Fireside Friday, August 27, 2025 (On Defending History)
Aug. 29th, 2025 04:15 pm![[syndicated profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/feed.png)
Hey folks, Fireside this week! As I noted a couple of weeks ago, things are probably going to get more than a little fireside-y over the next few weeks, simply because of the start of the semester – and a semester in which I am undertaking a set of entire new preps (that is, teaching classes I have not taught before), in this case Latin (first and second semester). That demands a bunch of time as you are planning each class meeting and assignment for the first time.1

In any case, I thought I would use briefly this week about how we defend history as a field and how that ties into the way we teach and talk about history.
The great disconnect here is that, when asked, the public regularly notes that they think history is important, but when their opinions are processed into political outcomes it is clear they do not think history departments or historians or really even history teachers are important. That interaction comes to a head with the notion that large language models (LLMs like ChatGPT) will replace historians, because I think both effects speak to the same cause, which is that while the public understands science as a process of discovery, they understand history – incorrectly – as purely a process of transmission.
When it comes to actually engaging with the public, teaching our students and defending our field, this is the rub. There is plenty of public support for history as a teaching field – which AI-boosters imagine LLMs can supplant – but not for history as a research field, which in turn betrays a crucial misunderstanding of what history is.
Put briefly, I think for the majority of the public, who has, after all, never gone beyond high school history class or at most a 101-level collegiate history survey, has a history as scripture view of the field. In this view, history is a set of basically known and static information – names, dates and so on – which does not change over time, but is merely transmitted, via textbooks and introductory courses, from one generation to the next, the way a religious text is transmitted. That view is why folks get so upset when historians say some of the history they learned in high school we now know is wrong, because if violates the basic principle they understand historical knowledge to function on. It is also why they see no real connection between historians doing research and history as a body of knowledge: ‘well, we basically know everything about the past, right?’
If you are reading this, I don’t need to explain that we do not basically know everything about the past (right?) but are instead discovering the past continually, both in improving our knowledge of the deep past but also understanding the new past which time, as is its nature, generates at a rate of one minute per minute.
Instead, what I want to muse on is why we are so bad as communicating this to the public.
I think the problem begins with how we teach high school and extends through how we teach it in undergraduate courses and discuss it with the public. I was struck that, when I took science classes in high school, the narrative of early scientists was a key part of the early weeks of the course. Invariably classes began with stories about figures like Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, Redi and Spallanzani, Newton, Einstein and so on. Those narratives followed a familiar pattern: first there was what people (incorrectly) believed and why they believed it, then the experiment the hero-scientist devised to test that belief and finally the new knowledge that was earned – often with a proviso for figures like Newton that even that model was no longer fully current, having been superseded itself.
In short, science classes pair a description of our best knowledge at the present with a story of discovery of how we came to know what we know now, with the clear implication that this method is how we will continue to discover new things.
By contrast in history this same story (we call it historiography – the history of the history) doesn’t generally attract sustained attention until graduate school. Students learn the names of rulers and thinkers and key figures but they rarely learn the names of historians. Likewise, instead of being presented with a process of historical discovery they are given a narrative of human development – it is not until advanced undergraduate courses that they begin to engage meaningfully with how we know these things. In my own experience the exceptions to this were almost invariably stories about the knowledge-making achievements of other disciplines – archaeology and linguistics, mostly – rather than narratives of historical investigation. So it is not surprising that many students at those introductory levels come away assuming that the narrative is pretty much fixed and has been known and understood effectively forever.
Instead, students of history generally only begin to learn even the basics of how their history came to be – again, that’s historiography – when they get to the graduate level. And that’s simply too late. Sure, you can’t present a mature historiography of Alexander the Great at the 100-level, but you can sprinkle the standard narrative with (accurate) stories of how our understanding of, say, Greek history has changed and improved.2
I think part of the reason for this is that historians are trained to be really skeptical of heroic narratives, because when we meet them in our sources, they’re usually nonsense. We’ve talked already about the flaws of ‘Great Man’ history – no surprise that historians are thus skeptical of ‘Great Historian’ history. And yet it is certainly fair to talk about our understanding of the past as something that has progressed substantially. A cutting-edge textbook on antiquity or the Middle Ages written in the 1950s or the 1900s would be remarkably wrong today (not least of which because it would likely feature some pretty bald racism). You’d probably have an oversimplified, over-generalized model of ‘feudalism,’ for instance, and have Rome treated as if it had an early modern economy. The Greeks would arrive, in that textbook, in Greece at the end of the bronze age, as ‘Dorian invaders,’ when we know they had already been in Greece for centuries at that point and did not displace the Mycenaeans because they were the Mycenaeans (before the 1880s, those would simply be blank pages).
We do, in fact, know more, indeed a lot more about the past than we did fifty, seventy, a hundred years ago.
As historians looking to justify our field as a research field – not merely a history-as-scripture ‘teaching’ field that transmits the ‘received truth’ about the past – we have to transition not just to telling stories about the past but to telling stories about how the past was discovered. I’ve tried to do that more and more here on the blog, foregrounding methods (like modeling in our recent series on peasants) and also at points progress in historical debates (as with Alexander and the Fall of Rome).
But I am one very small voice in the digital wilderness. I think this problem only begins to change for historians if we change the way we teach introductory level history courses, because that is how we change the way history gets taught at the high school level and thus how the public at large understands history. Not just a story about the past but a story about how we have come to know the past. That means changing our courses but also our teaching materials to better signal the role of historians – and for this to stick with students, specific historians – in making history. After all, no history professor has an ironclad grip on the historiography of every period they teach – especially as we often has to teach very widely – so this material needs to be embedded in things like college textbooks to be available for teaching.
And it means letting ourselves have narratives of ‘hero historians’ to match the ‘hero scientists,’ even if like Newton, we might caution that the historical vision of those ‘hero historians’ are not above further discovery and revision.
On to Recommendations:
Naturally, with a topic like that leading, there is higher education news to discuss and it is quite bad. Last fireside, we mentioned the combined moral and financial crisis at the University of Chicago. We now have a clearer look at what appears to be a massive pause – perhaps permanent – to a wide range of humanities programs there. Among other things, those cuts will make it nearly impossible to study cuneiform – the dominant writing system in the Near East from c. 3000BC to at least the fourth century (with the latest dated cuneiform inscription dating to the reign of Vespasian in 75 AD) – anywhere in the United States.
UChicago is hardly alone, as university trustees and administrators are using the financial pressure created by grant cuts to the sciences to justify the further cuts to humanities they already wanted to do. Thus deep cuts disproportionately to the humanities at the University of Utah, cuts at the University of Oregon, particularly targeting language programs, cuts at Virginia Tech, including shutting down the Religion and Culture program, a ‘prioritization’ plan that will almost certainly slash humanities to the bone at the University of North Carolina, and on and on. What I think needs to be reiterated here is this is a finance problem in the sciences, since it is their grant money being disrupted (they’re also disproportionately impacted by the drop in international students). When the humanities have a finance issue, they cut the humanities, but when the sciences have a finance issue, they still cut the humanities. Frankly, I do not think the slide can be arrested, because this ideology – which believes that only the sciences are really important fields – has been baked deep into multiple generations; we will have to rebuild these fields and their public support largely from scratch (and should begin doing so now).
For further reading on the wave of cuts to the humanities, note also Annette Yoshiko Reed’s essay on the topic.
Also worth reading this week is Sarah E. Bond’s discussion in Hyperallergic of the new open-access anthology How Republics Die: Creeping Authoritarianism in Ancient Rome and Beyond (2025). As Bond notes, it is remarkably rare for ‘consolidated’ democracies to de-consolidate, but the Roman Republic (arguably a democratic-ish government) did so and so provides a rare piece of comparative evidence to think about how such deconsolidation happens (and thus might be reversed). How Republics Die is focused on this question and features an impressive list of contributors and contributions and is also well worth your time. The unfortunate thing about the Roman Republic, of course, is that the Late Republic is a story of failure, rather than of success in maintaining democratic norms, but we can still take guidance from understanding those failures better. We must try, for as Bond notes, “apathy will always be to the advantage of the autocrat.” The past is written; the future is not.
Outside of higher education, I suspect most of you are already well aware of Perun’s channel on YouTube, but I thought I would highlight last week’s video on the long-term economic ramifications of the human toll of war. The entire analysis is worth listening to. What equally struck me is how much this is, generally speaking, a change. For reasons we’ve been beginning to observe in our series on peasants, pre-modern populations (with high birthrates offset by high mortality) ‘bounce back’ from losses in war relatively quickly3 and they also have a lot of inefficiently utilized labor. As a result, the tradition of statecraft not just in Europe, but all the world over, often treated peasant manpower as an almost infinitely replaceable resource. But modern industrial societies utilize their labor far more efficiently and have family patterns which don’t ‘bounce back’ as quickly (if they did, we’d have trouble controlling population growth), which means the scars of war on a population last a lot longer and – as Perun notes – have ‘echoes’ because killing a large part of a generation in their childbearing years reduces the number of children in the next. All of which serves as another component in the thesis that war is no longer a profitable business – and yet our state strategies often continue to falsely assume that it is.
A late addition! I want to also recommend this video by Jamelle Bouie (the NYT columnist) asking “How many slaveholders were, there, really?” in the American south before the Civil War. It is a fantastic exercise in cutting data different ways to reveal assumptions about slaveholding societies. In particular, Bouie notes – and the evidence backs him on this – that while a small percentage of individuals owned slaves, a very large percentage (upwards of 30%) of free households did and beyond that many free persons not in slaveowning households were employed ‘in the slavery business’ as it were, as traffickers, overseers, ‘breakers,’ and so on. The video thus provides a really impressive brief exercise in realizing how thorough the penetration of slavery as an inhuman institution can be in a society. I think it is a useful thing to think about when we think about ancient slavery as well: the percentage of the total population enslaved for ancient Greece was probably marginally higher than the American South, for Roman Italy, modestly lower, so we ought to assume similar levels of penetration (and the horror and atrocity that comes with that).
For this week’s book recommendation, I want to recommend a book that keeps showing up in my bibliographies and citations here, but I haven’t recommended yet, which is A. Lintott’s The Constitution of the Roman Republic (1999). However, I want to add some caveats on the front that CRR is a bit unusual in terms of my recommendations. First, it is a bit pricier than usual (the paperback runs around $50, I think), but second and more to the point this is a more utilitarian, scholarly book than I normally recommend here. It is not, to be clear, badly written (far from it), but it is a bone dry utilitarian book that is exceedingly clear but not particularly lively or engaging. That is perfect for a reference work – which is fundamentally what CRR is – but I thought the warning would be fair: this is not a page-turner.
What CRR is, however, is the only recent complete overview of the functioning of the Roman Republic (focused on the Middle and Late Republic) in English.4 If you want to understand how the Roman Republic worked in greater detail than what you would get in an introductory textbook (or our own How to Roman Republic series), this is where you have to go. Lintott’s real question is about the nature of the republic, which he illustrates by cataloging its institutions and defining their functions and powers. The book is thus structures as a sort of frame: the first few short chapters introduce the question of the nature of the republic (and the difficulties of Polybius’ schematic of it), before the meat of the book works through the institutions of the republic – assemblies, the senate, magistrates (high and low), the courts, religion – in sequence to understand how all of the wheels and gears fit together. And then finally at the end, Lintott turns to Polybius, the nature of the republic and its later reception. That structure makes the book really handy as a reference volume – the scholar or student afflicted with a sudden question about the senate may easily flip to the senate chapter and typically find an answer.
Of course, as we’ve noted, the Romans had no written constitution: the Roman constitution was, as Lintott notes, mostly just what the Romans did and found traditional and right. And yet the system had rules, some written, many unwritten, by which it functioned. Going beyond the summaries provided by Polybius requires assembling and analyzing a huge body of individual examples of behavior within the political system, drawn from all over our sources for the republic (Livy and Cicero make up the largest chunk, though). One great virtue of Lintott’s is that he is open both about chronological variation and also about uncertainty, as there are certainly cases where we’re not entirely clear on how something functioned.
For a reader looking to learn more about the overall shape of the Roman political system, either out of curiosity or as a means of understanding current historical arguments about it, Lintott is the last stop before one reaches the raw material of the sources and extremely narrow and focused scholarly arguments about their interpretation. It is thus something of an achievement that the book that results is, if quite dry, easy enough to digest for the lay reader or early student of Roman history. As a result, Lintott’s work is one of those essential pieces of the library of basically anyone interested in ancient history.