As a teenager in the 1960s, I would sit with my father while he watched The Twentieth Century, a documentary TV show, narrated by Walter Cronkite, that focused on key moments of the preceding decades. In my recollection, there were a lot of episodes about World War II, or as everyone then called it, "The War." My father, who did not watch much TV, would be riveted. I realize now that he (born in 1912) was watching the events of his life as history.
This takes a bit of getting used to.
The first time I was aware that events of my youth had passed into history was the day in 2000 when I took my daughters to the Smithsonian, and we walked through an exhibit about First Ladies. There was Jackie Kennedy in one of her famous outfits. Wait. What? This is museum fare?
Of course, I should have realized that Jack and Jackie were now historical figures. Very few people in my workplace had any memory of JFK. Indeed, when John F. Kennedy Jr. died in a plane crash in 1999, the young people in my office looked blank - I could see them thinking, why is this a big deal? They didn't remember him saluting his father's casket.
Yes, when I gave it some thought on that day in The Smithsonian, I realized it had been nearly 40 years since Jackie had left the White House. Still, she and Jack had been the first First Couple I had been really aware of.
Is there a moment when life becomes history? Is there a magic number of years? 20? 30? 50? Is 9/11 history? In a world where the 24/7 news cycle chews up and spits out stories before we have a chance to process them, is yesterday's news history?
And if yesterday's news is history, how will future historians sort out what is important and true about this moment in time when anyone (including yours truly) can place anything into the stream of data that passes endlessly before our eyes? Who will determine what was real and what wasn't? Is a flood of postings any more reliable a guide in piecing together the past than ancient artifacts? I begin to seriously doubt it.
Our books and movies and periodicals and postings notwithstanding, all we ever really have is our own experience. (And even that may not be as reliable as we like to think.) So, may we pay attention to what we experience in our lives, and enjoy and/or fix what we can while we are here, knowing that the light we shine to guide the next generation will fade, and trusting those who follow to pick through, and make the best of, what we leave behind.
May their memories be long, their wisdom plentiful, and their history eventful in the most positive possible way.
I thought of this a a while back when Ken Burns' documentary about the Vietnam war began to unfold on television.* I thought of it again when my husband and I went to see The Post, the Spielberg extravaganza about the Pentagon Papers. And, before that, there was Selma. The events of my life now qualify as history. (Hell, the Beatles are now very ancient history.)
This takes a bit of getting used to.
The first time I was aware that events of my youth had passed into history was the day in 2000 when I took my daughters to the Smithsonian, and we walked through an exhibit about First Ladies. There was Jackie Kennedy in one of her famous outfits. Wait. What? This is museum fare?
Of course, I should have realized that Jack and Jackie were now historical figures. Very few people in my workplace had any memory of JFK. Indeed, when John F. Kennedy Jr. died in a plane crash in 1999, the young people in my office looked blank - I could see them thinking, why is this a big deal? They didn't remember him saluting his father's casket.
Yes, when I gave it some thought on that day in The Smithsonian, I realized it had been nearly 40 years since Jackie had left the White House. Still, she and Jack had been the first First Couple I had been really aware of.
When we are young, everything is immediate. We are the world. A minute later, another generation is stepping forward, and they don't remember - didn't even experience - the events that shaped our lives. My mother's memories of WWII were as real to her as the lines on the back of her hands, but those memories were no more accessible to me than her mother's memories of WWI were to her.
Is there a moment when life becomes history? Is there a magic number of years? 20? 30? 50? Is 9/11 history? In a world where the 24/7 news cycle chews up and spits out stories before we have a chance to process them, is yesterday's news history?
And if yesterday's news is history, how will future historians sort out what is important and true about this moment in time when anyone (including yours truly) can place anything into the stream of data that passes endlessly before our eyes? Who will determine what was real and what wasn't? Is a flood of postings any more reliable a guide in piecing together the past than ancient artifacts? I begin to seriously doubt it.
Our books and movies and periodicals and postings notwithstanding, all we ever really have is our own experience. (And even that may not be as reliable as we like to think.) So, may we pay attention to what we experience in our lives, and enjoy and/or fix what we can while we are here, knowing that the light we shine to guide the next generation will fade, and trusting those who follow to pick through, and make the best of, what we leave behind.
May their memories be long, their wisdom plentiful, and their history eventful in the most positive possible way.
* I couldn't bring myself to watch the Vietnam documentary. It was hard enough to live through that time.
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