There is a trajectory to humanity’s relationship with death that runs in tandem with the rise and belief in science. When there was no knowledge of bacteria or viruses, and death could come from being cut by a rusty tool, death was an inevitability in a person’s life. Childbirth, measles, cancer, heart disease, could and did take our forebears with a regularity that made the invisible world of death a daily shroud. One worn as casually as you might wear a favorite shawl.
As science and medicine matured, and the invisible became visible in the form of microscopic enemies to be defeated, people became convinced in the possibility of outwitting death. Indeed, the discovery of hand-washing alone became a game-changer in the outcomes of many who would have otherwise succumbed to sepsis or infection from cross-contamination between patients.
As a historian who studies and teaches the Civil War, I have a fascination with my students’ general lack of appreciation for the way combat medicine advanced the field of medical knowledge in the mid-nineteenth century. Instead, students are appalled by what they deem egregious lack of sanitation knowledge in field hospitals and army camps alike. Students know only a world where a malady can be repaired, cured, erased, healed, with what they perceive as an almost willful disregard for death. Death, when it happens today in a hospital, under ideal sanitary conditions, is an anomaly. It is an inconceivable outcome in a world of science, order, and knowledge.
In a field course I’ve taught about cemeteries and the changing perceptions of death in America, one of my lessons is about this very topic. That our rational distance to death, the proximity of our mortal lives to death, are in exact proportion to the extent that we believe science and medicine can and will save us in the event we need it to. We witness mass refutation of the pandemic that rages around us. Individuals, cities, and entire states refuse to follow stay-at-home orders. This attitude persists in direct evidence of climbing death rates in places like New York City, Seattle, and New Orleans. Newsfeeds are overrun with personal stories of loss, of battling the virus, of being near death, and still the public goes to Home Depot to get mulch, or Walmart to pick up a bathing suit, in willful ignorance of the seriousness of the situation. Perhaps this disregard stems from an inherent belief that our modern existence is so infused with science we cannot be unsafe.
This blatant defiance of the stay-at-home order got me thinking about the underlying cause for such behavior. Yes, there is a backlash to the order by some who claim the orders violate their personal liberties, and I do anticipate that we’ll have to be particularly vigilant about requiring our local, state, and federal governments to reassert our freedoms and privacy when this emergency abates. But the behavior also reflects an imperviousness to infection, a cavalier attitude to COVID-19 that even if a person gets sick they’ll be fine. More concerning, are those who outright refuse to believe the pandemic is happening at all, that it’s a conspiracy of some sort. Stories about hospitals running out of sedation medication necessary for intubation, not having enough ventilators to treat the worst of the ill, doctors and nurses succumbing to COVID because they haven’t protective gear, mobile morgues. These are all scenarios out of science fiction. They don’t register as personal unless a loved one or an individual is faced with the reality.
We believe so fully in the ability of medicine and science to cure all that ails us that when faced with a pandemic to which we have no immunity, no cure, no way to miraculously heal the afflicted, we reject the severity of the illness. For so many years science and medicine acted like the miracles we needed them to be. We’ve been able to distance ourselves from the reality of death because, for some of us, a week’s worth of antibiotics have fixed us right up. The flu shot, though not perfect, gave us the armor necessary for facing the day.
This isn’t a perfect world. And many who need medical care never get it. The American healthcare system is broken and unfair to most. Insurance companies take decision-making out of the hands of caregivers. Those who can’t afford insurance, go without even basic care. Healthcare suffers from racism, ageism, ethnocentrism, gender disparity. For many of us in the US the healthcare system is complex, terrifying at times, frustrating, and heartbreaking. And yet, we still collectively believe in the science behind current medicine. We still unfairly imbue doctors and nurses with the ability to cure anything, and expect this outcome, and reject failure when it comes.
Healthcare providers and scientists work with the tools, knowledge, and skills they have available, and that is a considerable wheelhouse from which to draw. But the truth is, that even with top scientists researching new medications, dedicated doctors and nurses tirelessly working the front lines, diseases exist that will come along and devastate us like this current novel Coronavirus. It will rock the scientific community to its core. It will decimate a generation of caregivers. And yet people will still believe they are somehow impervious, because we’ve lived in a world dominated by medical miracles. Older generations remember grievous illnesses like polio, and the way medicine and science saved lives, making them particularly susceptible to believing this current virus is not as threatening as it is. But we also have younger generations who have never lived in a world where disease seemed threatening, making them vulnerable as well. The reliance on medicine to provide an invisible shield between us and death has been growing with each new advancement. Historically, as we gained the upper hand over seemingly incurable diseases, we became less comfortable with death and dying, distanced from the event. Death didn’t live with us daily and so we could ignore it. For the most part this ignorance came with little consequence.
Today, death could be on our Amazon package, could be lurking on our doorknobs, could be on our hands, literally. Death is a droplet expelled from one’s lips. Death is one kiss, one sneeze away. We can’t process this. Recommendations to wash hands for twenty seconds as one of the top ways to prevent illness should be a laughable order, but we’ve become so inured to death and disease, we don’t even do that regularly. The breakthrough discovered over one-hundred and thirty years ago that my students always seem to be most shocked by—washing hands as the prevention of infection—has become a novel way to battle this new virus. That should tell you something about the current complacency of people’s fear over infection. We’ve forgotten that the simple act of hand washing was the medical breakthrough for a generation of medical providers. Our brains can’t process that science may not happen quickly enough to save all of us this time, and so people go about in reckless defiance of the specter that may inevitably visit.
I have loved dogs my entire life. There was Quinnie, and Bones, Whiskey, Wendy, and Katie. I grew up with them, always aware of how having them in my life made me somehow one of the lucky ones, missing their presence once it was gone.
But Alice is another story altogether. My shaggy Scottie. My stubborn Scottie. My Scottish Terrier Warrior Princess. She is the first dog to whom I felt an incredible attachment, a connection of souls. We invited her home in 2010. A 12-week-old, gangly puppy whose head was the same size as her body, whose tongue would drag on the sidewalk because she hadn’t grown into it yet. Stubborn and funny and smart. I loved her quirky personality, her fierce independence. I was smitten.
There’s no real way to explain the way I feel about her. Just like there is no real way to explain how deeply I feel about my children, or my parents, or my husband. Love just is, sometimes, and when you feel it that’s all that really matters.
My girl has had a hell of a year. Starting somewhere around end of August 2018 she started limping, acting like her rear leg was painful. We took her to her doc and he diagnosed a CCL injury (just like an ACL tear in a human’s knee). We consulted with amazing specialists and opted for a surgical repair. She came through surgery like a boss. We got her a playpen to sleep in, and for confining her when we worked. She wore her cone, and took her meds, and handled physical therapy, and allowed us to carry her everywhere for 12 weeks. She was the perfect patient. She healed, and her spirit was fierce as always.
I was leaving on a research trip May 21st and would be gone a week. The night before I left, a freak storm rolled in that dumped 8 inches of heavy, wet snow. I was running errands with my husband until 6 or 7 that evening, and I was pissed that the storm had to hit then. I worried about driving the hour north to the airport in the morning. We got home and the dogs (Alice has a brother: Buck) went out as usual. My son noticed something odd about Alice’s urine: it looked bloody. I thought it might be a shadow on the snow, but went out with a flashlight. Sure enough it was pure blood.
I asked my husband to please take her in to the vet the next day. I was worried she had a UTI and wanted her to get looked at immediately. He called his work and arranged to make it happen and updated me by text as I sat in the airport waiting to board my flight. She got antibiotics, and a recheck appointment for when I got home if she didn’t improve.
She didn’t improve. The day after I got back my husband and I sat watching Alice’s amazing doc as he showed us on ultrasound a mass in her bladder. Without any preamble he scheduled her for surgery the next morning. I thanked god for that snowstorm.
My sweet girl had surgery. Her doc is incredible. A truly skilled surgeon, and a compassionate doctor, who did an amazing job removing her tumor. We sent it off. Then we waited. Alice again slept in her playpen at night, did not have to have the cone as she couldn’t reach her surgery site to lick, allowed us to carry her to go outside. She is a super patient, with super patience.
A week into her healing, doc called with the results of the histopathology. My sweet girl’s mass was cancer.
I was gut punched. I went into clinical mode (I was an emergency veterinary technician in the past) asking questions, making notes, but all the while I was numb.
I had the doc on speakerphone so my husband could hear. He was pale.
Today my girl had her sutures out. We have a script for a drug that can help with tumor suppression, and cancer management. We are still considering all our options of treatment. I’m still gut punched, I’m still numb, and at times I find myself overwhelmed with grief. Then I look at her beautiful, graying face, with her bright and shining eyes and my heart leaps at the time we’ve had and the time we’ll have.
One thing is for certain: Alice will live her best life for the rest of whatever time she has left.
I can’t think of the future yet. I can only think of today. Tomorrow I will think of today.
If you see more pictures of Alice, or more stories of Alice coming from me, this is why. I’ve taken pictures of her and written funny things about her antics her entire life. But now, I am marking that existence, her mark on me to celebrate our days together.
This is my love letter to Alice.
I can’t really pin down a single memory that is a favorite from my lifetime shared with my Uncle Johnny because they’re all my favorite. UJ had a way of making the mundane fun, of creating play from chore, and laughing all the while. Sweeping his shop, or getting water from the well at the cabin, or doing dishes, these were never boring when doing them for him. He teased us lovingly. He gave advice unflinchingly. He loved us unconditionally. UJ was beloved, not because he was a saintly person, but because he was intensely human. UJ lived every day fully. He died yesterday just nineteen days shy of his 91st birthday.
He was many things to many people. To me he was always my cheerleader. He was proud of me, and I know that because he told me it was so. UJ loved so many. And so many loved him back. I’m a better person for his love, and I will miss him.
God speed UJ.
The text conversation ended quickly. With the final bubble resting on my screen, taunting and ominous, I felt more of my hopes and security dripping away.
“Three classes maybe, but never four. Probably not three either. I’m not optimistic.”
It seems ridiculous that such small sentences could reduce me to a condition of self-reflection (nay self-doubt) about my value, but it happened. I felt commodified. De-coupled from the world that brings me such professional satisfaction. Reduced to a set of bubbles on a screen.
I am positive that the colleague and friend on the other side of that conversation had no intention of hurting me. In truth, I trust this person implicitly to be kind and generous. Yet, the life of contingent faculty is filled with such moments: pride one minute in one’s good fortune to be teaching in their field; despair the next upon realizing an administration can decide the limits of that joy. I am contingent faculty for a university I love. I love the departments I teach in. I love the students that honor me with their presence in my classroom. I even love the stressors of finals weeks. What I don’t love is the scrabbling I must engage in to have gainful employment each and every semester. The pin-pricks that turn into slashes; great sanguinous wounds only staunched by my stubborn refusal to leave behind the discipline that defines me.
I choose to live in this world of mist and hope. I could easily find another job to fill my existence with satisfactions. And this is where the tug-of-war plays out in my heart. I could leave behind the constant nagging fear of contingency and have stability. But what would I lose? I can answer that question easily enough. I would lose the parts of me that I won for myself.
The path to my Master’s degree wasn’t just bumpy, it was downright boulder-strewn. I almost finished my undergraduate degree when I had my first child. I took time off from school to raise him and the younger brother that came into our lives three years later. I was married at that time to a man who graciously allowed me to stay home, but then became attached to my entrenched position. I went back to school a class here, another there. But it would take a divorce, getting a full-time job, and a second marriage before I would be encouraged to finish what I started. My new husband clearly understood the driving need I had to complete my degree. With his encouragement, and two wonderful young sons cheering me on, I went back to school.
I finished by bachelor’s degree, and my master’s. I fulfilled a promise to myself, I never thought I could. My degrees stand for so much more than just the ability to get a job. They define my deep-seated goals, held since childhood, to contribute to the larger conversation of what it means, and has meant, to be human. Ten-year-old me fantasized about being a professor, and teaching a roomful of eager students in the hallowed halls of a university. When I got that chance, my head nearly imploded. I understood the tenuous position being offered: contract only, no benefits, this semester only. But I was going to teach in a university.
Each semester I know my position is not guaranteed. I hold no one responsible for this, and constantly use my time to refine my research, gain pedagogical knowledge, I write, and find uses for my skills. My husband’s full-time job affords me the small flexibility to sustain this lifestyle. We are hanging on, our needs are met, but we live modestly as a result. These are the choices we make. But…moments like the conversation above that started all this, make me catch my breath. I have to redefine myself after such exchanges. Remember I am still valuable. Disconnect myself from the bureaucracy of the academic world and reconnect to the reasons I chose to be an independent scholar. Remind myself of the folly of pursuing a Ph.D when there are no guarantees that such a path will provide anything different for me.
My post today is cathartic. Writing the demons away in a very public setting seemed the right choice, if only to feel as if I am not langouring in my despairing mood solo.
Contingency plans are always present for me. Writing this statement makes me laugh even when I’m feeling low: the unexpected perfection of phraseology inherent in it. I chooose this life, and for someone who is a planner by nature, I shake my head at this choice all the time.
Today words are ugly
and poems that use
Trying for some transcendent
place by being
and spewing the “ripples on the pond”
Why not a poem filled
with ugly words?
dust or cancer or
Even these are too
and it’s not enough
to just be angry
or hurt or
Words don’t always
have to inspire
or lift up
Poems don’t always
have to lilt
I want this one
and get hurt
I’m still writing about historical subjects, but blogging about them has taken a back seat to…life.
This isn’t an excuse, just a fact that is inescapable.
I made a self-promise that I would be more disciplined, and write monthly to get back in the game.
Yet I’m not ready to put history to paper today. Instead, I wrote a non-history something. And rather than put it somewhere else (like the depths of my recycle bin) I’m publishing it on my blog.
A poem if you will (or won’t). A loose consciousness of the will to write.
On writing after the absence of one year:
Being in a delusional amount of pain
The distance of thought and the wanting it to be so good
Streams of tension in my neck cry out for relief
The bang of the shutter so infrequent that I forget it will bang
It is quiet but there are sounds all around me
I am alone but not lonely
The ball of fuzz in the back of my mind
The weight of the task on each eyelid
Indecision numbs my legs
Constrictions in my chest are more the bra than fear
But the fear is there
Conscious of my task now I’m pushing it to be good
Trying to be witty
Wanting it to be good
This is what I hate
And what I love about writing
Love it or don’t. I wrote.
February 1866 saw the Northern states, and the Republican-led Union government, deep in the trenches of Presidential Reconstruction. Andrew Johnson’s leniency toward the former Confederate states precipitated the enactment of Black Codes that tightly proscribed the lives of former slaves; the election of former Confederates to local, regional, and national offices; and widespread maltreatment of Freedmen, Unionists, and Union officials living and working in the south.
Reconstruction was never billed in any way to be an easy process. Lincoln had not settled on a particular course of action, nor had his cabinet any miraculous insights into a resolution of the problem of rejoining the southern states to the Union. The difficulties were immense. The challenges nearly overwhelming. The dangers of Reconstruction going badly would have rippling consequences.
Arguments in the Union Congress toward the end of the war varied greatly on how best to accomplish the task of Reconstruction. There were moderate views, hard-line views, though no consensus came. Northern legislators feared the defeated South would be unrepentant toward their victors, and like a snake in the grass, strike at those that threatened them. This fear was not unfounded as the initial year post-war came to reveal. No one in the North believed that the South would simply acquiesce to terms, nor were Northern legislators so naive to think there would be no backlash to Northern occupation of the South after the war. But, the extent of the backlash and the utter vengeful quality of the Southern response shocked and angered the North. To better understand Southern rejection of Reconstruction, it helps to revisit the rhetoric of the Secession Crisis.
Lincoln’s election in 1860 sent shock-waves through the South. In response, Secession Commissioners were sent out from several of the slave states to drum up support for the creation of a Southern Confederacy. These commissioners, as Charles B. Dew describes in his book Apostles of Disunion: Southern Secession Commissioners and the Causes of the Civil War, were a mix of radical and moderate pro-slavery voices. The commissioners identified as both Democrats and Whigs, but they had in common a consistent Southern message based on white supremacy, and the rejection of the “Black Republican” government of Lincoln based on threat of annihilation of the Southern way of life.
Stephen Hale was a Secession Commissioner from Alabama tasked with bringing Kentucky into the secession fold. Unable to meet with the Kentucky legislature, Hale drafted a letter to Kentucky’s governor Beriah Magoffin, in which he outlined the argument supporting secession. A passionate Southern-rights Whig, Hale’s letter encapsulated the Southern argument, and serves as a perfect example of why Reconstruction would have such difficulties.
…the election of Mr. Lincoln is hailed not simply as a change of administration, but as the inauguration of new principles and a new theory of government, and even as the downfall of slavery. Therefore it is that the election of Mr. Lincoln cannot be regarded otherwise than a solemn declaration, on the part of a great majority of the Northern people, of hostility to the South, her property, and her institutions; nothing less than an open declaration of war, for the triumph of this new theory of government destroys the property of the South, lays waste her fields, and inaugurates all the horrors of a San Domingo servile insurrection, consigning her citizens to assassinations and her wives and daughters to pollution and violation to gratify the lust of half-civilized Africans….The slave-holder and non-slave-holder must ultimately share the same fate; all be degraded to a position of equality with free negroes, stand side by side with them at the polls, and fraternize in all the social relations of life, or else there will be an eternal war of races, desolating the land with blood, and utterly wasting and destroying all the resources of the country.¹
Hale’s rhetoric was the heart of the Confederate will, and no amount of Reconstruction would erase the entrenched social and cultural views on race held by Southerners, nor would it erase the antagonism toward the “Black Republicans” who forced them into a new political, economic, and social order. Political reconstruction could be possible, but social reconstruction would never be possible when the Southern heart took Hale’s words as sacrosanct.
The views that Hale proffered were generations old, and as the South contemplated its collective losses precipitated by the war, resentment and revenge smoldered in the crucible of the day. Reconstruction would not change the minds of the former slave South on questions of racial equality. Reconstruction would require those members of the Old South who wished to move beyond the war, to proclaim oaths of loyalty to the Union. But these oaths, honestly or fervently given, could not erase the deep seated animosity toward a forced acceptance of a new world order.
It isn’t that Reconstruction failed, or was doomed to fail, but instead that Reconstruction was a necessary process to restore former Confederate states to a functional status in a re-formed Union. The necessity of this restoration or reunification meant only that Southerners had to reject former political organization to an extent believable by the North. Southern acceptance of the new political environment would only go as far as necessary in order to provide political power, with which the South would be positioned to refuse the new economic and social organizations imposed by a Republican government it only grudgingly recognized as legitimate.
Hale’s letter is an excellent example of why Reconstruction was fraught with insubordination to Northern victory. The Southern heart would never be swayed by political processes that destroyed the social and economic order of the Old South.
Dew argues that slavery was always at the heart of the secession crisis, and the ultimate cause of the Civil War, and further was precipitated not solely from Northern abolitionist cells, but directly as a result of Southern protectionism of the institution of slavery. Revisiting the writings and speeches of the Secession Commissioners also gives insight into the response of the South to Reconstruction, and further into the rise of Jim Crow in the post-Reconstruction years.
¹ S.F. Hale to Governor Beriah Magoffin of Kentucky, Frankfort, KY, 27 December 1860, in Apostles of Disunion: Southern Secession Commissioners and the Causes of the Civil War, Charles B. Dew (Charlottesville and London: University of Virginia Press, 2001), 90-103.
I recently had the privilege of participating in a fundraiser for the City of Fountain’s Fairview Cemetery as a living history interpreter. My background both as an historian, and as a formally trained actress, allowed me to delve into this project, and I’ve come away from it with a distinctly profound feeling of reverence for the woman I portrayed, and in particular for her sons. The deep, meaningful connection I continue to experience toward this family I’ve never met, has made me pause in reflection, to contemplate the significance of how public history affects those who view it, and those who portray it.
I am grateful when two aspects of my life can combine so seamlessly. I have always used my historian’s mind and skills to research characters, plays, and the specifics of a theatrical production, but the ability to bring my stage skills back to my academic world is a rare and cherished event. When I was asked to portray Emma Maria McCarty Eubank for The Friends of the Fountain Fairview Cemetery’s (FFFC) annual Cemetery Crawl fundraiser I jumped at it.
The fundraiser is an event that I strongly believe in. Begun by Barbara Headle, a senior history instructor and her students four years ago after the cemetery had been vandalized, it exists to help fund conservation efforts, site improvements, and purchase equipment like surveillance cameras. The cemetery holds descendants of the first settler families in the region, some of whom still have family in the area, and is both an historical treasure and spiritual repository for the community.
The theme of this year’s fundraiser, in commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the end of the Civil War, centered on veterans. There are approximately 175 veterans interred at Fairview, with their service spanning the Civil War to Vietnam. Six interpreters were chosen to portray veterans, or family members of veterans, whose task it was to then convey the life story of the man or woman they represented.
The day of the fundraiser was spectacular. The sunlight filtering through the trees was buttery, and the breeze barely touched the leaves. Occasionally, a dried leaf, tanned from the summer heat and curled, would fall from above, kissing the ground with a small scratch of sound. Crows spoke to each other from the tree-heights, and though traffic was near, it faded as the Veterans of Foreign War’s Color Guard began the presentation of colors. Taps rang out in the still morning air, the notes silvery and beautiful and haunting.
Each interpreter was stationed at the gravesite of the person they portrayed. I made my way to the Eubank family plot, the sixth, and last station on the tour. The still morning was peaceful as I waited for visitors. I reviewed my presentation several times in my head, going over my lines, checking dates, listing off the names of my character’s six children. I sat. And then the enormity of what I was about to do hit me. Emma Eubank was not a character. She had been a wife, a mother. I was sitting at the foot of her grave, asked to speak in her voice about her family, about two of her sons who fought in World War I. What I knew about her and her family had been gleaned from newspaper articles, census reports, draft registration cards, birth and death certificates, meticulously researched by the FFFC. I had pieced together the various bits of information into a monologue, a narrative about Emma and her family, yet in my heart the Eubanks deserved to be more than bullet points of research.
The visitors sometimes came to my station in groups, some singly. I told them Emma’s story. With each telling I felt more, and more protective of the family. Between visitors I read the grave markers in the family plot: Robert, William, Jane, Florence (four of Emma’s six children); WT McCarty (her brother); Fred (her husband) and Emma who shared a marker together. All six markers, nine members of the family (including the girls’ husbands) together in that beautiful, shaded, peaceful ground. It was profoundly moving.
I told Emma’s tale to many visitors that day, as honestly as I could. I came to realize that public history, living history, done in the right way, can connect both historians and the general public to a deeper understanding of our past. I’ve always had great respect and appreciation for the ordinary people who don’t often make it into history books, searching for the voices who traditionally are silent in the larger narratives we tell. But the act of translating facts, data, into a voice, has reminded me how much I love being an historian, and the enormous responsibility I have to properly, ethically, and diligently, pursue the discipline.
Public history provides an open doorway that many will comfortably step through. It is a more accessible, and less intimidating medium for many who would never wish to pick up a history book, to engage with the past. My first experience with living history has inspired and humbled me, and has given me a deeper connection to the people I represent as an historian, and those who come to view the history.
Thank you Emma.
It is easy to forget that historians divide the past into arbitrary packets, either by time or event (or both), in order to make our work more manageable. These packets have become so entrenched in the way history is taught and learned that we never question the nature of these temporal constructs. Such is the case with the study of Reconstruction. Though many textbooks begin the discussion of Reconstruction after the surrender at Appomattox, Reconstruction and the restoration of the Union was of uppermost concern from the first day of secession for Lincoln and the federal government.
Lincoln’s vow to preserve the Union (from the day he was elected) indicated his firm commitment to policies geared toward the reconstruction of the United States. Though Lincoln (to our knowledge) never outlined a specific postbellum plan for the political restoration of the former Confederate states, he did trial runs in states like Louisiana where Reconstruction-like practices were implemented, in order to assess potential solutions to the most vexing problem of the American crisis.
As our discussion of Reconstruction ramps up, it is important to remember that Reconstruction was a process not an event. The day South Carolina seceded the process began. As Union forces moved south, and began to occupy rebel states, the process of reconstruction continued. When the first slave escaped to Union lines the process of reconstruction was occurring. The more formalized transition of the south from a slave society to a free labor society, and the inherent incorporation of freed blacks into the political landscape of this society was a process of reconstruction.
Temporal constructs aside, the monumental task of bringing former rebel states back into the Union as functioning entities, whose constitutions and citizens upheld the civil rights of all Americans within their borders, was not a decade-long process but one which encompassed the years from 1860 through the 1960s.