On the blank canvas of imagination I sat myself down in a comfortable antique wicker chair next to a large metal and wooden trunk, relics of my own family's past. The chair, my great grandmother's, restored time and again; the trunk her mother used to cross the Great Plains, and then left to collect dust, forgotten in an attic for generations. Although the poor condition of the wood leaves it little more than a display piece, carefully opening the lid shows it to be filled with treasures unbounded. It holds memories. Here it is a place where, from time to time, new old books, musty with age, are sorted, arranged, and conscientiously stored for some future time. Here, in a place of quite reflection, a cabin of the mind, a cozy crackling fire, a warm drink, and tomes enough to occupy a lifetime surrounds. Here is a space for all things to live again.
Through the frosty window a low bank of fog made its long procession across the valley, consuming each tree, building, and feature of the landscape. It was the time of year when this kind of weather was not uncommon. The echoes of long-distant actions roll along in the bank making it harder to distinguish just how far off they were. As I watched the last of trees slipping from view, the distance of here now, and there then was pulled behind the icy blanket. The wicker and the wood take their place in history, living in the past only to be shown in the present.
Turning to family album, I leafed through the pages of dead-eyed portraits, slices of time without the slightest bit of context. Here a sailor, his white-hat cocked to the side, there a babe in the arms of a mother. They have no names, only the slightest hint of lives that were once theirs. The family album, long ago divided in two—one book of sepia photographs, and one of ink and pencil—separated from one another. The fog had reached the door.
A knock like a cannon echoed through the valley. Peering into the mist, I was just able to make out the silhouette of a late-nineties car, backfiring to a stuttering stop, and a man on the stoop, gaping at a small notebook and scratching his head. As I opened the door but a crack, he started immediately, “Sorry for the intrusion, but I made a wrong turn in the fog, and you seem to be lost. Could you tell me where the faces are?”
“I'm sorry, what?” I said while trying to understand his meaning.
“Well, I'm a journalist and I'm on an assignment, well a hard-core quest really. I'm exploring how people today experience the Civil War.1 I've got the names but I'm missing the faces,” he said with a shrug. Wondering at his meaning, I offered the warmth of the hearth while we sorted it out. Standing between the chair and fire for a few moments, looking around the place, his eyes caught sight of the still-open album.
“Oh, I see you have some faces of your own. Hmm, I bet I'm not making a lot of sense yet, but it is something you have to see to understand. Come with me and I'll show you the names. We can figure out what they're for along the way.”
“Oh, I see you have some faces of your own. Hmm, I bet I'm not making a lot of sense yet, but it is something you have to see to understand. Come with me and I'll show you the names. We can figure out what they're for along the way.”
Into the depths of the fog we stepped, talking between the chattering of our teeth, our words striking air dead, but occasionally resounding back from nearby but unseen objects. It was a short walk, or perhaps not. It was impossible to tell. Before long a mechanical ruckus came out of the fog, growing with intensity with each step closer. He stopped in the trail and pointed to the small swirling opening in the fog bank where a building with a billboard could be barely made out. Continuing a short distance we happened upon stone. Bending down to closely inspect it, he read out, “Unknown U.S. Soldier.2
“I should have been a bit more straight forward. I was expecting names here, but this is what I found: a memorial dedicated by a different state, and 18 mass graves. Some 'National Cemetery',3” he said with a touch of sarcasm.
“I should have been a bit more straight forward. I was expecting names here, but this is what I found: a memorial dedicated by a different state, and 18 mass graves. Some 'National Cemetery',3” he said with a touch of sarcasm.
For a few moments, the brilliance of the sun broke through the thick blanket, and the green grass was under my feet. I knew where I was. It was 1997, it was 2001, it was 2004. I was standing in Virginia with endless rows of white crosses stretching out in front of me. I was 18, I was 22, I was 25. I wore a suit, I wore a uniform, I wore an antique camera around my neck. Down the hill from me was the Metro line, down the hill was a smoldering hole where my office should have been, down the hill a newly constructed Navy Wing. I had seen the names, the endless rows and columns of names, the walls of names; I began to understand. This, and all places like it, are shrines of memory, or they ought to be. Sometimes, like the cemetery the journalist had found, they are shrines of forgetting.
Righting himself, he looked out to the sea of crosses, and said, “Sometimes when I see this I wonder, what use is it to remember this? Why do some people seem to be stuck living here? When I was a kid I grew up with illustrated history books. I loved looking at them, I still do, but I'm surprised at how much passion some people have for things that happened so long ago.”4 As he spoke the clouds closed back in leaving the two of us to ponder the past. We walked back down the path in silence, only our muffled footfalls marking time.
Righting himself, he looked out to the sea of crosses, and said, “Sometimes when I see this I wonder, what use is it to remember this? Why do some people seem to be stuck living here? When I was a kid I grew up with illustrated history books. I loved looking at them, I still do, but I'm surprised at how much passion some people have for things that happened so long ago.”4 As he spoke the clouds closed back in leaving the two of us to ponder the past. We walked back down the path in silence, only our muffled footfalls marking time.
“Maybe, it's like my family album,” I started at the gate as we continued to walk. “These people were important to someone. Their lives mattered—not like kings or presidents, but they were important to their families and friends, at least.”
He nodded and then pointed toward a modest ranch house. “Nice couple lives there,” he said. “Interviewed them a while back. Ed and Sue. They spend a fair amount of time digging around the archives trying to find any information they can about genealogies, and families that have a links to the Civil War, but they don't just stop there. Their house is full of all kinds of Confederate memorabilia, including Lee, Davis, and Jackson. For them it is both family, and presidents and generals.”5
“Sounds like they like the idea of the war. Perhaps they just like the Rebel motif?”
“Sounds like they like the idea of the war. Perhaps they just like the Rebel motif?”
“Oh no, the war is a way of life for them. They're both in the Sons and Daughters of the Confederacy, and very active. They know quite a lot about the war, even some real trivial things.6 Besides that, not everything they have is knickknacks. Their connection to their own family's past is a bit stronger than that; they have the Bible one of their ancestors carried into battle, and a piece of a shin bone that had been passed on to them.”7
Such a strange thing, part family heirloom, part memento mori. Shaking my head in disbelief, I stopped for a moment. From deep in the fog I heard the clicking of a walking cane on cobblestones. After a few moments of intent listening, I could make out the direction from which the unseen traveler was moving toward us. Wheeling about to face the direction of the graveyard, the fog bank gave up the obscure and a distinguished man in anachronistic clothing stepped out. His top hat, limp silk bow tie, and single-breasted long-coat complemented his outlandishly oversized mustache—truly a product of his own time.
Raising a bushy eyebrow he looked with stern intensity at the journalist and then said, “Ancestor's bones as furniture... You are mistaken; they do not possess the furniture, but the furniture possesses them. The history of the South has, for them, become the history of themselves, but they have forgotten to live because they have confused their own identities with that of the records in the archives.8 Such a blind lust for collecting, and now they are enveloped in the odor of decay. They preserve, but they cannot generate life.9”
“Funny that you should say that,” the journalist jovially said. “They have no children, but Sue is a cat lady, and even organized the first chapter of the Cats of the Confederacy.10”
Like apparitions, we strolled through their collections of knickknacks, heirlooms, and oddities, as best at the journalist could recall. The themed plates, fridge magnets, paperweights, and paintings, novelties mostly, but when the dapper gentleman stood before the statuettes of three generals and a would-be president, he paused looking almost irritated.11
“The demand for monuments to the highest, great and bright, in the long-distant past seems a way for mortals to escape death, and live forever,” he said. “Every other living thing cries out that this should not be. It is deception which leads these beasts that want nothing more than to live forever to think that greatness does.12 'Monumental history deceives with analogies: with tempting similarities the courageous are enticed to rashness, the enthusiastic to fanaticism.'13”
The moment those words filled the air, we three found ourselves a short distance away in a small gun shop. Two men, one sickly – surely nothing but a memory now – and the other fat, holding revolvers across their chests. They shouted together, “Still armed and ready for action!”14
The moment those words filled the air, we three found ourselves a short distance away in a small gun shop. Two men, one sickly – surely nothing but a memory now – and the other fat, holding revolvers across their chests. They shouted together, “Still armed and ready for action!”14
“Is this a living memorial to their ancestors, mere enthusiasm for their heritage, or actual fanaticism?” I asked. “The already dying have little to offer a cause, armed or not. However, the minds of those that are willing to express revolutionary ideals and which possess the means of their own personal involvement... Is that not intent?”
Back into the fog.
“You said you had names,” I stated to the journalist.
“Well, it was really Sue that had them, and she found them here,” he gestured behind him. The three of us now stood, ringed by fountains charged with waters from the seven seas, on a large stone map of the world. I know this place well. A lone sailor of bronze stands there with his pea coat collar upturned, his hands in his pockets—all thing not to be emulated by actual sailors. The building gestured at was not the flat Navy Memorial, or Naval Heritage Museum below, but across the street, the National Archives, its grand facade gleaming. Inside Sue and Ed, in the archives, on vacation from their day to day lives, researching the Civil War.
Crossing the street hastily, a cab horn like a Stuka dive-bomber's siren encouraged us quickly out of the way. The cab, pulling up to the cub, deposited a man in our path. His faded French uniform, high leather belt with connected shoulder strap, and stiff black round cap was as out of place as the top hat and long coat. He beckoned to us to join him in peeking in on Ed and Sue's activities inside.
Buried among the records we found the pair pouring over names long-since out of living memory, a stack of applications for their Confederate clubs to research.15 The Frenchman approached the amateur historians and inquired why they were here looking at old military documents. Sue's response, “We're looking for blood.” She was trying to confirm the living applicants had some familial connection with the Confederate dead, and, when possible, to “reclaim” the entire lives of those old soldiers.16
“Well, it was really Sue that had them, and she found them here,” he gestured behind him. The three of us now stood, ringed by fountains charged with waters from the seven seas, on a large stone map of the world. I know this place well. A lone sailor of bronze stands there with his pea coat collar upturned, his hands in his pockets—all thing not to be emulated by actual sailors. The building gestured at was not the flat Navy Memorial, or Naval Heritage Museum below, but across the street, the National Archives, its grand facade gleaming. Inside Sue and Ed, in the archives, on vacation from their day to day lives, researching the Civil War.
Crossing the street hastily, a cab horn like a Stuka dive-bomber's siren encouraged us quickly out of the way. The cab, pulling up to the cub, deposited a man in our path. His faded French uniform, high leather belt with connected shoulder strap, and stiff black round cap was as out of place as the top hat and long coat. He beckoned to us to join him in peeking in on Ed and Sue's activities inside.
Buried among the records we found the pair pouring over names long-since out of living memory, a stack of applications for their Confederate clubs to research.15 The Frenchman approached the amateur historians and inquired why they were here looking at old military documents. Sue's response, “We're looking for blood.” She was trying to confirm the living applicants had some familial connection with the Confederate dead, and, when possible, to “reclaim” the entire lives of those old soldiers.16
“'After a while the War doesn't seem that far away,'” she said. “'It becomes part of your life … [o]r it takes over your life.'”17
Turning to the confused journalist, the old solider explained, “No matter how we approach the present, it will always fall upon us to understand the past if we wish to truly know. A society that could remake itself in the space of the preceding generation would be impossibly flexible. There are events and movements in the past that must be understood to make sense of the world today, and the recent past may be overshadowed by some previous, but more influential moments.18 Your Civil War, although farther into your past, is one such event.”
“Ha! Look here, great men once lived!” the well-dressed anachronism burst out. “But notice, she spoke truth last. They do not look for the greatness of today; they look for greatness that was, and here they are now letting the dead bury them!”19
“You don't mean they're wrong for wanting to know the past?” I couldn't help but ask.
“History can serve people well by giving them roots into their own cultures and places so they might not wander foreign lands,” he replied. “If their veneration of the old overwhelms the respect for the new and the living, then it 'no longer preserves life but mummifies it'.”20
“We must not hold our 'witnesses' in too high of a regard as to accept only what they say as truth,” the solider historian interjected. “These two are seeking to know more about the past than the documents alone tell us. To do this, they must not merely record the words already said, but they must 'cross-examine' their witnesses and 'force them to speak, even against their will.'21 Where we, the scholars, and they, the well-meaning dabblers, differ is that we seek explanations, while they seek judgments to praise 'dead heroes'.”22
“History can serve people well by giving them roots into their own cultures and places so they might not wander foreign lands,” he replied. “If their veneration of the old overwhelms the respect for the new and the living, then it 'no longer preserves life but mummifies it'.”20
“We must not hold our 'witnesses' in too high of a regard as to accept only what they say as truth,” the solider historian interjected. “These two are seeking to know more about the past than the documents alone tell us. To do this, they must not merely record the words already said, but they must 'cross-examine' their witnesses and 'force them to speak, even against their will.'21 Where we, the scholars, and they, the well-meaning dabblers, differ is that we seek explanations, while they seek judgments to praise 'dead heroes'.”22
We left them there to find their traces of blood. Departing the heart of the urban modern, we set aside the album of the nameless family, and microfiched tomes of faceless kin. The ways we remember are not always so clearly visible. The uses we make of the past are not so straight forward as monuments, or personal museums. We conversed about such things as we walked back through the fog, until we heard a shout somewhere in the distance, “Spoon right!”
The sun had long since set by the time we found the origin of the call, a group of Confederate soldiers lying tightly together on the frozen ground, half asleep. The journalist, as if forgetting himself, walked over to the group and took his place on the end of the spoon line, desperately trying to cover himself with a blanket.23 I stood there agape at what I was seeing in front of me in this cold night. So-called “immersion journalism” was a technique that has grown in popularity for human interest features, but one I was always doubtful about. Now this journalist steps into a world nearly 140 years gone. Clearly, “immersion” into the past, as it actually was, is not doable. As if reading my thought, the man on the far end of the line yelled out in a British accent, “It is not possible to know the entire universe.”24
Standing up, it became clear that he was not dressed as the other men. Instead of a ragtag mix of hand-stitched garments, he wore a pinstriped suit and vest, round glasses, and a cleanly shaven face, save his upper lip which held up his thin mustache. I questioned him on what he was doing lying in the dirt with a group of out-of-time soldiers that he clearly didn't belong alongside. My hope was to gain a bit of an understanding of what my journalist friend was doing.
“Re-enacting,” he said. “If I wanted to understand myself at some past time, I would have to look at the evidence that I had left of what was on my mind. I would not be immediately having the same thoughts as I had then, but I would have to interpret the evidence. I would re-enact in my own mind, my own mind from years ago, and if everything seemed to point to the conclusion that I had a certain thought at a certain time, then I can confirm what I was thinking. As long as I have evidence, re-enactment needn't be limited to only my own thoughts. I can re-enact other people's thoughts as well.”25
“That's fine, but why were you lying in the dirt?”
“Re-enacting,” he said. “If I wanted to understand myself at some past time, I would have to look at the evidence that I had left of what was on my mind. I would not be immediately having the same thoughts as I had then, but I would have to interpret the evidence. I would re-enact in my own mind, my own mind from years ago, and if everything seemed to point to the conclusion that I had a certain thought at a certain time, then I can confirm what I was thinking. As long as I have evidence, re-enactment needn't be limited to only my own thoughts. I can re-enact other people's thoughts as well.”25
“That's fine, but why were you lying in the dirt?”
“Ah, that gets toward the reason you cannot know the entire universe. The men lying in the dirt are experiencing a set of sensations that are unique to this event. When they, even themselves, think back to this moment, this feeling they have now will not be present to them.26 Beyond that, these are reenactor of events that happened long ago. So their future thoughts about this moment will be reenactments of a reenactment.
“Confederate soldiers were aware of who they were, and these men are aware of both who the Confederate soldiers were and who they are. These men do not think themselves to be the very same soldiers they emulate. Thought is self-knowledge. They cannot have the same experience as the soldiers had because they cannot perfectly re-enact the whole of the experience, which would require knowing the entire universe.27
“How much can we actually know anything if we restrict ourselves to only thoughts for which we have a complete experiential picture?” he asked. “We would know nothing about the thoughts of other people, and perhaps not even our own.”28
“So you're saying that these reenactors have done their research and have looked at the evidence that was left to them, right?” I asked. “Now they placed themselves into the most accurate reconstruction based on that research so that they might gain some sort of insight into what it was like during the Civil War? But as long as they have any amount of self-knowledge they'll always know that they are not the actual soldiers. What use is freezing in a field?”
“I don't know,” he replied. “I was talking about re-enacting thoughts, and you have no evidence to say what I might think about re-enacting the physical events.”
“'Explorers of the past are never quite free,” the Frenchman added. “'The past is their tyrant. It forbids them to know anything which it has not itself, consciously or otherwise, yielded to them.'”29
“Such an unhistorical culture,” the dapper gentleman said. “They look upon their 'culture as an inheritance to be appropriated', but thinking like this they can not be 'greater and prouder than just descendants.'”30
I turned the journalist immersed into the reenactment of the past and said, “It seems to me that people choose to live amongst the dead not because they really wish to understand the past, but because they're trying to make sense of their own present. Whatever their own life experiences are, they can't help but bring them with them when they explore the past. Whatever their motivations are, their approach to the evidence is going to change. The usefulness of the history they want to make rests on their reasons for doing it in the first place.”
I closed the heavy trunk, turned back to my warm fire, took a seat in the wicker chair, and flipped through the pages of the nameless family album.
Bibliography
Bloch, Marc. The Historian's Craft (1954).
Collingwood, R. G. “Epilogomena” in his The Idea of History (1946).
Horwitz, Tony. “Introduction” and “Cats of the Confederacy” in his Confederates in the Attic (1998).
Nietzsche, Friedrick. “On The Advantage And Disadvantage Of History For Life.” Indianapolis, Ind.: Hatckett Publishing (1980).
1 Horwitz, pg. 18.
2 Horwitz, pg. 20.
3 Horwitz, pg. 20.
4 Horwitz, pg. 3-5.
5 Horwitz, pg. 31-2.
6 Horwitz, pg. 23-7.
7 Horwitz, pg. 31-2.
8 Nietzsche, pg. 19.
9 Nietzsche, pg. 21.
10 Horwitz, pg. 32-3.
11 Horwitz, pg. 31.
12 Nietzsche, pg. 15.
13 Nietzsche, pg. 17.
14 Horwitz, pg. 33-6.
15 Horwitz, pg. 27.
16 Horwitz, pg. 27-8.
17 Horwitz, pg. 28.
18 Bloch, pg. 39-42.
19 Nietzsche, pg. 18.
20 Nietzsche, pg. 20-1.
21 Bloch, pg. 64.
22 Bloch, pg. 139-40.
23 Horwitz, pg. 13.
24 Collingwood, pg. 298.
25 Collingwood, pg. 296.
26 Collingwood, pg. 297.
27 Collingwood, pg. 297-8.
28 Collingwood, pg. 297-9.
29 Bloch, pg. 59.
30 Nietzsche, pg. 46.
No comments:
Post a Comment