When I was a sophomore in high school, I exchanged ideas with my history teacher about the ‘personal project,’ a year-long assignment every 10th-grader had to do. I wanted my project to be about some historical topic and hoped that my teacher would help guide me. In response to this premise, he asked me why history was so important to me. Expecting this question but unsure of what to say, I muttered some generalities about the importance of learning from the past. I think I also added something about how fantastic historical stories were; the knights and castles of old had all the allure of fable yet all the truth of fact. He eagerly agreed, and we continued along those lines for some time.
This conversation has stuck with me, particularly the feeling of dissatisfaction I felt with myself. Why did I love history? Back then, I knew it meant much to me. I was utterly convinced that everyone should see history as I did. But when the moment came to explain these views, my words fell flat.
In the nine years since, I have often reflected on that initial question. As I pursed a degree in history and continued to reflect, words emerged to match my feelings. Over time, it became clear that history was more than an idle passion or idiosyncratic hobby – it held an intrinsic virtue.
I sense the skeptical eyebrow raise. Indeed, to most, history is just another class, usually uniquely boring and poorly taught. What value is there is memorizing dates? What virtue can be found in a world so distant from our own that it defies relevance? Far better to embrace the present and plan for the future.
But try to look beyond the classroom. Try to think of history like society thinks of science. Sure, some devote their lives to scientific study. But most, long after they have finished high school biology, chemistry and physics, instinctively trust science. We accept that it is a useful way to understand and manipulate the physical world. Most of us embrace empiricism, subconsciously or not, because of our early exposure to science.
History, thought of in this way, is good for the soul. It does for the heart what science does for the mind; for four simple reasons.
One, history gives perspective. Through all the small tragedies of daily life, zooming out can help. A quest for a job, for a partner, for success or happiness, all of it can be seen against millions of similar interactions. Much has changed, but, with a little digging, it’s amazing to see how consistent human concerns are. We’ve almost always wanted the same things. Grappling with past centuries puts an individual life in perspective and helps us realize we were never alone. That’s why Lincoln spoke of “the mystic chords of memory” in his first inaugural. He knew the big picture. He knew where real strength of purpose came from. Our battles will only ever make sense in light of our past.
Precisely because it is easy to be lost in our own minds, it is important to embrace the lessons of lives not our own. Stepping outside of oneself can be a great calming thing, I’ve found.
Two, history shows us the long-term. All stories have a long term. Every headline and seemingly intransigent conflict has a backstory. Even if one doesn’t know the facts, to think historically is to understand that choices accumulate, and events can have a hidden forward momentum. Nothing ever happens as a true bolt-from-the-blue. Remembering this is useful because we live in a very present-oriented and spectacle-obsessed culture. What we hear week-to-week can often seem inexplicable, almost incomprehensible: a presidential election stuns the western world; a British referendum defies all reason; a pandemic exposes societal cracks we never knew were there. With a historical eye, these moments can still surprise and confuse, but they also betray an inner logic. If we accept things as the long-term projects they are then the chaotic swirl of news cycles somewhat stills.
Conspiracy and rumor have thrived of late because people crave answers and a sense of agency. History is a much healthier path to both. It is never a source of perfect knowledge, but it clarifies the method behind seeming madness.
Three, history teaches us about human cruelty and frailty. Homo lupus homini; it is important not to forget it. Pick up a book on the Haitian revolution or listen to a podcast about Medieval criminal justice – one will understand what humans are capable of. And how exactly is an appreciation of suffering good for the soul? Well, because it helps keep us level-headed whenever we encounter or hear about the awful side of human nature. If it is wicked, it has been done before.
Considering society with a healthy dose of suspicion and cynicism will always have one of two results. Either our beliefs are confirmed, or we are pleasantly surprised.
Four, finally and perhaps most importantly, history makes us optimists. In learning the human story I always become more hopeful. Humans can do terrible things it's true, but they can also create and learn and grow. History teaches that better than anything else. I know optimism is in short supply these days, and many view it with a sideways glance. Somehow, it has become neoliberal naivety to believe in progress. Some of this criticism is fair; progress is not linear, universal, or guaranteed. But the history of humankind proves that it exists. Knowing about the revolutionary struggles for the most basic democratic rights, knowing how many were committed to the fight against slavery, knowing the suffrage movement, knowing the triumphs against disease, hunger, and violence, I cannot feel any different.
Voltaire is said to have quipped: “I’ve decided to be happy because its good for my health.” And while real life is not exactly that simple, historical optimism is similarly important because it allows us all to pursue progress more earnestly. If we can accept that strides have been made, it makes sense to keep walking.
I am under no illusions. I do not expect everyone to switch their majors or suddenly get excited learning when the Estates General met – nor do I want these things. I also don’t see history suddenly gaining newfound prestige or appreciation in the coming years.
I do see, however, that society’s historical illiteracy is not an intellectual malaise, it’s a spiritual one. Without our memory we are adrift. That is how I would answer that nine-year old question today. That is why I choose to remember, every time I turn the page. And while I live a thousand lives and watch cities rise and fall like breaths, my soul hums in peace.
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