South Carolina's Scandalous History

While I'm in South Carolina on vacation, I've been thinking about the long history of major political scandals in this state--with 2 of the biggest coming in the past year. It's hard to imagine, as I look out the window at pines and oaks draped in Spanish moss and hear the slow, friendly drawl of the people here that this is the place that produced Joe Wilson. Wilson, who in fact represents the area where my family vacations, was the congressman who yelled "You lie!" during Obama's speech on health reform this past fall. It wasn't the accusation so much as where it was said and how. There is a decorum to criticizing the president, and a decorum to behavior in the chambers of congress.

Another South Carolina congressmen crossed similar lines in a scandal in 1856. Preston Brooks had a gripe with another member of congress, Charles Sumner. Protocol then dictated Brooks should challenge Sumner to a duel, but that would require acknowledging that Sumner was a gentleman--only gentlemen duelled each other. So, Brooks took what was to him the logical alternative--whacking Sumner with his cane in the Senate chamber. Sumner suffered such severe injuries he was unable to return to work for 3 years.

Both congressmen met with support from their constituents, cheers from the supposedly genteel voters for the indecorous acts of their representatives. Brooks received gifts of new canes, one reading "Hit him again." The phones at Wilson's office rang off the hook with calls of support. In both cases, opposition in the North erupted in response. I'm not the first to note the parallels--this NY Times column describes the Brooks/Sumner story in more detail.

I can't think of much in the way of historical parallels for the second big South Carolina scandal, Governor Sanford's "hiking the Appalachian trail" incident. But consider these other SC sex scandals:
-Strom Thurmond's secret, illegitimate black daughter revealing her identity in 2003
-the wife of an indicted SC congressman posed in Playboy and bragged about having sex with him on the US Capitol steps in 1981.

And some other SC political hits:
-the lieutenant governor shot and killed a newspaper editor in Columbia, SC in the early 1900s
-a coalition of state congressmen calling themselves "The Fat and Ugly Caucus" attempted a power grab and many were later indicted in a vote-selling probe
-a speech on the Senate floor--reminiscent of Joe Wilson--by a SC Senator which the New York Times called "coarse abuse of the president" under the headline "Senate Disgraced" in 1896

Oh, and let's not forget that South Carolina was the first to secede from the Union. One historian argues that "South Carolinians don't really want to be part of the United States, and they don't have any use for the political rules and processes the rest of us pretty much agree to." It's true that South Carolina was historically, and continues to be, one of the least democratic states in the country. It has been shaped by social hierarchy and deference since its beginnings, and it appears that South Carolinians are content to let their elected officials do as they please--and sometimes even cheer them on.

The Grand Tour of Random Cities

There is irony in the fact that a city founded by the most hard-core of the Puritans is now one of the least law-abiding places in the country. As the train enters the city, a decrepit brick building towering over the ruins of another building has a message in graffiti written across it: "Detox the Ghetto." And on the city's tourism website, the changing advertisements on the right of the page are for financial rewards for turning in guns or illegal dumpers, a crime hotline, and a neighborhood renewal group.

Newark, New Jersey, may have dropped from the most dangerous to the 20th most dangerous city in America, but it is far from feeling like an alive and healthy place. It was my latest stop in what could be called my "Grand Tour of Random Cities." In my travels in the past few years, I've gone to places that are largely off the tourist map--East Lansing, Michigan; St. Louis; Springfield, Illinois; Providence; Richmond; Columbus, Ohio; Baltimore; and now, Newark. Each of these cities has its merits, but they are all places that have struck me as still recovering from the near-death experience of white flight and urban decay in recent decades.

I only saw a small pocket of Newark during my visit to the New Jersey Historical Society, but what I found most creepy there--as in Richmond, St. Louis, and to some extent in Baltimore--was the lack of people out in the streets. Broad, congested city streets run through block after block of silent, cold buildings and the people are largely sealed inside their cars. The historical society is in one of the few remaining 19th century buildings in this part of Newark, and as I sat in the 5th floor library, the whole building occasionally shook as a trolley rattled past.

In a city like Newark, the past feels fragile. To walk through the empty streets of a half-dead city in order to read the papers of its earlier inhabitants, inhabitants who lived there when the city was growing and thriving, is in some ways a depressing endeavor. I feel like a voyeur who is peering into the city's past without contributing to its future. Unless, that is, cities like these can figure out--as Washington, Boston, or Charleston have--that their history is what could build their future.

"The Most Unconquerable Place on Earth"

I was talking with a friend today about Obama's decision to send 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan. Somehow I just cannot work up the energy to be angry, because it seems more laughable than anything. Really, if Genghis Khan couldn't conquer this place, what makes us think that we can? Maybe tanks, drones and machine guns aren't such game-changers after all. And perhaps Obama should have had an historian or two--or John Oliver--join his team to decide a course of action in Afghanistan.

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Party Politics

I have been frustrated the past few weeks by the same phenomenon in two different eras: the twisted convulsions of politicians trying to fit into our two-party system. My argument about the stalled health care debate in the Senate hinges on this fact: the Democrats are such a diverse party that the idea of a Democratic super majority is really meaningless. There are two subparties: the DINO's (Democrats In Name Only) from conservative states, and the Progressives. The third entity, mostly left out of the argument, is the Republican party, which is now almost wholly Southern and right-wing because of having bled moderates in the past few elections. At any rate, all of this means there are three factions with totally different interests, each accusing the other of heading the country into ruin.

How little things have changed...in the US history survey course I'm TA'ing, we've been covering the Second Party System in the past few weeks. From the fall of Federalists to the rise of Democrats and Whigs, to the fall of Whigs and rise of Republicans, plus those other pesky third parties thrown in, it's almost impossible to follow. The messiness of it does explain, though, why nobody could ever make any real progress on dealing with slavery. And, like today, politicians on both sides were accusing each other of destroying America. But the messiness is also frustratingly complicated to grasp.

It occurred to me that since we do know, in the case of the 19th century, the full trajectory of the party system, a diagram would be helpful to explain it. Surely somebody had created such a thing...and, thanks to Google, I found this amazing diagram courtesy of the UNC education school:

(follow the link to see a copy big enough to read)

Not that this whole jumble of political changes could ever be crystal-clear, but I think the diagram helps quite a bit. Historians are often loath to use images for explanations, preferring the written or spoken word. I wonder if part of our graduate school training should be in the use of images to tell historical stories and illustrate concepts; sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words (or a 50-minute lecture).

Wrapping up summer in Philly

The past week has been strangely typical here for me: reading, cooking with finds from the farmers' market, and wonderfully random things going on in Rittenhouse Square. So, here's my week in pics:

I got fresh mozzarella and tomatoes from the Headhouse Square farmer's market, then picked up some basil at the produce market near my apartment. So, of course, I had to make a caprese salad.









On Thursday morning, I awoke to the sound of generators outside my apartment. I was pretty surprised to find out all the noise was from actors' trailers, parked right below my window. Paul Rudd and Jack Nicholson were filming a scene just around the corner, and as I stood outside watching the action each of them walked right past me. Sadly, I didn't get the pic--this is Rudd in Fitler Square from the arts review blog http://jimruttersreviews.blogspot.com/.




















And then, to top off the week, there were the nude bikers. I only captured the last few stragglers here; it was actually a huge mass of people, all in various levels of undress. The bikers were apparently trying to get across a number of messages--bicycle safety on city streets, carbon-free transportation, and body image awareness. What came through most clearly was that they and the crowds watching were having a great time.

Defining terms, then and now

Here's a vintage NY Times story during the debates over forming Medicare that sounds oh so familiar...

Kennedy and Students Shout About Medicine
WASHINGTON, Nov. 30 [1960] (UPI)--President-elect John F. Kennedy and a group of Georgetown University medical students had a brief debate tonight on socialized medicine.

The students saw Senator Kennedy emerging from Georgetown Hospital after visiting his wife and shouted: "Keep out socialized medicine!"

Just before he stepped into his car, Senator Kennedy looked over the top and shouted back:
"I'm for medical care for the aged and you're against socialized medicine * * * * and there is no disagreement. It's a matter of definition."

Nearly fifty years later, that "matter of definition" is still proving a sticking point in the healthcare debates. But I think that the key underlying question then and now remains whether health care is a human right, and, if so, that means the government should provide it for those in need.

One of the conservative talking heads pointed out that if you check the Constitution, you won't see a right to health care. While that argument is so ridiculous as to be laughable--I never noticed one to public education, to voting for women or blacks, or other rights we now consider inviolable--it does point to the fact that what we consider to be an inalienable human right changes over time. That said, I have trouble seeing how health care could be a privilege or a commodity and not a right.

And so maybe it all really is about definitions--what we define as a human right, how we define a "public option," and what we mean by "socialized medicine" or a "government take-over." It seems likely that those who win in the war of definitions for this historical moment will win this round of the healthcare battle.

An "eye and heart-opening experience"?

That, at least, is what the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum advertises itself as. On my visit there last month, I could certainly see that such an experience was the goal. The museum is made up vignettes of Lincoln's life at particular moments, featuring realistic settings and wax figures. You do feel a bit as if you've stepped into his world, and that's a valuable experience that I'm sure could be eye-opening for many people. As for the emotional reaction, that is achieved in several places: wax figures of a slave couple being torn apart at a slave market, Lincoln at his ill son's bedside, and Lincoln's coffin in a large, elaborate room filled with silk flowers and the sounds of slow, sad music.

I buy the idea that history comes alive for people when they are engaged in this way, but I think a museum fails when it only appeals to the senses. I left this museum with a gut reaction rather than any new knowledge. There were very few original artifacts on display, which could have provided for a more visceral and less produced connection to the past. The museum labels were mostly short descriptions of stages in Lincoln's life rather than information connecting objects and history. Hopefully museums will adapt to cater to (as the early Americans I study would put it) both the head and the heart.

Check out a video showing what the museum is like at the museum's website.

SHEAR in the Land of Lincoln?

Perhaps it's one of the curiosities of being a historian that the study of the antebellum era (1830 to 1860) seems foreign to those who study the Early Republic (1780s-ish to 1830). Nonetheless, I and many of my colleagues felt out of place--or is it time?--attending the Society for Historians of the Early American Republic's conference in Springfield, Illinois, with an inevitable focus on Abraham Lincoln. I ventured to Springfield to present some of my early dissertation research and get feedback--which I did and felt went very nicely. But I also figured that I would enjoy the Lincoln theme a lot more by visiting the historic sites in town than by attending panels on topics that didn't interest me.

It was a good choice; the town's few historic sites are impressive. In two hours I was able to walk the whole town and see the Old State Capitol, the current Illinois Statehouse, and Lincoln's neighborhood. The latter two were both special surprises. In the case of the current state house, I was shocked to go inside and find the entire interior covered in marble. The slender dome soared above a round space decorated with scenes of Illinois history, reaching a height exceeding that of the U.S. Capitol building. The house and senate chambers had intricately painted ceilings and massive crystal chandeliers. It took two decades and $4.5 million to complete it--and so much trouble that some suggested abandoning the building and moving elsewhere.

From the statehouse it was a short walk to Lincoln's neighborhood. I thought I was only going to see his house; I didn't expect that four blocks of his neighborhood would be preserved as a National Park site. It is closed off to cars and unpaved, with tree-lined streets and a mix of freshly-painted wooden homes. There's a cell-phone tour, so you can hear about who lived in each house and what the Lincoln family's relation to each neighbor was. The house itself has been restored to its original appearance and, while large for Springfield in the 1850s, seems fairly small compared with the homes of the Washington, Jefferson, or Madison.


But what trip to Springfield, Illinois, would be complete without conservative, anti-health reform protesters? I was surprised to see a large group of people gathered outside one of the houses in Lincoln's neighborhood, milling around and half-heartedly holding up signs. It turned out that Senator Durbin's Springfield office is in the Shutt House, one block from Lincoln's. Mr. Shutt, it seems, supported Stephen Douglass instead of his neighbor in the 1860 election, so perhaps he would have approved of this scene of political disagreement.

You can see more pics from my trip on flickr. Next up: edutainment at the Lincoln museum.

A Philly Fourth

Since it's still July, I think the clock is not yet up on a post about being in the birthplace of the country on its anniversary. Having spent most of my life celebrating the 4th in Washington, DC, with the fireworks set behind the Washington Monument, I wasn't really expecting a singularly patriotic experience. In fact, what surprised me about the day here was that the celebrations felt more real, small-town, American than the massive celebrations in Washington.

The highlight of the day was going down to Old City to see the parade. It was like a very, very long version of a small town parade, with myriad ethnic groups represented and some extra historical reenactors thrown in. There were very few floats or large marching bands; most of the groups were smaller dance troupes or performers. We were surprised to find the parade route relatively uncrowded and had no trouble getting close up for good view. So, leaning against the wrought-iron fences surrounding one of the oldest churches in the country and the burial place of Benjamin Franklin, we watched step dancers, Civil War reenactors, Chinese ribbon dancers, a band of mummers, a polish heritage float, Irish dancers, local politicians, Native American dancers, and antique cars pass by. That curious mix made me feel happier to be American than just about anything else could have.

Coming of age in the 2000's

Now that exams are over, I cannot bear to think about history for a while. So I've been shifting my reading to mindless pleasure reading and the similarly-mindless Style section of the Washington Post. A recent article critiquing the new genre of coming-of-age movies featuring 20- and 30-somethings caught my eye. The author is apparently not of this age group and wonders why Generation X and Y are convinced that they "are singularly incompetent and unprepared for life, more so than their parents or grandparents or any other humans in the history of adult preparedness." She seems to think the answer is in some kind of feedback loop of movies, self-help books, and narcissism.

In movies and in life, Gen X and Y are listless, rootless, searching for meaning and failing at being adults. Why, if only we knew that what adulthood is really about is (as the author tells us) "fumbling through each day the best one could and remembering to schedule dentist appointments"!

If only that banal vision of adulthood was even available to our generation. Many of us would love to schedule dentist appointments if we had dental insurance. And fumbling the best you can, for our parents, was done from the security of a job and a house. The "quarterlife crisis" the author mocks is not some sort of media creation, but a result of the fact that to be a middle class young adult in America takes a hell of a lot more work, time, education and money than it used to.

On top of that, society fostered in Gen Y the idea that our generation could Change Things. When you have second graders sent on neighborhood clean-ups and learning about how to save the rain forest, can you blame them for growing up to yearn for something more than a desk job? Sadly, particularly during a recession, our economy just doesn't have that many entry to mid-level jobs available for young people who want to make a difference.

So, having been raised to seek both change and middle class comforts, we can sympathize with those angst-ridden, adulthood-delaying movie characters like Lainy in Reality Bites, who had thought she "was really gonna be something by the age of 23." Getting to where we've been told we should be going can hardly follow the smooth path of college, job, marriage, house, kids that many Americans could in the post-war period.

Maybe that's not such a bad thing, either. Maybe we can find, out of the angst of coming of age in this changed world, a meaning for adulthood that is more fulfilling and productive than simply "fumbling." Oh yeah, and a way to pay for those dentist visits.

The PhD rite of passage

In the strange world of academia, there is a period of time when the PhD student sequesters him or herself for several months with the ritual objects referred to as academic literature. She may reduce her social activities, change her eating, drinking, and sleeping patterns, and show signs of acute stress. This period of intensive studying and social isolation is the first step in the Comprehensive Exams rite of passage, a step commonly referred to as separation or segregation.

During the second step of the rite, the liminal phase, the PhD student enters a room with her advisers for a couple of hours for her exams. During this stage, as anthropologist Victor Turner characterizes it, "liminal entities are neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, convention, and ceremony." Thus the student is neither in coursework nor in the dissertation phase while in the room; her fate is still to be decided. The "decision" is preordained; the student who enters the ritual will almost always be passed. The tension is created by the ritual, rather than the reality.

The liminal phase climaxes with the end of examination, when the advisers ask the student to leave the room and await her fate. After perhaps 3-5 minutes, the student is asked to reenter the room and congratulated for her success. The student is now ready to be re-integrated into the graduate student community as an ABD--a term mysterious to those outside of the academic culture, but highly significant to those within it.

The student begins re-integration, the final stage of the ritual, by consuming alcohol and snacks with other students down the hall from the examination room. The process continues with more alcohol and likely inebriation in the evening. From this point on, the ABD student will no longer take courses and has attained the status necessary to teach at the collegiate level.

I write this having completed the ritual yesterday, and I can only excuse the arch anthropological tone by having read far too many books in the past four months.

Living history

Today I heard gun shots, smelled horse dung, felt the cool dank interior of a stone house, watched lace being sewn, and met Pennsylvanians living on the frontier. It was all in about an hour at the colonial plantation at Ridley Creek, a short drive from Philly. Today was their yearly French and Indian War reenactment, where customed French, British and Indian soldiers skirmish outside a bystander's house. While just past the trees to one side you could see the road, from every other angle you could have been back in the 1760s.


While the reenactors at living history sites like this may not have history degrees, they know the nitty gritty details of daily life in the past far better than I do. These people are truly committed: we even watched the reenactors eating soup, cooked in a pot over a fire in the old house's hearth, in wooden bowls along with chunks of homemade bread. Walking through the house, the smell of damp smoke seemed to seep out of the stone walls. Outside, farm animals wandered freely and there was clanging coming from the blacksmith's barn.

The highlight, of course, was the small battle. I don't know military history very well, but I know that the chaos and confusion, the many shots fired to actually hit somebody, and the women running wailing into the scene were authentic. So what if the French soldiers shouted to each other in English and a British soldier was felled by a fake blow from the wooden end of a rifle? You were there for a few minutes.

Seeing Philly through fresh eyes

I've had many friends visit me on weekend trips since I've moved here, which we've packed with activities matched to the visitor. For one friend, it was a walk to the Italian Market and a drive out to the Morris Arboretum; for another, shopping and barhopping; for all, meetings my friends and going to my favorite gelato place. But my most recent visitor came during the week, in the thick of my teaching and reading schedule, and just wanted to get a feel for what my life here is like.

Which, of course, included gelato and meeting friends. But it also included hanging out in the grad student center, lugging my library books to campus, and wandering around Center City. I was going about my usual routine, but pointing out the little things along the way: the market where I buy produce, the spot in Rittenhouse Square where little kids always play, the prettiest block of Delancey Street, the cute house I love just off Fitler Square. It was a reminder to me of all of the things I like best in the city and in my daily routine.

I was often surprised at the places my friend stopped to take pictures. His pictures choices made me look twice at familiar places; why had I never noticed that beautiful building? Was that the cutest side street to take a picture of?--I knew an even better one. Through his eyes I saw the beauty I had often passed by in hurried walks to campus or to run errands, beauty in the small details we forget to notice. If in travel "one’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things,” I think the guide to the traveler reaps the same benefit.

Teaching the Great Depression during the Great Recession

The timing could not have been better--or harder--to teach the Great Depression than this week. Better, because it was easy for my students to engage with the material and relate to the fear of economic downturn and the confusion of the how to fix it. Harder, because it's hard to talk about that crisis without talking about this one, and I am no expert on the economy. Better and harder still given that the stock market reached a 12 year low and unemployment numbers a 26-year high this week, and Obama delivered an address to Congress explaining how he planned to fix things. I spent a lot of time reading historians' perspectives and learning about the present problems to feel ready to take on this teaching challenge.

There's always disparaging talk among historians about presentism--looking at the past through the lens of today. To a certain extent, it's impossible to avoid: people are most interested in historical topics that strike a chord with events in their own lives. I've always thought historians were too quick to condemn comparisons between past and present; if we don't study history to better understand ourselves and our world, what are we doing?

I approached comparisons between the Great Depression and today's crisis delicately in my teaching. I created a table with stats and other economic factors comparing and contrasting the two crises, which I only shared after asking the students to first explain what caused the Great Depression and then what they understand about today's crisis. Finally we discussed whether it's a fair comparison to make and what's at stake.

The nuance of their answers really impressed me. As several pointed out, today's employment numbers are counted differently from the numbers in the 30s, so it's hard to know just how they compare. Another student asked how you can compare or quantify human suffering. Several worried that if we compared today's crisis with the Depression, people would be so afraid they'd stop spending and worsen things. Others wondered whether looking to the New Deal for solutions was a good idea or a bad one.

I think--or hope--that I got the point across that we can't make historical comparisons blithely and without consequences. I closed the class by reminding them of what they learned about people who were left out of the New Deal. Who might be left out in relief efforts today? They looked stunned when I told them feminists were worried that Obama's stimulus plans didn't help women. If learning history is opening their eyes about the present, I consider mine a job well done.

A Night at the Palestra

Ever since college, I've been obsessed with college basketball. I had been to a few college games at the University of MD before college and I'd even played on a team for two years when I was around 11 (and absolutely hated it). But when I started sitting--rather, standing--in the student section at my own school, watching our team rise from obscurity to a top 10 team, I got hooked. I loved the feel of the arena when it was full and you could feel the bleachers shake with energy.

When I went to a game at Penn's palestra with my parents recently, I gained a whole new appreciation for the kind of energy an arena can generate. The palestra, a graceful brick arena built in 1927, is the holy grail for college basketball fanatics. It's not just that this place has hosted more games than any other in the NCAA's, or that you can still see the original exposed brick with its hand-painted signs. The key to its popularity is that the palestra is a fantastic place to watch basketball.

Getty Images

I doubted this when we first arrived and hiked up the steep concrete stairs to our seats, near the top of the seats behind the hoop. I wasn't thrilled that I'd be sitting for two hours squeezed between people on a steel bench. But when I sat down, I was shocked to see how close I felt to the court. At almost double the size of my college's arena, the palestra nonetheless seems like an intimate space.

The sense of history at the palestra is palpable, particularly in my case since my grandparents watched games here. Banners from decades past hang from the arched ceiling. There is no jumbo tron, just a simple scoreboard behind each basket. The crowd noise reverberates and the sound of Penn's small pep band filled the arena; no need for music to be piped in through speakers to get the crowd excited. The opposing student sections--Penn was playing St. Joe's, which is using the palestra as its home arena this year--traded taunts via rolls of fabric with handwritten slogans passed over the students' heads like a wave.

Given the atmosphere of this place, it's no surprise that the palestra played a role in making basketball popular in America. The first ever NCAA tournament was held here and Philadelphia's famous Big 5 tournament was played here for decades. New arenas may have more comfortable seats, fancy boxes, and jumbo trons, but the historian in me can't help but feel at home in the palestra.

"Let it be told to the future world..."

The past and the future came together in Obama's inauguration this week. Among the many changes he is making, Obama is setting a very different tone down to the way he uses history. While his predecessor, President Bush, referred most often to history as that field which would vindicate him in the future, Obama is looking to the past to learn its lessons. That turn backward often leads to Philadelphia.

The inaugural weekend began with a train trip from Philadelphia to Washington, echoing the trip Abraham Lincoln made at his inaugural. Obama's new home street is so named because it connects the capitol and the White House, and Pennsylvania is where the Constitution (establishing these branches of government) was written. When he took his oath of office, he read words written in Philadelphia by the founders. Finally, he closed his speech with a rather strange choice of quotes: a writing by Thomas Paine, published in Philadelphia and read to the troops at Trenton during the American Revolution under George Washington's orders.

Paine, a radical revolutionary who is rarely quoted today, wrote a book called The American Crisis in the freezing winter of 1776 to boost the morale of the troops. Opening with the phrase, "These are the times that try men’s souls," Paine continued on with the words Obama quoted:
"Let it be told to the future world, that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it]." Just as Obama emphasized the need for all Americans to take action and effect change, Paine continued, "throw not the burden of the day upon Providence, but 'show your faith by your works.'"

I have a hard time imagining that what Obama calls "this winter of our hardship" is as desperate and daunting as the prospect before most American in the winter of 1776. Indeed, Obama's speech today was unusually grave. Will today be the start of a revolution? As I suggested before, I think it will be a peaceful revolution, more centered on how we live and think than how we govern ourselves. I hope it will be told to the future world that we succeeded in creating a new and better era in America.