Benjamin A. Railton's Blog, page 210

January 19-20, 2019: Spring Previews: Book Plans

[A new semester is upon us, and with it came a new Spring Preview series. Leading up to this special weekend post on book updates, plans, and hopes!]I was hoping to have a bit more information about the publication date for my next book, We the People: The 500-Year Battle over Who is an American (Rowman & Littlefield’s American Ways series), by this weekend’s post than I do. I believe it will come out sometime in the spring, but will keep you all posted on specifics as soon as I have them!In the meantime, I’ll reiterate what I said in that hyperlinked post: of all five of my books to date, this is the one for which I believe it’s most vital that I share it with as many audiences, communities, conversations as possible. I’ll thus be doing everything I can to find opportunities and connections for book talks, and would really appreciate any and all ideas and suggestions (whether specific or general, fully formed or preliminary) that you might have for such possibilities. Feel free to comment here or email me, and thanks so much in advance!Finally, one last optimistic (perhaps utopian) hope. To say that we’re in a divided moment is to significantly understate the case. Pretty much every public scholarly project seems to be received within that divided frame, seen as part of the 21stcentury’s culture war debates. And I know that arguing for an inclusive vision of America, in contrast with an exclusionary one, would seem to locate my book firmly within one side of such divisions and debates. But I would say the opposite: the exclusionary histories I highlight affect and implicate us all; we are all living in and with their legacies; and the inclusive alternatives on which my chapters focus offer inspiring American figures, stories, and texts that we all can and should embrace as the best of who and what we’ve been and can be. No, my book won’t speak to overt white supremacist bigots; but I still refuse to believe that’s more than a vocal and still too powerful minority of Americans, and I do believe and hope that this project can speak to the rest of us. One more reason I want to share it as widely as possible!Next series starts Monday,BenPS. Spring previews or plans of your own to share? I’d love to hear them!

January 18, 2019: Spring Previews: English Studies Capstone

[A new semester is upon us, and with it comes a new Spring Preview series. Leading up to a special weekend post on book updates, plans, and hopes!]On the possibility of flipping a classroom to address a problem (and a request for input!).I’ve taught our English Studies Senior Capstone course a number of times, and always enjoy the chance to work with the students in that distinct and particularly individualized setting. Through their work on their senior portfolios I get the chance to read much more of each student’s writing and work than I would in any other classroom contexts, and in so doing get a great introduction to not only each individual, but also and especially the breadth and depth of the work being produced by our talented English Studies Majors. And through their work on the class’s pre-professional materials (things like resumes/CVs, job cover letters/grad school personal statements, and the like) I get a chance to talk with them a lot about their future goals and plans, and hopefully to play a small role in helping them move into those next steps as successfully as possible. It’s just different from any other class I get to teach (other than the parallel Interdisciplinary Studies Capstone, which I’ve only taught once), and I greatly enjoy it every time I do.The last time I taught it, in Spring 2018, I enjoyed all those aspects just as much, but found that things didn’t work quite as well with the third element: the shared conversations, in which we move through units on each concentration in our English Studies program (Professional Writing, Literature, Secondary Education, and Theater) with focal texts to help drive our conversations. To be honest, I think the students didn’t quite see the value in those readings and conversations, at least not compared to the graduation requirement that is the senior portfolio and the clear practicality and productivity of the pre-professional materials; and I’ll admit that I didn’t identify this problem nearly soon enough to do a good job framing why this third element was also important and central to the Capstone work. They were English Studies Majors and strong students and voices to boot, so we had some good moments and discussions across those texts and units, but nonetheless this element of the class was definitely the least engaged and strong of the three, and honestly the least engaged and strong of any time I’ve taught Capstone.So as I get ready for my next section of Capstone, I’ve been thinking a lot about how to address that particular element and potential problem. Part of it, as usual, is just identifying the issue and being more forthright (with myself, with y’all here, and with the students in the class especially) about both it and the reasons for this element of the class. But I wonder if part of it might not be trying to figure out a way to flip the classroomwhen it comes to those conversations—to have them driven much more fully by the students and their interests and needs than by anything I might bring to the mix. Truth be told, though, I’m not at all sure about flipping, either in terms of how to do it or in terms of whether it’s a good thing to do. So I’m gonna stop this preview here and say that I’d love to hear any thoughts or takes on flipped classrooms, here in comments or by email or any other way! Thanks in advance!Special post this weekend,BenPS. Spring previews of your own to share? I’d love to hear them!

January 17, 2019: Spring Previews: The (Short) Short Story Online

[A new semester is upon us, and with it comes a new Spring Preview series. Leading up to a special weekend post on book updates, plans, and hopes!]On the newest twist in my evolving work teaching online. I’ve written a lot over the last couple years about the unique challenges and possibilities of teaching all-online classes, and they all remain true and central to that inescapable but fraught part of 21st century education. In previewing my next (fourth) online class, a second section of The Short Story, I won’t repeat those thoughts here, and will just say that I continue to think about them and as ever will keep you all posted as I do!However, this fourth online class is different from my prior three in a key way: it will be part of our new Online Accelerated Program, and so will run for only seven weeks between March and May (about half of the overall spring semester). That shift will certainly be easier with the Short Story class than it would be for example with the other course I’ve taught online so far, American Literature II: a survey class like that latter one depends on units and time periods and a chronological structure, whereas the Short Story class (as I teach it at least) is a collection of paired readings that introduce different literary elements, and so it’s been relatively easy to shorten that syllabus and still keep the core structure and goals in place. But nonetheless, cutting a class from 14-15 weeks to 7 is a significant change, and has affected not only the readings, but also the papers and other individual work like weekly Blackboard posts and honestly how I approach every aspect of the course.Online teaching is a matter of constant adjustments from in-person teaching, both big and small, and that’s what we sign up for when we do it and I’m not complaining. I also understand the appeal of and demand for accelerated online programs, since the whole goal of online education is to facilitate student completion of degrees in ways that work best for their schedules, situations, and lives. But at the same time, I would also argue that online teaching is already a set of compromises, shifts away from what we all recognize as the best practices in teaching (at least in a discipline like English) to accommodate those realities and demands. I’m willing to consider each such compromise on its own terms, and to see what I can do to respond to them in these particular classes (if I were ever asked to teach only online, I would leave the profession); I’ll do the same with this accelerated course and semester. But I wonder if it will be a bridge too far, and promise to report back on how the shortened class goes in my semester reflection series in May (!).Last preview tomorrow,BenPS. Spring previews of your own to share? I’d love to hear them!

January 16, 2019: Spring Previews: American Literature II

[A new semester is upon us, and with it comes a new Spring Preview series. Leading up to a special weekend post on book updates, plans, and hopes!]On three short texts I’m adding to my three main units/time periods in Am Lit II.1)      “A Sweatshop Romance” (1898): All of these additions originated out of an overall sense that I wasn’t including in each unit some of the histories and issues that I most wanted to; in a lit survey, if there aren’t texts that address those particular contexts, we aren’t likely to talk much about them. Abraham Cahan’s short story about Jewish American workers in a NYC sweatshop allows me to add three to my late 19th century unit: immigration histories, Jewish American histories, and labor histories. It’s also a funny and romantic short story, one that engages its readers while it asks them to consider those complicated and vital time period and American issues and histories. I look forward to hearing my students’ responses!2)      “In the Land of the Free” (1909): The Chinese Exclusion Act, its many aftermaths and effects, and Asian American communities and histories are also central parts of that late 19th century unit, of course. But they continued into the early 20th century to be sure, and so featuring a short story by the great Sui Sin Far in that middle unit makes perfect sense. I’ve written about “Free” and Far many times in many spaces, so here will just say that this particular story teaches extremely well and should be a great way to expand the meanings of early 20thcentury America and Modernist writing in my survey class. I look forward to hearing my students’ responses!3)      Excerpts from Citizen (2014): My Am Lit II class begins with a heavy emphasis on African American histories and stories, with the late 19th century unit’s two main texts (Huck Finn and Marrow of Tradition) as a key reason why. The middle unit likewise features Nella Larsen’s Quicksand and Passing as two of the three main texts, so that emphasis continues into unit two as well. So I suppose it stands to reason that my late 20th/early 21st century unit focuses on other voices, cultures, and histories, and I remain very happy with the two main texts (Ceremony and The Namesake) in that unit. But I don’t think we can talk about 21st century America without some serious discussion about African American texts and contexts, and excerpts from Claudia Rankine’s wonderful poem seems like a perfect way to do that. I look forward to—well, you get the idea.Next preview tomorrow,BenPS. Spring previews of your own to share? I’d love to hear them!

January 15, 2019: Spring Previews: Ethnic American Literature

[A new semester is upon us, and with it comes a new Spring Preview series. Leading up to a special weekend post on book updates, plans, and hopes!]On what’s always been and remains both complicated and crucial with my long-running class.I’ve been writing about my Ethnic American Literature class almost since I first taught it, in my first (Fall 2005) semester at Fitchburg State (when it was known by the well-intentioned but seriously problematic name “Other Voices”). Or, at least, since I recognized the significant problems with that first section (most of them due to my own lack of experience and failings, to be sure, but also connected to the complexities of teaching ethnic American lit I documented in that first hyperlinked article) and thoroughly reinvented the class for the second (Fall 2007) time I got to teach it. While some of the specific readings and assignments (and peripheral materials) have of course evolved in the eleven years since that second section, the basic syllabus and structure of the class have stayed the same, including the paired readings, the multi-generational family timeline and analysis project, and other core elements and details. Each of those elements brings its own challenges, many of them practical like how to navigate two long readings simultaneously (or at least concurrently) over the same three-week periods (this class has by far the most reading of any I teach, although I try from the start of the semester to make clear that students can and should focus on what most speaks to them and that we’re assembling our overall conversations about these paired texts collectively). But perhaps the greatest challenge in the class remains one I talked about in the first two hyperlinked articles above: the danger of generalizing about culture and identities, and the difficulty of contextualizing and/or challenging those generalizations given our limited time and multiple focal points. To name one example from my last section of the class: during our unit on Irish American texts, a student raised the historical myth of “Irish slaves” to directly critique the African American works and perspectives from the prior unit. Given that many FSU students have Irish heritage, and that many newer students are African American (including sizeable contingents of both cultural heritages in that particular section), this was an especially fraught moment, and one I couldn’t possibly do full justice to in this limited class time and conversation.I tried, though. I tried a bit on the spot, responding with some first thoughts on both that historical myth and the divisive and racist purposes it has served in our collective memories and narratives (without using those words, of course, so as not to critique or antagonize this student directly). And I tried even more at the start of the next class, presenting a five-minute mini-lesson on some of the real struggles of Irish Americans, some of the myths that have nonetheless been associated with that community, and how and why we can use texts and specifics to push beyond those broad and often inaccurate starting points and get into more nuanced and analytical conversations. And then we got back to those text-based conversations and the student voices and ideas. That class was in the Spring 2016 semester, and given all that has happened over the three years since I think it’s fair to say that discussions of ethnic American literature, history, identity, and community will be that much more fraught and charged in Spring 2019. Which is to say, I’m even more excited to teach this long-running and favorite class of mine this time around!Next preview tomorrow,BenPS. Spring previews of your own to share? I’d love to hear them!

January 14, 2019: Spring Previews: 20th Century African American Literature

[A new semester is upon us, and with it comes a new Spring Preview series. Leading up to a special weekend post on book updates, plans, and hopes!]On three books I’m excited to teach for the first time as part of this new (to me) course.1)      Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937): I may have taught Zora Neale Hurston’s magisterial novel as part of one of my first lit classes as a grad student at Temple University (nearly 20 years ago now), but who can remember back that far with any certainty? Not this AmericanStudier, and so this semester feels in any case like the first time teaching this great book. Interestingly, I’ve talked about Hurston’s book a good bit in recent years, as I use Richard Wright’s review of it to help frame our reading of his novel Native Son (1945) when we work with that book in my Major American Authors course. But that’s all the more reason to return to the source and teach Hurston’s book as well, on which I entirely disagree with Wright (while thinking Wright’s novel is well worth our time as well). Can’t wait to share Janie’s story with this class!2)      Invisible Man (1952): I know for a fact that I’ve never taught Ralph Ellison’s towering book, although I do use its stunning Prologue as a short reading at the end of my American Novel to 1950 class. I think that Prologue is a particularly unique and powerful section, but the novel that follows has plenty of amazing such individual moments and sections, as well as a cumulative representation of African American and American communities and cultures (past and present) that combines realism and symbolism, history and metaphor, in subtle and sweeping ways that demand close reading and conversation. It’ll be a challenge, but one I look forward to the class rising to meet!3)      The Underground Railroad (2017): Colson Whitehead’s acclaimed and amazing speculative historical novel is a book I’ve wanted to teach since I first read it, and I’m beyond excited to be ending the course with it. As I wrote in that last hyperlinked post, Whitehead’s book weds anachronistic and science fiction elements to realistic historical details and identities, producing a work that is at once unique and profoundly representative of African American literature and art, history and culture, tradition and change. I think it’s a perfect endpoint for a class like this (and the two-part 19th and 20th Century class sequence), and I can’t wait to hear the students’ thoughts on it, like all these books!Next preview tomorrow,BenPS. Spring previews of your own to share? I’d love to hear them!

January 12-13, 2019: Cuban American Literature

[January 7thmarks the 60thanniversary of Fidel Castro entering Havana to take over as Cuba’s prime minister—one begrudgingly recognized by a U.S. government that had opposed his revolution and would continue to oppose his rule. So this week I’ve AmericanStudied Cuban histories in relationship to the U.S.—leading up to this weekend post on literary works that can help us understand the island nation and ourselves!]On three recent Cuban American texts that complement and enrich our histories.1)      Fallen Angels Sing (1991): Novelist Omar Torres translated his own Spanish-language novel Apenas un Bolero (1981) into this English version. His first-person narrator Miguel Saavedra is a Cuban exile in the U.S. who becomes entangled in schemes both to assassinate Fidel Castro and to oppose such exiles and bolster the Castro regime. Saavedra’s increasing uncertainties about and separations from reality lend the novel a magical realism feel, but also reflect the liminal identity and experience of Cuban exiles in America, individuals and families who still feel part of their homeland (and live only a few miles away from it) and yet exist in a state of displacement from that setting and community. In those and other ways Torres’s novel comprises one of the most exemplary fictions of the 20thcentury Cuban American experience.2)      Dreaming in Cuban (1992): Cristina García’s National Book Award-finalist debut novel tells a story of Cuban American exile and community as well, but in very different ways: García traces three generations in a Cuban American family, moving back and forth in chronology and between Cuba and the United States, and also utilizes shifting narrations and perspectives to create those different characters and eras. In those ways García’s novel closely parallels another early 1990s debut book, Julia Alvarez’s How the García Girls Lost Their Accents (1991), reflecting late-century evolutions in the postmodern American novel. But García’s book is also specific to the experience of exile (rather than migration or immigration), particularly in her character Pilar Puente’s titular inability to think in Spanish at any time other than in her dreams. 3)      Havana Libre (2017): Robert Arellano’s novel occupies very different genres from those other two: it’s a mystery and spy thriller that features a protagonist, Dr. Mano Rodriguez, returning from a prior book (2009’s Havana Lunar), making it part of a series a la Jack Reacher (and many many others). But Arellano’s novel is also a historical fiction, set amidst and focusing on the 1997 terrorist bombings of tourist hotels in Havana. As such, Arellano uses those genre trappings and tropes to explore complicated historical questions (in the 1990s and even more so in the 2010s) of Cuba’s evolving relationship to foreign (and especially American) tourists, questions made more complicated by Rodriguez’s own status as an exiled Cuban American returning to the nation in an undercover role. Cuban American literature continues to evolve in our contemporary moment, and Arellano’s book reflects those developments in both genre and theme.Next series starts Monday,BenPS. What do you think? Other Cuban texts or histories you’d highlight?

January 11, 2019: Cuban and American Histories: The Marielitos

[January 7thmarks the 60thanniversary of Fidel Castro entering Havana to take over as Cuba’s prime minister—one begrudgingly recognized by a U.S. government that had opposed his revolution and would continue to oppose his rule. So this week I’ll AmericanStudy Cuban histories in relationship to the U.S.—leading up to a weekend post on literary works that can help us understand the island nation and ourselves!]Three ways to contextualize and analyze the 1980 exodus of some 125,000 Cubans (known as Marielitos) from Mariel Harbor to the United States.1)      Refugee policy: Donald Trump’s Executive Orders on refugees and immigration have of course brought debates over refugee policy back into the news, but in a particularly oversimplified—and fearful and paranoid and factually challenged—way. The situation and issues facing President Jimmy Carter in 1980, on the other hand, illustrate just how complex and multi-layered national decisions about refugee policy are (even for those of us, like me and I believe Carter, who feel strongly that the U.S. should always try to welcome refugees). There are the perspectives and realities of a sovereign nation like Cuba, and of our own evolving relationship with that nation (Carter and Castro had worked to alleviate some tensions between the two nations over the years leading up to Mariel). There are the humanitarian and practical questions of where and how the refugees will be resettled in the United States, and what that will mean for the communities to which they arrive (Miami was most definitely and profoundly changed by the Marielitos). And there are the thorny but inevitable comparative questions—what do our decisions in response to this particular refugee community mean for the millions of others seeking and waiting for the chance to asylum? All difficult issues, and all raised with clarity by the Mariel boatlift.2)      The boatlift in art: Refugee and immigration histories aren’t just about governments and policies, though—they’re also and most importantly about communities and stories, about identities and lives. Artistic and cultural texts are particularly good at portraying those latter sides to histories, and I would highlight three very distinct such texts about the Mariel boatlift. The Brian De Palma film Scarface (1983) uses the story of one fictional Marielito, Tony Montana (Al Pacino in one of his most famous performances), to consider some of our most overarching national narratives, from the ideals of the American Dream to the most sordid nightmares of violence and crime. Christine Bell’s novel The Pérez Family (1991; adapted into a 1995 film) focuses more fully on themes of community, both among the Marielitos (the protagonists are characters who share the same last name and decide to pass as a family) and in relationship to the Cuban-American community (Juan Pérez is looking for his wife, who has already been in the United States for decades by the time he arrives). And Reinaldo Arenas’ autobiography Before Night Falls(1992; adapted into a 2000 film) tells the harrowing story of one individual writer before, during, and after the boatlift. Each text is different in medium and genre as well as story and theme, but taken together they offer a powerful artistic portrayal of the boatlift.3)      Pedro Zamora: For better or for worse, the fictional gangster Tony Montana is probably the most famous individual Marielito. But I believe a close second would be Pedro Zamora, who came to the United States with his family in the boatlift when he was only 8 years old, and came to prominence 14 years later as the breakout star of The Real World: San Francisco , the 1994 third season of MTV’s ground-breaking reality TV show. Zamora broke multiple cultural barriers during his time on television: he was one of the first openly gay stars of a TV show, and his commitment ceremony with boyfriend Sean Sasser the first such same-sex ceremony in TV history; and he was also living with HIV/AIDS throughout the show, bringing a profoundly intimate and human face to a disease that was, at the time, still deeply controversial and feared. Zamora’s tragic death later that year, and his widely broadcast memorial service, offered one more level to that prominence and its effects. None of those events or effects are limited to Marielitos or Cuban Americans, of course; but we can’t understand and analyze Zamora’s identity, nor perhaps appreciate his commitment to public advocacy and activism, without remembering the foundational role of the Mariel boatlift in his life.Special post this weekend,BenPS. What do you think? Other Cuban histories you’d highlight?

January 10, 2019: Cuban and American Histories: Fulgencio Batista

[January 7thmarks the 60thanniversary of Fidel Castro entering Havana to take over as Cuba’s prime minister—one begrudgingly recognized by a U.S. government that had opposed his revolution and would continue to oppose his rule. So this week I’ll AmericanStudy Cuban histories in relationship to the U.S.—leading up to a weekend post on literary works that can help us understand the island nation and ourselves!]On remembering two sides to a Latin American despot beyond the most famous histories.For most American audiences—including this AmericanStudier before I researched him for this Talking Points Memo piece on Cuban-American relationships and histories—Fulgencio Batista is likely best (if not only) known through his fictionalized (but historically accurate) representation in The Godfather: Part II (1974). That film depicts the final days of a Batista-like figure’s despotic rule of Cuba, including his administration’s deep ties to American interests (economic but also and especially criminal) and the New Year’s Eve 1958-1959 revolutionary riots in Havana that helped overthrow him and install Fidel Castro as the nation’s new leader. There’s no doubt that Batista’s seven year dictatorship—which began with a March 10, 1952 military coup that canceled the upcoming presidential election and was recognized as legitimate almost immediately by the United States—was supported throughout by both the U.S. government and numerous U.S. corporations and organizations (including the mob), a symbiotic relationship all too common in 20th century Latin American nations and histories but nonetheless a clear and important final stage in Batista’s specific story as a Cuban leader.It wasn’t the only such stage, however, and remembering two others add layers to how we remember Batista (and his relationship to the United States). In September 1933, after a decade and a half as a soldier in the Cuban military (among other professions and roles), Batista led the uprising known as the Sergeants’ Revolt, a coup d’etat in which military leaders and student activists conspired to depose President Carlos Manuel de Céspedes y Quesada. Batista did not assume national leadership for many years after the coup—the nation was first briefly ruled by a five-man coalition known as the Pentarchy of 1933, then by interim President Ramón Grau San Martin, then by a number of other puppet presidents—but Batista remained a vital power behind all of these figures and governments. Indeed, it’s possible to argue, as this historian does, that Batista immediately betrayed the 1933 revolution for his own benefit. As early as the opening night of the coup he told the leading officers, “From this moment forward, do not obey anyone's orders but mine,” and to some degree the same phrase could be applied to all the nation’s subsequent presidents. And he was consistently supported by the U.S. in those efforts, as when Special Envoy Sumner Welles helped Batista force Grau to resign in favor of a more malleable puppet president in January 1934.When Batista himself finally became president in 1940, it might seem to have been just a more overt version of that longstanding power and influence. But while that was partly the case, there were also differences that reflected Cuba’s continuing development of its own independent government and status. The most notable such difference was the 1940 Cuban Constitution, a ground-breaking document that legitimized Batista’s triumph over Grau in the 1940 presidential election. Just over a year later, two days after the Pearl Harbor attack, Cuba entered World War II on the side of the allies, a somewhat symbolic action but one that both led to Cuban casualtiesand represented a more equitable, less dependent relationship between the nation and the U.S. And in 1944 Batista stepped down from the presidency, allowing another democratic election in which his hand-picked successor, Carlos Saladrigas Zayas, was defeated by Grau. Batista would subsequently leave Cuba for the United States, dividing his time between Florida and New York City. Those years would culminate in his 1952 coup and dictatorship, which remains the end of Batista’s story as a Cuban leader—but these other stages nevertheless add important layers to that story.Last history tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Other Cuban histories you’d highlight?

January 9, 2019: Cuban and American Histories: Remington and the Spanish American War

[January 7thmarks the 60thanniversary of Fidel Castro entering Havana to take over as Cuba’s prime minister—one begrudgingly recognized by a U.S. government that had opposed his revolution and would continue to oppose his rule. So this week I’ll AmericanStudy Cuban histories in relationship to the U.S.—leading up to a weekend post on literary works that can help us understand the island nation and ourselves!]On what happens when the pen and the sword work together.
For obvious reasons, folks in my profession are big fans of the cliché that the pen is mightier than the sword. Or, more exactly, of the reading of that phrase in which the pen and the sword are opposed, and thus the narrative in which words and writing can, in one way or another, triumph over or at least outlast weapons and war. None of us are naïve enough to think that the pen can win in a direct confrontation, but in this reading of the phrase, the words and writing are the slower but steadier and ultimately stronger influences, the ones that can revise and reshape and remake histories and stories (even those of war at its worst). I don’t disagree with that perspective—I wouldn’t do what I do if I didn’t put that kind of faith in the power of words—but there’s another possible reading of the phrase, one that is much less attractive for us fans of the pen: in this reading, the pen and the sword are both trying to achieve the same objectives, are both weapons of war, and the phrase simply suggests that the pen is ultimately a more powerful such weapon.
One of the best and most troubling proofs for that reading comes from the late 1890s and the build-up to the Spanish American War. I’ve written frequently here about the US’s imperialistic endeavors that partly coincided with and definitely expanded as a result of this war, especially the bloody and tragic mess in the Philippines; but the Spanish American War itself likewise was, if not particularly bloody (from an American perspective, anyway), almost certainly tragically unnecessary. Although the war represented in many ways the culmination of decades-long trends on multiple levels—from Cuba’s efforts for independence from Spain to those aforementioned growing American imperialistic goals—its most proximate cause was the February 1898 sinking of the U.S.S. Maine, a warship that had been sent to Havana to monitor ongoing social unrest there. At the time, the narratives of that incident, as advanced for example in the hugely popular newspapers of William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer (both vocal advocates of imperialistic expansion and thus of war with Spain), emphasized the strong likelihood that the ship’s powder magazines had exploded due to an external attack (from the Spanish forces, was the constant implication), and the subsequent “Remember the Maine” battle-cry greatly pushed public opinion in support of the war. (Later investigations, which will never be much more than speculative, have made clear that the explosion could have been internally triggered, and at least that there was no specific evidence for any particular cause.)
The pens of Hearst and Pulitzer and their employees thus certainly helped make the war palatable and so perhaps possible. The most troubling such pen was that of a man who had long since used it to make an iron-clad reputation as one of the most talented and nuanced artists and illustrators of his era: Frederic Remington. Remington had been producing his drawings and paintings of the West and the frontier for almost fifteen years by this time; those works did partly contribute to the origins and extensions of a Wild West mythos, but in his renderings of Native American subjects (for example) Remington displayed a cultural awareness and sensitivity that far exceeded many of his Wild West mythmaking peers (such as Buffalo Bill). But in early 1897 Remington was sent to Cuba by his friend and sometime employer Hearst to witness and capture Spanish abuses and atrocities there; Hearst’s famous instruction to him, “You furnish the pictures, I’ll furnish the war” may well be apocryphal (as per the article linked below), but there’s no question that Remington’s assignment was to illustrate the sensationalist coverage of the situation and help push the US closer to war, and Remington did not leave Cuba until he had what he believed was sufficient material to illustrate those stories. That he would, a year later, portray Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders during their over-glorified charge up Cuba’s San Juan Hill, the event that cemented both the narratives of the US’s war effort and Roosevelt’s national reputation, only highlights how much Remington’s pen became in these years a direct corollary to the sword.
The Spanish-American War might well have happened even if Remington—or any of these journalists—had never raised a pen; history is rarely if ever reducible to single influences or causes. But on the other hand, it’s difficult to overstate the importance of public opinion when it comes to the US’s war policies in this era—it was less than two decades later, after all, that Woodrow Wilson would win reelection on the campaign slogan “He kept us out of war.” And while the war’s influences and trajectory will, like what happened to the Maine, remain open to historical interpretation and analysis, there is no disputing that in this case, many of our most prominent pens were drafted into combat. Next history tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? Other Cuban histories you’d highlight?