History and Historical Knowledge

History is often remembered as that boring first-period class we slept through—that forgettable introduction to important people and significant dates. At various times, history has been considered as the necessary knowledge of a responsible citizen, as truth to right former wrongs, as propaganda, or as vacuous opinion.

In its best form, history is story—written or carved, painted or sung—a collection of events, often explained and interpreted, somehow always important.

Knowing such stories—realizing how the past causes the present and establishing the truth about events—can be significant for government leaders, a city council, a jury, an investment group, or an individual. People do want to know where they came from and why present conditions are as they are. Human societies and individuals explain and justify and validate themselves by presenting history in the forms of national sagas, poems, news reports, drama, folksongs, speeches, paintings, documentaries, seminars, books, posters, monuments, or genealogies. True or false.

Any story, of course, can be emphasized or edited, falsified or fictionalized…or it can accord strictly to what can be verified. But verification, the process of proving a statement true, can be complicated.

The facts of history are verifiable in the sense that one can often bring other records, reliable witnesses, and acceptable logic to prove an event happened at a particular time and place, was done by certain people, and caused unambiguous effects. Most of the time, the writing of a poem or the construction of a coal-fired electric power plant can be verified. Tools can be proved to have been used at certain times. Foods can be traced to points of origin. Even the first appearance of an idea can be confirmed. Sometimes.

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But the facts of history cannot be repeated and tested like many facts in science. Whether or not a mockingbird feather and a gold coin will fall at the same speed in a vacuum can be checked by experiment. They do. Every time.  But no one can replay the siege of the Alamo. Yet, like most human statements, historical facts can be verified by confirming evidence and checked by consistency. Still, they have an unnerving way of remaining capable of being questioned and disputed.

For one thing, historical facts can be based on at least two kinds of sources: primary and secondary. Primary means a comment made by someone who was a witness or a participant in an event. A secondary source is a record made by someone not present at an event, but who uses primary and other secondary sources as evidence.

A letter or an interview can be a primary record from someone who was an observer or a contributor when something happened. Of course, this does not guarantee truth. People can forget—or lie—and the older a person becomes, as more time falls between event and recall, the more memories alter.

Most history books are secondary records. They can be more—or less—accurate than first-person, primary accounts; they can be reliable stories or sheer propaganda.

To complicate the issue, the questions one asks when using a record can determine whether a source is primary or secondary. A personal letter from one sister to another describing the long-past wedding of their paternal great-grandmother is a secondary account—of the wedding. But for someone examining how sisters communicate with one another, the letter would be primary.

However defined, the facts of history are not fiction. In responsible history, an individual cannot simply decide that something did happen, or did not, without proof. And proof in history comes from three sources at a minimum: 1) reliable witness, 2) logical possibility, and 3) observable causes and effects. In addition, historical facts must be consistent with one another. All of them.

No individual historian not in possession of contradictory evidence could say that the Mexican army won the battle on the plain of San Jacinto on April 21, 1836. The evidence (military reports on both sides, the body count, a captured national president, letters and interviews at the time, subsequent political and military events, etc.) will allow no other statement of fact. This is verification.

On the other hand, the alleged journey to an extraterrestrial paradise (supposedly on the “other side” of Venus) by Simonetta George on April 28, 1937, might be true but is not capable of verification. So far, space probes have shown nothing of the sort. Ms. George has not returned with evidence that can be objectively tested. Besides, the journey was not a realistic possibility at the time. The story may even be believed, by some people with a motive for doing so, but cannot be verified as fact.

And history’s story will always have many blank spots. Some facts are lost, some forgotten.

Yet, the facts of history, most of the time, are really the least important things. Certainly an invention, or the migration of a people, or a war of conquest, or the publication of a book, or the success of an assassination, or the result of an election can be significant. Such facts cause noticeable effects. But what these events and objects mean to people is much more important.

Human knowledge is built on interpretations of objects and events and people, whether experienced or heard about, whether self or others. People quickly learn to judge new things against a growing reserve of knowledge. First the data (the facts as far as they can be verified) are collected; then they are interpreted (their meaning is determined in human terms, and they are put in causal form); then evaluation takes place (a judgment of significance).  We collect what we believe are the facts, cast them into meaningful form, judge their worth, and act on them. This is the pattern of education.

And interpreting events—deciding the important, charting the significant—is a necessary part of being human. This is the way of everyday thought, and the way a detective thinks, and the way a historian thinks.

People do not always do this for themselves, of course. We recognize authority in paying attention to the pronouncements of people who—because of their education and experience and intuition—seem to know more than we do. Thus, we listen to the sports announcer who “knows the score,” the engineer who can create a good design, the editorial writer we have come to trust, and the religious leader with whom we share a faith.

We will even believe unintentional or deliberate lies if we have an emotional reason for doing so. And people with little experience, little knowledge, are easily fooled.

Historians, dealing with stories beyond individual significance, simply have more experience. Or should have. But even reasonable interpretations can differ; thus, so can judgment or evaluation, the “so what?” area of history.

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An event has value, rather naturally, as it is relevant to people and as people can see it in context. Events out of context, beyond someone’s experience, must be explained to that person. For instance, on March 21, 1801, Philip Nolan was killed by Spanish soldiers during a skirmish in present-day Hill County, Texas. His ears were cut off and delivered—by  William Barr, a fellow Irishman—to the Spanish governor in San Antonio de Béxar. So what?

Not many people know the context of Nolan’s ears, but even when the context of a statement of fact is known, most people realize that any one interpretative stance is not the only possible position. A particular statement, if it can be tested, might be verified or confirmed as fact. But there is no one interpretation of that fact that is The Only Interpretation. This does not mean that just anyone’s view of things is correct. Reliable interpretations, although distinct, are based on verifiable fact and logical cause and effect. If a “personal” view of things is not consistent with facts, it is not correct—meaning it can’t be relied on in the real world.

But many logical and consistent, though varying, interpretations of the same facts are possible. The reasons are obvious. People differ in terms of belief, experience, education, bias, age, sex, wealth, etc. Even if for the most part alike, people do have individual traits. And these differences, rather naturally, cause people to interpret things differently.

Edmund Burke speaks of the “patterns of experience” that determine the possibilities of persuasion, interpretation, and evaluation. As a simple example, a young man taught that the “Anglo” military victory at San Jacinto effectively resulted in second-class citizenship for his family will view the Texas Revolution of 1835-36 quite differently than will a young woman who has been told that the Alamo was defended by martyr-heroes who were in large part responsible for her fortunate position in life as a member of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas.

In other words, the date and outcome of a military battle can be verified truths; but the significance of the battle, or any event whatever, can be seen in different ways by different people.

But, fortunately, not uniquely. Humans group themselves. People work very hard to put themselves into groups—large and small, formal and informal—or this happens naturally. And groups themselves foster different ways of thinking. Groups of people almost always have certain political or religious or economic interests, or biases, or desires, or axes to grind.

This is viewpoint.

And, certainly, historians have viewpoints and “frames of reference” created by their environments.  Every generation of historians rewrites history in the context of their own culture. Some historians see themselves as enlightened interpreters of events. Some write propaganda for pay or influence. Some see themselves as objective voices dealing only with facts. A few may be, but there is probably no objective form of history except the always-unfinished lists of established events and objects and dates—facts, without connection. And facts alone are boring because lists of events and dates don’t “mean” anything.

This is why the educational goal of fact retention—in isolation—is very limited. Teaching a list of facts is easy. Showing a student the processes of logic and synthesis, verification and intuition, judgment and evaluation is not usually easy. Knowing facts is simply having information; knowing how to properly use facts is knowledge.

So, one starts with verifiable facts and moves to logical cause and effect, defensible interpretation, and sound evaluation—within a particular point of view—to establish the significance of things.

Of course, no one individual—historian or not—can see all viewpoints. Most people do not want to see all viewpoints. But a good historian remembers that an interpretation cannot claim significance unless it is consistent with what is known and falls within demonstrable and logical cause and effect.

Yet the range of interpretation remains immense.

The 1836 siege of the old Mission Valero, called the Alamo, can be seen as a heroic event. To other people, the battle was a misguided act of very little military significance to the outcome of a revolution. To others, the event is a justified military action and the Alamo a strategic objective that was successfully destroyed along with a ragged group of inept rebels. To others, the occasion becomes entirely symbolic. To a few people at the time, the outcome of the battle was sufficient reason to beat to death soldiers who were kneeling and pleading for mercy over a month later. For a few people today, the Alamo is only a place to see a ghost after three margaritas.

Such interpretations are based on a set of slightly incomplete but fairly well-known facts. A person with a wide education who is a good observer can understand several viewpoints—even when preferring only one. The “narrow-minded” person, the less experienced, sees things only one way.

On top of all this, an influential individual or a group of people may decide to hide particular facts of the past, or they might want events interpreted in only certain ways. A community of people may decide their history is their own property, or that a historian outside their group cannot tell their story properly. Such positions are questionable but understandable because history—the human story—can create pride or can carry insult; history can establish entitlements or can deny rights.Most histories, in the past, were written from the “winning” side. Conquering peoples usually have the chance to write the first histories and to interpret events as they choose. Losers or survivors must necessarily wait until some measure of political power or social acceptance is won, or is given, back. Groups of people who view themselves as being repressed by others have a strong motive for knowing and presenting their past history—as a way of righting what they consider wrongs and at least creating group pride.

Groups with slight political or economic power—for instance, Hispanic women until the present—produce little formal history as defined or allowed by others. The group may have beautiful oral histories, diaries, crafts and arts, occupations, and songs which are little accepted by others outside the group. And the first formal histories such a group produces are self-honoring and thus, whether true or not, find general acceptance slow to develop.

And, in the past, history was often conducted from the male viewpoint. Most “history” reflected political and economic concerns; until recent times, women who were in control of political or economic or military or church situations were the exception.

These factors, although not these alone, influence how history is defined and written.

Some histories, some stories, are largely lost.

Earlier, in many parts of the world, only written, codified records were considered “history.” Thus, because Texas Indians did not have written languages in the same sense as the powerful publication-based European records, the first histories of Texas were European Spanish and not, for instance, Karankawa. Even using the words “first histories” is to accept the European definition of such things. But there’s some truth in the words. Oral history dies when a conquered people die.

At an earlier time, history was a strong beam in the education of, frankly, the upper economic and social classes of many peoples of the world. At the present time, with most individuals being trained to be workers for personal or group profit, only a smattering of history is required in most schools.

A somewhat dangerous situation…certainly, people who do not know their own history, their own origins, do not know themselves. And a person who does not know the self, or who knows only falsehoods, remains at the mercy of others. Such a person lacks knowledge of origins and causes. This lack of knowledge may be at best anesthetic and confining, but it is usually poisonous.

And, perhaps even worse, a person who does not know the stories of others cannot understand other people. As children see the world in terms of only themselves, so do those adults who have little knowledge of others as well as self. Sometimes, in the case of a person or group without political or economic power, this ignorance may make no difference to anyone but them. But a lack of knowledge of others and self can easily lead to distrust, fear, and hatred.

Empathy is built on knowledge, on understanding, and can lead to tolerance. In other words, a person who understands both self and others will be less inclined to impose on others. Humans are notoriously self-centered, but people who know other’s stories—as well as their own origins—will be less likely to spit on someone, or kill them, because of a difference of belief or dress or skin color.

But historical knowledge, like the old metaphor, is a weapon with two edges. “Know the enemy” is also good advice if one anticipates a fight. A knowledge of others can give power to either aggressor or defender.

Thus, it is always important to see if facts are verified before moving to an interpretation, to know the grounds on which one stands when interpreting, and then to evaluate. These are common historical lessons but not unique to history. To know how to verify and to evaluate statements and to determine the patterns of logical cause and effect are prerequisites of knowledge itself.

Of course, wide knowledge can create doubt about beliefs long held to be true, whether so or not. Full experience points out that all things change. A deep knowledge of history teaches that no single system of human belief or way of interpretation or way of life has a monopoly on truth. Such a thought can be unsettling and always involves the risk that comes with new ideas. But the risk is worth it. An understanding of individual potential and the knowledge necessary to be a responsible citizen can come through historical understanding. Further, and quite simply, an accurate recognition of what has gone before is an efficient base for creating new, worthwhile things. Not many people create totally anew, but this stands as a clear and abiding goal of being human.

Thus, history empowers with practical knowledge, comes with dangerous edges, and provides beautiful possibilities.

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© copyright 2001 The University of Texas Institute of Texan Cultures at San Antonio