Post by kriddle on Jul 15, 2022 14:04:09 GMT -5
Looking for any and all feedback - thank you in advance!
*******************
It’s not that I’m obsessed with the past. It’s more of a curiosity, and no, not the burning kind. The totally healthy kind. It’s an occupational hazard, really, assuming I one day succeed at obtaining the occupation of world-renowned history professor. And when I do, I’ll make sure my students understand the truth about history.
It’s not about memorizing dates: births, deaths, the onset of wars, the moment of the armistice. It’s not who conquered whom or who birthed whom or who married whom. Sure, that’s part of it. But there’s more.
Historians are detectives. Historians solve mysteries. Historians are more Sherlock Holmes than bookish nerd. They are Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, Alex Cross, Hercules Poirot, Miss Marple, Columbo, Mulder, Scully, and the cast of Scooby Doo all wrapped into one. The detective wants to know who committed the murder and the historian wants to know whether Queen Victoria shagged one of her servants. Both will develop a working hypothesis and both will search for clues.
Detective: fingerprints, blood
Historians: notes, diaries, letters
The two jobs are basically one and the same, which is why studying history is so fun.
It’s also why I’m staring, frozen with fear, at my email inbox.
“Just click on it,” Anna says from across the table with an air of frustration. I get the impression nothing scares Anna.
Me? Not so much. Super easily scared.
“I’m too nervous,” I explain, a statement of the overwhelmingly obvious.
“Do it!” She hisses, loud enough to attract a glare from a girl, a college student, two tables away. I put my finger to my lips to shush Anna before we get tossed. The silence is sole reason I choose to study in one of the many small libraries on the Carleton College campus. Some people, many apparently, are able concentrate in coffee shops, what with all the talking and the clanking and the music and the coffee-making hissing noises. Lucky for me, living in a college town provides another option: a seemingly endless array of small - and very silent - libraries. Today, I convinced Anna Markesian to join me in Carleton’s History Library while we work on our class group project. It may not have lattes but it has wood paneling. It also has a couple dozen huge oak tables with those old-timey lamps in the middle, the ones with the green glass top and the gold beaded cord you pull to turn them on. It also has floor-to-ceiling windows on the South and West sides, providing views of central campus and the creek.
Heaven, basically.
Anna agreed to join me here instead of a coffee shop because (a) I begged, and (b) our task today is mostly silent note-taking, and (c) her professor parents can give us access to a some of the books we might need. And indeed, we’ve been reading and taking notes using books we could only obtain here in this library. Very silent. Very productive.
Until my email arrived.
“Open it,” she whispers. “Or I’ll scream.”
*******************
It’s not that I’m obsessed with the past. It’s more of a curiosity, and no, not the burning kind. The totally healthy kind. It’s an occupational hazard, really, assuming I one day succeed at obtaining the occupation of world-renowned history professor. And when I do, I’ll make sure my students understand the truth about history.
It’s not about memorizing dates: births, deaths, the onset of wars, the moment of the armistice. It’s not who conquered whom or who birthed whom or who married whom. Sure, that’s part of it. But there’s more.
Historians are detectives. Historians solve mysteries. Historians are more Sherlock Holmes than bookish nerd. They are Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, Alex Cross, Hercules Poirot, Miss Marple, Columbo, Mulder, Scully, and the cast of Scooby Doo all wrapped into one. The detective wants to know who committed the murder and the historian wants to know whether Queen Victoria shagged one of her servants. Both will develop a working hypothesis and both will search for clues.
Detective: fingerprints, blood
Historians: notes, diaries, letters
The two jobs are basically one and the same, which is why studying history is so fun.
It’s also why I’m staring, frozen with fear, at my email inbox.
“Just click on it,” Anna says from across the table with an air of frustration. I get the impression nothing scares Anna.
Me? Not so much. Super easily scared.
“I’m too nervous,” I explain, a statement of the overwhelmingly obvious.
“Do it!” She hisses, loud enough to attract a glare from a girl, a college student, two tables away. I put my finger to my lips to shush Anna before we get tossed. The silence is sole reason I choose to study in one of the many small libraries on the Carleton College campus. Some people, many apparently, are able concentrate in coffee shops, what with all the talking and the clanking and the music and the coffee-making hissing noises. Lucky for me, living in a college town provides another option: a seemingly endless array of small - and very silent - libraries. Today, I convinced Anna Markesian to join me in Carleton’s History Library while we work on our class group project. It may not have lattes but it has wood paneling. It also has a couple dozen huge oak tables with those old-timey lamps in the middle, the ones with the green glass top and the gold beaded cord you pull to turn them on. It also has floor-to-ceiling windows on the South and West sides, providing views of central campus and the creek.
Heaven, basically.
Anna agreed to join me here instead of a coffee shop because (a) I begged, and (b) our task today is mostly silent note-taking, and (c) her professor parents can give us access to a some of the books we might need. And indeed, we’ve been reading and taking notes using books we could only obtain here in this library. Very silent. Very productive.
Until my email arrived.
“Open it,” she whispers. “Or I’ll scream.”
