(via Vintage Ads for Libraries and Reading)
Understanding the past does not ensure understanding of the present. Rather, it triggers informed questions and hypotheses that only a careful exploration of the contemporary world can resolve. Conversely, contemporary concerns may inform valuable questions and hypotheses about the past, which only careful exploration of the past may unravel. — Veronica Boix Mansilla, “Historical Understanding: Beyond the Past and into the Present,” in Knowing, Teaching, and Learning History: National and International Perspectives, ed. Stearns, Seixas and Wineburg, p. 413
Software, It’s a Thing — Medium -
Software, It’s a Thing — Medium (via instapaper)
My research needed to be like an undergarment in the days before people started showing off their boxers and their bra straps. I didn’t want any of it to show through. — Lily King in That Would Make a Good Novel - NYTimes.com
Currently listening to a forgotten classic.
… we need to remember that the role of the academic humanist has always been a public one—however mediated through teaching and publication. By building blogging, and twitter, flickr, and shared libraries in Zotero, in to our research programmes—into the way we work anyway—we both get more research done, and build a community of engaged readers for the work itself. We can do what we have always done, but do it better; as a public performance, in dialog amongst ourselves, and with a wider public. — Tim Hitchcock in Historyonics: Doing it in public: Impact, blogging, social media and the academy
Vacation Readers Have More Fun than Anyone (via Maurice Sendak’s Little-Known and Lovely Posters Celebrating Books and the Joy of Reading | Brain Pickings)
It seems quaint to think of Popovich, with his acerbic wit and his suffer-no-fools demeanor, coaching at Pomona-Pitzer, preparing his group of Sagehens — their gym is known as the Hen House — for battle against the Poets (Whittier College), the Stags (Claremont-Mudd-Scripps) or the Kingsmen (Cal Lutheran). — Revered in N.B.A., Spurs’ Leader Remembers His California Ties - NYTimes.com
I have said nothing as yet, with regard to the crying injustice which every court in Texas from 1865 to 1869 have perpetrated upon the colored man, but as the facts come to my knowledge, I make a note of it, and I believe, in a short time, some who “now walk in high places,” will acknowledge they pandered too much to the antipathies of communities. In my opinion, white men could not be convicted, in any county of Texas, for the crimes that a great majority of the colored men now here, are undergoing sentence. I have no power of commutation or reprieve, but had the good men in this place of punishment justice, they would not be here now. — Letter from A. J. Bennett, Superintendent of Texas State Penitentiary, to Texas Governor E. J. Davis, October 30, 1870, http://wcaleb.rice.edu/omeka/items/show/180
What an amazing story: Beloved children’s book illustrator Eric Carle spent his life fascinated by a photograph of him at age 3, embracing a little girl whose name he never found out. His most recent book, Friends, was inspired by that enchanting and mysterious photograph. Now, 82 years later, Carl and his little friend were reunited.
On Easter Sunday, almost 82 years after the photograph was taken, Eric Carle learned his friend was not only alive. She was ready for his call. Her name is Florence Ciani Trovato; at 85, she’s a few months older than Eric, and shares his vibrancy.
Read the full story here, and treat yourself to his wonderful Friends.
Collection of Postcard Greetings from Houston, Texas (by Boston Public Library)
(via Texas Slave Narratives | Ben Davis)
Professor Stephanie Camp, a former associate professor in the History Department here at Rice (2008-2010), passed away April 2nd 2014 from a year-and-a-half-long battle with cancer. Although Professor Camp was only with us for two years before she returned to the University of Washington, she made an impact as a member of our Rice family. Professor Camp was a leading scholar of mid-Atlantic slavery, gender, and the American south. In addition to being valued in the discipline, she was a dedicated colleague in her home department, a beloved faculty affiliate of the Center for the Study of Women, Gender and Sexuality, and a dedicated mentor. She worked with many graduate students here at Rice in various capacities even after she returned to UW, and after she became ill, right up to what turned out to be the last weeks of her life. She was a fantastic colleague, a great intellectual and wonderful friend. She will truly be missed.
The day after Stephanie died, I spent much of the day looking back over our past email conversations—a modern mourning ritual that is both consoling and heart-rending at the same time. Consoling, because an old email from a friend who is gone looks just like a brand new email on the screen. It might have been sent today, from all appearances short of the date in the header. But that makes the pain of seeing it more immediate and painful, too.
Stephanie and I both joined the history department at Rice in the fall of 2008, so we learned to navigate a new institution and city at the same time. Scattered in my archived e-mails are memories of Stephanie emailing to ask me, a native Texan, what to expect from the rodeo. There is the snapshot she took of my two-year-old daughter at an election night party held at a colleague’s house, and a message expressing the joy mixed with suspended disbelief we all shared the next morning after Barack Obama’s election. And there is the invitation to the cookie decorating party she hosted for the department’s kids.
But most of all, what I found in my email were constant reminders of Stephanie’s support for me as a junior colleague struggling through the completion of a book and beginning to find my way in the profession. The impact of Stephanie Camp’s scholarship on the history of American slavery will rightly reverberate for a long time, as I was reminded again when teaching Closer to Freedom to my undergraduates this semester. But if my experience knowing her is in any way typical of the experience of others (and the outpouring of grief on Twitter and Facebook suggests that it is), her impact on the historical profession will go far beyond the pages of her scholarship. For she was also an extraordinary colleague who taught me a great deal about what collegiality means.
I could point to many examples here, from her encouraging handwritten note about my early draft of a book chapter, to her going out of her way, as a senior colleague, to attend OAH panels in which I was presenting a paper. But the example that stuck out to me last week, as I perused through my email, was one that she sent in October 2008, not long after we both came to Houston.
At that time I had agreed to share a rough draft of what became an article on John Brown of Harper’s Ferry with a small faculty writing group. But as the deadline approached, I was finding the writing impossible and began losing sleep over the prospect of presenting the little that I had to a group of brand new colleagues. With a stomach in knots, I finally decided to send a rambling, angst-filled mea culpa to the writing group, explaining why I had come to think that the article I was working on was really two articles, and needed a major reworking from the ground up.Not more than an hour later, Stephanie replied:
It sounds like you are deep in the trenches of revision & rethinking. I was looking forward to reading your work & will continue to look forward to it—whenever you are ready. Good luck with your work.
Even today I can remember the blessing that this email was at the time, and the relief it gave me from the typical writer’s depression into which I had sunk. Though brief, it speaks volumes of the person Stephanie was—a brilliant writer who never lost or failed to express her empathy to those for whom writing was more of a struggle, a sensitive colleague who knew exactly what a junior scholar needed to hear, and a valuable friend.
She will not be replaced, but I will try to emulate the lessons she taught, and hope, in that small way, to keep her influence and memory alive in the profession she loved.