11/06/2023
I wish I had written this. It is so eloquent and so important.
“So, what you’re saying is that all history is biased,” he says matter-of-factly.
He’s heard these things countless times but he’s finally at an age where he can actually hear them.
“It depends on your use of the word ‘history’,” I say.
“If you mean ‘history’ as in, what happened in the past, then no. But if you use the proper definition of the word history as understood by historians, then ‘the past’ is what actually happened—and ‘history’ is how we EXPLAIN what happened. History is how we make sense of historical facts.”
“Oh…that actually makes sense. So then, how do you know what actually happened?”
I beam. A beautiful invitation into one of the most important conversations about the subject of history one could ever discuss:
The pursuit of truth.
“I love that question”, I begin.
The sun is descending into the horizon but as I catch his eyes in the rear view mirror, I pull my glasses off.
“See these?” I hold them away from my face for a second. “I need these to see far distances. When I put them on, I can see differently than I can without them. That’s kind of like the concept of a ‘worldview’. My prescription is unique to me, and Im going to see things differently than anyone else.” I put them back on. “Facts don’t change, but people do. Opinions change, worldview can change, and therefore—-historical interpretation will change, sometimes person to person and DEFINITELY generation to generation. The trick is to understand the person’s individual prescription.” I tap the rim of my glasses.
“Hmm.” He looks out the window.
This isn’t the fun stuff—the mock battles at the re-enactments or the cool and gory facts about weaponry. But this is the heavy, important, meaty stuff, the stuff that will shape his understanding of what historical truth is.
“So. There’s what actually happened—which is ‘the past’, and the past is proven by historical fact. Then there is how we make sense of the past, fill in the gaps, try to make connections and understand what happened and why—and that’s called ‘history’. Historians sometimes agree with each other, and sometimes they totally disagree, but they are ALL trying to make sense of historical fact because none of them were actually there.”
He nods slowly. “Ok…I get that.”
“So what’s the truth? First, we only actually know what can be presented by evidence—primary sources, for example. Chronicles, military records, medical and government records, archeological evidence, that kind of thing. They aren’t perfect but without bringing people back from the dead, it’s the best we can do. Then, we compare primary sources with what other historians have written over time—and what secondary sources say. Then over the years and decades and centuries we get this mounting body of evidence that can help us decipher what the truth of a certain event is—to the very best of our ability. But then, out of nowhere there could be a new revelation of evidence which could alter what we collectively know. It’s what historians spend their lives working on.”
The harvested fields fade, lonely, into the growing darkness. We turn towards the light of our small railroad community, leaving the fields behind.
“So, all ‘history’ has some measure of bias—but that’s ok if you can understand the worldview of the person trying to make sense of historical fact. You can start to sort of w**d out what you KNOW is someone’s opinion, and get to what is considered ‘good history writing’. And that’s why honesty is so important—even if the evidence changes your worldview or challenges preconceptions you had about something. Good history writing is honest, and it’s only goal is the truth. Do you see?” I tap my glasses one last time.
“…That’s pretty cool mom.”
I can’t tell if he’s humoring me or happy I’m winding down, but I know it hit home.
We build layers of understanding, brick by brick, until they can withstand all the bias, propaganda, and sheer nonsense that’s floating out there in the world of history writing. It takes time.
I have all the time in the world.
