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A Lesson about "History's Lessons"Mark T. BankeReprinted from the OAH Magazine of History
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| Each of us who teaches history has been reminded repeatedly in recent years about the "historical illiteracy" of our nation's youth. The Bradley Commission, Diane Ravitch, the evening news, even chance acquaintances tell us that the "typical" American teenager cannot place the Civil War in the correct decade (or perhaps even the correct half century). That same generic seventeen-year-old, we are told, does not know the purpose of Jim Crow legislation, nor recognize the contribution of the Supreme Court's Brown decision in ending that chapter in our history. He or she does not know that England colonized North America's Atlantic coast, and is unaware that Spain's imperial arm extended into the American Southwest. I do not doubt that there is considerable truth in these reports. I concur with many of the explanations for this situation, and I endorse many of the recommendations for rectifying it. However, in our zeal to combat "historical illiteracy," I hope that we will not forget that literacy (in whatever context) is a means to a greater end and should never be merely an end in itself. For all of the recent handwringing, the past remains a powerful and prominent influence in late-twentieth century American society. The events of the Persian Gulf War clearly indicated that we Americans still look to the past for illumination and justification. Soon after the August 1990 invasion of Kuwait, President Bush likened Saddam Hussein to Adolph Hitler and announced that we would not repeat the "mistakes" of appeasement. Within days the President, members of Congress, military generals, and the public at large all concurred that we should not fail to apply "the lessons of Vietnam" to the Gulf crisis. Since that brief encounter in the desert, news magazines, politicians, and scholars have debated profusely about "the lessons" of this most recent war for our present and future. In contemplating how our society "uses" history, I am also reminded of my own experiences as student and teacher of history over the past twenty-plus years. On countless occasions--formal and informal, cordial and less than cordial--I have discussed and debated the value of history. Each fall I begin all of my history courses by asking students to write a brief essay explaining why they think the past should (or should not) be studied. This exercise, followed by an in-class discussion the next day, acquaints me with my students and their abilities. As a seemingly inexhaustible flow of information threatens to make irrelevant all but the most important immediate knowledge, I believe that students and teachers of history must frankly discuss why they should devote considerable portions of their valuable time to the study of past events. For more than ten years, I have used this assignment in an array of courses, with students of varied age and grade levels and academic aptitudes, from widely diverse regional, cultural and socio-economic backgrounds. I have kept no official tally of the responses to my query, but over the years an overwhelming majority of my students have affirmed the value of studying history. More often than not, they base their case on a paraphrased version of George Santayana's sage advice that "those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them." Even when I respond with Henry Ford's retort that "history is more or less bunk" or Aldous Huxley's observation that "history's most important lesson . . . is that man has not learned much at all from history," most of Clio's youthful defenders remain undaunted. If my own private "surveys" are at all representative, American young people, even in this ahistorical age, recognize value in study of the past. This then brings me to the concern I hinted at in the beginning of this essay. Over the course of each year, I often refer back to that first day's discussion about the value of history, and I periodically ask my students to consider how attempts to "learn history's lessons" influenced events being examined at that point in our course. This practice leads invariably to the sobering, though by no means original, conclusion that human beings have often learned wrong lessons from history. I do not mean to suggest that there is only one lesson to be learned from past events, nor that only the lesson that I point to is "politically correct." However, I am convinced that in avoiding "past mistakes," human beings often err in new, completely unanticipated ways. Indeed, those who have sanctimoniously justified their actions by pointing to the "lessons of history" have often produced more egregious consequences than the misfortunes they sought to avoid. A review of twentieth century American diplomacy illustrates how attempts to learn from past "mistakes" can lead to unwanted results. Following the crusade "to make the world safe for democracy," disillusioned Americans of the 1920s and Depression-racked 1930s sought to learn from that "mistake." Never again, they concluded, should we be drawn beyond the two wonderful oceans that providence has provided to insulate us from European affairs. This outlook, of course, caused Americans to ignore the rise of fascism in Europe and Asia. As we buried our heads in the sands of "America firstism," the soon-to-be-merged Axis powers marched unmercifully against powerless neighbors. Only the shock of Pearl Harbor stirred Americans out of this stupor. Once the enemies of World War II were successfully disposed of, Americans again proved themselves intent on learning history's lessons. This time, however, the "mistake" to be avoided was the isolationism that nearly caused us to wait too long to enter the fray against the Axis. Never again would the U.S. allow needless aggression to go unchecked, and when Joseph Stalin set his hungry eyes (and soon his hands) on Eastern Europe, Americans discovered their "next Hitler." While few will suggest that our concern about Stalin was completely unfounded, many now suspect that our post-World War II preoccupation with the "communist threat" did not always serve us well. The Cold War mindset led us to support corrupt and brutal Latin American dictators ("Our S.O.B.s" as Harry Truman called them) in the name of democracy. Even more tragically, this motive mired us in the third costliest war in our history in the jungles of Vietnam, a war that left our confidence shaken and our nation sorely divided. Predictably the post-Vietnam generation was quick to apply "the lessons of Vietnam" to their own time. But while all agreed we had made "mistakes" in Southeast Asia, we vehemently disagreed about what those mistakes were and what we should learn from them. For many Americans "no more Nams" meant a return to a naive isolationism reminiscent of the nineteenth century. This contributed to the cautiousness that characterized our foreign policy throughout much of the 1970s. On the other hand, some Americans in the 1970s and 1980s asserted that Vietnam taught us that we must "get tough" and that we must have one hundred percent commitment to victory in all future conflicts--no matter what the cost. This Rambo response led Americans to "stand tall" in Grenada in 1983, Libya in 1985, and Panama in 1989; it also resulted in the deaths of more than two hundred marines in Lebanon in 1983. No matter which "lesson" one adhered to, there can be little doubt that the Vietnam experience was one of the most profound shaping influences on our responses to the Persian Gulf crisis of 1990-91. (Indeed, during the war itself, I too expressed concern that we do not fail to remember Vietnam's lessons.) As it turned out, "the splendid little war" in the Gulf apparently exorcised once and for all the "ghosts" of Vietnam from the American psyche. "Smart weapons" and inept Iraqi leadership produced a quick victory that led to an outpouring of patriotic fervor, political rhetoric, and Fourth of July parades not seen in our nation in several generations. Yet our track record in drawing "lessons" from past diplomatic endeavors should, I think, make us cautious about reaching conclusions too hastily from our cake walk in the Persian Gulf. The major concern here is not contemporary U.S. diplomacy, but instead the ways we use--and misuse--history. If my general overview of twentieth century American diplomacy is accurate, then one should ask why lessons learned from the past so often mislead us. I believe that two "myths" about history and its lessons confuse our thinking. (By myth, I do not mean outright lies, but instead exaggerated truths which often carry powerful meanings for the cultures in which they thrive.) Perhaps the most powerful myth among those who study history casually (and sometimes among more serious students as well) is the notion that "history repeats itself." This is what many of my students tell me at the beginning of my history classes each year, and anyone who reads the "letter to the editor page" of any newspaper or news magazine knows this assumption is widely held. To be sure, there is a grain of truth in this idea; there have been enough wars, famines, discoveries, and inventions to make it seem plausible that events repeat themselves. However, close scrutiny of any significant event (be it in the lives of individuals, societies, or nations) reveal that the event resulted from such an incredibly unique array of ingredients that to apply lessons from it carte blanche to subsequent similar events is foolish indeed. The belief that "hindsight is twenty-twenty" is a second myth that often confuses students of the past. The "vision" of the proverbial "Monday morning quarterback" who questions a coach's call from the day before or of the historian who suggests, for example, that a tough stand in 1937 would have "stopped Adolph Hitler in his tracks," is rooted in a common factor. Neither of them have to live with the consequences of their decisions, a luxury that "real" historical actors, of course, do not enjoy. Perhaps running the halfback around end on fourth down would have worked better than sending the fullback up the middle, but the truth is that no one can ever really know for sure. In the same way, no honest historian can offer conclusive evidence that a more aggressive stance would have stopped Hitler and prevented World War II. Study of history offers insights and clues that may help us as we act in the present and plan for the future. But those who offer precise blueprints for the future, based on an arbitrary understanding of the lessons of the past, ignore the complexity and unpredictability of the human experience. At best they are naive; at worst they are dangerous. Where then does that leave us as historians, teachers, and individuals rightfully concerned about the myriad of problems and opportunities that confront us at the dawn of the twenty-first century? We must, to be sure, combat historical illiteracy. But we should no more be satisfied with mere literacy. "A little learning" is still "a dangerous thing." Astute observers from Alexis de Tocqueville to Paul Kennedy have suggested that a tendency to reduce complex issues to misleading simplicity is an Achilles heel of our wonderful American democracy. We as history teachers must awaken our students to the complexity of human events. In this formidable endeavor, we have one great advantage. Because the rich mosaic of human experience reveals both the universal and the unique in our own lives and times, the study of history is one of the most enlightening, exciting, and enjoyable human endeavors. When our students realize this, they will become more than historically literate; they will start preparing to act responsibly in the predictably unpredictable events of their own chapter in the human saga. Mark T. Banker is the chair of the History Department at Webb School of Knoxville, Tennessee. |
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