http://new-middle-east.blogspot.com/2012/04/historical-memory-education-and-youth.html

http://new-middle-east.blogspot.com/2012/03/emo-killings-and-political-culture-in.html

Those of us who teach will no doubt remember the moment when we first learned of Wikipedia.
In my case, it was a student in a historical methods class who proclaimed the news—a new on-line
encyclopedia that anyone can amend or edit. Like many, I first reacted with incredulity. So this is what the world has come to, I thought. Anyone can be an expert and broadcast delusions to the world at large via the internet. I told my students that under no circumstance did I want to see them consulting such a dubious source of knowledge.

It’s always nice to be proven wrong. At some point not too long after I delivered that stern injunction
to my students, I found that I myself was relying on Wikipedia. It started turning up when I searched
the internet and as I followed the links I found pages that allowed me to orient myself almost
instantaneously on topics about which I knew very little. Whether it was a band I had just heard on the radio, or some obscure piece of historical minutia, there was enough seemingly accurate information onWikipedia to slake my curiosity and provide leads for further inquiry. Over the years I’ve come to see it as an indispensible resource, a vast compendium of knowledge on every imaginable topic. Now, far from castigating my students who use Wikipedia, I encourage them to consult it—with the proviso, of course, that it should be a starting point for research, not a final destination.

Wikipedia’s strength lies in its fortuitous balance between chaos and control—a continual back and
forth between anonymous contributors and a small army of volunteer editors who, lacking detailed
content knowledge themselves, monitor and regulate the editing process in accordance with a detailed
and clearly articulated set of protocols. Not long ago, however, a situation arose that has called into
question Wikipedia’s editing procedures and in the process cast a revealing light on the expansion of
knowledge and the very nature of historical truth.

Dr. Timothy Messer-Kruse of Bowling Green University is one of the country’s foremost experts on
the Haymarket riot and trial of 1886, one of the iconic events of American labor history. According
to the commonly accepted narrative enshrined in textbooks for almost a century, on May 4th at
Haymarket Square in Chicago, police attacked a peaceful gathering of striking workers fighting for the
eight hour day. In the chaos, a bomb went off killing several officers. The police retaliated with live
ammunition leaving four dead and scores wounded. In the aftermath, the authorities choose to place
full responsibility on the radicals. A group of Anarchist leaders were arrested, subjected to a sham trial,
and several were hanged despite the fact that no evidence was presented linking them to the crime.
The incident had a galvanizing effect on American society, leading in the short run to the first great “red scare” in American history, but remembered in the long term as one of the greatest miscarriages of American justice.

Dr. Messer-Kruse has been studying the Haymarket events for at least a decade, and out of his engagement with the sources a very different version of events has arisen, one that directly contradicts
at times the accepted narrative. The crowd of striking workers, Messer-Kruse suggests, may not have
been so peaceful after all. A number were armed and eyewitnesses reported gunshots emanating
from the crowd as well as from police lines. The trial too was hardly the travesty it is generally made
out to be. Over the course of 6 weeks, over 100 witnesses testified presenting evidence of violent
conspiratorial activity in which anarchist leaders participated. Among the witnesses was a chemist who undertook a path breaking forensic analysis that linked the bomb thrown at the demonstration with bomb-making material found at the home of one of the defendants. Whether all of the convictions were justified is an open question, but blame for the outcome can at least in part be placed on the defense attorneys who opted for political grandstanding rather than mounting an effective defense for their clients.

Having achieved this new understanding of the Haymarket affair, Dr. Messer-Kruse thought he might
perform a useful service by correcting some of the misconceptions and misinformation contained in
the Wikipedia account of the events. But no sooner did he start to change some of the more obvious
inaccuracies, when he found himself firmly rebuffed. Within minutes his edits were reversed and the
text reverted back to its initial state. Wikipedia editors explained their actions by alluding to the lack
of proper citations. This came as a surprise to Mellor-Kruse who had in fact provided citation via his
personal blog back to the trial transcript and other primary sources. But primary sources, it turned
out, are not considered authoritative on Wikipedia. What was needed were citations to secondary
works—accounts by established historians, properly vetted and published in reputable venues, in short,
precisely the works Messer-Kruse was challenging.

Even the appearance of Dr. Messer-Kruse’s own monograph two years after his first encounter with
Wikipedia did not substantially improve matters. Although his work was impeccably documented and
published with a reputable academic press, it still fell afoul of the Wikipedia doctrine of “undue weight.” What this means is that a minority view of a particular topic should not be undue weight when it goes against what appears to the view of a majority of scholars. One editor explained that if 99 historians claim the sky was green in 1880 and one says it was blue, blue skies would only be acknowledged as a minority interpretation. Verifiable assertion was the standard to which Wikipedia aspired—not truth itself. It was only when Dr. Messer-Kruse published an article in the Chronicle of Higher Education recounting his experience that a serious discussion began on the Wikipedia talk pages and changes were made.

It is easy to understand Dr. Messer-Kruse’s frustration. Historians engaged in detailed research with
primary sources will inevitably find facts and assertions repeated time after time in the secondary
literature that turn out to be inaccurate if not downright wrong. All it takes is a single slip—a source
not checked, an assumption not verified, a text misread—for inaccuracies to become enshrined in an
authoritative work and repeated for decades to come. It is precisely for this reason that historians insist on returning to the sources, even for topics with a well-established historiography. Only by immersing themselves in the original materials and piecing together a narrative from the ground up, can historians cleanse the record of its accumulated errors and arrive at new interpretations. This, it would appear, is exactly what Dr. Messer-Kruse has done, and he understandably feels that his narrative should take precedence.

Readers may be surprised, therefore, to find that my sympathies in the controversy lie not with Dr.
Messer-Kruse at all, but with Wikipedia. It is certainly tempting for a scholar to emerge from the
archives guns blazing and to charge straight for Wikipedia, but this may not be the most effective
strategy. Like any encyclopedia, Wikipedia is largely a repository of conventional wisdom. Its purpose
is to acquaint non-specialists with the closest approximation to a consensus view. There are good
reasons why Wikipedia editors would look with skepticism on a single scholar however well-credentialed who attempts to overturn an established historical narrative. Perhaps Dr. Messer-Kruse, is right about the Haymarket affair, but he stands against a cluster of well-known authorities who no doubt also examined primary sources in formulating their views. So it becomes a matter of judgment, and the question inevitably arises—whose? Should the historical consensus be decided by a random assortment of volunteer editors at Wikipedia with no specialized training whatsoever? Or, perhaps, the matter should be left to the historians themselves.

The formation of a historical consensus, to be sure, is not a rapid process, but contrary to Messer-
Kruse’s assertion in the conclusion to his Chronicle article, it is a matter of years, not decades. Within
3-5 years of the appearance of an important monograph, generally, a range of scholarly reviews will
have been published, citations will have started to crop up, and any new work on the topic that does not engage the monograph will be considered deficient. Even if a clear consensus has not emerged, there will be enough of a response to allow an informed observer to determine whether an interpretation remains controversial and whether a work has been acknowledged as an authoritative source. This is the point at which editors of Wikipedia can safely integrate a new historical interpretation into its articles.

Of course, it is difficult for an author to have to wait several years for what may seem like blatant
factual errors on Wikipedia to be corrected. But imagine the alternative. Remove the requirement
that changes reflect a consensus of expert opinion and the result would be a field day for holocaust
deniers, conspiracy theorists, crackpots, mystics and revisionists of all shapes and kinds. In the process
Wikipedia would lose the very features that have brought it success—its reliability and impartiality. Dr.
Messer-Kruse feels his experience reflects a lack of deference to contributors with academic credentials. It seems to me, however, that the episode only highlights the critical importance of the academic community to an enterprise like Wikipedia. The facts of history are rarely as clear and straightforward as they appear at a distance. Historical truth exists without a doubt, but it is only accessible through sources which more often than not present an incomplete, opaque and even misleading picture. Lacking the full story, the historian’s task is to arrive as close a reconstruction of truth as is humanly possible given the available resources. To do this requires specialized skills, breath of knowledge and sound judgment honed through years of engagement with the past. The firmest verification of a historian’s reconstruction of the past lies in the informed assent of his or her peers. It is to Wikipedia’s credit that it has not tried to usurp this role, but rather uses the model of academic consensus as its guiding principle. The verdict of history may not always be prompt, but it is well worth the wait.

Nathaniel Knight
Associate Professor and Chair
Department of History
Seton Hall University

Readings

“The Haymarket Affair” Wikipedia: the Free Encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
Haymarket_affair Accessed March 5, 2012.

Timothy Messer-Kruse, The Trial of the Haymarket Anarchists: Terrorism and Justice in the Gilded Age.
New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011.

Timothy Messer-Kruse, “The Undue Weight of Truth on Wikipedia.” http://chronicle.com/article/The-
Undue-Weight-of-Truth-on/130704/. Accessed March 5, 2012.

http://new-middle-east.blogspot.com/2012/03/curtailing-freedom-of-expression-in.html

In February 1825, an angry Andrew Jackson scribbled, “So you see the Judas of the West has
closed the contract and will receive his thirty pieces of silver—his end will be the same. Was
there ever witness such a bare faced corruption in any country before?” In doing so, he defined
the 1824 election forever. One would be hard pressed to find a textbook or other discussion of
the election that does not refer to the 1824 election as the “corrupt bargain.” It easily fits into the
narrative of the aristocratic John Quincy Adams briefly stemming the tide of Jacksonian
democracy; a tide which four years later would sweep Jackson, democracy, and modern politics
into the White House.

According to the traditional interpretation, Jackson had won the electoral vote. He had garnered
99 electoral votes in contrast to 84 for Adams, 41 for William Crawford, and 37 for Henry Clay.
The 12th amendment specifies that when no candidate wins a majority of the electoral votes, the
election would be decided in the House of Representatives with each state delegation have a
single vote. Only the top three vote getters would be considered, so Clay found himself as the
odd man out. Having failed to become king, Clay, who had a tremendous influence in the
House, became kingmaker. In a January 9, 1825 meeting, Clay and Adams supposedly struck an
agreement. In February, Clay delivered the votes (on the first ballot in the House, Adams won
13 of the 24 state delegations including three votes from states that had been won by Jackson).
Shortly thereafter, Adams named Clay secretary of state, and critics had all the proof they
needed—a corrupt bargain must have occurred. This cabinet post was considered a prime
stepping stone to the presidency. In fact, counting Adams, the previous four presidents
(Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, and Adams) had served as secretary of state prior to becoming
president. So, apparently, Clay had made Adams president and set up himself up as the heir
apparent.

Yet, in accepting “corrupt bargain” as an apt epitaph for the 1824 election, one must consider the
fact that this description was authored by a bitter loser with an infamous short temper. While
Jackson’s description is pithy, and it has garnered almost wholesale acceptance, it does not tell
the whole story, and, in fact, is fundamentally flawed.

There are multiple ways to consider the corrupt bargain charge:

1. Did Clay and Adams actually make a deal?
There is no evidence that any explicit bargain was reached at their January 9, 1825 meeting.
Furthermore, when Jackson later added the charge that an emissary from Clay (none other than
future President James Buchanan) had approached him offering the same deal, he was proven to
have made this part of the charge up. In fact, many historians contend that Clay had decided to
support Adams (who shared his “big” government economic policy) over Jackson (his rival as
the “western candidate” and a military chieftain whom one could not trust to be president) well
before they had their January meeting.

2. Did the bargain usurp the people’s will?
This charge depends on the premise that the people supported Jackson and that Congress defied
them in elevating Adams to the White House. Jackson, of course, alleged that his plurality

of popular and electoral votes demonstrated the people’s will, and Adams is, indeed, the only
candidate to win the presidency without a majority of electoral votes.

However, Adams is not the only president to fail to win the plurality of popular votes. In 1876,
Tilden had more popular votes than Hayes, and in 2000, Gore had more popular votes than Bush.
And, on fifteen other occasions a president has been elected who lacked a majority of popular
votes (but did have a plurality). Adams with 31 percent is the lowest on this list of presidents
ranked by popular vote totals. He is followed by Lincoln with 40 percent, but rarely do people
portray Lincoln’s election as against the people’s will. (See table for presidents and their popular
vote totals)

And, none of these numbers prove the popular will was usurped. If Congress is obligated to
select the candidate who wins a plurality of popular or electoral votes, then the 12th amendment
is useless. Instead, Congress is given the power to select one of the top three vote getters. In
exercising their constitutional discretion, one is hard pressed to declare Congress as usurping the
people.

3. What would the reaction be today if a prominent presidential candidate threw their
support behind a competitor in exchange for being named the secretary of state?

That’s not a hypothetical. In 2008, after a bitter primary battle, Hillary Clinton withdrew from
the field prior to the Democratic convention, and she supported Barack Obama in the general
election. In exchange, President Obama named Clinton as his secretary of state. Was this
decried as a “corrupt bargain”? Of course not. This is modern politics as usual.

4. What does this tell us about politics in the early 19th century?
It certainly supports the theme that politicians presented themselves as good republicans
who valued virtue and decried ambition. In this period, politicians did not “run” for office
but “stood” for office. “Running” conveyed ambition, which was anathema to the political
culture. What could demonstrate ambition more than bartering for the presidency? Both Clay
and Adams suffered from this appearance of impropriety with Clay later acknowledging it as
the worst political mistake of his life. So, the corrupt bargain charge really demonstrates the
universal axiom that, in politics, perception is more important than reality.

In sum, one can easily contend that there was no corrupt bargain, and the people’s will was not
usurped. Instead, it was an allegation trumped up by a bitter loser, and it was swallowed by a
public steeped in republican political philosophy. So, rather than entitle chapters or sections of
books, “the corrupt bargain,” historians should instead call the 1824 election, the “constitutional
election of a candidate who did not corruptly trade a cabinet position for his election, but
suffered from the taint of ambition.” Hmmm . . . On second thought, one can easily see why the
phrase “the corrupt bargain” will continue to be used.

http://new-middle-east.blogspot.com/2012/01/following-op-ed-article-published-in.html
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This past summer, quite expectedly, I found myself becoming obsessed with genealogy.  At a time when I had no lack of other things to do, I spent hours scouring the internet in search of crumbs of information about long deceased ancestors.   Family history, to be sure, was not a new interest.  In fact, I am convinced that it is one of the reasons why I became a historian.  It all goes back to a distant winter afternoon — I was probably about 11 years old — when my brother and I, rummaging through a trunk in the attic came upon a pile of papers bound in twine with the words “Family Genealogy” written on the front.  We brought it out into the light, gingerly opened the brown manila cover and started poring through pages filled with the sloping cursive of a man educated in the 1880s—our great-grandfather.  Much of what was written, references to eugenics and reflections on theology, went above our heads, but we were enthralled by the heroic exploits of our great-great grandfather in the Civil War and intrigued by long lists of names sprawling down page after page.  And on the last page, written in later in a shakier hand a name appeared that we recognized instantly—our own father, born two years before the author of the manuscript passed away.

Eventually a photo album surfaced with an assortment of faded sepia-tone prints—a weary old farmer and his wife, a frightened boy in a Civil War uniform, a seated middle aged man with beady eyes, a pointed beard and a gaunt wife standing at his side.  Pondering these faces, and the names attached to them from the family genealogy, I wanted to know more.   If I could only find some kind of independent confirmation, records of some sort that showed these people had an existence outside the brittle pages of my great –grandfather’s memoir.  I knew records were available, but somehow the prospect of spending hour upon hour in libraries pouring through censuses and tax records to find a few names, seemed both daunting and indulgent.  By the time I had access to such libraries, I was already on my way to becoming a professional historian, making my way through graduate school, delving into historiography and critical theory, mastering a difficult foreign language and preparing to produce a dissertation.  History, for me, was about engaging the big questions, unearthing neglected sources, crafting narratives and advancing the historiography, not chasing after lost relatives.

Then the internet made its appearance.  After the first powerful search engines came into use, I would occasionally type in names of ancestors drawn from my great grandfather’s genealogy, which by this time I had digitized and stored as a pdf file.    But the results were generally disappointing—one or two fleeting references and a mass of dead ends.  I put the idea aside and went on to other things.  This past summer, however, contemplating a family vacation through the Finger Lakes Region where my ancestors had lived, I typed some names into Google and was astonished by the results.   The amount of material available had increased exponentially—US Census data, vital records, local histories, published genealogies, cemetery listings and more.    Quickly, I found a wealth of references to ancestors, confirming and expanding upon information in the family genealogy.   I was even able to find a distant relative, a fourth cousin, who had also been drawn into genealogical research and had posted extensive information on the internet.   While I had limited myself to sources freely available, my relative had signed up for various commercial genealogical sites and had actually gone so far as to have his DNA tested.   My appetite whetted by these discoveries, I threw myself into further research, only to emerge frustrated.   Having harvested the low hanging fruit, the quest for additional information involved more and more effort with less and less reward.   Eventually, my enthusiasm for family history waned, other obligations imposed themselves, and I put off the search for another time.

My encounter with genealogy, fleeting as it was, spurred me to think about the relationship between the pursuit of family history and more traditional forms of historical research and writing.  To the extent that genealogy involves an investigation into the past, it would be hard to deny its connection to the historical profession.   But to my knowledge, professional historians have largely stood on the sidelines as interest in genealogy has expanded exponentially over the past decade.  A recent study has shown that in a single month, December 2010, over 17.5 million unique users visited the 10 most popular genealogy sites.   87% of American surveyed in a recent opinion poll said they would be interested in learning more about their ancestors. [1]  Genealogical research has become a multimillion dollar industry.  Clearly there is an enormous reserve of potential interest in learning about the past among genealogy buffs, and historians might do well to think about how better to reach this audience. 

Yet, for all the overlap between genealogy and history, there is much about the practice of genealogy that historians may find unsettling.   Genealogy fosters a kind of historical tunnel vision.   Genealogists delve deeply into the past for very limited fragments of information—dates of birth and death, marriage records, places of residence—often with little or no consideration of the broader historical context.   The types of questions historians like to ask about processes of change over time rarely play into genealogical research, and the historian’s penchant for narrative and argument, stories interwoven with explanation, is largely absent from genealogy. Indeed, the end product of genealogical research, more often than not, is some rendition of the classic family tree—a bare listing of names and dates with little space to characterize the lives of the individuals referenced.   The fact that these listings are often produced using templates created by commercial enterprises that provide access to sources only widens the gap.   Perhaps it’s best to say that genealogy is history halfway, capturing the excitement and obsession of the research process, but stopping short of the analytical synthesis that arises when historians weave their data into narratives.

But halfway history is far better than no history at all.  Genealogy has the potential to act as a gateway toward a more holistic understanding of the past.   History is often dismissed as arcane and irrelevant, but what could be more relevant than one’s own past?   Even something as basic as remembering dates can be improved by genealogy.  After all, we remember dates not through some feat of abstract memorization, but rather by the associations that they evoke.  Family history can provide a chronological matrix that can hold in place a broader historical awareness.   Perhaps it is unlikely that the average adult genealogist, left to his or her own devices, will look up from the tables and charts and start to pose broader historical questions.   In the classroom, however, all sorts of possibilities come to mind.   As I found out years ago with my great-grandfather’s manuscript, Genealogy has the potential to engage young people in history by drawing them into the past, arousing their interest and creating a sense of a personal connection.    A skilled teacher could then channel this raw interest into historical research, pushing students to explore the backdrop against which their family history played out.   Such an engagement could turn out to be the first step toward a lifetime of appreciation for history.            

No doubt, I am not the first to think along these lines.   I am curious, therefore, how teachers have used genealogy in the classroom.   What sorts of techniques and strategies have been employed?  What kinds of pitfalls have been encountered?   Has the exercise led to the expected results?  Given the explosion of interest in genealogy in recent years and the wealth of available tools, the use of genealogy as a tool for teaching history deserves further discussion and consideration. 

Nathaniel Knight
Seton Hall University

            One easily overlooked resource that teachers might find highly useful inUnited Stateshistory or government classes is the classic television show. By that, I mean the dramas, comedies, and documentaries of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. These are readily available on the Internet; they can be converted and downloaded to your computer by using the free site, www.zamzar.com.

            The Twilight Zone series is a rich source of episodes or film clips for those teaching about the Cold War and McCarthyism. For example, “The Shelter” (1961, Episode 68) depicts the emotional devastation that results in a close-knit neighborhood as a family has to decide whether it is going to share its fallout shelter with their desperate (and shelterless) neighbors. “The Monsters are Due onMaple Street” (1960, Episode 89)  shows the results of mindless fear and hysteria on a peaceful suburban neighborhood.  Episode 74, “Deathshead Revisited,” deals with the return of a sadistic SS captain toDachau concentration camp; it aired in November 1961, a month before an Israeli court sentenced Adolph Eichmann to death for his role in the “Final Solution.”  

            One would not necessarily think of the old series Gilligan’s Island when teaching John Locke’s social contract theory. However, a clip of any episode of the series can be used as a hook when introducing this content. After introducing the definition of the social contract as Locke saw it, the students can debate whether or not a social contract existed on the island and if so, whether this unwritten agreement was necessary for the group’s survival. One could make a good case that it did!  (As one examines the social contract theory set forth in Leviathan, a clip of a series that today’s teenagers are more familiar with, Survivor, could provide a good illustration of how Thomas Hobbes viewed human nature!)

            When discussing American society after World War II, the famous sitcoms of the 1950s, 60s, and 70s can be quite useful.  A clip of I Love Lucy can provide an insight into what was expected of women in the 1950s. (Lucy’s ridiculous attempts to start a career in entertainment were always doomed to failure, as her husband Ricky insisted that she stay home and fulfill the role of the housewife and mother.)  Leave it to Beaver shows the ideal of the American family in the 1950s; it would be interesting to contrast a brief clip with oral history interviews of people who experienced family life during this period.  

            An interesting show of the late 1960s and early 1970s was Room 222, which gives a glimpse of the changing attitudes toward racial and ethnic minorities through the eyes of students and teachers at Walt Whitman High School. (Contrast a clip of this show with one of Leave it to Beaver‘s all-white, middle class view of family and school to show the evolution of attitudes from the 1950s to the 1970s.)

            The Andy Griffith Show, still quite a popular series in reruns, also offers a few gems. The best is the “Preamble Episode,” in which Deputy Barney Fife attempts to recite the Preamble to the United States Constitution. This very funny three-minute clip is available on TeacherTube and is a great icebreaker when covering the document, especially if you are planning to have the students recite it.

            On a more serious note, the acclaimed CBS news program See It Now provides a fascinating window into the events of the 1950s. The Museum of Broadcast Communication (http://www.museum.tv/) has a great archival selection of television documentaries, including clips from Edward R. Murrow’s See It Now telecasts from Korean War battlefields. Interestingly, one of the best episodes of MASH, “A Room inKorea” (1976), was inspired by Murrow’s coverage of the war. (See http://www.tvland.com/video-clips/mash/a-room-in-korea)

            Last but not least, The Ed Sullivan Show (see www.com) offers  the Beatles’ first U.S. television appearance (1964); The Milton Berle Show showcased Elvis Presley (1955) before he appeared on the Sullivan show (see http://www.elvispresleymusic.com.au/pictures/1956_june_5.html#HoundDog)

            Once you have decided which clips to use, what to do  with them? The possibilities abound.  When paired with a couple of thought-provoking questions or a short article, they make wonderful hooks to introduce new content. They make great writing prompts as well as starting points for debates or discussions. Instead of doing the legwork yourself, challenge your high school students to find clips for you. (Be sure to state your expectations on appropriateness and review their finds; clips found on YouTube can be altered in unexpected and sometimes startling ways. When covering the cultural history of the postwar era, the addition of  television clips can be an effective  way to demonstrate the power of the medium to reflect and even shape the American way of life.

Footnotes or endnotes appear in all history books, especially monographs.  Some students comment that they are distracting because those little numbers clutter the text.  Of course the notations are not meant to clutter and they serve several functions.  Footnotes can be used to clarify, define, or argue a point more thoroughly than is appropriate for the text.  As a professor of mine once said, “Grind your axes in the footnotes, not the text.”  Footnotes can be used to give the reader alternative views to those being expressed in the text.  They can also offer suggested sources that may expand upon a point in the text.  However, the primary purpose of the notation number is to lead the reader to a citation that will provide them the exact location for the source material used for documenting the passage of text.

This means then that the author must take great care in making notations so that the citation will take the reader to the correct source location.  Accuracy is vital:  the author, title, edition, and page number(s) are all signposts that guide the reader so that they don’t get lost on the research highway.  Once the reader gets there they must decide whether or not the author has fairly used or interpreted the source.  This is another matter altogether.

Practical exercise in verifying the use of sources:

Have you ever followed footnote citations to verify their accuracy and whether or not the author used the sources fairly?  I had done this when grading student research papers as a matter of routine, but had never given the practice much thought when reading a monograph.  Many years ago I received a request to review a book for a historical journal.  When the book arrived I was pleased with the magnificent dust jacket art but once I began reading the work…well let’s just say that old adage came to mind: “you can’t judge a book by its cover.”  I will not furnish the citation for that book.  It is not my purpose to belittle the author or the editor.  I will say it was a history of the Osage Indians and the book provided numerous examples on how NOT to “do history.”

So let’s take a passage from the book and explore the citations within it.  At this point in the book the author is attempting to give some sense of the increasing value ofSpain’s trade among the tribes that held territory along theMissouri River.  The Osage were a formidable group and success in trading depended upon their goodwill:

     ²⁷Abraham P. Nasatir, Borderland in Retreat (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico, 1976), pp. 18-19;  also Lawrence Kinnaird, ed., “Spain in the Mississippi Valley, 1765-1794,” Annual Report of the American Historical Association, 1945, Pt. 1, Vol. II: 214-218.

     ²⁸ Ibid., p. 228.

     ²⁹ Loc. cit.

In this example, footnote 27 is important even though this number is not given in the passage provided.  For students who may not be familiar with the Latin used in this older citation style, footnote 28 says “Ibid” which means “in the same place” and was commonly used to reference the same source noted in the previous footnote.  “Loc. cit.” in number 29 means “in the place cited exactly” and was used to specify that the citation was in the exact location (source and page number) as the previous citation.  The obvious question for footnote 28 is which source is the author referencing, Nasatir or Kinnaird?  A quick check reveals that Nasatir’s book is only 175 pages so the “Ibid” in footnote 28 can’t refer to that work.  Therefore, all of the information referenced for footnotes 28 and 29 should all be derived from a single page:  228 of “Spain in theMississippiValley, 1765-1794.”  That page is included as a Word document at the end of this essay. 

Note that the document is a translation of the report “Nations of theMissouri” from Pedro Piernas, the lieutenant governor of Upper Louisiana, to Luis Unzaga, governor ofLouisiana.

Now, with the book passage and the original source cited we can begin our exercise.  The author states that the Spanish investment in theMissouritrade totaled 97,000 livres.  The source specifies “97,400.” Next the author states that the value of the livre should be twenty cents.  No authority whatsoever is cited for the exchange value.  Even if we indulge the author and accept the value, the “math doesn’t work.”  97,000 X .20 equals $19,400 not the $19,480 written by the author.  However, if you multiply .20 times the correct number in the source, the sum is $19,480!

Even more troubling is what comes next.  The author asserts that profits usually ranged from 100% to 200% and once again, no authority is cited.  He then arbitrarily selects 100% as the margin he will use to calculate the value of profit to be expected from the Missouri Riverarea and Osage trade.  He arrives at the dollar value of $1,948,000.  It is clear the author multiplied the investment amount times 100 rather than 1.00 (which is proper expression of 100%)!!!  This mistake is compounded when he derives the value of the Osage trade by taking just under one half (45.58%) of the dollar amount and giving $888,000 as the value of their trade.  The only accurate figure in the author’s calculations is his assertion that the Osage trade accounted for roughly one half of the total Missouri Rivertrade.  Note on the source document that the Little Osages and Great Osages (the two divisions of the Osage tribe) had 22,200  pounds worth of goods of a grand total of 48,7000.  This means the Osage portion was 45.58% of the total trade.  Incidentally, you will also note in the source document that “forbidden” is written beside both Little Osages and Great Osages.  This means that trade was legally forbidden (and had been since 1773) because the Spanish were “punishing” the Osage for depredations.  The Spanish hoped to gain more compliant behavior from the Osage by depriving them of trade goods.  In reality, the trade ban was being lifted so Piernas is reporting the anticipated level of trade based on what was being authorized for the upcoming trade season, not how much trade was actually taking place.

Next the author leaps ahead to the 1794-1795 trading season and tells the reader he will apply the same basis for calculating.  What really happens is that he makes the same math mistakes again.  In addition, his citation declares that the data for 1794-95 came from the same page in the source as the previous citation.  It clearly did not.  The volume cited ends with the year 1781 so the base numbers must have come from a different volume. 

The last statement from the excerpted passage requires the reader to make yet another leap of faith with the author.  We are told quite plainly, “No figures are available for theArkansastrade, but the Osage portion…would be at least half.”  There is not the slightest clue as to how the author arrived at such an assertion.

In conclusion, writers must take great care in documenting their work.  The sources must be properly cited and the sources must be fairly / accurately used.  If we are true to our discipline, we will judge books not by their covers, but by their content.

http://new-middle-east.blogspot.com/2011/12/crisis-in-iraq.html