to cultural anthropology Some of them, being the annals of the powerless, are inherently biased against those in power; the approach may be as much a fallacy as the old history style that lays down the American past in four-and eight-year strips, measuring time only by the tour of the man in the White House. Historians are filling in the large gaps of human experience that surrounded political and economic structures. Do the powerless matter? What surely counts is their relationship to society as a whole, the way all of it works.
The new quantitative method of cliometrics (from Clio, the muse of history) has demonstrated ways in which computers can define trends and correct the errors of historical preconception. For years historians have spoken of the Civil War as the nation’s economic breaking point, the moment when, as Charles and Mary Beard argued 50 years ago, the urban industrial North seized power from the agrarian South in a “second American revolution.” Through cliometrics, says the University of Pittsburgh’s Samuel Hays, historians have analyzed such production figures as railroad mileage and steel output, and found that the “takeoff points” occurred earlier, in the 1840s and early ’50s. Cliometricians also use voting data to learn, say, the cultural differences between Republicans and Democrats. (Ethnic and religious divisions turn out to be more important than arguments over economic issues.)
But the danger of these richly diverse but fragmented approaches to American history is that they degenerate into in coherence; historians thus are reproducing, with an eerie precision, the pattern of their own society. Just as the U.S. has grown balkanized, turned into a landscape of single-interest constituencies and conflicting tribes, so historians now seem to offer a scattered vision of America, full of fascinating minutiae and human detail, but lacking leadership, direction, plan or vision. “Surely,” says Carl Degler, “the American people are more than a collection of diverse nationalities, classes and genders living between Canada and Mexico. We are right to have tossed aside the Wasp-centered idea of history, but we haven’t created yet a new, equally holistic conception of history to replace it.”
Last year, in America Revised, a study of American history school textbooks since 1833, Frances FitzGerald found that textbook publishers, eye on the profits, have learned to package a bland and pietistically harmless kind of book that dutifully records the point of view of every minority that raises its hand, or voice, but gives no coherent idea of American theme or direction. Says Pittsburgh’s Hays: “We haven’t had a new synthesis of American history since Charles and Mary Beard. Instead, we have had people going off in all these little directions and knowing more and more about less and less. To have somebody come along and put it all together is a rare thing.”
The key to a coherent understanding of Americans may lie in knowing that from the beginning they have kept two sets of books: their history and their myth. The two have always intertwined, of course, but they differ radically in purpose and content. The myth has always been the engine of the future, a bright and energetic contraption that owed its efficiency to both American know-how and the hand of God. Except in its occasional celebrations of heroic legends, myth does not gaze backward; it is prospective, not retrospective. Being a creation of the Enlightenment, it is even inclined to be contemptuous of history. As Descartes said, historians are people who spend a lifetime attempting to discover facts about Roman life that any illiterate serving girl in Cicero’s time knew well. History was dank with error, irrationality and the poisonous influences of Europe. The New World began afresh. The vast continent of America seemed an immense, wild Eden to be mastered.
The possibilities of such a massive gift of God seemed endless. In his first Inaugural Address, Thomas Jefferson spoke of the country having “room enough for our descendants to the 100th and 1,000th generation.” In 1839 the Democratic Review proclaimed with apostolic expansiveness: “Our national birth was the beginning of a new history. . .which separates us from the past and connects us with the future only.” Americans have always carried their highly idealized beginning with them like a marmoreal totem. They invented themselves. That invention became their legitimizing idea, the germ of their justification.
The story was not fogged in myth, like that of Romulus and Remus; it occurred in the bright morning sun of the Enlightenment, with a generation of astonishingly literate men in attendance. From a distance of 100 years, Henry Adams, normally a man of elegant bitterness, looked back at that primal national moment: “Stripped for the hardest work, every muscle firm and elastic, every ounce of brain ready for use, and not a trace of superfluous flesh on his nervous and supple body, the American stood in the world a new order of man.”
In his novel The Public Burning, Robert Coover satirized the myth from the mordant angle of Watergate America: “Throughout the solemn unfolding of the American miracle, men have noticed this remarkable phenomenon: what at the moment seems to be nothing more than the random rise and fall of men and ideas, false starts and sudden brainstorms, erratic bursts of passion and apathy, brief setbacks and partial victories, is later discovered to be—in the light of America’s gradual unveiling as the New Athens, New Rome and New Jerusalem all in one —an inevitable sequence of interlocking events, a divine code. . .”
Given a nation with such dogmatically resplendent papers, a Chosen People, “like Israel of Old in the center of nations,” the problem of America became one of theodicy: how to explain a history so often at odds with the virtuous myth? Most succinctly: What was the author of the Declaration of Independence doing with a houseful of slaves? The contradiction between promise and reality rarely torments mellower cultures—life is one thing and rhetoric another, and it takes a literal-minded innocent to be deviled by the discrepancy. But Americans often somehow held to the fierce, insistent innocence of their myth even when they penetrated to the deeper parts of the forest, regions of dense moral distress, ambiguity and, in the darkest places, tragedy. In his almost spookily prescient 1955 novel about Viet Nam, The Quiet American, Graham Greene remarked that their innocence makes Americans the most dangerous people in the world.
To be realistic about it, American innocence was never all that innocent. A walk on the wild side of the American past can leave even an enthusiastic patriot shaken: D.H. Lawrence once urged his readers to “look through the surfaces of American art, and see the inner diabolism.” “The essential American soul,” Lawrence said extravagantly, “is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer.” In 19th century portrayals, Uncle Sam has a certain look in his eye that had disappeared by the time of the famous World War I I WANT YOU recruiting poster. The look is conniving, raw and whip-mean, the squint-shrewd eye of a man with a rope who is about a week’s ride from the nearest law court.
The generation of the 1960s came upon this side of the American character with an air of shocked discovery, with the sudden rage of people who felt that they had been lied to by the myth. In fact, they had. The American history that they had been taught did not realistically show them the violent underside of their huge and diverse nation, and thus they fell headlong into an apocalyptic absolutism that is common among Americans. If they are not the best in the world, then they imagine that surely they must be the worst. The psychological pattern still applies.
The American myth comes equipped with a system of spiritual filters. Americans seem at each moment to view the heroic past in a certain golden nimbus; as the present recedes into the past, it seems to acquire a vague glow; the violence is forgotten. The present, by contrast, sometimes seems squalid and unworthy of the American tradition. Thus, for all the whooping energy of ambition and greed that Americans showed for so much of their history, there runs through it a deep strain of pessimism, division and violence that is evident in almost every era. George Washington received his beatification from Parson Weems (one of the first myths to help forge the disparate 13 states into something like a nation); Weems laid on the pious fabrications like a hagiographer: ” ‘I can’t tell a lie, Pa; you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.’ ‘Run to my arms, my dearest boy,’ cried his father in transports, ‘run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you killed my tree; for you have paid me for it a thousand fold.'” In life, Washington was attacked all through his presidency as brutally as Richard Nixon ever was.
Washington predicted that the 13 states would fly apart in civil war and economic chaos. The rancor among the founders, especially between Federalists and Jeffersonians over the question of democracy, was nearly homicidal. Wrote the Federalist Fisher Ames in 1803: “Our country is too big for union, too sordid for patriotism, too democratic for liberty. . .A democracy cannot last.” In the Jacksonian tide of 1835, Niles’ Register declared: “The state of society is awful. Brute force has superseded the law. . .The time predicted seems rapidly approaching when the mob shall rule.” Indeed, lynch mobs, cholera and riots tore through the Republic.
The many years before, during and after the Civil War had the stuff of grand tragedy in them, but they seemed more often merely vile: South Carolina Congressman Preston Brooks caned Massachusetts Senator Charles Sumner nearly to death on the floor of the Senate. Even Walt Whitman, the profligately hospitable Democrat, admitted in 1871: “The problem of the future of America is in certain respects as dark as it is vast.” With the arrival of the Depression, the critic Edmund Wilson reported matter of factly: “The money-making phase of the Republic is over.” In the middle of the Eisenhower years, Columnist Murray Kempton wrote: “It is already very hard to remember that, only a generation ago, there were a number of Americans, of significant character and talent, who believed that our society was not merely doomed but undeserving of survival, and to whom every one of its institutions seemed not just unworthy of preservation but crying out to be exterminated.”
Americans forget these darker moments. They ignore too, except in a small, anxious corner of their memory, the American strains of isolation, failure, vulnerability and heartbreaking distances. Risk and individualism have always conspired to pitch a lot of Americans out into a freezing, deadly loneliness. Jim Marshall, the first man to discover gold in the California rush, died broke and crazy.
With their huge capacities and national sense of uniqueness, with their long isolation from other cultures across the oceans, Americans also worked well at becoming almost as good as they said they were. America became a miracle of sheer energy and wealth and life: an incandescence, a genetic wonderworks that the Old World stared at in astonishment. The spectacle of such opportunity got the immigrant adrenaline going. New Americans rose to the occasion more often than revisionist history is inclined to admit. The melting pot functioned better than the current assumption of ethnic conflict supposes. Whatever the economic trammels, the U.S. progressively developed a social mobility, a standard of living and individual freedom that no other society had ever offered.
Americans saw their lives as an upward march toward the light. Or, as Columbia University Historian Henry Graff says, “they pictured America riding a train going up a mountain. It went round and round, but always onward and upward. The only interruptions were occasional tunnels—wars and depressions. It would suddenly go dark and then the light would stream in again, and we’d be on our way.”
Progress made the American idea work; progress validated the dream—a kind of secular redemption, profligate with promises, the hot gospel of better days unfolding. Progress was the indispensable mechanism and metaphysic of the American idea: the pioneer progression westward over space corresponded with the steady upward incline of opportunity over time. “You can’t stop progress,” Americans would tell one another with an air of dazzled exuberance or a rueful sigh. The future was bearing down on the land like a grinning child at the wheel of something roaring, gaudily bright and faintly dangerous.
Today a kind of millennial chill has settled upon whole sectors of the American psyche that once could not wait to get up in the morning. Progress has collided with the philosophy of limits. Of all cultural adjustments, the notion of an end to progress seems the most difficult for Americans to accept. It is foolish that a general cultural drift makes them feel that they must.
Americans are now defensively aware of their history: they are in transit from a Ptolemaic to a Copernican view of themselves, and a scaling down of their range and ambitions in the world. The diminution, even the implicit insult of the process, is painful. It prompts some insistent revisions in the creed. Where once equality of opportunity was enough (there seemed an immense river to drink from, why give out numbers?), the continent is sufficiently depleted to start a crisis in political philosophy. Who gets what? And why? Equality of opportunity competes with equality of result. Where once the able simply grazed upon the American economy, questions of access and entitlement cast doubt on the old rules.
The argument bruises old myths. In the crueler interpretation of the American idea, anyone who failed was more or less meant to fail. That logic may, more than any other single factor, explain the tragedy of race in America.
Americans have never been profoundly attached to their own history. John Higham, a historian at Johns Hopkins, once met a man who claimed that historical consciousness increases as one travels east. Thus the Californian, in awareness of the past, would be the moral equivalent of the housefly. The Eastern U.S. would be slightly more sophisticated, Western Europe more so. Anyone who travels in Poland, Higham says, cannot help being “overwhelmed by the passionate and complex involvement of the people with their history. We don’t have that.”
The energy crisis and warnings of limits give Americans a guilty fright; they know perfectly well that they have been squandering with an abstracted heedlessness, consuming on automatic pilot, like the jaws’ dreamy working of a wad of gum. “Woe to them that are at ease in Zion,” said the prophet Amos.
The past 15 years have pounded a sense of urgent uniqueness into Americans. In fact, anyone who buys from OPEC and fails to feel some chill of reckoning down the line is a bon vivant worth spending an evening with. But Americans need to regain a longer perspective. The period from the end of World War II to the mid-’60s was not only historically abnormal; it was unprecedented and probably unrepeatable. The nation’s gross national product went from $212.3 billion in 1945 to $688.1 billion in 1965. That single 20-year period has skewed the American sense of proportion. What now seems an apocalyptic decline in rate may in fact amount to a small and acceptable subsiding after a period of economic, military and spiritual inflation that has for a while distorted the myth. Says Diplomatic Historian Walter LaFeber: “We’re getting back to a period where American power, and our view of that power, and our view of American history, is returning to normal, returning to what it was in the 1920s and 1930s, when I think we had a much more realistic view of what the possibilities of America are.”
Americans no longer learn much from either their history or their myth. Mussolini said: “It is not impossible to govern Italians. It is merely useless.” The same thing may eventually be true of Americans. They have too much freedom; without discipline, without a sense of being responsible and useful in the world, their angers spill and slop like battery acids. They have no more justification for their endless social license than the breezes of their appetites, the whims in the glands. The psychological sense of sudden boundaries, all bets off, new rules to be made, stirs old American questions. LaFeber speaks of several kinds of American spirit. First is the historical “City on the Hill,” the idea that the American mission is to create the best possible kind of society here at home: not in Nicaragua or South Korea, just here. The second kind of U.S. mission reverses the relationship. As Woodrow Wilson implied when he tried to make the world safe for democracy, the U.S. should stretch out in trying to create a hospitable environment.
The nation, like the profession of history, needs someone with the intellectual power to devise a new myth or revive the old. Even Henry Adams admired the visionary power of “the poorest peasant in Europe, [who could] see what was invisible to poet and philosopher — the dim outline of a mountain-summit across the ocean, rising high above the mist and mud of American democracy.”
—By Lance Morrow
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