To The Graduates…

Yesterday, I addressed this year’s graduates from the American Culture program (where I did my undergraduate work) at the University of Michigan and their families. My remarks are below.


University of Michigan
American Culture Graduation Luncheon
April 27, 2018

It’s my honor and pleasure to join you today to celebrate this year’s graduates from the American Culture program. I’d like to thank the program for giving me this opportunity to reflect upon my time here and how it has influenced the path I’ve traveled over the past twenty years. This has been a welcome experience, though it has also made me feel decidedly middle-aged.

To the graduates: congratulations on your accomplishments, and welcome to the next phase of your journey! An exhilarating future awaits each of you. I want to acknowledge and celebrate your friends and families for the love and support they’ve provided you during your time in Ann Arbor. The networks of support that have helped you get to this moment will continue to be crucial and sustaining as you move forward in your lives.

Ultimately, though, it’s your own internal momentum, values, and curiosity that will be most responsible for propelling you forward.

I remember getting the question that many of you have probably been fielding for at least a couple of months now:

What can you do with a degree in American Culture?

There’s no single answer to that question. There’s no wrong answer to that question. There’s no easy answer to that question.

Perhaps as much if not more than any other course of study that you may have chosen to pursue here, a degree in American Culture is a reflection of your distinct qualities. It’s a sign that you’re curious. It’s a sign that you seek to engage with rather than shirk from complexity. It’s a sign that you’re attuned to questions of power, and of representation. It’s a sign that you have a politics. And it’s proof that that you are deeply committed to understanding how community and society function in this deeply flawed country.

These qualities — the qualities that drove you to select this major, which is at its core an interdisciplinary one — are the qualities that will carry you forward in your lives and in your careers. This is not a utilitarian major, designed to prepare you for a specific outcome or path. Rather, this major has been designed to ground you in a set of questions and methodologies that can shape how you understand and engage with the world around you.

So, my answer to that question, which is often presented with no small amount of skepticism, is: what can’t you do with an American Culture major?

Of course I didn’t know any of this when I chose to study American Culture, or when I sat in your chairs as a graduate twenty years ago. I landed in the major after wandering intellectually and socially for my first couple of years in Ann Arbor. My freshman year I had attended the Residential College, which I had selected for the sense of community it fostered and its small class sizes. I didn’t connect, however, either with the curriculum — which was built entirely around foreign language study — or with my classmates, and drifted out of the RC.

Over the next two semesters I explored several disciplines. Anthropology. Linguistics. Sociology. Literature. I took introductory courses in each of these fields, but nothing sustained my interest or tapped into my passions. My sophomore year I felt somewhat alienated by the culture on campus. I was bored with frat parties, and not interested in attending football games. I didn’t really have the sense of belonging that I had expected to develop in college.

I spent that time reading and listening to music and watching movies and arguing with friends about ideas. And playing basketball. My sophomore year I joined an intramural basketball team of guys who shared my interests. We called ourselves “Bad Street.” We were more than the sum of our scruffy parts, and were doing well in our lower-tier division in the Intramural Rec League until… until… by a glitch in the scheduling, we somehow got matched up with the football team’s intramural basketball team. It did not go well. I think one of our players is still in the hospital. While we had been spending our time reading and arguing and partying, these guys had been running wind sprints and lifting.

We took our lumps and got through it, and were proud that we had a story. Personally, that team was the most connected to a community I had felt since I had arrived on campus, and I wondered if I might also be able to find that kind of connection intellectually and academically.

I started taking courses in American Culture my sophomore year. I was interested in history, but my experience with history to that point had been through courses that explored the past almost entirely for its own sake, focusing on political history and elites. This history lacked the vibrancy and connectedness to the world that I wanted to better understand and engage with.

I then took Kristen Hass’s American Values course at the same time as a modern US History Survey taught by Andy Achenbaum, and began to see in new ways how history was constructed and contested, the ways in which it was both accessible and unknowable. I wanted to spend more time thinking about these questions, about social and cultural history, about history from the bottom up.

I became an American Culture major though because I had support from two American Culture graduate students, who were program advisors in the program at that time — Ariella Zeller and Chris Bass. They helped me envision what the next two years would look like if I selected the major, how I might synthesize my various interests into a coherent course of study. Most importantly, they made me feel comfortable and supported in ways that I hadn’t felt up until that point.

In my junior year I took June Howard’s methods course, the first time I experienced what a graduate seminar looked like. There were ten of us — including a woman named Paula, who refused to date me, but who later became my beautiful and amazing wife (and who edited these remarks) — and we read and developed research papers together, with June guiding and pushing us with supportive skepticism. I took film and immigration and literature and ethnic studies courses, and found work as a researcher outside of school that made visible to me a potential future exploring creative approaches to the past.

In the winter of my junior year I met Matthew Countryman in a course he taught on the 1960s, and he became a mentor. Under his supervision, I wrote a senior honors thesis on the role of sportswriters in the integration of baseball, and won a research grant to spend a week digging through the archives at the Baseball Hall of Fame. For two years I had been engaging with scholarly ideas through my reading and classes, but not until I was sitting surrounded by boxes in Cooperstown did it dawn upon me just exactly what scholars could get away with, if they played their cards right.

That experience encouraged me to think about a career inside the university, which I’ve made, though I’ve traveled a nontraditional route— we call it “alt-ac,” or an “alternative academic career.” My experience in the American Culture program helped me do this, not by giving me a specific set of skills that I’ve applied, but rather by offering the opportunity to synthesize the things I was deeply interested in with the things I was deeply committed to. This program exposed me to interdisciplinarity. American culture heightened my skepticism of power, and introduced me to the tools necessary to understand and unmask it.

After graduating from Michigan and moving to New York, I worked as a consultant on digital history projects for textbook publishers and documentary film makers. After a couple of years, I entered graduate school at The Graduate Center at the City University of New York— CUNY — pursuing a Ph.D. in History, studying post-World War II American youth culture and policy. I was also drawn to opportunities to think about the ways that new digital tools were changing how we researched, taught, and communicated in the academy.

These opportunities were becoming more plentiful 10-15 years ago, and the digital work supported me as I taught history and wrote a dissertation. I completed my degree in 2008, just as the economy tanked. Faculty positions in history were even harder to find than usual— there were 4 jobs in 20th Century US History the year I graduated.

I had realized in graduate school that, though I loved history, I wasn’t willing or capable of moving my family anywhere for the opportunity to do it. It had become much more important for me to find meaningful work where I could act with a community of educators who shared my values, and where I could help an institution ethically and responsibly engage with the communities that it served.

At CUNY, this work is done in conversations about teaching and learning; about curriculum; about how we teach writing. And it’s also central to how we develop, deploy, and support the technology that we and our students use.

Work I had begun as a graduate student led to a position at Baruch College, also within the CUNY system, first as an educational technologist and then as an administrator. There, I directed two open source software development projects. One was a publishing platform built on WordPress where faculty and students could easily build course and other project sites on the open web. That platform is still going strong, a decade after we launched it, and has served approximately 30,000 students. The other project is media evaluation and assessment platform that allows faculty members to give students detailed feedback on presentation and other media content. Both these tools appealed to faculty who wanted to do their work on the open web, who wanted to control their data and for their students to be able to do the same, and who were skeptical of tools being pushed on universities by large software companies.

Eventually, I helped the college establish the infrastructure and policies to increase the amount of online and blended instruction it offered. Our strategy was built around making sure that faculty and students had the support they needed to pursue their teaching and learning goals as purposefully as they possibly could.

In 2015 I returned to the Graduate Center to found its Teaching and Learning Center, and where I am also on the faculty of the Interactive Technology and Pedagogy and Digital Humanities programs. My Center supports more than 3500 graduate students from more than 30 disciplines who teach 180,000 undergraduate students throughout the CUNY system each year. We think about how our programs can best prepare students for the world that awaits them. We think about how the teaching that our students do as they pursue their degrees prepares them — as it did me — for flexible work opportunities in their careers. We think about how to use digital tools to connect a university that spreads across five boroughs and 25 colleges. And we think about how we, as an institution central to the social, economic, and intellectual life of New York, can best serve the New Yorkers who look to our university as an engine of opportunity.

When looking back upon this path it’s clear to me that the same set of values, concerns, desires, and politics that drew me to major in American Culture at Michigan informed my choices. I continue to explore how power works in institutions, and wonder how that power might be redistributed to those whose lives are most impacted by the way the institutions function. I continue to revel in exploring ideas from multiple disciplinary perspectives, and seeking to integrate what’s most useful for my work about those methodologies. And I continue to think that playing basketball is a terrific conduit to community.

And so, to the class of 2018, I again say: what can’t you do with an American Culture degree? You’ve spent the past few years working with the faculty in this program and other students exploring questions that are fundamental for understanding how our nation works, and where and how it is does not. At this stage in your life you should have a billion questions that you want to answer, and untapped reserves of energy to start doing so. Some of you may have a clear sense of where you’re going, and some of you may need time to figure it out. Two decades from now, though, when you look upon that path you’ve traveled, I’m quite certain that you’ll see that the seeds of who you’ve become did indeed sprout during your time in Ann Arbor, and that this program helped to cultivate them.

Congratulations to you all. Enjoy this weekend, and enjoy your journey.

Reflections on Ken’s Big Bash

This weekend James Madison College at Michigan State sponsored a celebration of my father’s retirement after 43 years of teaching, research, and service at the university. It was a remarkable event, evidence of a special community and a transcendent academic career. Students who Ken taught in his first few years at Madison in the early 1970, and who had been back to East Lansing no more than a couple of times since, came to thank him for his influence. Wallace Jefferson, the former Chief Justice of the Texas Supreme Court, spoke of how my father’s course on public affairs and social policy challenged and refined his understanding of compassion, righteous and actionable anger, and truth, and how he’s carried that understanding forward in a stellar legal career. Adam Wright, a federal prosecutor in the Northern District of California, spoke of how my father influenced his historical imagination and drew him into a community that demanded much of him and propelled him to Harvard Law School and into practice. Dick Zinman, Ron Dorr, and Katie See spoke of building (and saving) a college with my father, of how they synthesized their disciplinary differences into a curriculum that structured student’s engagement with the world in a way that offered them a variety of paths to purposeful work. Sherman Garnett, the current dean of Madison and a former student, spoke of the enormous impact this generation of teacher-scholars had on the life of the college, and with admiration for the research on the Holocaust my father’s done over the past decade. Connie Hunt organized and presided over the weekend with great cheer and a steady watch; our family is deeply appreciative. Former student after student shared stories of Ken Waltzer’s classes, his feedback, his counseling and mentoring, and his impact.

Saturday was structured around three panels featuring former students discussing topics drawn from different areas of my father’s focus during his career at MSU. The first was on “Urban America Today,” and was convened by Dayne Walling, a Madison graduate, currently the mayor of Flint. The panel was first-rate. We heard about gentrification in Detroit, the evolving role of the Catholic church in Michigan’s cities, strategies for urban renewal around education, and the challenges of education reform in the current political and economic climate in the state. The third panel, convened by the political scientist Carrie Booth Walling, explored “History, Memoir, Testimonies, and Human Rights,” and we heard eloquent presentations of the research four students of my father’s have done on the Holocaust. We heard how he cultivated their work, and how he’s inspired a new generation of students to continue to look for and struggle with meaning in the Holocaust.

The presentations across each session were exactly what you hope for when you attend an academic conference: thoughtful, probing, contextualized, mixing reflections on process and product, generous, open to dialogue. There was pontification, but it was purposeful. Questions were answered and raised, and you got the sense of a community around Madison College, Jewish Studies at MSU (now in the able hands of Yael Aronoff), and my father’s work in the university as profoundly serious, committed, and engaged. This is something I always knew to be true, and yet seeing and participating in it congealed that knowledge in ways I’ll be chewing on for some time.

I was lucky to join three former Madison students on the second panel, which offered reflections on teaching and learning in a changing university. Deb Meizlish, the associate director of the Center for Research on Teaching and Learning at Michigan, presided over presentations from Cheryl Maranto of Marquette University, Randy Magen of the University of Alaska-Anchorage, and myself, and we shared concerns about declining rhetorical and material support for higher education, technology, strategies to invigorate classroom instruction, and how being in the orbit of Madison College has shaped our particular approaches to these questions. Below are my remarks.

What a great weekend, what a great career, and what a tremendous way for Michigan State and James Madison College to celebrate it.


Remarks on Teaching and Learning in the University

My father’s career at Michigan State and James Madison College in particular have had a significant impact on my sense of the university, its purposes, and the role that an engaged academic can play in shaping how an institution functions.

My work at CUNY involves fostering conversations and experimentation about teaching, learning, and using technology within the university. I think with faculty on my campus at the level of the individual assignment, and I think with administrators about policy, resources, best practices, and emerging trends in higher education at the level of a 26 campus, 500,000 student university. I also spend much time in the spaces in-between, working with faculty and students on conceptualizing and implementing projects, courses, curricula, and strategies that create new opportunities for students to explore ideas or express themselves, and chances for faculty to experiment and evolve their pedagogical practices with and without technology.

One of the most exciting aspects of this work is that I get to do it in dialogue and concert with a cohort of folks who all consider themselves part of a broad “open education” movement, and who are deeply aware and protective of the historic role of CUNY in the life of the city and in the imagination of New York City’s working class. There’s a direct parallel between those folks and the interdisciplinary cohort of scholar teachers who formed the core of Madison, who we’ve been hearing about all weekend.

Open education, for those who aren’t familiar with the term, holds at its core the idea that access to education and educational resources should constantly be broadened, opened up. Among other things, that means pushing back against notions of artificial scarcity in certain realms of academic publishing. It means embracing open source technologies because of the freedoms they allow their users. It means embracing pedagogical practices that open curricula to interdisciplinary and experiential practices. And it means seeking and seizing moments of connection between what students are learning and the worlds around them.

Our work at CUNY and my place within that work is resonant with many of the ideas, values, and goals that have been at the heart of my father’s career at Michigan State. James Madison College in particular has played an outsized and perhaps a bit distorting role in my perception of what university life should be.

  • I grew up thinking faculty members everywhere had deep, sustained ties with their undergraduates, so it’s still a bit jarring to me to encounter faculty members who know little about their students and students who at the end of a semester don’t know the name of the person teaching their class.
  • I grew up taking for granted that everyone wrote a lot in college and took writing seriously, so when I work with faculty members who refuse to assign writing because of fear that they can’t possible read it all, or that students will simply plagiarize, or that “it’s the English department’s job to teach writing, not mine,” I cringe.
  • I grew up thinking that teaching and learning, that a liberal education, happened outside of and around the classroom as much as it did inside the classroom.
  • I grew up thinking faculty offices everywhere were converted dorm rooms.

Growing up in the orbit of James Madison College also gave me a strong sense of how community and a sense of belonging can intensify and contextualize the teaching and learning that happens in a large, public university. Building community at CUNY, where the vast majority of students commute to campus, is something that we constantly struggle with, and which requires ongoing care and attention, and technology is regularly implicated in that work.

  • Blogs@Baruch is an open source publishing platform I launched at Baruch in 2009. Based in WordPress, it’s a flexible space that has been integrated into a range of courses and co-curricular activities and provided a structure for a culture of writing, and dozens of communities of writers, to emerge on our campus.
  • Our largest community on Blogs@Baruch is around Freshman Seminar, where 1200 incoming students are blogging in a networked space in response to three prompts which ask them to reflect critically and creatively on their transitions to college.
  • Learning communities are connected to the Freshman Seminar experience, creating clusters of students who move together through several courses in their first year. Though they are not a replacement for the residential experience, learning communities address some of the disconnection that happens on a commuter campus. They can give student cohorts from which to explore course material, and they foster collaboration between faculty members and across disciplines in potentially exciting ways.
  • Faculty development seminars bring faculty members together into communities that reflect dialogically on pedagogy and classroom praxis. We’ve been working on developing hybrid courses across the discipline for the past year, and our process has been to carve out space for faculty members to articulate the risks and opportunities they see in changing their instructional modes, to construct assignments and assessment plans connected to specific learning goals, and to explore, select, and deploy the technologies they’ll be using in their courses. The communities that are forming in and across these seminars will become resources for the college as it determines how to go forward in the distance and blended learning space.

Another core component of my father’s career that is at the heart of my work at CUNY’s identity as a working-class, immigrant institution. Our mission is to serve the social (though not actual) descendants of the people who my father has spent much of his career studying. CUNY is very much the “people’s university,” one whose structures and values are grounded in the history of working class New York, and whose politics often revolve around how to protect or update that identity given swiftly changing political, economic, and cultural contexts.

Since I started at CUNY in 1999 the university has changed immensely. There have been concerted efforts to recruit accomplished researchers, to unify administrative and business process across the system, to raise the university’s public profile, to align the general education experience of students across the university, to address the implications of reducing state aid, and to sort through what it means that increasing numbers of our courses being taught by contingent faculty who are members of the same union as the tenure faculty members whose work they subsidize.

Each of these questions are huge, important and complicated, just like CUNY, and they each in their own way require reassessment and reassertion of the core values of the institution. We are going through trying times in public higher education. Scott Walker is attempting to eviscerate the Wisconsin system. Governors like Daniel Malloy in Connecticut who just a few years ago pushed significant investment in higher education is now taking some of that back. Next week NY state’s budget will be set, and CUNY is preparing for significant cuts to its base operating budget even though we’re at the end of a five year process of gradual tuition hikes. The ebbs and flows are dizzying, and those of us who support teaching and learning are constantly assessing the impact of these trends on the pedagogical opportunities in our communities.

My father’s involvement in academic administration and the conversations we’ve had over the years remind me that these ebbs and flows are not new. But one of ways this moment is different is in how technology is implicated. Those of us who are working in open education feel a particular burden because our machinery is also the machinery of “the barbarians at the gates”; our language and tools and methods are easily co-optable by forces who do not share our values. For instance, Massive Open Online Courses (MOOCs) were first invented as connectivist spaces that sought to harness for the purposes of experiential and experimental pedagogy what was truly empowering about the World Wide Web as a network. When Sebastian Thrun and Daphne Koller at Stanford got ahold of the idea, they transformed MOOCs into massive information delivery systemz that, for the most part, construct students as vessels into which knowledge can be transmitted. Here’s an idea, the MOOC, that began as a complex, messy, provisional space for experimentation, from which much could be learned. But it was quickly snapped up, its history erased, its coming hegemony proclaimed.

Now, more than ever, those of us who care deeply about our institutions must use history and our values as guides as we assess the rhetoric around the changing university. We must ask how emerging trends and initiatives impact pedagogical spaces, and we must defend those spaces. As I go forward, Ken Waltzer’s career and the ethos of James Madison College will be invaluable guides.


Finally, here are some photos we put together for the toast roast:


Created with flickr slideshow.

Collaboratin’

By far the best component of my current career path is that I get to spend a significant amount of time collaborating with really cool and smart people. These collaborations have been particularly fruitful over the past year, and it all starts with Tom Harbison and Mikhail Gershovich. When Mikhail hired me full-time at the Schwartz Institute and stuffed me into a windowless back corner office with Tom I warned him that if you put two historians together in a room for long enough, no matter how many bits you ask them to push, eventually they’re going to end up doing some history.

We’ve finally gotten around to it. We’re now on our second collaborative history project in the past year. The first was an essay we co-wrote for Jack Dougherty and Kristen Nawrotzki’s Writing History in the Digital Age about lessons we learned while Tom was teaching a series of introductory history courses on Blogs@Baruch. The vast majority of the work we were examining was Tom’s and Tom’s alone, and I’m grateful that he let me glom on and add my two cents in assessing the fruits of his significant labor. Ultimately, we argued that taking advantage of the variety of modes of writing allowed by a flexible publishing platform like B@B encourages an approach to the introductory history survey that focuses more on methods than coverage. Tom’s notion of a “micro-monograph” introduces students to the work that a professional historian does in a way that allows him or her to see the transferable value of those skills. Being a detective who can nimbly sift through a variety of information sources, learning how to construct meaning in the form of a narrative, and figuring out how to assess and measure the quality of argumentation: these are the generalizable skills that introductory history should foster. Of course knowing about the Pentagon Papers is important. But knowing why you should know about the Pentagon Papers is even more so.

Watching Tom teach those classes and then crafting this essay with him taught me tons about teaching history and writing. The collaboration was unquestionably positive. Writing a dissertation, or a journal article, or book chapter… these are lonely, isolating pursuits. I’ll confess that the isolation got to me pretty hard as I was writing my dissertation, and made me far less enthusiastic about pursuing a career that was dependent upon my producing books. I simply didn’t want my head to be in that space for large chunks of my life.

Co-authoring eases that feeling significantly. Those moments where you’re stuck on an idea or a phrase or an organizational conundrum cease to be internal recursive loops and instead become opportunities for dialogue and collective knowledge making. Sometimes the mere act of verbalizing the problem to a sensitive and familiar ear helped solve it. Other times we more explicitly addressed each others’ lack of clarity or precision. We ultimately had no choice but to push each other. We began writing different sections, then would trade until, over time, our voice organically emerged. We now can’t look at the essay and tell which one of us wrote what.

We’re currently testing that dynamic in the classroom, and I’m finding it just as rewarding. We’re team teaching a Digital History class, and collaborated in its design in much the same way as we did on the essay. We steal moments out of busy workdays to trade class prep ideas, articulate problems with our course structure, and plan time to plan. Most ultimately happens on email during our commutes, and in the 45 minutes before our class meets. During that time we co-author notes to guide us through our class meetings, and also an “assignments” post that lays out the work we expect of students before the next session. We then head to class, and one of us gets things sets up while the other answers questions or kibitzes (we take turns doing both), and then we proceed without really knowing which one of us will cover which bits of the class. Wednesday, for instance, Tom slipped into a really nice contextualization of how Sam Wineburg (who we’ve learned a lot from about pedagogy and “thinking historically”) does his work, and I discovered that the students weren’t familiar with the notion of historical “agency,” so did a five-minute lecture on the idea. It seems like our students appreciate having multiple voices — one noted that having two historians guiding them lent instruction in the class more authority because we check and verify each others ideas.

The alignment of personality, skills, and intellectual goals obviously play a significant role in the success or failure of a collaboration. Tom’s awesome, so it’s easy. In the spring I collaborated with Cheryl Smith and Mikhail (both awesome too) in helping Cheryl’s Advanced Essay Writing course craft audio stories along the lines of what you might hear on This American Life. Mikhail and I pushed into Cheryl’s class several times over three or four weeks to help students work through, shape, and ultimately put to audio their story ideas. Cheryl spoke to them about voice, narrative, and about how to draw lessons about writing from the act of composing for radio. Mikhail lent considerable expertise about producing audio and imagining an audience. And I was able to speak with students about scaffolding their projects, planning for technological contingency, and seeing parallels between each segment of the process — from planning through production to post-production to performance — and the acts of writing and editing. Ultimately, the projects would not have been as rich as they turned out without our unique combination of voices guiding students through. We all shared the goal of experimenting with this type of project, helping students find and capture their voices, and learning from one another.

Working on these projects (and watching others emerge over the years in the same spirit) has gotten me very interested in the curricular possibilities of collaborations that push back against the confines of the single class with a single instructor taught within a single semester. That structure is implicitly hostile to the collaboration our students will need to be able to do in the workplace. Frankly, there’s no reason we have to accept it.

The fact that collaborating with another scholar might keep one from going insane is just an added bonus.

The Challenges of Turning Inwards

(95/365) Eh?!
Creative Commons License photo credit: Sarah G…

Over the past few years I’ve approached the digital humanities with a touch of skepticism. Much of this has had to do with my own career path and anxieties: I did digital history from the mid-1990s through 2003 or so, and since then — even while writing a traditional history dissertation — have worked primarily as an educational technologist focused on pedagogy, curriculum development, and open learning initiatives. These two fields overlap in many important ways, and have much to learn from one another (a dynamic that I and others have attempted to tease out). Yet I regarded the rise of the digital humanities with a certain amount of bemusement since much of what was regularly being heralded as new felt to be the logical next stage of something already familiar to me. I finished my Ph.D. in 2009 and found that there were better opportunities in educational technology awaiting me than on the history job market. As I was making this move, the excitement and celebration and “woo-hoo!” that surrounded the digital humanities put me off a bit. It seemed discordant with the state of the field that I had come to know watching very few of my colleagues and friends land desirable jobs.

Over the past six months I’ve pushed myself to examine these feelings more closely, an effort that began when my pal Matt Gold asked me to contribute to a volume he’s editing on debates in the digital humanities and culminated in my attendance at my first THATCamp this past weekend at George Mason’s Roy Rosenzweig Center for History and New Media. I’ve emerged with a fuller and more complex take on the digital humanities, one that’s softer if still a bit critical (then again, I’m critical of everything). I was struck by a few things about THATCamp in relationship to other academic conferences: the earnestness of the curiosity that infused the enterprise, the genuine commitment to openness and sharing that so many attendees possessed, and the democratic willingness so many folks had to engage with whomever approached them. I was pleased to leave with a handful of ideas for projects to pursue. I needed a shot of adrenaline at the end of a relatively demanding year where I regularly felt that my professional autonomy was being made tenuous by circumstance. THATCamp delivered some inspiration, and for that I’m thankful.

Still though, after submitting an essay to Matt and my trip this past weekend, I feel as though some of the assumptions I had about the digital humanities have been reaffirmed even as I have come to understand them more deeply. One common theme threaded through several of the sessions and conversations that I had and observed at THATCamp: many attendees are working through some sort of frustration with their home institution.

The first session I attended, on whether or not “digital literacy is a done deal,” emerged out of attempts at the University of Mary Washington to launch a “Digital Knowledge Initiative.” Jeff McClurken, who proposed the session, argued that the DKI grew out of a sense that much of the experimentation that has been happening on UMWBlogs wasn’t filtering throughout the entire school and hadn’t been institutionalized in a way that was sustainable, scalable, and truly transformational. Martha Burtis, who also contributed to the proposal, noted her discomfort with an initiative that might disembed the building towards digital fluency from other curricula. Separating out those pedagogical processes ultimately might weaken them. Both positions reflect the desire to compel others at the institution to embrace lessons that can be drawn from the digital humanities about the role of technology in nurturing humanistic inquiry which revolve around openness, sharing, experimentation, visualization, embracing discomfort, and tapping into imagination. Much of the rest of the discussion focused on the challenges of compelling reticent colleagues to integrate such values into their own work, particularly the self- de-centering required of so many who’re steeped in research and teaching from very narrow niches.

A subsequent discussion that I attended extended a morning conversation about “inclusion” in the digital humanities while absorbing a session that had been proposed by Sheila Brennan on “documentation.” I have to say that while this investigation emerged out of earnest self-reflection and a genuine desire to make the digital humanities into a more fully representative field, parts of the conversation unsettled me. Though it wasn’t directly articulated, it was pretty clear from the conversation in the afternoon that most of the concern was about bringing scholars of color into the DH fold. While I agree that ensuring that tools and projects emerging out of the digital humanities are accessible is extremely important, the notion that those committed to the field need to put forth significant effort to make events like THATCamp more ethnically diverse is problematic. The THATCamp “movement” prides itself on openness and welcoming, and those feelings were certainly in full effect in Fairfax last weekend. A working group that focuses on targeting populations of humanities scholars who aren’t present in force at THATCamps risks reifying the insider/outsider us/them constructs that spurred the organization of this session in the first place.

There’s no easy answer to the conundrum of diversity in DH, but I do think that those trying to address this question would be as well or better served by looking inwards at the field than by organizing outreach. For instance, I’m curious how many disagreements there are at THATCamps, and to what extent real diversity might challenge notions of the “niceness” of the field? There’s also the question of politicization. Black and ethnic studies departments emerged in the wake of the civil rights movement, as part of broader efforts to explore untold histories in an effort to empower. I’ve not done research to verify this, and I feel a bit uncomfortable making the observation, but after a lifetime around higher education it certainly seems that scholars of color are still more likely to do their inquiry within this mission than outside of it. Research in these fields rarely pursues knowledge simply for its own sake, but rather does so regularly out of the sense that the process of making knowledge is political. That vibrancy and purpose has drawn me intellectually to the history of race and ethnicity. Does the fact that the digital humanities “movement” hasn’t articulated an explicitly radical agenda contribute to the lack of diversity at events like THATCamp? I really don’t know, but it seems a question worth asking. This is not a call for a more self-consciously radical digital humanities, but rather a call for more reflection about the nature and implications of true diversity within higher education.

Talk in that session turned to how digital humanists might reach out to such scholars on their campuses and draw them into projects or at least the conversation, and it was here where integration of documentation made the most sense. Good documentation is the best tool to make accessible what humanists are doing with technology, and ultimately to draw additional scholars in. A second conversation on documentation on Sunday morning extended this discussion, and it was particularly useful in suggesting tools for creating documentation and methods for integrating the creation of supporting materials into the production process. This discussion also focused on the frustrating art of imagining and addressing audiences not necessarily familiar with the language, methods, or processes of the digital humanities.

A final session asked “what can we learn from journalism?” Part of this conversation again constructed digital humanists as conduits for innovation to filter into their home institutions. A significant chunk of the work I do with Blogs@Baruch involves finding and sharing new models for teaching with technology across the curriculum and helping faculty members adapt those models to their pedagogical purposes. It’s here where I think the work of educational technologists and digital humanists most overlaps: for our work to be effective, we must have the ability to compel people into it, and that requires quite a different skillset than those that go into producing a new tool, visualization, or archive.

One of the most useful things that I got from conversations at THATCamp was some necessary perspective on how positively folks on the outside view the initiatives that I’m involved in at CUNY. Admittedly, most of this was likely out of broad familiarity with the CUNY Academic Commons, to which I’m a Community Advisor, but Blogs@Baruch is the Commons’ sister project, sharing an ethos, a politics, and circumstance that go far beyond software. I’m not shy about muscling Blogs@Baruch in on some of the Commons’ shine. What I think each of these projects shows — along with our other sisters — is that as frustrating as this process often is, a digital project becomes stronger as it grows organically within and in response to the concerns and uses of a distinct community, whether that be a college or an imagined user base. So much is to be gained from the networked conversations and experiences that happen within the digital humanities and at THATCamps. But the difficult work of turning that knowledge inwards — which often entails productively engaging resistance that can originate from both inside and outside our own selves — is at least as important.

Perfection and History

Frame grab from Fox Sports of Armando Galarraga’s near perfect game.

For me, last night’s near-perfect game by Armando Galarraga and the Detroit Tigers is as memorable for the events in its aftermath as it is for the blown call on Cleveland’s 27th out, which kept the game from the record books. The weight of history hovers over no sport so much as baseball, where the past is enshrined in statistics that upon a single glance might tell you the story of a moment, a game, a season, a career, an era. That weight is at the heart of baseball’s struggle to deal with steroids, which have totally distorted our knowledge and memory of a whole generation of achievement in the sport.

The reactions of both the Tigers and Jim Joyce give us occasion to reflect upon the way we connect records to meaning. For all intents and purposes the Tigers viewed Galarraga’s performance as perfect. Some joked that it was the first 28 out perfect game, and the pitcher received the customary “beer shower” bestowed upon hurlers who accomplish this miraculous feat. Though the Tigers gave it fiercely to Joyce on the field, without exception those who were interviewed later in the clubhouse treated the umpire and the moment with an astonishing level of class. Manager Jim Leyland spoke about what a great umpire Joyce is, about how Joyce was going to feel worse about this than anyone, and, crucially, about how the humanity and error that are at the center of the game are what makes it so great. Austin Jackson, whose Willie Mays-ish over-the-shoulder-catch secured the first out of the ninth for the Tigers, also talked of mistakes as being part of the game, and about how hard it is to be am ump. Third baseman Brandon Inge raved about how proud he was of Galarraga’s poise and performance.

Joyce, upon seeing the replay, immediately copped “I just cost that kid a perfect game,” and went to the Tigers clubhouse to apologize, tears in his eyes. Galarraga gave Joyce a hug, then told reporters that “he feel worse than I do.” He added “nobody’s perfect” with a smile. He then noted that he would save the tape to show his son. Joyce will be haunted by this moment the rest of his career, much more so than Galarraga.

The class shown by Galarraga and his teammates revealed their deep satisfaction with the content of the performance, which reminds us of what records sometimes miss. They knew this was a perfect game, and what frustration they showed was due to the fact that they immediately understood that history would not reflect what they knew to their very cores to be true. The “incident” is already enveloped in larger debates about whether to institute instant replay in the game. There’s debate about whether the Commissioner’s office should give Galarraga the perfect game anyway and Michigan’s Governor, never one to miss an opportunity, has already arrogantly done so!

But the Tigers, at least as they reacted last night, don’t seem like they’re too interested in all this. They know what they did, and whether or not they’re included in the record books won’t change that knowledge, which this Tiger fan hopes makes them pick things up a notch in their battle for the Central with the Twins. They know there’s a hundred and twenty more games to play, a hundred and twenty more opportunities to strive for perfection, and ten thousand times that many mistakes to avoid.