History is a Story
When I find that a teenager doesn't know something about history (such as who the Moors were), or considers it dull and not important, my mouth drops open. Their attitude reflects their education and what they are taught that is considered important. No, knowing the reason behind the crossing of several boats from the Moroccan side to the area of Gibraltar in 711 will not get them a job, but it will help understand that the arrival of those people made computer programming much easier by using the Arabic numbers they introduced, rather than the cumbersome Roman numeral system.
I can't remember a time I didn't like history or know something about it. When we got our textbooks in September of fifth grade, there was a U.S. history book included. I remember looking it over and comparing it with a high school history book I already had, while the remains of Hurricane David doused us with rain and I occasionally looked out the kitchen window at the bowing trees. I had had old textbooks of different kinds for years. There were history books, literature books, religion, chemistry, algebra, Spanish, French, and physics. All of them were from the 1950's and 1960's. A couple were from primary, most were from high school, and a few from college. They were my treasure.
I was lucky that my father had an older colleague with grown children, who wanted to empty his attic. When this colleague heard that I liked to read, he gave me boxes and boxes of old books. There were children's books, young adult books, and textbooks. I was probably six years old when he gave me the first box. At that time I was petitioning my mother every few weeks to buy me a book through Scholastic School Services. I remember being given at school a small magazine with different books described and their prices. My mother would only let me buy one in each magazine, though I would have bought them all if I could. She had instilled in me the reading bug when she taught me the alphabet before even beginning kindergarten. I remember writing "words" on pieces of paper while I went with her on her rounds as a cleaner in the old rooming houses of Boston along with a couple of swanky apartments, including one with a piano I itched to touch. My mother kept me occupied with letters, paper and pen probably to curb my infantile curiosity that might have lost her her job if I were to execute it.
I think I first learned to read in kindergarten. I am not conscious of actually learning, simply of reading. When I learned how the letters went together, I couldn't stop reading. I loved discovering new worlds, especially since I was an only child and had no sibling to distract me. And when that colleague of my father started giving me books, I was in heaven. I simply started reading what I could understand, and gradually, I could understand more and more. Age-appropriateness didn't matter. There were things I learned to understand as I went back and reread things months or years later. I remember reading the last pages of Doctor Faustus, where the Devil comes to claim his due, and being scared for days, just in case the Devil could actually appear in my house. I tried to read The Scarlet Letter when I was probably eleven and found it dry. Years later I finished reading it and loved it. I treated the textbooks as story books, especially the literature and history books. History became just another story, which was even more fascinating because it happened to be real. Those things actually did happen.
I remember making up day dreams. I was and was not present in class. I pretended I helped the future Charles II escape the Roundheads and reach France. I pretended I stormed the Winter Palace in the revolutionary Saint Petersburg of 1917. In my head I survived the Berlin of 1945. I also went on raids with El Cid against the Moors. I remember watching a miniseries about the American Revolution, and I had to read more about it. And then I had to discover more about the American South after having read Gone With the Wind. Movies and books would trigger history searches, trying to dig up more information. The old textbooks I had helped, and when I became a teenager I would go afield and search in the library. There was no internet then, so I would dig through the shelves in the history section. I discovered the true Vlad Tepes and his ruthless thinking after reading Dracula. History and its effects on language also fascinated me, and I would learn to trace the origin of a word back to the history that created it. To me history is a living thing, breathing through the words we use and in the places we live.
So, when a teenager now says history is boring and has nothing to do with living life now, I try to convince him just how mistaken he is. But it's difficult to fight video games, shiny new technology and soccer. And misconceptions that say humanistic knowledge can be separated from daily life.
I can't remember a time I didn't like history or know something about it. When we got our textbooks in September of fifth grade, there was a U.S. history book included. I remember looking it over and comparing it with a high school history book I already had, while the remains of Hurricane David doused us with rain and I occasionally looked out the kitchen window at the bowing trees. I had had old textbooks of different kinds for years. There were history books, literature books, religion, chemistry, algebra, Spanish, French, and physics. All of them were from the 1950's and 1960's. A couple were from primary, most were from high school, and a few from college. They were my treasure.
I was lucky that my father had an older colleague with grown children, who wanted to empty his attic. When this colleague heard that I liked to read, he gave me boxes and boxes of old books. There were children's books, young adult books, and textbooks. I was probably six years old when he gave me the first box. At that time I was petitioning my mother every few weeks to buy me a book through Scholastic School Services. I remember being given at school a small magazine with different books described and their prices. My mother would only let me buy one in each magazine, though I would have bought them all if I could. She had instilled in me the reading bug when she taught me the alphabet before even beginning kindergarten. I remember writing "words" on pieces of paper while I went with her on her rounds as a cleaner in the old rooming houses of Boston along with a couple of swanky apartments, including one with a piano I itched to touch. My mother kept me occupied with letters, paper and pen probably to curb my infantile curiosity that might have lost her her job if I were to execute it.
I think I first learned to read in kindergarten. I am not conscious of actually learning, simply of reading. When I learned how the letters went together, I couldn't stop reading. I loved discovering new worlds, especially since I was an only child and had no sibling to distract me. And when that colleague of my father started giving me books, I was in heaven. I simply started reading what I could understand, and gradually, I could understand more and more. Age-appropriateness didn't matter. There were things I learned to understand as I went back and reread things months or years later. I remember reading the last pages of Doctor Faustus, where the Devil comes to claim his due, and being scared for days, just in case the Devil could actually appear in my house. I tried to read The Scarlet Letter when I was probably eleven and found it dry. Years later I finished reading it and loved it. I treated the textbooks as story books, especially the literature and history books. History became just another story, which was even more fascinating because it happened to be real. Those things actually did happen.
I remember making up day dreams. I was and was not present in class. I pretended I helped the future Charles II escape the Roundheads and reach France. I pretended I stormed the Winter Palace in the revolutionary Saint Petersburg of 1917. In my head I survived the Berlin of 1945. I also went on raids with El Cid against the Moors. I remember watching a miniseries about the American Revolution, and I had to read more about it. And then I had to discover more about the American South after having read Gone With the Wind. Movies and books would trigger history searches, trying to dig up more information. The old textbooks I had helped, and when I became a teenager I would go afield and search in the library. There was no internet then, so I would dig through the shelves in the history section. I discovered the true Vlad Tepes and his ruthless thinking after reading Dracula. History and its effects on language also fascinated me, and I would learn to trace the origin of a word back to the history that created it. To me history is a living thing, breathing through the words we use and in the places we live.
So, when a teenager now says history is boring and has nothing to do with living life now, I try to convince him just how mistaken he is. But it's difficult to fight video games, shiny new technology and soccer. And misconceptions that say humanistic knowledge can be separated from daily life.
Comments
Post a Comment