An Unusually Hot Decade

Perhaps the most notable thing to happen in Baltimore during the decade spanning 1900-1910 was the Great Baltimore Fire of 1904. Starting near what is today Camden Yards and scorching much of the city’s downtown businesses west of the Jones Falls river, the event led to sweeping reforms of Baltimores decaying urban infrastructure. Despite the widespread destruction, Hollins Market was spared. In fact, the Hollins Market Hall building briefly served as home to the Maryland Institute College of Art, which lost its home campus building of just over 50 years in the ruinous blaze. The Baltimore Sun reported on the generous offering of the Hall to the Maryland Institute, saying: “[t]he city authorities canceled other events and placed at our disposal Hollins Market Hall.”(1) As late as October of 1905, almost a year and a half to the date of the fire, night classes for Maryland Institute were still being held at the market.

Not withstanding the tumultuous Great Baltimore Fire and the subsequent collectively massive city wide rebuilding effort, local and national politics in Baltimore during the decade were also quite divisive and lively. In several instances, the Hollins Market Hall served as the setting for several often polemic discussions and debates on issues where which were happening across the nation.

At the center of it was race and suffrage. Maryland had been a solidly Democratic state since 1868, following the demographic trends of other “Southern” States prior to and after the Civil War. Prior to 1896, the state had elected a Democrat to the governorship in every cycle. This was despite Baltimore City having the country’s largest free black population since, a voting bloc that generally favored Republicans. In 1896, this changed when a Republican Lloyd Lowndes Jr. became the first ever Republican governor of Maryland. That same year, Marylanders voted for Republican President William McKinley for the first time in over 30 years. Lowndes and his fellow Republicans had courted the black vote and, owing in part to their success in doing do and general gains in black voter enfranchisement, they were rewarded with the state house and the presidency.

With the re-election of McKinley in 1900, many Maryland Democrats began openly expressing their contempt for the Republicans and what they viewed as the “ignorant negro suffrage” that had lost them political control (2). A Baltimore Sun editorial summed up this sentiment several years later by saying:

“We all remember the increase in lawlessness and disorder amongst the negroes when the Republicans were in power from 1896 to 1900.”(3)

One Annapolis man was much more blunt on the subject, saying:

Give the negro money for his vote at the polls, fill him with beer, whiskey, morphine and cocaine, with his disposition and temperament, low mentality, animal passions and instincts, you have an animal to deal with more savage than any beast this country is accursed with (4).

By the end of the decade, Maryland Democrats had gone so far as to support passage of a suffrage amendment to the constitution which would enfranchise white women voters at the expense of offsetting the votes of black African Americans that had helped tip the presidency. This of course was contingent upon suffrage being extended to only white women, leading one Maryland Democratic women to write in to the Baltimore Sun in 1909 with a rather sadly ironic question:

“I have just been told that if ever we women are given the right to vote in this State, unless the proposed amendment to the Constitution is passed all colored women will get the same right. Is this true? If it is, instead of being in favor of womens suffrage, which I have been for years, I shall strongly be opposed to it. Please let me know, for such a thought of a colored woman having the right to vote has never occurred to me before.”(5)

Although the Amendment ultimately failed, Maryland had returned to Democratic control by 1900 and would remain throughout the decade. However, against the backdrop of this politically vitriolic decade, Hollins Market Hall was an important setting for local Republican politicians looking to convince Baltimore African American male voters to remain loyal to the party. As early as 1907, Maryland Republicans like ex-congressman Charles Schirm held rallies at the hall to drum up support from the “black corner” of the Hollins Market Hall. In one particularly paternalistic stump speech, Schirm is quoted as saying:

“Some of you thought you were not being treated right…The Democrats asked you to come over to them and they would give you succor. Possibly you remember that when you gentlemen drew away from the Republican Lloyd Lowndes went down to defeat…We may not not give you all that you want, my friends. But what we do give you is protection.”(6)

The above stories are undoubtedly only a sampling of the many other stories which must have taken place at Hollins Market. It was my intention to show how Hollins Market Hall in the first decade of the twentieth century was a dynamic building set in an even more dynamic time in American history. One that could simultaneously serve as a temporary home for an academic institution displaced by fire to a racially charged political assembly hall for Baltimore Republicans. Further investigation of the building during this period would undoubtedly yield even more fascinating discoveries.

1. “ITS HISTORY AND WORK.” The Sun (1837-1992), Jan 02, 1905.

2. “PROMISES THE NEGROES “PROTECTION.”.” The Sun (1837-1992), Oct 26, 1907.

3. TOCSIN. “THE SUFFRAGE AMENDMENT.” The Sun (1837-1992), May 25, 1905.

4. Worthington, J. M. “FROM THE PEOPLE.” The Sun (1837-1992), Apr 19, 1909.

5. A, B. M. “The Suffrage Amendment and the Woman Suffrage.” The Sun (1837-1992), Sep 22, 1909.

6. “NEGROES THEIR TOPIC.” The Sun (1837-1992), Oct 25, 1907.

It started at a bar in Baltimore…

Right now I’m having this weird flashback to last semester when I was in the Digital Public History course. I had decided over the winter break of 2016-17 (almost a year to the day) that I wanted to switch my degree concentration to Public History. I had gone out for a drink one night around Christmas weekend and ran into, through a mutual friend, a lady named Anita Durel. Her and her husband had co-founded this organization called Qm2. Qm2 is basically a consulting firm that helps museums in particular to better connect with their audiences and manage their bottom lines. They are pretty successful at it too. I remember Anita telling me, in between a few deep slogs of her dirty martini,  how they had recently worked with a group in Paris, and were planning the logistics for a trip to some museum in South Africa. One thing lead to another and before long we started talking about me pursuing my degree at UMBC.

Anita was admittedly a bit drunk. But what most stuck out to me in the conversation (from what I can remember) is her telling me that I had to do public history if I wanted to make any money the field of history. She basically told me what quite a few people have told me since, that the field had become way too over saturated with Ph.Ds and there was no place to put them. Academic historians were basically a dime a dozen and I shouldn’t count on being secured a job if I went down that path. It really resonated with me. It was really the first time that someone had gotten really real with me about my future in the field and what I was doing right now to prepare for it.  I actually emailed Dr. Ritschel the next day asking if I could switch my concentration. He put me in touch with Dr. Meringolo, and the rest as they say (pun very much intended) is history.

I signed up for Digital Public History in the upcoming Spring semester.

If I’m going to be honest, I had no idea what Public History was. I had gone to NCPHs website and gotten a run down:

“NCPH inspires public engagement with the past and serves the needs of practitioners in putting history to work in the world by building community among historians, expanding professional skills and tools, fostering critical reflection on historical practice, and publicly advocating for history and historians.”

Sounds simple enough, right? What I thought then was that public historians are really the front line of history. They interface directly with the public, rather than secluding themselves in the safety of the ivory tower of the university. Thats really all I thought it was. We talk to the everyday public, and they (academics) talk to other academics or students.

This actually sounded really appealing to me because part of what I was interested in doing with my degree was helping middle class white people to better understand housing disparities in urban and suburban space through the lens of history. Seemed simple enough, and it also seemed to accommodate this mildly activist tinge that I have always felt I needed to express somehow in my professional life.

As I mentioned earlier, I took a bit of a backwards path for the Public History tract at UMBC. I had already taken digital public history, and my internship before taking the intro class. I remember well sitting in the first digital history class last spring and thinking “what the hell are we talking about right?” I don’t think I said a single word the whole class. To be honest, I don’t think I said a single word in the first three classes. I don’t even remember much of those first couple of classes outside of registering my reclaim site and reading a few documents about reconciliation projects like the Greensboro Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

What I do remember very well is how much emphasis, no matter what example or case study we were reading about, was placed on sensitivity and thorough consideration of every variable. That is to to say that we must try to consider every way infinitesimal in which we (the public historian) might not be fully accounting for every perspective that needed to be included, or how we might be being insensitive to the variety of concerns within a community whom we are working with. One similar example from this semester came from the article on Scotts Bluff where there was this really obvious push and pull between how to fit the story of the monument within the schematic of the National Park Service at the Federal level, and how to accommodate the desires for tourism and profits of the local community within that frame work. Barber writes how the “…locals resisted ceding complete control of the site to the government, even as they pursued and profited by the national recognition it had brought them.” (Barber, “Local Places, National Spaces: Public Memory, Community Identity, and Landscape at Scotts Bluff National Monument,” Page 38.) How do you balance this?

It was dizzying to be honest, and it seemed at times a hopeless struggle. The more I thought about, my idealistic desire to educate white suburban homeowners about the policies and profound cultural discourses that had shaped their realities seemed not so easy, or even advisable. At the end of the day, you are always going to piss someone off, or hurt someone else. Throughout it all I remember Dr. M continuously driving home the point that is more than ok to come into your project wanting to interpret for your audience, in fact you need to interpret. Don’t be afraid to have a perspective. But how to do this in a sensitive and throughly considerate way?

So fast forward back to now. Having successfully completed (I hope) 705, I must say that I now have a much more complex understanding of the public history field. One that is honestly still a bit fuzzier than I would like, but thats ok. I’ll come back to that point in a bit.

I do think I’ve learned (if not entirely) many skills. First would be how to tell a story that doesn’t sound overly preachy but also really only leaves the audience one way to understand the point you are trying to make. The final project for this class has brought me a long way from where I was when I started. I do think I picked up a great many nuanced lessons for how to tell a story in a way that balanced not being overtly interpretive but does rely on critical historical thinking.

There are many things I’m still struggling with though. Some of them get fleshed out a bit every week in the lectures, almost by accident. For instance, last class we started talking about maybe public historians should be required to receive instruction akin to social work, or some sort of empathy training. This really resonated with me and also kind of cleared up a misunderstandings I was having. Namely, is there a difference between what public history is generally and what I want to do within public history? Is the umbrella big enough for all our unique endeavors? For one,  I am very much interested in the idea of creating a safe space where ideas and beliefs over complex and controversial issues can be exchanged. It does seem strange to me as historians, especially public ones, we don’t receive some kind of specific training to this end.

Something else we talked about last week also kind of shook me a little bit (not in a bad way). Does there need to be any actual history in public history? This is a thought I have been having on and off throughout the semester, depending on the case study we were talking about. The recent example of the article on Monte Sol where the writer talks about how “Monte Sole has become a “place of memory”… [i]n building a Peace School at this place, we have sought to make its memory more than a monument.” (Baiesi, “Places of Memory as a Tool for Education: The “Peace in Four Voices Summer Camps” at Monte Sole” Page 29.) In this way, the history of place becomes a mere place setting for a discussion that ostensibly has nothing to do with the history of that actual place. So this can be public history too? It seems to me any social worker with a two page brochure on the history of Monte Sol could be qualified to work at this site.

This brings me back to why I’m fuzzy on public history and why I think that is ok. I think the most important thing I have learned is that at this point is to not expect perfection on any project, and to accept that at a certain point you have to just throw your hands up in the face of disillusionment and press forward. Every new experience brings a new challenge which leads to new growth. Public historians have a hard job, especially insofar as they aren’t even sure what their job is actually going to be or what it’s going to entail. Imagine showing up to your first day at work, thinking you are ready to get to it, and realizing “shit…I didn’t train for this. Is this my responsibility?”. We saw a lot of that notion in this weeks readings, which I wrote a good bit about for the discussion blog.

In closing, I will say I am excited to press forward. I still don’t fully know what public history is, or what I want to do within it, but I don’t think I’m at fault for not knowing. It’s an evolving thing that present new difficulties each time and new potential rewards in working through those challenges. After all, we are working with the public and the public is a highly complex, often disparate, undefinable, unclassifiable, sometimes hostile, sometimes jovial, confused, sad, maybe depressed, over-stimulated, medicated, ambitious, idealistic, arbitrary, and altogether frustrating clientele. Perhaps that is what ultimately makes the field of public history such a dubious one to fully define.

All that being said, I’m feeling pretty good with where I’m at and what I came up with for the final project. Furthermore, I must say that I’m glad I went out for a drink that night a year ago. I’m glad I sent the email to Dr. Ritschel the next morning. And I’m glad this semester is over. Now I’m going to go out again to the same bar and have a drink.

“We were really good at being graduate students, but now we don’t know what to do.”

Right out of the gate, my first question is does anyone else really identify with this statement? I know that I do.

Perhaps I’m just a bit hungover from this late-night binge of a Republican tax plan which is potentially going to significantly raise the taxes graduate assistants/students like myself will have to pay. Either way I’m really starting to feel a sense of impending doom as I careen headlong towards graduation and the ominous job market that lies beyond.

The report What Do Public History Employers Want? A Report of the Joint AASLH-AHA-NCPH-OAH Task Force on Public History Education and Employment, lays out a land mine laden laundry list of potential hazards for recent MA grads. Part time employment (if at all), low wages, no public funding, FUNDRAISING, over-saturation of recent graduates, private interests influencing your bottom-line, poor workplace conditions. It’s enough to make one seriously ask: Can’t I just stay in grad school forever?

Unfortunately the answer is NO. Lest you want to become paradoxically encumbered by “large student debts [and therefore] not be able to accept employment in public history because of financial constraints” (Report Page 9). Panic mood…now.

However, I must say I’m glad I read the four selections for this week in the order I did, so as to not lose all hope and despair for the future of the profession, and myself within it. The quote that this post derives its title from is Emily McEwens NCPH article “Out of the academy and into public service: Changing expectations and new measures of success”. Reading this one last at  gave me a sense that there is light at the end of that tunnel, albeit it may not be the same tunnel you initially thought you were in. Emily talks a lot about the transition out of the academic into the real career world of public history work, developing what she calls “Taking Care of Business” skills. This is a common theme I noticed throughout the selections. The idea that we all might need to really go into the field with an open mind for the kinds of skills we are actually going to need, or not necessarily need, in order to successfully make it out there. I really identified with the way she talked about re-evaluating her workplace performance beyond just an “academic understanding of success”. For a lot of us, I would imagine this is really going to be a wake up call.

However, one general observation/question I had about all of these readings was this: are they dated? If you watch the news, like I regrettably do too much of,  you would think we are in a relatively strong economic place from the depths of the Great Recession. Unemployment is down to record levels, hiring is up, jobs are going unfilled. The 2015 report What Do Public History Employers Want? mentions a lot of disconcerting issues facing the field as well as suggestions for how to counteract them. I kept asking myself if the prospects have changed at all for public historians since then? Is it easier now to find work? Has public history generally risen with the rest of the economy, or not?

Regardless of the answer, there were many things I found interesting/troubling in the report. Not least of which is an increased emphasis on the necessity of fundraising skills for public historians.  The report stated findings indicated that among the “five skills [public historian professionals] expect to be in highest demand in the future” (Report 2) , fundraising was atop the list. Not only does this sound personally distasteful to me, it also seems to have a lot potentially ethical consequences.  Is the field going to degenerate into some kind of lobbying endeavor? Who are we supposed to seek funds from that won’t conflict with our interpretational desires and obligations? How does the field remain empowered yet true if it is to be dependent upon constantly seeking out funds from private entities, many of which might want to influence the work we do? These are of course questions we have been grappling with all semester, but this report especially drove it home. That being said, I did take some solace in the fact that most public history professionals/employers still regard historical research ability and written/oral communication abilities as paramount for all M.As entering the job market.

Again, the most important takeaway/theme for me from both McEwen and the Report is “the need for historians entering the field to be adaptable, creative, and resourceful” (Report 6). I certainly take that point well. Especially considering that the internship I did over the summer had not so much to do with history, but rather public policy. I still had to rely on my writing abilities and communication abilities, both of which I have developed more fully since I’ve been in grad school. However I also relied on some of my personal travel experiences and connections in the arts/music world of Baltimore to facilitate  dialog and conversations with some of the individuals I had to interview. My point being, our tool kits are already much bigger than what we learn in class. Undoubtedly this realization will come in handy, and might even be a selling point to potential employers in the future as we move out into the world. Are there any skills you have right now that you could possibly anticipate, or not, that might be utilized in your career?

Generally speaking I do believe there is a home for all of us out there if we can just open up to potentials that are not necessarily in sight right now. McEwen talks about developing a new understanding of her work “serving the public”. This includes not just the interpretive work of the park site, but also the bureaucratic work of booking an event on the grounds or locating a lost pet for a visitor. All of this somehow can fall under the purview of “serving the public” in history since it all is cumulatively part of the visitor experience.

All above references from:

Philip Scarpino and Daniel Vivian. “What Do Public History Employers Want? A Report of the Joint AASLH-AHA-NCPH-OAH Task Force on Public History Education and Employment”.

Emily McEwen. “Out of the academy and into public service: Changing expectations and new measures of success”, National Council on Public History. May 4, 2016.


NPS: Best Idea Ever?

I’m just going to throw out a bunch of questions throughout this post because I’m honestly still having a hard time understanding many aspects of the form and function of the NPS. This post is a bit long and I apologize for that. Although by the end of it I hope I have somewhat laid out a way of understanding both, at least for myself.

I had a lot of thoughts while reading the selections for this week. My first thought was “Wow, I had no idea that the so many spaces and places fall under the National Park Service authority/umbrella”. My second thought was to question how on earth is it possible for all these spaces and places to fit under the NPS umbrella? My third thought was “wait…what is the actual mission of the NPS?”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but my previous understanding of the historical role of the NPS has been to directly, or indirectly, create and maintain some through-line American narrative by way of their process of curation? How is that doable with such a diverse range of places and spaces being represented by the same institution?

After this weeks readings. I honestly wasn’t sure about any of it.

So I went to the NPS website seeking some clarity. Under the Learn and Explore section, there is a bolded quote from Wallace Stenger in 1983. It reads:

“National parks are the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.”

I had to pause for a second: Is that in fact true?

I think it would be simple enough statement if NPS just limited itself to conserving natural spaces (Yellowstone, Yosemite etc.) which seemingly offer something for everyone to enjoy regardless of their personal background. Who wouldn’t be able to appreciate the awe-inspiring beauty of the Redwood forrest?

But the whole historic park/battlefields/monuments component throws me a bit. In the book Shaping Spaces, the author talks about the NPS criteria for inclusion: “Historical parks should be associated with persons, events, or themes of national importance; should encompass structures or features of great intrinsic or representational value”.(48) In other words, things that all Americans can find some kind of value in.

Ok, but what the hell does that mean? This seems an impossibly conflicted criterion to apply to any historical site. For example, one mans Monticello is another mans house of slavery. Where is the representational value? I doubt that that many Native Americans would see much representational value in a narrative that paints Scott’s Bluff monument as an historic lookout point for westbound settlers eyeing the expansive Indian lands they would soon take from them.

Ultimately I think I would take Stenger a bit to too task on his “best ever” assertion. However I do think there is an important part of that quote which does encapsulate why the NPS is a damn good idea, if not the “best”. That is its evolving and “absolutely democratic” nature.

In the text Shaping Systems, the author writes of the NPS guidelines, “Historical parks should be associated with persons, events, or themes of national importance”.(49) Yet a few paragraphs earlier the same text claims that “All national parklands are not created equal”. My takeaway from this honest, and somewhat confusing, appraisal of the history of the park system is that the only actual narrative that can serve as a through-line in American history is one of inequality. That and attempts to redress inequality through the democratic process.

Throughout our collective history, we have seen social movements rise up to try to claim some part of the American Dream and a place within the political power structure. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they fail. Although I would quantify success in this case as more or less momentary and hardly ever do these movement truly upend our national foundation. However, we all (mostly) hold on to those fleeting moments as markers for what it really means to be an American. Democracy in this sense is the idea that anyone should be able to have their voice heard, even if it’s a small voice.

Herein lies the “absolutely democratic” component of what I think Stenger was talking about in regards to the NPS: the dilemma of representation. I would argue that the NPS dilemma of representation is an analog to the larger dilemma of representation endemic in Americas history. For example, how do we balance representation from society’s more dominant elements with its weaker elements; majority versus minority; white versus black; federal versus local etc?

It seems to me the breadth of the NPS catalog, some 400 places, is an attempt to deal with this dilemma. This is of course just my opinion, but I would suggest that by making enough space underneath the NPS umbrella, the institution is able to accommodate enough histories and places so as to make it a balanced representation of our very diverse and often conflicted history. Some historic sites are of course more local and less noteworthy than others. But, from my perspective, that is sort of the point.

Along those lines the NPS, as an evolving democratic institution, is not immune to winds of social and political change. In Shaping Systems the author writes of how “[m]ore than a dozen National Park System units have lost that status following reappraisal of their significance.”(49) That is to say any site could have its moment in the sun, given the right circumstances. In reading Barbers article on Scotts Bluff I couldn’t help but see some analog to the many locally based grassroots social movements, like gay marriage, that have risen up to the national level only later to become part of what it actually means to be an American. What could be more democratic than that?

However, when is enough, enough? There has to be a line drawn somewhere on what sites finds their way into the NPS system, right? Furthermore, how much authority should the NPS cede to local communities in dictating the best ways for preserve and conserve? How much authority should it maintain? For example, based on your understanding of the reading on Susquehanna Valley Project, did the NPS cross the line between that local vs. federal balance of authority?

These are just a few of the many questions I’m still struggling with. However, I’ll end with Barbers article on Scott’s Bluff. In it she highlights the fascinating history behind the Nebraska monument that went from basically local scenic hangout, to national monument to Americas westward expansion, to public works program for a depressed community, to tourist attraction, and back again. She writes of how the local population was “connected much more directly to the physical place itself, as an extension of their community” and how they “resisted ceding complete control of the site to the government”.(38)

It seems to me, in this particular case, that they really couldn’t have it both ways. What do you think?

Sources: The National Parks: Shaping the System, Local Places, National Spaces: Public Memory, Community Identity, and Landscape at Scotts Bluff Historical Monument by Alicia Barber.

Reflecting On Ways to Create a More Empathic Understanding of the Uprising in Suburban Communities

It’s always been helpful for me to use the literary device of metaphor to understand history. Perhaps it’s just too alluring to try and distill some seemingly chaotic historic event into a more relatable and universally knowable context. Of course this doesn’t always work, nor is it always possible or appropriate. If metaphor is applied improperly or insensitively we run the risk of confusing our intentions, misleading our audience, or worse alienating the reader to the personal relevance of the history we are presenting them. However when done effectively metaphors can deepen our understanding of events, and create a profound sense of empathy and connection with the past.

To this point, I’ve been thinking a lot about the appropriateness of metaphor in contextualizing the Baltimore Uprising. Specifically the variations in how different populations perceived the same event in the context of their lives. For example, it might be helpful for some to think of the Uprising as metaphorically resembling a natural disaster, like an earthquake. We can think of the mechanics of a subduction zone and the seismic tension that builds up over centuries, eventually culminating in momentary massive releases of that tension, which in turn lead to physical destruction. In this respect, there are certainly some ostensible connections between the Uprising and an earthquake. For instance, one could easily argue that the violence that occurred in April 2015 was a singular release of tension that had been building for a generation amongst communities of color and police. However this is a problematic representation. For one, comparing the Uprising to a natural disaster negates the man-made factors which led directly to the Uprising. It also implies that there is nothing we can do change the situation.

Antero Pietilla’s Not in My Neighborhood, and the collaborative Baltimore Book, do an admirable job in highlighting the social preconditions for events like the Uprising, and implicating humans directly in creating those preconditions. However for all of its strengths, I found myself questioning how successfully these books reached beyond the receptive ears of academics, progressives, and urban residents to contextualize the event for the broader public. Again, the reasons metaphors can be effective tools in achieving this end is their ability to relate seemingly irrelevant events. Natural disasters are not discriminatory in their effects on populations, and hence function well metaphorically. They are a reality shared by all humans. The Uprising does not lend itself so easily to such qualification and therefore presents a unique challenge in how it is communicated by historians to the public. It is in this void that unfortunately the news media has a tendency to fill the public with sensationalized and ephemeral stories that overlook the true complexity of the event itself; covering the event much in the same way they would cover a hurricane or an earthquake. This media depiction in turn becomes the dominant narrative of the event which is received beyond the borders of the city, in suburban America. To me, this sets up an important question for historians as they tackle how to document the significance of the Uprising: what role can we play in creating a shared and empathic connection with the Uprising for communities outside of the city limits whose only real insight on the event is coming from the news cycle?

This brings me to some of the concerns I have with the other public history projects we have analyzed so far this semester. While I greatly admire the work done by Jessica Elfenbein for the ambitious Baltimore ’68 project, I also believe that the project perhaps underestimated its own sphere of potential influence. By emphasizing the importance of the project to the residents of Baltimore City, the project in some ways diminished its ability to connect the event to the surrounding regions. For example, given that so many whites fled the city in the aftermath of the riots, and that many of those same former residents still to this day mostly associate the city with legacies of African American crime, would it not be worth prying into how those associations are made and reinforced? In the context of the Uprising, I think we could similarly say that rural communities have taken little away from the event beyond a reaffirmation of the image of Baltimore as a dangerous place. It’s certainly worth it for historians to consider probing as to how this narrative has developed. While it is certainly important for us to help the communities most directly affected in remembering the Uprising in a critical and meaningful way, it is also important to not lose sight of how such projects can become detrimentally too tribal in focus and scope. Such projects could benefited from an increased effort in documenting how those far removed from the epicenter of the riots received and interpreted the events? Would that not help in understanding how social divisions are perpetuated? To this point, a central problem I have noticed is how events in the city seems completely inconsequential to those not living in the city, and vice versa. It seems to me that we ought to expand the focus of these kinds of projects to help create a more empathic connection between increasingly divergent social groups.

With all of this in mind, I would like to focus my project on how the Uprising was presented by the media, both regionally and nationally. The news media is certainly the most direct way that rural communities ingested and interpreted the events of that day, and therefore provides us as historians with a unique insight into the varieties of narratives these communities received during the Uprising. Specifically I would like to compare and contextualize these narratives within a more general discussion about how the perspective changes depending on who is presenting it, or the perceived audience. For example, why did some news outlets choose to focus more on looting and destruction versus protest marches and calls for peace from community leaders? What implicit messages can we glean from the boldface headlines circulating on the home pages of the major news outlets like CNN and FoxNews? Was there any mentioning of over-policing or systemic poverty, and if so which outlets adopted this narrative and which didn’t? How long did it take after the event for op-ed’s to appear which actually dug deeper into the systemic issues which led to the Uprising?

I’d also like to analyze whether any historical context was offered by the media during the event itself, and if so how it deviates from the histories we have been reading. I could see StoryMap being a useful tool to this end. My initial idea was to create a digital exhibit documenting the geographic locations actually covered on the various live news feeds throughout the day, and overlay selected excerpts of transcripts from the reporters themselves as they covered the event. I would then offer my own critique and analysis of those perspectives with an eye towards contextualizing their coverage within the historical legacies of segregation endemic to Baltimore. Ideally this exhibit would serve to complicate the one dimensional news media’s depiction of the Uprising, and allow viewers to have simultaneous access to a wider variety of narratives presented. I believe this exhibit could help to elucidate how impressions of the city are formed in suburban communities, and furthermore engage those communities in the processes of perpetuating prejudice. In this way, perhaps the exhibit could aid viewers in ceasing to look for simplified metaphorical understandings of highly complex events like the Baltimore Uprising.