Stop Saving History

I Call Them... "Foldables"!

Welcome to my podcast. My professional development session. My keynote address. My #edreform movement. My next book.

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, everything sucked before I got here – especially how we teach history. All social studies-related education since time immemorial has been taught badly, usually by caricaturized coaches (whose good names we’ll implicitly besmirch throughout today’s presentation). They recited nothing but long lists of disconnected facts, usually in hours of monotone delivery, and demanded you memorize several hundred miscellaneous dates and the names of all dead white men – mostly warriors, kings, and presidents. When visuals were utilized, they were on transparencies, using the same overhead projectors they presumably received on their fifth birthdays when first chosen to haunt the living in this particular fashion.

They only assigned two things – infinite vocabulary lists or questions at the end of the chapter. On good weeks, though, you’d get a documentary on Friday. It usually involved an actual film projector so it could make that cool ‘rakkikikikikikikikik’ sound the entire time.

But no longer – I am here to save history and history education. I will speak of women, and individuals of color, heretofore unknown in all of publishing or pedagogy. I will tell of the ‘common man’ and hypnotize you with my colorful storytelling, a concept ne’er before dreamt of since before Horace Mann first established the Kingdom of Public Schooling. I will then engage you with what I call “activities” – you will speak to one another, and discuss multiple possible responses to open-ended questions, pausing only temporarily to weep with appreciative joy at what I’ve brought to your day. Finally, you will regurgitate – nay, reveal! – what you’ve learned through various multimedia projects, slathered in terms like “real audience,” “digital natives,” and, of course, “coding is the future.”

I hope you’re not overly disoriented – I realize the level of #amazeballs I’m about to bring can be a bit daunting at first.

Do I sound bitter? More than usual, I mean?

Anyone? Anyone? Maybe I am, a little. I just can’t take one more podcast intro, one more author’s forward, one more introductory activity built around the assertion that prior to about 2017, all public education – particularly in subjects related to history – ran pretty much as portrayed in your typical 1980s teen comedy. (Bueller? Bueller?)

I just don’t think that’s true. Sure, there were boring history teachers – boring everything teachers – just as there probably are now, although I think we oversell their prevalence. I’ve encountered a few rather dry specimens over the years, and even a very stereotypical coach or two. But they’re not the norm, and I’m not sure they ever were. I think we tend to recall our public school years through crud-colored glasses, mostly because we’ve been told to so often.

In the same way your memory of an event will gradually evolve to fit the way you tell it over the years, I respectfully suggest we’ve been told the same few lies about public schools – then as much as now – often enough that we’ve started to buy into the clichés. Unless we stop and question it, at least with ourselves, we become one more purveyor of the same sort of shibboleth – thoughtless, foundationless folderol of the sort we mock when we recognize it from others.

“I don’t see color…” (Oh dear god, you poor dear – how are you with age, gender, or object permanence?)

“I don’t vote for the party, I vote for the person…” (That’s adorable. Yes, you’re totally above the rest of us, mere slaves to whatever single initial appears parenthetically on the ballot. I wasn’t even aware there were specific people running!)

“Deep down inside, people are all the same…” (Yeah, that’s why we all understand one another and get along so well – especially across cultures and throughout time. Maybe your history teacher did suck…)

“We don’t really watch much TV…” (Just keep telling yourself that; besides, those 47 hours a week on Facebook and YouTube are mostly educational, right?)

“History isn’t boring; history teachers are boring. Especially in high school. Damned coaches.” (We seem to have come full circle.)

I call bullsh*t. Totally and loudly. I’ve simply sat in too many classrooms, had too many discussions at too many conferences, to buy this even a little. And it’s not just the current generation – many of them got into teaching because of the passion and creativity their teachers brought to everything they did. And yet, when people tell me about it, they always couch it in how lucky they were to have that one capable, energetic teacher alive in 1962, or in the entire state of Iowa, or whatever. Even their own personal real-life experiences have been relegated to the “What are the CHANCES?!” bin thanks to the power of the “History Normally Sucks” narrative.

Stop. Saving. History.(Perhaps it should provide me some sense of continuity that the same basic phenomenon infects discussions of modern education policy, as the vast majority of people are quite happy with their child’s school and their kid’s teachers but remain nevertheless convinced that public education as a whole must still be a disaster.)

I’m glad you’re moving past “Great Man” history. I’m thankful you’re incorporating critical thinking or student movement or kinetic technological STEAM-worship or whatever. Yay for telling good stories in memorable ways. I genuinely love your podcast – for totes realsies – and I appreciate your professional development ideas. I might even buy your book. You know much that I don’t and have so many great ideas, all of which I’m ready to hear. 

But for the sake of all that is true, can we try a different launching pad than the conjured up corpse of history-education-ala-days-gone-by? You’re doing such a great job bringing historical figures and events to life, giving them personality and providing us with interesting context and perspective. Why do to the pedagogy of the past what you’re so effectively fighting against in regards to everything else?

Do keep going with the rest of it, though. Please. There’s enough history and enough ways to teach it that we’re unlikely to run out of content or tire of finding new ways to think about it. I’m sorry I got all snippy there for a bit – it’s just kind of a sore spot for me. Please, carry one with what you were saying after the annoying part. I for one, can’t wait to hear more.

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Authors vs. Ideas

In November of 2017, Tyler Seguin’s name started popping up in hockey news headlines. That in and of itself is not so unusual; he’s a marquee player for the Dallas Stars and a damned pretty man. These headlines, however, were not about his on-ice skill or make-your-gate-swing-the-other-way smile…

Tyler Headline 1
They weren’t all quite that blunt….

Tyler Headline 2 
You get the idea. So what had he said?

An ESPN reporter was doing a piece on the different languages spoken in NHL locker rooms. Most players managed something relatively diplomatic, others were insightful and well-spoken. Not so much my man Tyler:

“Guys always talk in different languages. Sometimes you just put your foot down. We’re in North America, we’re not going to have a team of cliques.”

Maybe not his best moment. He sounds so… American. (He’s not – Seguin is from Ontario. The one in Canada. Where millions of folks speak French.)

He wasn’t the only player to give an arguably “tone deaf” response, but his comments drew the biggest backlash. Then someone noticed that only a few months before, USA Today and the Boston Globe had both done pieces on the Boston Bruins, each citing the approach of team captain Zdeno Chara about such things:

“Bruins captain Zdeno Chara has a strict rule that every player, no matter where they’re from, needs to speak English in the locker room and on the ice.”

“Nine languages are spoken in the Bruins locker room: English, French, German, Slovak, Czech, Serbian, Russian, Finnish, and Swedish. And that doesn’t even count the Italian that defenseman Zdeno Chara – who can speak six languages – is learning for fun through Rosetta Stone… To make the communication go smoothly, to make sure no one is left out, there is only one universal language in the locker room. That’s English.”

“Chara recalled Anton Volchenkov, a teammate with Ottawa who now plays for the Devils. Volchenkov came to the NHL from Moscow. He was a nice guy, Chara said, willing to do whatever was needed. But he couldn’t speak English, and he struggled to fit in… ‘It really comes down to how much you want it. If you really want to stay, if you really want to learn, then you do whatever it takes – take lessons or hire a tutor or whatever that might be.’”

And yet… no outrage. No criticisms. If anything, both pieces sang the praises of the Bruins’ locker room dynamics and of Chara in particular.

Why? What was the difference?

There are a few obvious things. While the gist of each comment was the same, Chara’s presentation was far more diplomatic. The bit about speaking English was part of a larger context about building team dynamics and the importance of mutual respect. Seguin’s comments came across as petty – maybe even snippy. They were part of a series of quotes about potential language problems among teammates.

Zdeno Chara is TallZooming out a bit, Chara is from Slovakia and speaks seven languages. He’d been in the NHL for twenty years at the time of the interview, over half of it with the Bruins, and he’s one of the most respected players in the game, on and off the ice. He still has the slightest bit of an accent, and while his most defining visual feature is that he’s about nine-and-a-half feet tall, you also can’t help but notice that he’s, you know… ethnic.

Seguin is tall, but in a normal-hockey-player kinda way. Between those smirking eyes and slightly-too-trendy beard, he looks, smiles, and struts like the bad boy for whom Rory Gilmore and her ilk will forever dump the earnest, dedicated lad who’d have otherwise loved them forever. Seguin had been in the league for about seven years at that point. He’d started with the Bruins (he and Chara won a Stanley Cup together) but was traded to Dallas amidst rumors of a party-boy lifestyle and lack of perceived commitment to the team, despite his elite skills. He’s also about as Caucasian as it’s possible to be without actually donning a MAGA cap and sidearm.

The point is, sources matter. What we know about a speaker, writer, or creator, shapes how we understand what they say, write, or create. Point of view – ours and our understanding of theirs – is everything.

“In order to stabilize the world population, we must eliminate 350,000 people per day. It is a horrible thing to say, but it is just as bad not to say it.”

Something from a younger, less-ambitious Thanos? Or maybe Al Gore during his failed Presidential bid, highlighting how out-of-touch he could be with that depressing environmental fixation of his? What if I told you it was actually St. Augustine, the revered Christian apologist, writing over a thousand years ago? Or Nelson Mandela? Or Barry Goldwater? Would it matter if it were Pope Francis or Hitler?

If you say the source doesn’t matter to how we read or react to something – that it’s secondary to a work’s quality or an idea’s merits, you’re lying. Or delusional. Maybe both. And you know I’m right because I’m the most reliable, entertaining, and profound source you’re reading at the moment.

It was Jacques Cousteau. If you’re over the age of forty, you just thought to yourself, “Oh, yeah – that explains it.” If under, it was probably closer to, “Who?”

“Words build bridges into unexplored regions.”

That one was Hitler, although it’s arguably taken out of context. It doesn’t make the statement false, but it sure changes the likelihood you’re going to use in on your next motivational poster, doesn’t it? (Then again, some very fine people on both sides, amiright?)

This sort of thing matters when we’re reading primary documents in history, and sometimes even when we’re using secondary sources. Author always matters, whether to better understand intent or more clearly analyze meaning. But it also matters when someone is trying to persuade us of something – maybe even more so.

“The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” (Thomas Jefferson)

That one’s a favorite of militia members and gun nuts. It was on Timothy McVeigh’s t-shirt when he blew up the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995. It carries a punch it would lack if the author were, say, William Wallace, or even Thomas Paine. Jefferson was a Founding Father. He wrote the Declaration of Independence. He was a President, for gosh golly’s sake!

But understanding Jefferson means accepting his love of rhetorical flair over objective accuracy: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, and are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness…” is a marvelous statement of ideals, but hardly suitable as a practical foundation for statutory law. And in that same Declaration, Jefferson justifies revolution itself – “That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government…” It’s a powerful sentiment, but are you OK with your child’s high school history teacher promoting it as a practical solution to the Trump administration or a seemingly corrupt, inept Congress?

Broken ClockIdeas and words matter, all by themselves – absolutely. Books, music, art, fast food – I don’t always need to know the motivations and political ideologies behind every song I crank up or every chicken sandwich I grab from drive-thru. But let’s be honest with ourselves about the extent to which author and context shape our understanding or opinions when we’re not feeling particularly analytical or cautious. Our favorite person in the world might occasionally be an idiot, while someone of whom we’re not personally a fan may from time to time speak great wisdom.
 
Whether or not English should be spoken in the locker room is not an exclusive function of the degree to which Tyler Seguin sounded like a tool or Zdeno Chara came across as a great guy. It’s an issue which no doubt involves a range of factors, interwoven and no doubt varying widely from situation to situation. In other words, it’s not a simple ‘yes/no’ issue.

I respectfully suggest we tread lightly when judging education policy, teaching style, grading policies, discipline guidelines, and pretty much everything else in our weird little world. There are many likeable, well-spoken people whose ideas aren’t right for your kids – maybe not for anyone’s kids. Knowing a bit about who they are and what they want can go a long way towards helping us see past the shiny, tingly stuff they bring.

Brett KavanaughBeyond that, there are some iffy people in our world saying and doing things which aren’t always horrible. I, for one, keep stumbling across recent legal opinions by Justice Kavanaugh with which I substantially agree – despite cringing a bit at the internal dissonance which results. And just last month, a student sent me a Ben Shapiro video in which he said TWO ENTIRE THINGS which weren’t horrifying or insane.

I know, right?

Sometimes our favorites are wrong, and sometimes the most annoying people have questions or insights we’d do well to consider – even if they present them in the most tone deaf or irritating ways. Besides, there may be hope for them.

Speaking of which, Dallas has been good for Tyler. He’s a dedicated team player, plugged in with the community, active with charity work, and has a last-guy-off-the-ice work ethic. I don’t know his innermost being, but he seems like a decent enough fellow, despite his comments on language barriers.

Besides, he’s still SO pretty.

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Cursive, Foiled Again! (Repost)

NOTE: This post originally ran in February 2016. I came across it recently and thought I’d give it another spin.

Joy Cursive

A few weeks ago, State Superintendent of Public Instruction Joy Hofmeister tweeted something about cursive being part of the revised ELA standards. Being me, I responded semi-snarkily about Morse code or quill pens or such. It was friendly, but I was oddly annoyed in a way I wasn’t quite ready to confess.

Joy being Joy, her response was diplomatic and included links to relevant research. In the exchange, I also somehow managed to antagonize a number of dyslexia advocates (er… they’re not advocating FOR dyslexia – you know what I mean), so… I let it go. 

Conflict wasn’t my goal, for once. I like Joy, and some of my best friends are, um… dyslexic, I guess. 

But… why did I even care? What was up with that? And then I remembered. All of it.   

I graduated from high school in 1985 completely unprepared for the academic and personal expectations of a legitimate university. I was ‘smart’ enough, but immature and underexposed to challenge. My high school’s “Honors” program was mostly a few pull-out sessions a week in which we did brain teasers and ‘leadership skills.’ I wasn’t exposed to anything like AP or IB until I was actually teaching, many years later. 

I dropped out of the University of Tulsa after five semesters, having failed a number of classes and lost most of my academic and other scholarships for lack of… doing much. 

It was over a decade before I went back. By that time I was married (which wasn’t going particularly well), had two small children, and had realized that neither my band nor my job were going to make me rich, famous, or fulfilled. In short, my life kinda sucked.

In the midst of this madness, my then-wife said something for which I am still thankful all these years later. “You should consider teaching. You’re already full of ****, so most people love you, and you tell a pretty good story as long as it doesn’t have to be accurate or appropriate. Why don’t you teach history?”

I didn’t have any better ideas, and what better way to offset my own bad choices and misery than bringing down as many others as possible? Ruining young lives, 153 at a time!

Best decision of my life. 

Still working almost full time, taking out ridiculous loans I could never repay, two small children at home with a decent mother but unhappy spouse, I returned to school.  

Initially, I was rather… discouraged by the caliber of people on the introductory education path. Dear god, no wonder schools were in such trouble. What was I doing?

Over time, however, those initial masses were culled a bit and things weren’t so awful. I hated the theory and the touchy-feely stuff, but I loved the history – despite those classes being particularly difficult for me. I knew so little about… anything. 

Two and a half years of full-time school, work, kids, rocky marriage, no money, smothering in-laws, and personal dysfunction. There were some great individuals and good moments, but I messed up more than I didn’t. I was slightly above average academically, but a train wreck at life skills and direction.

And yet, I made it. 

I graduated with a respectable GPA, given how I’d begun all those years before. I met the best people and earned the right honors, and was becoming potentially useful to the universe. 

Time to take the state test. The big, scary, ‘teacher certification’ exam.

Everything from this point forward is colored by emotional memory. For those of you who are facty thinkers, please understand that for some of us, REALITY is a series of EXPERIENCES which may or may not exactly correspond with purely objective recall. 

I can’t swear to the details, but I am certain as to the version forever burned into my psyche.

The test back then was big and comprehensive and scary. I remember trying to study from Oklahoma History textbooks while glazing over in disinterest, and cramming on World Cultures and Economics about which I still knew next-to-nothing, barring a few interesting centuries in Europe and how to effectively juggle overdraft fees.

As to the pedagogy and touchy-feely, well… I’d just have to fake it as best I could. As my first wife had suggested, I was fairly gifted at being “full of ****.” 

I arrived at the testing center nervous, but ready to dive in. I remember a locker for my personal belongings, and some guidelines I had to read. Then came the clipboard.

“Read and copy the following certification of something or other IN YOUR OWN HANDWRITING and sign and date at the bottom.” I hadn’t planned on this – a long list of formalities I’d have to copy in a foreign script before I’d even be allowed to begin the actual test. 

The timed test. The one determining if the past two-and-a-half years of my life had been worth it. The one potentially ruining everything. The one I was already worried about, despite weeks of stressful preparation. The one for whom the clock was already ticking. 

I hadn’t written in cursive since elementary school. I could read it, but I can listen to others play the piano without being able to reproduce the process. I’d printed – efficiently – throughout high school, retail, and college. I’d long-since stopped even thinking about it.  

I walked nervously to the desk and asked the lady… see, I don’t… could I…? 

No. Those were the rules. That was the system. 

So I started laboriously trying to copy this… this… required certification. In my memory it’s easily a page long, but I don’t know how technically true that was. 

I do know that at 30 years of age, with two kids at home and a wife who didn’t like me much but who’d devoted two-and-a-half years to getting me through school, after leaving a good-paying job (which, granted, I hated), I was shaking. The frustration, and helplessness, and anger, and… how stupid I felt. 

SO stupid. What was I thinking – that I was going to change the world? I couldn’t even copy the $%@&ing certification. Angry stupid. Impotent stupid. It overrode rational thought. 

Twenty years later, I’ve handled worse without it killing me. It seems melodramatic in retrospect. But at the time, it felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me. It took me forever to get through, and I don’t even remember the rest of the day or the actual testing. 

I was telling my (new, hopefully permanent) wife about this after the Twitter exchange referenced above, and the emotions from that day ambushed me, rather unfairly. I nearly lost my suave – weird, given that I hadn’t thought much about it in the nearly twenty years since. 

There’s a lesson here about assessment and whether we’re actually measuring what we claim – no one warned me that working with teenagers hinged on my ability to write cursive under pressure. 

There’s probably a ‘grit’ lesson of some sort as well – I mean, I finally copied the damn thing in some butchered version and took the actual certification tests. I even passed – to the chagrin of my poor students each year. 

Mostly, though, it’s just a horrible memory that still stirs up things I don’t like to think about and feelings I don’t like to feel – helpless, stupid, angry things which I try to channel a bit more productively these days. 

None of which Joy Hofmeister could possibly know, and for which she can certainly not be held responsible. She wasn’t Superintendent then – she probably wasn’t even through high school yet.  

So… sorry I was snippy. Hope I hid it well. I promise, though, that I won’t argue about cursive anymore. It turns out I have a few lingering… issues on that subject. 

Not that anyone could ever tell.

Tiananmen Square (“Have To” History)

Stuff You Don’t Really Want To Know (But For Some Reason Have To) About Tiananmen Square

Three Big Things:

Tiananmen Square Protests1. In 1989, Tiananmen Square, Beijing, was one of many sites across China where citizens marched, chanted, and otherwise protested government corruption; they demanded reforms and protection of basic human rights.

2. Government response was brutal, especially at Tiananmen Square; foreign reporters and photographers managed to smuggle out stories and media of the Chinese military abusing and executing protestors.

3. One especially poignant video (and the still photo encapsulating it) shows an unknown individual waving his arms at a tank, then climbing up and shouting at the operators before being rushed off by equally unknown figures. This individual has since been remembered as “Tank Man.”

Background

By June of 1989, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) had been in power for forty years, following decades of civil war against the Kuomintang (KMT), or Nationalist Party. The People’s Republic of China (PRC) was declared in 1949 with Mao Zedong as its unquestioned first-among-equals; he ran the nation in ways both brutal and strange.

The KMT, led by Mao’s nemesis Chiang Kai-Shek, retreated to Taiwan, where they established China Classic, and remained (in the eyes of the west) the officially recognized government until 1971. Despite being virulently anti-Communist, the KMT weren’t exactly “good guys” in this tale. Taiwan was under martial law for nearly forty years, led by a government in perpetual paranoia over potential spies or Commie sympathizers. In 1971, the United Nations finally relented to reality and gave the KMT’s seat to the PRC.

Within a few short years, China Major – the big, red part we all know and love today – went from a “Cultural Revolution” in which anyone insufficiently excited about Chairman Mao’s “Little Red Book” was assaulted, humiliated, or simply made to vanish, to welcoming President Nixon and celebrating the “thawing” of relations with the west. For the next few decades, the U.S. and China took turns pretending to care about basic human rights while building a complex and mutually profitable relationship. China purchased a bunch of America’s debt and allowed U.S. industries partial access to one of the world’s largest markets, while the U.S. became a massive importer of Chinese goods and created an endless supply of movies for them to illegally copy. For better or worse, the two became (and remain) inseparably bound. 

China craved economic growth and global legitimacy, seeking the ideal mix of market forces and “Chinese Socialism” while reclaiming some of their historic status in the eyes of the rest of the world. They loosened their grip on the little people, hoping they’d behave on their own if they knew what was good for them, and even wrote themselves a new constitution, adopted in 1982. It was super-socialist, to be sure, but also rather ambitious in terms of protecting personal liberties.

And Then 1989 Happened

Tiananmen SquareOn April 15th, 1989, a popular politician by the name of Hu Yaobang died (he was 73 and had a heart attack – nothing nefarious). Hu was rebellious and relatively progressive, popular with idealists and college students – the Bernie Sanders of his day. Students and others took to the streets to mourn his passing, which inevitably transitioned into rather blunt criticism towards those still alive and in power. Soon their demonstrations became protests – against corruption, against the party’s mistreatment of Hu, and whatever else came to mind along the way. And they spread.

Government response was inconsistent. Sometimes the powers-that-be power cracked down; other times, they seemed open to discussions. Protestors were unpredictable as well. It’s complicated enough to be clear what you’re against; far trickier to consistently project what you’re for. There were hunger strikes, rallies, some violence, and lots of yelling.

Always with the yelling, those protestors.

By June 4th, the government had had enough. After several strong editorials warning the masses to wrap it up and get on with their carefully managed lives, troops were sent in to disperse the protestors. Sometimes they made arrests, other times they simply fired into the crowds. This was not, however, a tense situation which somehow erupted into violence; this was methodical military action carried out according to orders from above.

Tanks then rolled into Tiananmen Square – site of one of the largest demonstrations. Protestors who refused to move or who simply couldn’t get out of the way were rolled over – several reports say multiple times, so their remains could be literally hosed into the sewers rather than taken away and buried. Clearly China was sending a message about just how seriously all of this new “freedom” was to be taken – and they were willing to sacrifice their own citizens and a certain amount of reputation in the eyes of the world in order to do it.

The official death toll was 200 – 300. The Red Cross estimated 2,700. Recent memos between British and U.S. officials suggest an alarmingly specific 10,454 – dead at the hands of their own government.

China did attempt some damage control with the international press. Reporters had their equipment seized, their hotel rooms trashed, and their well-being threatened over the words and images they were determined to send back to their respective outlets. But It turns out that pesky liberal media can be quite heroic sometimes, no matter what flavor of corrupt, arrogant power tries to shut them down. So… go free press, and all that.
That is why – against all odds – we have images like this:

Tank Man
 
“Tank Man”

It’s not at all clear who this was. He may have been a 19-year old student named Wang Weilin, or maybe not. He was eventually pulled away – but by whom? Government agents? Sympathetic protestors trying to protect him? He may have been imprisoned, tortured, or killed, or he may have simply faded into obscurity and gone on with his life. We’ll probably never know.

Here’s what we do know. He had absolutely no reason to think those tanks were going to stop.

They hadn’t, the day before. As he stood there defiantly, he could hear the gunshots and screams of other protestors paying for their defiance. It’s not clear where he came from or how he ended up alone in Tiananmen Square, facing off with destruction, but he quickly became an international symbol of… something. Defiance, maybe. Or freedom. Human rights, or perhaps the entire Tiananmen Square protest and resulting crackdown. To some extent, what his action symbolized is in the eye of the beholder. We’re certainly unlikely to ever know what he thought it meant.

Aftermath

“Tank Man” didn’t stop the tanks. We can’t reasonably connect his actions to the saving of any lives. At best, he slowed down one segment of a long, complex series of horrors for about five minutes.

Nothing changed in China’s policies, tactics, or narrative as a result of the protests, either, in Tiananmen Square or anywhere else. All references to the event are scrubbed from Chinese internet searches and prohibited in all Chinese sources. If “Tank Man” lived past his asymmetrical showdown, it’s extremely unlikely he had any idea that his actions had been viewed or discussed by anyone not there that day. Even if he’s alive and well today somewhere in China, odds are he has no idea that he’s an iconic photograph or world history talking point.

China quickly moved on, as if the massacre never happened. In 2001, they joined the World Trade Organization. In 2008, they hosted the Olympics. Their economy continues to grow steadily in the 21st century, and at times China appears ready to play nice with the rest of the world.

Other times, not so much.

Human rights abuses are still a substantial concern, but in the modern age of omnipresent news, never-ending tragedy, and ubiquitous corruption, the rest of the world is far less focused on specific problems – in China or anywhere else – than we perhaps used to be. Besides, most of the nations who’d have once taken issue with such things are making quite a bit of money from their relationship with China – as a customer, a supplier, or merely an open door to foreign investments and corporate expansion.

Still, the name “Tiananmen Square” and the image of “Tank Man” still resonate decades later, clearly speaking to something in our collective human experience. Such intangibles, however, are the purview of psychology, sociology, or maybe even mythology. In terms of history, the protests happened, then were removed. The fate of “Tank Man” we simply don’t know, and probably never will.

“Have To” History: The Xhosa Cattle-Killing Movement (1856 – 1857)

Three Big Things:

1. The Xhosa were a South African people threatened by European encroachment beginning in the 17th century.

2. In 1856, a young Xhosa girl encountered two supernatural strangers who told her a time of renewal was coming but must be preceded by the slaughter of their existing cattle and crops.

3. The resulting Cattle-Killing Movement left the Xhosa destitute and divided against themselves. Over a century and a half later, they remain one of South Africa’s poorest demographics.

Background

Xhosa MapThe Xhosa were (and are) a major cultural group from the Eastern Cape. The land was fertile and there were plenty of fresh water sources for their cattle – which, as it turns out, were rather important to them. Like the Zulu, they were descended from the Bantu who centuries before had migrated from the northwest. Xhosa is still one of the most-spoken languages in Africa, and the native tongue of Nelson Mandela, Bishop Desmond Tutu, and the Black Panther.

The community unit was the “district,” made of extended family “homesteads.” Each district was led by a chief whose power was balanced by the expectation he would guide and protect the district. The chiefs answered to a Xhosa king, to whom they were usually related in some way, and whose power – like theirs – was contingent on perceptions of his success.

Manipulations of or by evil spirits were thought to be the source of all sorts of trouble by the Xhosa. Illness, poor crops, natural disasters – witchcraft was always a suspect. It didn’t have to be the immediate source; merely tolerating it, whatever its form, led to disasters. Fortunately, family ancestors properly honored acted as good spirits, offering guidance how to refute the evil. One of the most common ways was through sacrifice. A variety of animals were used, but by far the most sacred were cattle.

Cattle were everything to the Xhosa. They were sustenance – milk and meat – as well as a source of hides, tools, fuel, and fertilizer. They were also currency – the central unit of value understood by all. They indicated status and they purchased wives. Minor crimes could be forgiven for what we’d think of as a small “fine,” generally paid to the chief in the form of – you guessed it – cattle.

Conflict & Crises

Armed BoersSince the mid-17th century, the Xhosa, like the rest of Southern Africa, had been forced to accommodate European settlers on the Cape – first the Dutch, then the British. The Dutch Boers were especially problematic. Staunch Calvinists, they believed themselves quite literally chosen by God and rarely hesitated to transgress on Xhosa territory. In turn, the Xhosa raided Boer settlements for (what else?) cattle, and hostilities erupted regularly.

Since 1779, the Xhosa had been engaged in hostilities with the Boer and the British – sometimes united, sometimes separately. Historians divide this century into nine distinct wars, the eighth of which lasted from 1850 – 1853 and primarily involved the British. It was rooted in ugliness on both sides, but one interesting element was a Xhosa prophet who predicted the tribe would be completely unaffected by the colonists’ bullets. 

He was incorrect. It was the most devastating loss of the century for the Xhosa.

In 1854, “lungsickness” began spreading through the Xhosa cattle. It was brought from Europe by Boer ranchers looking to improve their herds with imported stock. The disease decimated Xhosa herds, leaving the community hungry, destitute, and looking for answers. What they were certain of was that their physical suffering reflected a commensurate spiritual corruption on the part of those responsible.

The Prophecy

Nongqawuse was a 15-year old Xhosa girl whose uncle, Mhlakaza, was a respected diviner and advisor to King Sarhili. In April 1856, Nongqawuse and a friend walked to the banks of the Gxarha River, near the Indian Ocean, to scare away birds who sometimes threatened family crops there. It was an area of indescribable natural beauty – the river, the ocean, farmland, bushes, and cliffs, making it something of an Eden in otherwise dark times for the Xhosa.

There, the girls met two strangers who claimed to be ancestor-spirits and proceeded to explain that the Xhosa dead would soon rise and a new era of supernatural prosperity would begin. They were to tell their people to abandon all forms of witchcraft, incest, and adultery, and begin preparing enclosures for the many new cattle about to appear and fields for the bountiful crops about to spring forth.

They would, of course, first have to destroy all existing crops and cattle to make way for this renewal. They were contaminated anyway – corrupted, both literally and spiritually. For things to become new, the old must pass away. So, let’s go kill those cows. All of them.

Nongqawuse & FriendThe homestead was understandably hesitant to embrace this revelation, so Mhlakaza returned with the girls to the site of the visitation. The strangers would only communicate through Nongqawuse (which perhaps should have been a red flag) but Mhlakaza was nonetheless convinced one of the spirits was, in fact, his deceased brother, and embraced the prophecy wholeheartedly. Mhlakaza sent word to the other chiefs, and soon the entire nation was talking. Even King Sarhili sent trusted family members to investigate; soon he, too, was officially a believer.

Reactions across the kingdom were mixed; some embraced it immediately, eager to bring about a newer, better world. Others rejected it entirely, declaring it foolish to destroy an already inadequate source of sustenance. Most were somewhere in between, not wanting to commit wholeheartedly to such extremism, but afraid to anger the ancestors or incur censure from the community. Perhaps not surprisingly, districts hit the hardest by lungsickness, or who’d recently lost land to white encroachment, tended to more readily embrace the call to radical action.

Muddy Waters & Collapse

In the twelve months preceding Nongqawuse’s revelation, there had been multiple prophecies involving a “black nation across the sea” who would soon be coming to the aid of the Xhosa. In preparation, their messengers declared, the Xhosa should destroy their fields and kill their cattle, then prepare for newer, better crops and livestock.                                                 

Sound familiar?

These prophecies referred to the Russians, then currently engaged in the Crimean War against the British and others, and who were thought to be both supernatural and black-skinned by much of South Africa. Nongqawuse’s vision, which implied the removal of Brits and Boers but never mentioned them directly, renewed interests in these prior predictions, bringing an explicitly anti-white tone to the discussion by association.

As the months dragged on without the dead rising or the cattle returning, adherents to Cattle-Killing began blaming non-believers for the failure of the prophecy, sometimes killing their cattle and destroying the crops clandestinely to help speed the renewal. Other Xhosa had sold their cattle in order to avoid looking like non-believers, but this, too, was betrayal, since appropriate sacrificial rituals were essential to the purification required.

The more evident it became that renewal was not forthcoming, the more committed and dogmatic the faithful became – a tragic pattern in these sorts of things. Even if the entire community had reversed course, however, it was too late for any real hope of recovery. They had simply destroyed too much of the foundational elements of their way of life – arable land and healthy cattle.

In February 1857, King Sarhili met with Nongqawuse and Mhalakaza at the site of the original vision, where they spoke privately for a long (but unspecified) amount of time. He then announced that the promised New World would begin in exactly eight days, with a blood-red sunrise and a massive storm, during which only the homes of true believers would remain standing and the colonizers would return to the sea. Finally, the dead would begin rising, the crops begin growing, and the new and improved cattle return.

Sarhili’s proclamation prompted a final week-long spasm of crop destruction and cattle-slaughter, until the eighth day arrived. It was a normal sunrise, and the weather was mild.

Aftermath

Xhosa Cattle-Killing

Reactions to Nongqawuse’s cattle-killing prophecy fragmented not only districts, but homesteads and families. In the resulting destitution, something in the neighborhood of 40,000 Xhosa died of starvation, illness, and related violence. The British-controlled Cape began offering assistance to Xhosa willing to move to the colony under special labor contracts. They had to agree to work anywhere in the colony for whatever amount of money was offered in order to receive food, medical care, or other relief. The Boer, on the other hand, had little use for such subtleties and simply continued enslaving or killing the Xhosa as circumstances allowed.

The Eastern Cape never fully recovered. Today, “Nongqawuse” is a byword – brought up whenever someone’s ideas are considered especially foolish or destructive. The destruction visited on the Xhosa by what they perceived as the white man’s God convinced many they should try to get on his good side instead. In 1850, there were almost no self-identified Christians among the Xhosa; a century later it was the area’s majority faith.

It’s easy to paint the Cattle-Killing Movement as self-destructive, but that over-simplifies the dynamics and the desperation of those involved. Many mainstream belief systems promote narratives in which sacrifice and apparent foolishness lead to spiritual (and sometimes temporal) victory. Jesus had an opportunity to establish an earthly kingdom but chose death on a cross in exchange for something longer-term. Gandhi protested British imperialism with a Salt March, at the end of which he and his followers were severely beaten – but which changed British policy. Obi Wan fell before Darth Vader, warning him that “if you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine”; he came back as a hologram who could no longer be blamed for subsequent plots.

The whole nature of faith is that you don’t actually know that what you’re doing will work. The “God-Worshippers” were taking part in the Taiping Rebellion at almost the same time the Xhosa were killing their cattle. The “Ghost Dance” Movement of the Plains Amerindians and the Boxer Rebellion were a half-century later. Even today there are evangelicals thrilled at their perception that President Donald Trump is hastening the end of the world through his foreign policy choices, believing that imminent destruction for the rest of us means a new and better plane of existence for them, the chosen few.

Right or wrong, radical faith like that of the cattle-killing Xhosa was an act of defiance and hope when less-extreme measures had proven inadequate. That it didn’t work – at least by our mortal standards – makes it no less true.