Chloë Krueger, Fall 2009
History has many definitions and there are many ways to interpret what history truly means, but one certainty remains; history is all encompassing; it is the journey of the living and the story of the dead. History is the sound of silken slippers whispering across majestic halls, tiptoeing down great flights of stairs and dancing across smooth floors. It is the sound of wooden shoes toiling, clopping across stone marketplaces and walking the long distances of dusty roadways. History is not only the story of past generations, a guide to action and inaction but is wrapped around each and every one of us; it is our story as well.
In the most shallow of definitions, history interprets and attempts to understand the complexities of human societies and relationships and eventually their global effect. It is the lens through which individuals see the world and their identity, not only personal but also that of their family, people and culture. Wherever I seem to go and introductions are a necessity or when similarities are sought, people seem to describe themselves as other than simply American or from a particular state, instead they are French, or Polish or maybe even Quaker. People do not describe themselves at a singular level or in terms of simply their nationality. They describe themselves and even the cause of certain attributes as a result of the ethnicity of ancestral blood; they are the recipients of Italian passion or of the temper of the Irish. People do not simply wear boring tags proclaiming name and state as a self description; instead they are surrounded by the acknowledgment of their ancestral line trickling far back into the recesses of history. That tag does not take into account appearance, personality or personal creed, rather it is the utterance of history, personal and collective that defines people.
Furthermore, the remote science attempting to explain personal traits and characteristics does not begin to delve the complexity that history imbues in mankind. People do not have a dark complexion or orange hair as a result of genes but because they are Greek or Scottish. They are not the result of the random coupling of chromosomes or the vast array of genes, but are English, Spanish, Asian or Mediterranean; they are what their ancestors claimed to be, they are their own personal history, in thought, in reference and even in appearance. Over the summer a coworker sidled over to me one day and asked if I were Greek, my American heritage being obvious. It had nothing to do with the fact that I had been camping in Maine for the last week, in the sun all and every day, no, my tanned skin must be the result of my heritage, my ancestry, my history. I was a little shocked by this insinuation because personally, I claim to be the product of German impatience and Russian stubbornness. My mother always says I live true to my Russian heritage, she says that the Russian language has no word for compromise and that it has translated to my policy of decision-making. Of course she would say that, she is Russian too and gets irritated at my inability to compromise, although I think it is her inability that hampers our negotiations.
However, history becomes much more than just an identity; it becomes the subconscious method for viewing the self and the world. History is inseparable from the mind and soul; it is a part of the person just as love and hate are part of the human condition. History is the expression of humanity, akin to poetry, music or art. Far from being solely the dusty pages of the past it is the unwritten pages of the future, pages that are imbued with individual creativity, imagination and passion; the pages that this generation will write. People do not describe themselves as being comprised of round carbon molecules or globular proteins, instead history becomes the narrative and descriptive device people use to define themselves and connect to one another. A black and white lithograph by M.C. Escher seems to demonstrate this concept of humanity. Once people are unwound and separated from their spherical building blocks they are still connected by the unifying force of history and still expressive of humanity.
Less fluffily, history allows the individual to see another era, another world lost to the inevitability of change. History allows for the observation of a time and place unknown but a time and place that has nonetheless affected the way many societies and even individuals behave and interact. Wars erupt out of misunderstanding, failure to recognize another culture’s beliefs and religion of thought. History is part of everyday life, the reason for everything, from the most menial to the most significant. History is far from the abstract study of past events, it is more than the memories and diaries of greatness, it is more encompassing than preserved documents, and more than the endless impersonality of textbooks used as smallish guidelines for the study.
History is not simply the river of time, the swirling currents marking the great events of history while the small ripples mark the subtleties of bygone lives. History, rather, is the convergence of all the raging tributaries of the world, all the meandering streams, bubbling brooks, and stagnant pools. It is easy to list great events that are important and have great significance to nature of the world today, but that list is long and easily accessible to all who desire to study it. Of course the arguments are made about the importance of history and its study. I think teachers have preached its essentiality since the beginning of time, their diatribe etched into the annals of time. But history is important, the reason – as aforesaid – is that history is not a separate entity. History is the dictation of the universe and of the individual, offering timeless and invaluable gifts to those who would but take them.
History is an essential aspect of life, it is the way of the world, the beginning and the end; it is the soul of the people, the heart of the nation and the essence of the culture. History is far more than all the definitions combined, more than all that I have said. In the words of Voltaire “History is filled with the sound of silken slippers going downstairs and wooden shoes coming up.” History it is the sound of all the footfalls echoing of the walls of time, it is and will always be our world.
Works Cited
Escher, M.C. The Bond of Union. 1955. M.C. Escher: The Official Website. Web. 1 Nov. 2009 <http://www.mcescher.com/Gallery/gallery-recogn.htm>
Hicks, Matthew. The Quotation Vault. 2005. Web. 9 Sept. 2009 <http://www.quotationvault.com/author/_Voltaire>