Walt Whitman and Blue Jeans

October 29, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

I’ve really enjoyed Levi’s recent ‘Go Forth’ ad campaign produced by the hotshot advertising firm of Wieden & Kennedy. I first saw one while watching a football game, and the entire room full of people gradually fell silent. That’s pretty impressive for a non-Super Bowl ad spot.

Beyond being visually arresting and creative, the campaign offers up a vision of America that (by mainstream Madison Avenue standards) is fresh and edgy. The basic set-up of the sixty-second commercials is flashing imagery of denim-clad youngsters moving frenetically. Sounds like a fairly typical clothing ad. Except that it includes footage of post-Katrina New Orleans and is set to a Walt Whitman poem – in one of the spots, (supposedly) the reading comes from a wax cylinder recording of Whitman himself. Put in comparison to a concurrently-running ad campaign by Wrangler that involves Brett Favre tossing a football to a George Thorogood soundtrack, and you really get a sense for just how different this campaign is:

The imagery isn’t super sophisticated – a neon AMERICA sign half-submerged in flood water opens and closes the “America” spot. Some people might feel that throwing in a kissing interracial couple (or a kissing gay couple in “OPioneers!”) is tokenizing. But Levi’s has managed to construct a divergent conception of what exactly is America, no small feat for a corporate ad campaign. The new commercials are oddly triumphant, but with a disquieting edge to them. Children are running through fields, but in this new world they’re doing so under a looming electrical grid. There is laughter and muscle-flexing and vibrancy, but it’s against a backdrop of chain-link fences or broken down buildings. Blue jeans have constituted an enduring symbol of rural, down-to-earth, industrial America, an image that Levi’s has helped to cultivate in its lengthy, 130+ year-old history.  The fact that the same company would now stake itself to such a contrasting campaign speaks volumes. Is Levi’s banking on a collective shift in the American psyche? That we are open to moving beyond a cornfields-and-cowboys idea of American denim? What exactly is the alternative vision they’re hoping the American consumer will identify with? I have no idea, and that’s part of what makes this campaign intriguing.

Text Analysis of Martha Ballard’s Diary (Part 3)

October 19, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

One of the most basic applications of text mining is simply counting words. I began by stripping out punctuation (in order to avoid differentiating mend and mend. as two separate words), put every word into lowercase, and then ignored a list of stop words (the, and, for, etc.). By writing a program to count occurrences of the 500 most common words, I could get a general (and more quantitative) sense for what general topics Martha Ballard wrote about in her diary. Unsurprisingly, her vocabulary usage followed a standard path of exponential decay: like most people, she utilized a relatively small number of words with extreme frequency. For example, the most common word (mr) occurred 10,050 times, while her 500th most common word (relief) occurred 67 times:

Top500Words

Because each word has information attached to it – specifically what date it was written – we can look at long-term patterns for a particular word’s usage. However, looking at only raw word frequencies can be problematic. For example, if Ballard wrote the word yarn twice as often in 1801 as 1791, it could mean that she was doing a lot more knitting in her old age. But it could also mean that she was writing a lot more words in her diary overall. In order to address this issue, for any word I was examining I made sure to normalize its frequency – first by dividing it by the total word count for that year, then by dividing it by the average usage of the word over the entire diary. This allowed me to visualize how a word’s relative frequency changed from year to year.

In order to visualize the information, I settled on trying out sparklines: “small, intense, simple datawords” advocated by infographics guru Edward Tufte and meant to give a quick, somewhat qualitative snapshot of information. To test my method, I used a theme that Laurel Ulrich describes in A Midwife’s Tale: land surveying. In particular, during the late 1790s Martha’s husband Ephraim became heavily involved in surveying property. In the raw word count list, both survey and surveying appear in the top 500 words, so I combined the two and looked at how Martha’s use of them in her diary changed over the years (1785-1812):

survey_surveying survey(ing)

Looking at the sparkline, we get a visual sense for when surveying played a larger role in Martha’s diary – around the middle third, or roughly 1795-1805, which corresponds relatively well to Ulrich’s description of Ephraim’s surveying adventures. As a basis for comparison, the word clear appeared with numbing regularity (almost always in reference to the weather):

clear clear

Using word frequencies and sparklines, I could investigate and visualize other themes in the diary as well.

Religion

Out of the 500 most frequent words in the diary, only three of them relate directly to religion: meeting (#28), worship (#143), and god (#220).

meeting meeting

worship worship

god god

Meeting, which was used largely in a religious context (going to a church meeting), but also in a socio-political context (attending town meetings), had a relatively consistent rate of use, although it trended slightly upwards over time. Worship (which Martha largely used in the sense of “went to publick worship”), meanwhile, was more erratic and trended slightly downwards. Finally, and perhaps most interestingly, was Martha’s use of the word god. Almost non-existent in the first third of her diary, it then occurred much more frequently, but also more erratically over the final two-thirds of the diary. Not only was it a relatively infrequent word overall (flax, horse, and apples occur more often), but its usage pattern suggests that Martha Ballard did not directly invoke a higher power on a personal level with any kind of regularity (at least in her diary). Instead, she was much more comfortable referring to the more socially and community-based activity of attending a religious service. While a qualitative close reading of the text would give a richer impression of Martha’s spirituality, a quantitative approach demonstrates how little “real estate” she dedicates to religious themes in her diary.

Death

death death

dead dead

funeral funeral

expired expired

interd interd

Most of the words related to death show an erratic pattern. There are peaks and valleys across the years without much correlation between the different words, and the only word that appears with any kind of consistency is interd (interred). In this case, word frequency and sparklines are relatively weak as an analytical tool. They don’t speak to any kind of coherent pattern, and at most they vaguely point towards additional questions for study – what causes the various extreme peaks in usage? Is there a common context with which Martha uses each of the words? Why was interd so much flatter than the others?

Family

In this final section, I’ll offer up a small taste of how analyzing word frequency can reveal interpersonal relationships. I used the particular example of Dolly (Martha’s youngest daughter):

dolly dolly

The sparkline does a phenomenal job of driving home a drastic change in how Martha refers to her daughter. In a matter of a year or two in the mid 1790s, she goes from writing about Dolly frequently to almost never mentioning her. Why? Some quick detective work (or reading page 145 in A Midwife’s Tale) shows that the plummet coincides almost perfectly with Dolly’s marriage to a man named Barnabas Lambart in 1795. But why on earth would Martha go from mentioning Dolly all the time in her diary to going entire years without writing her name? Did Martha disapprove of her daughter’s marriage? Was it a shotgun wedding?

The answer, while not so scandalous, is an interesting one nonetheless that text analysis and visualization helps to elucidate. In short, Martha still writes about her daughter after 1795, but instead of referring to her as Dolly, she begins to refer to her as Dagt Lambd (Daughter Lambert). This is a fascinating shift, and one whose full significance might get lost by a traditional reading. A human poring over these detailed entries might get a vague impression that Martha has started calling her daughter something different, but the sparkline above drives home just how abrupt and dramatic that transformation really was. Martha, by and large, stopped calling her youngest daughter by her first name and instead adopted the new husband’s proper name. Such a vivid symbolic shift opens up a window into an array of broader issues, including marriage patterns, familial relationships, and gender dynamics.

Conclusions

Counting word frequency is a somewhat blunt instrument that, if used carefully, can certainly yield meaningful results. In particular, utilizing sparklines to visualize individual word frequencies offers up two advantages for historical inquiry:

  1. Coherently display general trends
  2. Reveal outliers and anomalies

First, sparklines are a great way to get a quick impression of how a word’s use changes over time. For example, we can see above that the frequency of the word expired steadily increases throughout the diary. While this can often simply reiterate suspected trends, it can ground these hunches in refreshingly hard data. By the end of the diary, a reader might have a general sense for how certain themes appear, but a text analysis can visualize meaningful patterns and augment a close reading of the text.

Second, sparklines can vividly reveal outliers. In the course of reading hundreds of thousands of words over the course of nearly 10,000 entries, it’s quite easy to lose sight of the forest for the trees (to use a tired metaphor). Visualizing word frequencies allows historians to gain a broader perspective on a piece of the text, and they also act as signposts pointing the viewer towards a specific area for further investigation (such the red-flag-raising rupture in how frequently Dolly appears). Relatively basic word frequency by itself (such as what I’ve done here) does not necessarily explain anomalies, but it can do an impressive job of highlighting important ones.

Text Analysis of Martha Ballard’s Diary (Part 2)

September 9, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

Given Martha Ballard’s profession as a midwife, it is no surprise that she carefully recorded the 814 births she attended between 1785 and 1812. These events were given precedence over more mundane occurrences by noting them in a separate column from the main entry. Doing so allowed her to keep track not only of the births, but also record payments and restitution for her work. These hundreds of births constituted one of the bedrocks of Ballard’s experience as a skilled and prolific midwife, and this is reflected in her diary.

As births were such a consistent and methodically recorded theme in Ballard’s life, I decided to begin my programming with a basic examination of the deliveries she attended. This examination would take the form of counting the number of deliveries throughout the course of the diary and grouping them by various time-related characteristics, namely: year, month, and day of the week.

Process and Results

The first basic step for performing a more detailed text analysis of Martha Ballard’s diary was to begin cleaning up the data. One step was to take all the words and (temporarily) turn every uppercase letter into a lowercase letter. This kept Python from seeing “Birth” and “birth” as two separate words. For the purposes of this particular program, it was more important to distill words into a basic unit rather than maintain the complexity of capitalized characters.

Once the data was scrubbed, we could turn to writing a program that would count the number of deliveries recorded in the diary. The program we wrote does the following:

  1. Checks to see if Ballard wrote anything in the “birth” column (the first column of the entries that she also used to keep track of deliveries)
  2. If she did write anything in that column, check to see if it contains any of the words: “birth”, “brt”, or “born”.
  3. I then printed the remainder of the entries that contained text in the “birth” column but did not contain one of the above words. From this short list I manually added an additional seven entries into the program, in which she appeared to have attended a delivery but did not record it using the above words.

Using these parameters, the program could iterate through the text and recognize the occurrence of a delivery. Now we could begin to organize these births.

First, we returned the birth counts for each year of the diary, which were then inserted into a table and charted in Excel:

Year Deliveries

At the risk of turning my analysis into a John Henry-esque woman vs. machine, I compared my figures to the chart that Laurel Ulrich created in A Midwife’s Tale that tallied the births Ballard attended (on page 232 of the soft-cover edition). The two charts follow the same broad pattern:

YearDeliveriesCompare

Note: I reverse-built her chart by creating a table from the printed chart, then making my own bar graph. Somewhere in the translation I seem to have misplaced one of the deliveries (Ulrich lists 814 total, whereas I keep counting 813 on her graph). Sorry!

However, a closer look reveals small discrepancies in the numbers for each individual year. I calculated each year’s discrepancy as follows, using Ulrich’s numbers as the “true” figures (she is the acting President of the AHA, after all) from which my own figures deviated, and found that the average deviation for a given year was 4.86%. Apologies for the poor formatting, I had trouble inserting tables into WordPress:

Year Deliveries Count Difference Deviation (from Ulrich)
Manual (Ulrich) Computer Program
1785 28 24 4 14.29%
1786 33 35 2 6.06%
1787 33 33 0 0.00%
1788 27 28 1 3.70%
1789 40 43 3 7.50%
1790 34 35 1 2.94%
1791 39 39 0 0.00%
1792 41 43 2 4.88%
1793 53 50 3 5.66%
1794 48 48 0 0.00%
1795 50 55 5 10.00%
1796 59 56 3 5.08%
1797 54 55 1 1.85%
1798 38 38 0 0.00%
1799 50 51 1 2.00%
1800 27 23 4 14.81%
1801 18 14 4 22.22%
1802 11 12 1 9.09%
1803 19 18 1 5.26%
1804 11 11 0 0.00%
1805 8 8 0 0.00%
1806 10 11 1 10.00%
1807 13 13 0 0.00%
1808 3 3 0 0.00%
1809 21 22 1 4.76%
1810 17 18 1 5.88%
1811 14 14 0 0.00%
1812 14 14 0 0.00%

Keeping the knowledge in the back of my mind that my birth analysis differed slightly from Ulrich’s, I went on to compare my figures with other factors, including the frequency of deliveries by month over the course of the diary.

MonthDeliveries

If we extend the results of this chart and assume a standard nine-month pregnancy, we can also determine roughly which months that Ballard’s neighbors were most likely to be having sex. Unsurprisingly, the warmer period between May and August appears to be a particularly fertile time:

Conceptions

Finally, I looked at how often births occurred on different days of the week. There wasn’t a strong pattern, beyond the fact that Sunday and Thursday seemed to be abnormally common days for deliveries. I’m not sure why that was the case, but would love to hear speculation from any readers.

DeliveriesDayWeek

Analysis

The discrepancies between the program’s tally of deliveries and Ulrich’s delivery count speak to broader issues in “digital” text mining versus “manual” text mining:

Data Quality

Ulrich’s analysis is a result of countless hours spent eye-to-page with the original text. And as every history teacher drills into their students when conducting research, looking directly at the primary documents minimizes the degrees of interpretation that can alter the original documents.  In comparison, my analysis is the result of the original text going through several levels of transformation, like a game of telephone:

Original text -> Typed transcription -> HTML tables -> Python list -> Text file -> Excel table/chart

Each level increases the chance of a mistake.  For instance, a quick manual examination using the online version of the diary for 1785 finds an instance of a delivery (marked by ‘Birth’) showing up in the online HTML, but which does not appear in the “raw” HTML files our program is processing and analyzing.

On the other hand, a machine doesn’t get tired and miscount a word tally or accidently skip an entry.

Context

Ulrich brings to bear on the her textual analysis years of historical training and experience along with a deeply intimate understanding of Ballard’s diary. This allows her to take into account one of the most important aspects of reading a document: context. Meanwhile, our program’s ability to understand context is limited quite specifically to the criteria we use to build it. If Ballard attended a delivery but did not mark it in the standard “birth” column like the others, she might mention it more subtly in the main body of the entry. Whereas Ulrich could recognize this and count it as a delivery, our program cannot (at least with the current criteria).

Where the “traditional” skills of a historian come into play with data mining is in the arena of defining these criteria. Using her understanding of the text on a traditional level, Ulrich could create far, far superior criteria than I could for counting the number of deliveries Martha Ballard attends. The trick comes in translating a historian’s instinctual eye into a carefully spelled-out list of criteria for the program.

Revision

One area that is advantageous for digital text mining is that of revising the program. Hypothetically, if I realized at a later point that Ballard was also tallying births using another method (maybe a different abbreviated word), it’s fairly simple to add this to the program’s criteria, hit the “Run” button, and immediately see the updated figures for the number of deliveries. In contrast, it would be much, much more difficult to do so manually, especially if the realization came at, say, entry number 7,819. The prospect of re-skimming thousands of entries to update your totals would be fairly daunting.

Text Analysis of Martha Ballard’s Diary (Part 1)

August 31, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

“mr Ballard left home bound for Oxford. I had been Sick with the Collic. mrs Savage went home. mrs foster Came at Evening. it snowd a little.”

This is the first entry in the diary of Martha Ballard. Martha Ballard was a rural Maine midwife who kept an extensive diary between 1785 and 1812 and whose life was immortalized in 1990 by the historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s award-winning A Midwife’s Tale. Over the course of three decades, Ballard kept a meticulous, near-daily accounting of her life spanning over 10,000 entries.

When reading A Midwife’s Tale, I was struck by how readily the text would seem to lend itself to digital analysis. In an interview, Ulrich noted, “The very thing that had attracted me to the diary in the first place was also the thing that made it difficult to work with. I mean there’s just so much.” To ground herself, she began by simply counting things: “And I would go day by day for every other year of the diary, and I would tick off what was in each entry: baking or brewing, spinning or washing, or trading, sewing, mending, deliveries, general medical accounts, going to church, visitors, people coming for meals, etc.” Because of the sprawling scope, she took this quantitative approach only for the even-numbered years in the diary. The fact that she was working in the late eighties without a computer makes her work even more impressive.

After poking around online I came across DoHistory.org, a website developed and maintained by the Film Study Center at Harvard University and hosted by (who else, really) George Mason’s CHNM. The website presents the diary to the public in two formats: the viewer can either browse through photographed pages of the diary or read the transcript of the pages (transcribed through a monumental effort by Robert R. McCausland and Cynthia MacAlman McCausland):

ballardpage1 ballardpage1text

When I realized the entire diary was online, it got me thinking about possibilities for text mining. As an aspiring digital humanist with little “hard” skills beyond basic GIS, I had been meaning to learn how to program for quite some time. In Martha Ballard’s diary, I had an intriguing source of data with which to learn how to do so. Now I just had to learn how to program. With the patient help of several programming-savvy family members, I gradually learned the basics of Python and how to apply it to Martha Ballard’s diary. What follows are the first steps we took to process the diary’s raw data into an accessible digital format.

Process

At first, I briefly considered learning how to scrape the text of the diary off the website. After some investigation, I decided that was a little beyond my abilities, so I copped out to the much easier route of sending an email to Kelly Schrum at CHNM, who kindly forwarded my request to Ammon Shepherd, who emailed me a zip file containing 1,431 html documents, one for each page of the diary. The html files of the transcribed diary are a basic, 3-column table that look this. My first step was to find a way to strip out the html tags and organize the text into a systematic database of individual entries. Fortunately, Ballard’s meticulousness and consistency lent itself well to such an approach.

The diary’s format translates quite nicely into creating a list of lists – the “main” diary being a list of all the entries, and each entry being a list in and of itself. The first program we wrote was to open each html file and begin extracting the different sections of text (which were conveniently marked by html tags). Iterating through each entry allowed us to separate the different columns in her diary into different items in the list. Here is the breakdown of our “list of lists”:

  1. Diary
    1. Entry
      1. Date
        1. Month
        2. Day
        3. Year
      2. Day of the Week
      3. Main Text of Entry
      4. Day Summaries (Column 3 of actual diary entry)
      5. Birth(s) (Recorded in Column 1 of actual diary entry)

In creating the list, we had to separate out the raw data from the html tags that formatted it. Fortunately, the folks who built the html files originally used an extremely systematic formatting process that actually made the job of distilling one from the other quite straightforward. A Python module called Pickle allowed us to export the list of entries as a manageable single file that we could then easily import into future programs to manipulate.

For example, the third entry in the diary would translate a bit into something like this:

  1. Diary
    1. Entry (3)

      1. Date
        1. 1 (January)
        2. 3
        3. 1785
    2. 3 (Tuesday – Ballard numbered the weekdays, beginning with Sunday as 1)
    3. “Tuesday. mrs. Foster went home. I had threats of thee Collic; by takein peper found releif.”
    4. Empty
    5. Empty

The list allows us to access pieces of information by “calling” their position. It helped me to think of the entire diary list as a warehouse containing almost 10,000 boxes (entries) inside it, with each box containing five compartments, with the first of those compartments divided into three sub-compartments. If you were to open any of the boxes (entries) and look inside the first compartment, then inside sub-compartment number two, you would always find a number that represented the month of that particular entry. If you were to look inside the third compartment of the entry/box, you would always find the main text for that day’s entry.

The advantages of setting up the data in a list structure is the ability to access these specific pieces of information easily and to compare them across entries. In many ways, processing the text to make it readable and programmable is one of the biggest challenges to text mining. Deciding on the most logical way to organize and break down over 1,400 files will lay the groundwork for the fun part: writing programs to actually analyze the diary of Martha Ballard.

***Special-edition sneak preview of future posts in this series***

A simple counting program reveals that the main text of Martha Ballard’s diary alone contains 377,315 words, spanning I-couldn’t-make-this-number-up 9,999 entries. That is a lot of data to play with.

Playing Well With Others

August 13, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

One of the sharper distinctions between the digital humanities and traditional scholars is an acceptance and emphasis on collaboration. Lisa Spiro has written several convincing posts that detail how scholars in the digital humanities are far more likely to work together and co-author essays, along with some examples of collaborative projects. At the NEH’s Office for Digital Humanities, the first requirement for applying to a grant for a fellowship at a Digital Humanities Center is to: “support innovative collaboration on outstanding digital research projects.” Meanwhile, many disciplines within the humanities cling to the notion of the individual scholar. Cathy Davidson of HASTAC tells the story of job-seeking and being told that collaborative work didn’t “count” as legitimate scholarship: “I felt like Hester Prynne wearing her Scarlet A . . . for Adulterous Authorship.” The academy remains enamored with putting a single face and a single name to research; the vast majority of the annual prizes given by the AHA are presented to individual historians for individual work.

The reasons for this distinction are easy to understand. Most digital humanities initiatives are inherently multidisciplinary. There are those among us lucky or hard-working enough to possess both “soft” humanistic talent and “hard” technical skills, but for the majority of us it is much more efficient and effective to split the workload of multiple, and often very different, approaches between more than one person. Why spend six months trying to master the intricacies of MySQL when you can team up with a colleague who already knows how to implement it? Teaming up with other people across disciplines is a form of self-preservation that saves everyone time and energy.

Another reason for the distinction often stems from the basic nature of the projects – many digital humanists have focused on building tools, online collections, and interactive media. Whereas as most academic monographs are aimed at an audience of fellow academics, these projects are inherently designed with a broader public in mind. With that overarching goal, collaboration during the production phase becomes an almost instinctive (and necessary) pursuit. Similarly, scholarly specialization leads to (often) intense intellectual turf wars. If you are struggling to make your academic mark on a very specific focus within a very specific sub-field, other people working on that same field can often seem more like a threat than a resource. These jealously guarded barriers are less prevalent within the digital humanities community, given its emphasis on greater transparency and a broader scope of study.

This is not to say that traditional humanists are allergic to collaboration. Established (read: tenured) professors are often much more willing to edit volumes, co-author essays, and work together on research projects. When you are a successful author and Harvard historian like Jill Lepore, you can afford to take a chance and co-write a work of historical fiction. An associate professor at a small state school struggling to get tenure? Not so much. Younger scholars are still plagued by the never-ending issue of digital scholarship not “counting” as a valid accomplishment.

Most graduate (particularly Ph.D) programs in the humanities simply do not train their students to play well (or at all) with others. Writing a dissertation is still viewed as an infamously lonesome pursuit. Doing so establishes your credentials as an individual scholar capable of producing original work. Unfortunately, this not only reinforces the conception that anything other than individual research is somehow less valued, but it also does a terrible job of preparing students to do any kind of future collaborative work. Learning how to take notes in an archive or write manuscript chapters are critical skills, but so is learning how to delegate tasks to research partners or co-author a grant proposal.

There is no reason why the traditional humanities cannot begin to embrace scholarly collaboration. Even for those with no interest in digital initiatives, increased collaboration creates a ripple effect. There are the obvious benefits: different perspectives add richness and depth to studies, a division of labor and specialization can lead to greater efficiency, and more collaborators often facilitates future connections across otherwise-insular academic networks. Almost every scholar has the story of a single conversation, comment, or idea from a colleague, friend, or family member sparking a revelation or major advancement in their work. Official collaboration only magnifies this effect, and the academy as a whole would benefit.

Collaboration is not a cure-all, and it presents its own set of quite-formidable challenges. As every high-schooler working on a group project or cubicle-dweller sitting in a meeting can tell you, working with other people can often be a frustrating experience. How do you divide up responsibilities, reconcile different opinions, share both criticism and credit? A professor of literature sitting across the table from a computer scientist will probably have a lot of trouble communicating effectively with each other. All of these issues have the potential to be even sharper inside the humanities, where most scholars have been given little to no official instruction or practical experience in how to work together. Nevertheless, the potential for concerted collaboration to spur on academic discovery within the humanities is simply too high to ignore.

Reflections on Blogging

August 4, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

It’s now been over a year since I started history-ing and over a month since my last post, so I thought I’d ease back into writing by reflecting on a year in the blogosphere.

1. Intellectual stimulation

One of the most jarring changes going from a college lifestyle to the workforce was the lack of academic stimulation on a daily basis. and problem-solving transitioned from a classroom to the office. Having a blog gave me an impetus to really think about issues. It forced me to write (semi) regularly, to think about issues, to engage in at least a limited conversation on intellectual topics I cared about. Instead of being a passive consumer of ideas, posts, articles, essays, and books, I became an active one.

The knowledge that my writing would be open and available for anyone to read and judge made me think even harder to develop my own ideas and opinions. If you write a shitty paper in a college seminar, the professor gives you a shitty grade and you file it away. If you write a shitty post, it’s out there for anyone to read. Employers, colleagues, professors, admissions people – all of them now have a growing body of my writing to read, disagree with, and critique if they’re so inclined. For an unestablished scholar like myself, this provides some major motivation to really think and work at what I write.

2. Joining a community

Blogging also let me jump into a vibrant online community of digital historians and humanists. Instead of being something of a sideline observer, I laced up and joined the fray. Doing so not only exposed me to a wide range of new ideas and possibilities, but also introduced me to a number of fascinating and inspiring people – many of whom I met in person at the AAHC and THATCamp conferences. Especially for a younger scholar like myself, having a blog gave me confidence in my credentials and allowed me to participate in a wider dialogue.

Moving forward, the connections I’ve made through blogging (and on a noisier level, Twitter) will serve me for a long time to come. I’ve been lucky in that before I’ve even stepped foot inside a graduate classroom, I’ve have had the opportunity to interact with so many people who I (hope) will be my future colleagues and collaborators. In the insular world of traditional academics, this is a relative rarity.

3. Feedback

I’m a firm believer that there’s no point in writing into a void. While much of my blogging was “for myself,” in that I wrote about what interested me, the most rewarding part by far is the response I’ve received. There is certainly an egotistical and superficial element to checking  site-visit stats. But there is some validity to the point that my writing has already reached a larger audience in a year than all of my undergraduate writing put together. By a long shot. For example, my most popular post, by almost a 2:1 factor, is a rudimentary text analysis of Venture Smith’s narrative. As of today, it had been viewed over a thousand times. This metric might be a tiny drop in the blogosphere bucket, but it will certainly eclipse any audience I’ll have for my traditional academic research, at least in the near future.

One of the more rewarding episodes occurred recently, when a local Connecticut writer contacted me through my blog because she was interested in  Venture Smith. She had stumbled across my posts talking about my undergraduate research on Venture Smith, and had been inspired to do some truly remarkable research on her own. We met yesterday, and I was thrilled to find that not only had she uncovered a fascinating new development, but that it directly related to work I had done. I was humbled to hear that my blog had been an impetus for her to get involved in the Venture Smith community. It served as a great reminder of how blogs can increase transparency and lower barriers between academics and the wider public.

I’m not sure what the future will hold for history-ing. There are bad as well as good aspects of maintaining a blog, and it remains to be seen whether it will survive the time-drain of graduate school. Regardless, blogging at history-ing has been, and I hope will continue to be, an enriching experience.

Review: What Hath God Wraught

June 21, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

Andrew Jackson = bad.

Whigs = good.whathathgodwrought

That’s my five-word summary of Daniel Walker Howe’s Pulitzer-Prize winning, 900-page, career-defining work What Hath God Wrought: The Transformation of America, 1815-1848. Of course, the tome is monumental in every sense of the word, in its subject matter, scope, weight, and approach. Howe is fearless in shouldering the daunting task to chart the the United States’ tumultuous adolescence. In an academic climate of sometimes numbing specialization, What Hath God Wrought is boldly and refreshingly big.

Howe approaches this task by looking at the nation’s growth through the eyes of the two ideological competitors fighting for its future. In one corner sat the Democrat ideals of Andrew Jackson, which lay out a path of white male individualism, territorial and racial conquest, and limited federal government. In the other corner sat the Whig’s ideology of national improvement through an active government and strong internal commercial expansion. Howe maintains this general dichotomy as he wanders down thirty-odd years of national history. The thematic path he treads most commonly is that of the communications and transportation revolution, although he winds enthusiastically down every manner of side trail and parallel road.

Daniel Walker Howe detests Andrew Jackson. His characterization of our seventh president throws all notions of bland academic sterility to the winds, instead engaging in fierce and almost-personal skirmishes against Jackson. First and foremost, Howe argues that Jackson’s legacy is marked by the insidious morally debilitating advancement of white male supremacy.  “…historians have variously pointed to free enterprise, manhood suffrage, the labor movement, and resistance to the market economy. But in its origins, Jacksonian Democracy…was not primarily about any of these, though it came to intersect with all of them in due course. In the first place it was about the extension of white supremacy across the North American continent.”

Howe is absolutely relentless in his campaign against Jackson’s apologists, and in many ways he makes a convincing argument. Indian Removal remains one of the most shameful aspects of our nation’s history, and Andrew Jackson was one of its most effective champions. In the eloquent and caustic words of Howe, “During the Removal process the president personally intervened frequently, always on behalf of haste, sometimes on behalf of economy, but never on behalf of humanity, honesty, or careful planning.” In doing so, Jackson became the figurehead for a growing ideology of American imperialism, as our national borders expanded both literally and figuratively. Howe argues convincingly that the Jacksonian flavor of imperialism included not only territorial expansion, but a dissolution of the rule of law. Concepts such as treaties, property rights, or basic civil liberties were swept aside when it came to the forcible and violent relocation of Indian tribes from their land.

Jackson also gets taken to task for his assault on that pesky thorn in the side of ideologues everywhere: freedom of speech. Specifically, Jackson attempted to stifle the increasingly loud voices of abolitionists, whom he deemed “monsters.” He took action by using federal control of the postal system to hinder abolitionist material from being transported through the mail. Jackson also went further, instructing his postmaster general to publish the names of abolitionists guilty of “exciting the negroes to insurrection and to massacre.” These measures were met with mixed results, but regardless, Howe fulminates that restricting abolitionist material through the post quite possibly constituted “the largest peacetime violation of civil liberty in U.S. history.” Umm, Mr. Howe? Didn’t you just describe the violent removal of tens of thousands of people from their rightfully-owned property? Might that not constitute a bigger “peacetime violation of civil liberty”?

Big, bold statements such as these make What Hath God Wrought fun and refreshing, but Howe’s argumentation can sometimes stray into the realm of hyperbole. I appreciate the fact that he makes no bones about having an overt historiographical agenda, but it can lead to rather blatant side-taking. For instance, in Howe’s view, Jackson’s administration had a hand in causing the Panic of 1837: “Democrats blamed the banks. Whigs blamed Jackson.” Which side do you think Howe falls on? Thankfully, he doesn’t play coy: “There is more truth in the Whig argument.” Meanwhile, Howe spends ample time cheerleading the expansion of federally-funded internal improvements under John Quincy Adams (a Whig), but when that same federal funding for internal improvement soars even higher under Jackson, Howe dismisses the administration’s efforts as hypocritical, ad-hoc, and ambiguous.

In comparison to Jackson, Howe takes a decidedly rose-tinted view of the Whigs. Given his scholarly background as the author of The Political Culture of the American Whigs, this isn’t necessarily surprising. In Howe’s opinion, “the Whigs, though not the dominant party of their own time, were the party of America’s future.” He (rightfully) champions their role in connecting a disparate young collection of states and communities into an integrated whole. Howe even opens the “what-if” door to offer a brief glimpse into what might have been different had John Quincy Adams won the 1828 election instead of Andrew Jackson. Although he doesn’t come out and say it, Howe delicately insinuates that maybe, just maybe, an Adams administration could have pre-emptively prevented the Civil War: “[The Whigs'] strong central government would have held long-term potential for helping the peaceful resolution of the slavery problem…” I mean, come on…really? For that small segment of the American population interested in historiography (like myself), nuggets such as these contribute to the juicy platter of provocative scholarly interpretation that Howe serves up to his readers.

Howe’s romp through the historical period is done with a stylistic flair and easy grace that continously impressed me. In the hands of many writers, a three-decade survey of America would devolve into a yawn-inducing litany of dates, names, and events. Instead, Howe nimbly leaps from micro to macro across a dizzying geography, effortlessly mixing anecdotes, analysis, and arguments. His writing is evocative and unpretentious, allowing him to open a paragraph bluntly: “Then the whole thing blew up in the administration’s face,” and to end a chapter with a playful cliffhanger: “Why an abolitionist believed Texas annexation presented a moral crisis requires explanation.” The skill with which he crafts language allows him to show off his stunning grasp of the subject matter – a fantastic combination that contributes to his humble (tongue-in-cheek?) claim that “This book tells a story” – and, I might add, one told by a supremely skilled storyteller.

Separating from the Pack

May 14, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

Almost two years ago, I made the decision to go to graduate school. At the time I was basking in what could only be called a history nerd’s dream summer break, spending my workdays as an intern at the New-York Historical Society’s public programs department doing background research on professors and authors we could invite to give talks. While learning about traditional history occupied my days, learning about digital history began to occupy my evenings (at least when I wasn’t occupied with being a 21 year-old enjoying NYC). I had used GIS extensively the previous summer through a research project and had caught passing glimpses of the broader digital history universe, but I hadn’t fully explored it as a possibility for future study or (gasp) a future career. By the end of the summer, I had realized with a crystal-eyed clarity that digital history is what I wanted to “do” – in the airplane conversation sense of, “So, what do you do?”

By the time I began the actual application process, things had become even clearer, but certainly not easier. I loved history – I loved reading it, researching it, writing it, speaking it, teaching it. The idea that I could potentially spend my life doing these things made me embarrassingly giddy. At the same time, I was endlessly fascinated by the potential that lay in digital scholarship as an exciting frontier with seemingly limitless possibilities. When I sat down to my computer to start looking at schools, I began to feel the intense tug-of-war between these two impulses that would become a constant throughout the next nine months.

On the one side of the spectrum lay the traditional academic program, ivy-wrapped in prestige and brimming with names that fly off the jackets of some of my favorite books. On the other side lay the digital history program, sleekly packaged in technology and humming with voices that build the blogs and websites I trawl. On the one side, my college professors and the academic job market counseling me to apply to the very best schools I could. On the other side, my own geeky impulses were urging me to take a chance and apply somewhere new and different and exciting. I did my best to split the difference, and in the end, I was lucky enough to be accepted to a school with a fantastic combination of these two sides.

My experience led me to the conclusion that just as digital methodology is shifting the scholarly landscape of historical study, it is also altering the competitive landscape of the field. Schools are rapidly carving out digital niches for themselves, and this will prove increasingly attractive to successive waves of graduate applicants and job candidates. Most of these individuals will be reliant on accessing databases and articles online, many will be familiar with new forms of media and technology, and some will be interested in areas of visual design, data mining, or spatial analysis. However, if any of them were to ask their advisor or mentor for suggestions on programs that are strong in digital history, they’d likely hear a one-name (if any) reply: George Mason. Most advisors wouldn’t be able to point towards Nebraska-Lincoln or University of Virginia as digital history strongholds, the same way they would be able to point towards Duke and North Carolina for their strength in African-American history.

This will change. At first glance, the general structure will remain the same. “Top-tier” schools aren’t likely to start hemorrhaging applicants to less-established programs immediately. Innovative schools like UNL will continue to fight the persistent prestige-and-name-recognition battle. Nonetheless, subtler transformations will occur. Even five years ago, it would have been inconceivable that a school like George Mason (whose doctoral program has only been in existence for eight years) would be able to compete on an even footing for history applicants with a school like Stanford. Now, their success in establishing themselves as the dominant industry leader gives them an unparalleled advantage for anyone interested in digital history.

Even for schools on traditionally similar footing, an established track record of integrating new media can easily tip the scales in their favor. Much like special collections and on-campus archives, showing off a sparkling digital infrastructure will emerge as a “sexy” way to pull in both applicants and candidates. Wealthier schools may begin to invest in humanities computing centers and new kinds of software, even if for the simple goal of keeping pace with their competitors. The day is not far off when the mainstream academic history-verse buzzes with the news that an ivy-league school has “poached” a leading history professor in media and technology. Grant proposals for more applicable digital initiatives will cut out bigger slices from an expanding NEH pie.

The schools that will truly separate themselves from the pack, however, will be the ones that demonstrate their support for digital scholarship on an ideological level.  Those programs that establish a sustained committment to encourage, guide, and reward the members of their department (both faculty and students) for digital methodological inquiry will be the ones that will emerge in the best position to attract and train historians eager to tackle the technological opportunities inherent in today’s world.

The Mobile Historian

May 3, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

The rocketing ascent of mobile technology was one of the fundamental shifts of 2008, and many market analysts predict it will only continue throughout 2009. Its rise seems to be following a two-tracked progression: individuals in developing countries are latching onto increasingly affordable mobile phones as a way to log in to a wider network, while wealthier consumers fascinated by the ability to take their online experience on-the-go are snatching up smartphones at a shocking rate (to the point where the smartphone industry appears to be recession resistant). This environment creates an intriguing medium for historians to refine and improve their craft, and the time is ripe for innovation.

Some historians have been leading the charge in utilizing this technology. Bill Turkel has been a pioneer in applying new methods in place-based computing to the field of history. Meanwhile, the majority of similar efforts fall under the sphere of public history. Some museums have long been experimenting with “electronic curators,” or hand-held audio devices that emit information about an aspect of the exhibit depending on where its carrier is standing. Cultural heritage sites, particularly battlefields and/or national parks, have quickly recognized the potential for GPS-enabled devices that guide visitors through a site. Finally, some history educators are experimenting with ways to engage their students using portable technology, including fieldwork and visitations.

Dave Lester, of George Mason University’s CHNM, presented “Mobile Historical Landscapes: Exposing and Crowdsourcing Historical Landmarks” in early April at the American Association for History and Computing conference. Dave’s is currently working on a project called HistoryPlot to encourage user participation in exploring and contributing to a knowledge bank of historical places. The idea is that roving bands of history enthusiasts could visit sites, pull out their iPhone, learn about some of its history, and possibly add both information and multimedia to the site by snapping pictures and/or uploading content – creating a kind of Yelp for the historically-minded. Dave’s project draws upon two specific advantages: 1) the participatory culture of crowdsourcing, and 2) the increasing ubiquitousness of mobile technology

Dan Cohen recently explored the advantage of crowdsourcing when he posted a historical puzzle on his blog at the start of a presentation, which asked people to identify the following picture using minimal clues:

He simultaneously sent out the puzzle via Twitter by asking his 1,600 followers to try to solve it in the next hour. The speed with which Dan got answers was impressive, with an initial correct answer coming in 9 minutes. Although he admits he should have made the puzzle a bit more difficult, the process was successful in highlighting the immense advantages of crowdsourcing historical problems using a fluid and mobile platform such as Twitter.

The growth of a mobile culture in which users are constantly connected magnifies the power of crowdsourcing. Dan’s experiment rested on the assumption that a certain number of his followers would be online and checking their tweets, and enough of them would then be able to use the internet to access his blog, read the clue, and search for the answer online. Two or three years ago, the chances of receiving an answer in 9 minutes would be much, much slimmer. A mobile culture removes barriers to accessing information, and simultaneously increases users’ expectations for accessing that information, many of whom no longer tolerate being shackled by outlets, ethernet cords, or wireless signals.

Consequently, mobile technology is redefining our social conception of space and place, and this has corresponding ramifications for historians. It revisits the fundamental relationship between a physical location and what happened in the past within that space, a relationship with which spatial and geographic historians continuously grapple. This shift is opening up a two-way street for historical researchers. On the one hand, a mobile culture allows efforts such as Dave Lester’s to shed light on previously inaccessible areas. Suddenly, a historian researching a far-away site might be able to “travel” there by looking at uploaded pictures and documents, trading emails or tweets with other researchers who have visited the place, or watching the video of a history enthusiast on vacation at the site.

On the other hand, those shifting expectations that accompany a mobile culture can also turn themselves on historical researchers. A mobile society might question the reliability of a solitary historian writing abstractly about a place they have never actually been to. A constantly connected audience will start to expect the kind of intimate access and exploration that can only be gained from hands-on visitation. A readership conditioned to read reviews on Amazon or tourists’ travel blogs will increasingly dismiss the authority of a specialist who has never visited a location they describe, even if they are describing its past. Audiences will continue to tolerate a historian’s inability to time-travel; they will not continue to tolerate an inability to place-travel.

Fortunately, mobile technology can also create a mobile historian. Imagine a historian writing about shifting gender roles on the Oklahoma Chickasaw reservation during the Dust Bowl. Armed with a laptop, digital camera, and smartphone, the historian can travel to Oklahoma and go to the reservation itself. Once there, traditional archival research is greatly enhanced by technology. Instead of lugging around 3×5 index cards, Zotero can speed up and digitize the note-taking process. The digital camera can capture documents for later perusal, allowing them to find more sources in a shorter amount of time. Is the researcher suddenly curious about gender demographics for a particular town near the reservation, or wants to understand the background to a religious ceremony referenced in a court record? They can use their smartphone to look up census data or send out queries to colleagues likely receive a rapid answer to their question.

Leaving the archives, the historian can dip into oral history by interviewing locals and recording their memories on the smartphone or digital recorder. The smartphone’s GPS capabilities allow him or her to not only locate the homes of the interviewees, but to flag and mark locations to look for spatial patterns at a later date – what if all the traditional “male” venues on a reservation were located on a specific street, while “female” venues were spread over a greater area? The GPS ability of a smartphone can capture these on-the-ground patterns. Finally, the mobile historian can quickly send out updates on their progress, receiving feedback and suggestions from a remote crowd of like-minded researchers, students, assistants, or colleagues.

Mobile technology (like all technology) is not a magic pill that will suddenly transform the historical profession. There are certainly drawbacks. First and foremost exists a strong economic barrier to entry. Already struggling for travel stipends and fellowship money, many historians won’t be able to afford a brand-new iPhone or high-quality digital camera. Those who aren’t already comfortable with mobile technology will often feel overwhelmed or at an unfair disadvantage. On a more abstract level, technology and its inherent distractions can sometimes construct blinders to one of the most important advantages to visiting a place in person: the ability to feel the sense of place, to listen to the wind and hear the accents and taste the food, a decidedly fuzzy process that adds crucial depth and richness to the historian’s understanding of their subject.

As technology itself becomes more refined and more sophisticated, the possibilities for innovation and exploration will continue to expand. As with any new methodology, the traditional skills and strengths of a historian will not fade into obsolescence. Instead, they’ll be ever more critical to the process of responsibly incorporating new techniques and approaches into the broader historical fold. If this process is even moderately successful, the future of the mobile historian appears bright.

Chesapeake and Ohio Canal

April 20, 2009 by Cameron Blevins

At 3AM on April 25, 2009, I will join several hundred other participants and attempt to walk 100 kilometers (62 miles) in one day along the C&O Canal towpath, from Georgetown, D.C. to Harper’s Ferry, West Virgina. To mentally prepare for this foolhardy attempt, I thought I’d briefly walk through the canal’s history.

Courtesy of the NPS

The canal’s history as a functional transport artery is something of a prolonged tragedy. The story begins, like most tragedies, with a seemingly idyllic birthright: the canal was first championed by none other than George Washington, who also, it should be remembered, championed such things as non-partisanship, presidential term limits, and the United States of America. Apparently in his younger years, George was something of a canal enthusiast, going so far as to introduce a 1774 bill in the Virginia legislature to construct canals around obstacles in the Potomac River. Even in his presidency, George continued to lobby hard for a canal extending from the nation’s capitol and viewed it as a critical piece of his broader vision for consolidating national cohesion and opening up commerce and communications with the west:

‘”Extend the inland navigation of the eastern waters; communicate them as near as possible with those which run westward; open these to the Ohio; open also such as extend from the Ohio towards Lake Erie; and we shall not only draw the produce of the western settlers, but the peltry and fur trade of the lakes also, to our ports: thus adding an immense increase to our exports, and binding those people to us by a chain which never can be broken.’”

From Memoirs of De Witt Clinton, transcribed by Bill Carr

Armed with the ringing endorsement of one America’s most hagiograph-ied figures, the future C&O Canal looked destined to join the ranks of Route 66, the Union Pacific Railroad, and, yes, the Erie Canal, in the annals of transportation lore. By the 1820’s, a perfect storm brewed. The case for the C&O Canal was buoyed by the lucrative success of its northern cousin. Proposed in 1808 and beginning construction in 1817, the Erie Canal took little time to start turning a profit as toll revenues poured in from already-completed sections. The Canal had a profound effect on the region and country, establishing New York City as the nation’s premiere commercial center and acting as a poster child for the infrastructure boom of the 1820’s.

The Erie Canal

Digging a little deeper (pun intended) however, revealed fundamental weaknesses underlying the C&O Canal’s prospects to follow in the Erie’s footsteps. Construction began in 1828, as John Quincy Adams dug the first spadeful of earth. Fittingly for the canal, his attempt at ceremonial ground-breaking met with an unforeseen obstacle:

“It happened that at first stroke of the spade it met immediately under the surface with a large stump of tree after repeating the stroke three or four times without making any impression threw off my coat and resuming the spade, raised a shovel full of the earth at which a general shout broke forth from the surrounding multitude and I completed my address which occupied about fifteen minutes.”

John Quincy Adams

JQA Diary, number 36, 1 January 1825-30 September 1830, page 21

Beginning with this nearly-bungled case of presidential midwifery, it was all downhill from there. Five years after its construction, the canal had only progressed 60 miles, and was not yet fully operational. In hindsight, beginning construction on a canal in 1828 was poor timing. The meteoric pace of internal improvements during this period may have spurred the impetus for building the canal, but also created an infrastructure bubble that left it open to significant competition and unrealistic expectations.

In particular, the canal found itself embroiled with the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad over land-use rights along the Potomac. Although the two sides settled their dispute, the legal wrangling was symptomatic of the canal’s slow-going construction and never-ending obstacles. The B&O Railroad, which began construction on the same day as the C&O Canal, progressed far smoother, and provided a significant advantage to its clients in speed of transport. The C&O finally reached Cumberland, Maryland (linking it to the National Road) and promptly ceased construction. The B&O Railroad completed the all-important link to the Ohio River in West Virginia in 1852, usurping the canal’s purpose and rendering the slow-moving waterway somewhat moot. Which is why the B&O Railroad, instead of the C&O Canal, garnered eternal fame as a one of Monopoly’s prized properties:

B&O Railroad

The canal remained nominally operational until 1924, when a catastrophic flood wreaked havoc on the transport system, and  in 1938 the canal was sold to the federal government. By the 1950’s, in the wake of another national transportation boom, Congress entertained the idea of paving over the canal to build a scenic road for automobiles. Fortunately for canal lovers, Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas assumed the mantle of George Washington to become the canal’s next great champion in Washington.

In an impassioned letter to the Washington Post in 1954, the nature-loving Douglas channeled his inner John Muir when he wrote, “It is a refuge, a place of retreat, a long stretch of quiet and peace at the Capitol’s back door – a wilderness area where we can commune with God and with nature, a place not yet marred by the roar of wheels and the sound of horns.” He then threw down the gauntlet as only a tree-hugging Supreme Court Justice of the 1950’s could do: by challenging proponents of paving the canal to walk its entire 184.5 miles with Douglas as their guide.

Perhaps to Douglas’s surprise, his challenge was not only accepted, but snowballed into a media spectacle. Fifty-seven people joined him on March 20, 1954 to begin hiking the trail. Although only nine of them finished the eight-day hike (many were discouraged by a snowstorm on the second day of the trip), Douglas’s expedition garnered national attention, as flocks of reporters interviewed the justice and his hikers, and onlookers showered the walkers with cheers and food. By the conclusion of the hiking circus, public support had swung towards preserving the C&O Canal.

The C&O Canal Expedition

The C&O Canal Expedition

The publicity stunt ended up saving the canal, and in 1971 the federal government designated the C&O Canal a National Historic Park. Today the canal remains a popular get-away for D.C.-area residents, who can walk, bike, jog, kayak, or in Douglas’s words (if they are in a particularly spiritual mood), “commune with God and with nature.” When plodding along the canal on Saturday, I will try to remember a poem stanza composed by Douglas’s hikers while on trail:

The knees are slowly playing out
The arches start to drop;
If we had John Brown’s body here,
We’d like to make a swap.

William "Keep Your Hands Off My Canal" Douglas