Why I Love History

I'm gonna editorialize this evening, so bear with me. I've been really uninspired this past week, and the quality of my posts has shown it. It occurred to me that I haven't yet explained why I like history, and it probably would do me good to remind myself why I love history too.


My first memory of anything related to history is a strange one. I couldn't have been more than three when I went on a bike ride through downtown Northport. I had a little seat on the back of my dad's bike, and he would ride around and tell me little tidbits about things we passed. When we rode past The Globe restaurant, I remember him telling me that the restaurant was owned by two actors, and they named it after William Shakespeare's theatre. I misunderstood him and thought that they were actors who had worked with Shakespeare. I was terrified. I had only the faintest idea who William Shakespeare was, but I knew he had been dead for a very long time. I thought the two actors had to be ghosts or zombies or something.


That wasn't the last time history terrified me. In kindergarten, we went on a parade around the school for the hundredth day. In the sixth grade room, there was a replica of the famous bust of Nefertiti. Terrified. The life-size dioramas at Moundville Archaeological Park, when I was at Mattie's eighth birthday. Terrified. The mummies at the Anniston Museum when I was in first grade. Terrified.


I've loved dinosaurs for as long as I can remember. I'm not even sure how I found out what a dinosaur was. My parents tell me I could barely talk and I would tell people I wanted to be a paleontologist. Maybe I learned about it from Bill Nye, but no matter where the interest came from, I am still a huge dinosaur fan. This is my favorite dinosaur ever, the parasaurolophus.



When I was about 7, my grandmother was trying to find me a book  about paleontology, but she couldn't find one, so she got me a book called "Archaeologists Dig for Clues." I was hooked, and I was certain archaeology was my calling in life for the better part of a decade.


I remember first being interested in American history the summer before I started kindergarten. I memorized all the "America Rocks" songs. I was so enthusiastic about it, I asked my kindergarten teacher if I could it to show the class. I was rather upset that my classmates weren't nearly as excited as I was about it.


But I wasn't really excited about history until first grade. My friend, Mary Kathryn, got me hooked on the American Girl books. I remember the first one I read was "Kirsten's Surprise." I read all the books, and my parents got me the dolls. I got Molly for Christmas 1998, and Samantha in June for my 7th birthday. I got one for every Christmas and birthday after that until I had all eight originals. I never played with them, so they're in good shape. I was too proud of them to mess them up. They're still in the corner of my room and I'm going to display them proudly in my office one day. I learned so much from those books. The series isn't the same anymore. It's less focused on history than it once was, and it's a pity, because I and all my friends adored those books and really benefited from them.


In first grade I also started reading the "Dear America" and "Royal Diaries" series. At the book fair that year, I bought one about Elizabeth I. I proudly announced to my mother that I had gotten a book about "Elizabeth One." I was clueless, but I wanted to learn. What a Pandora's box that turned out to be. Thirteen years later, and I'm blogging about history in my free time.


In second grade, I remember being laughed at by my father and my teachers. It was Pioneer Day, and we took a field trip to an old pioneer homestead. A lady in full regalia was talking about pioneer chores. She was asking for volunteers to perform different tasks like churning butter and bringing in firewood. Like all little kids, my hand was shooting up to volunteer for anything and everything. Until she asked for a volunteer to empty the chamber pot. My hand came down very quickly, because I knew what a chamber pot was.


As I grew up, history just became more and more entwined with my identity. In fourth grade, on September 11, I was hysterical. I just barely knew what the World Trade Center was, and I thought that the Pentagon was the Washington Monument. I remember being the only kid in my class who was upset, and Mattie reminded me recently that I kept saying "I don't want to go to war," over and over again. I knew what had happened the last time America was attacked: World War II started and millions of people died. The parallel was drawn without full understanding of either event, but that was the first time I ever saw history as something that is in the present tense, as well as the past. The capability to relate to and humanize the past is absolutely vital to a true passion for the subject.


I decided that archaeology was not my calling after I went on my first dig at age fifteen. Not because I dislike the subject, but because I rather dislike nature. But there is a feeling words can not express when you pull something out of the ground that has not been seen or touched or even thought about for (in my case) 150 years. I helped excavate the slave quarters for the Tannehill Ironworks, at Tannehill State Park. There's something very gratifying about helping to tell the story of a family, an individual, a culture, that has been totally forgotten by time. You never find out their names, or what happened to them, but you know they were there. You give them back some semblance of an identity.


Mrs. Drawhorn, my AP U.S. History teacher really resuscitated my passion for history after a particularly awful teacher had soured it. I have to give her a shout-out. I still look up to her, and want to have the same passion she has, as well as the ability to use that passion to inspire others.


I got interested in genealogy around tenth grade too, and discovered how personal history can be. Some people may disagree with me, but I think everyone should be proud of their heritage. Not because it's superior to any other's, but because it is solely yours. Even if you have skeletons in your closet, I don't think anyone's heritage should be hushed up or suppressed. If people stop talking about the undesirable parts of history, we'd never talk about it at all. We don't have to celebrate slavery or the Holocaust, colonialism or disenfranchisement. But if we sweep it all under the rug, our children will never be able to learn from the mistakes of their ancestors, and celebrate the progress we have made.


My goal now is to pursue museum studies as a career. I want to take care of physical vestiges of the past. I first got interested in that when I was in Tuscaloosa Belles. For service hours I went to the Old Tavern to help air out a collection of old quilts. Some were so old they were made by slaves. They were absolutely beautiful. One in particular, an antebellum quilt made of jewel tone silk, was so delicate, I could feel the fabric ripping in my hands. No amount of delicate handling could prevent it. Then, last summer, at the Smithsonian, the first thing I saw was the Star-Spangled Banner. It had been taken off the wall where it hung for years, and was being preserved in a darkened, controlled environment. Something in that room literally moved me to tears. And seeing the inaugural gowns of the First Ladies, preserved so perfectly, only reaffirmed what I was already figuring out. 


Standing six inches away from Lincoln's top hat, the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, all items that are so important to so many people, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I want to save things, and preserve the only tangible links we have to people and moments that are gone. Being able to see something that you otherwise would only be able to read about makes you care about it more. 


I don't know the words to explain everything this means to me. I hope this doesn't come off as pompous or arrogant, I just want to explain why I love this so much. I know it was rambling, but I'll get back to regular posting after this.