Surely most of us do, at some level, incorporate the
local into our surveys, even if only in casual references and occasional illustrative
examples. I certainly make it a point to integrate local history into the
American history survey whenever possible. At its most basic, local history offers
an immediacy and a reliability that is otherwise lost in the long train of
far-off events. It’s one thing to talk about a mass wave of early-twentieth
century racial violence, it’s another to delve deeply into a local incident
that occurred on streets and in neighborhoods that students are familiar with. In
Houston, for instance, while glossing over the details of several other well-known
race riots, I delved into the 1917 Houston Race Riot to explain
the many complicated historical dynamics surrounding race during the country’s
racial nadir. Conceding that full-coverage is not only impractical but
impossible, instructors have to pick their spots. So why not shop locally?
Dangers lurk in using local history to teach American
history, of course. Teaching local history as national history can too easily
fall into an inward-looking provincialism. While local history can empower
students by enmeshing their surroundings in larger national and transnational narratives, it can
also blind them with localism. History, and higher education in general, is, I
think, designed to liberate us from our narrow surroundings and at a time when
transnational scholars can criticize the narrowness of a bounded national
history survey, what is there to justify local history in an American history
survey? Local history, or at least deploying it in an American history survey, therefore
needs a theory.
I resort to local history whenever I feel that it can 1) better
illustrate a larger national or transnational trend or 2) reveal something
about the process of history itself. The first option is perhaps the most
obvious: local history offers something real and immediate. But if you can satisfy
the second rule as well, local history is that much more useful. This year, for
instance, while teaching in the Rio Grande Valley (along the U.S./Mexico border
in South Texas), I assigned several readings on the history of the Valley in
the early-twentieth century. The readings variously covered local politics (progressivism
versus “bossism”), immigration (the transnational forces and politics that
pushed and pulled Mexican immigrants into the Southwest), racial violence (the
wanton terror of the Texas Rangers in the aftermath of the Mexican Revolution
and the aborted Plan de San Diego), and civil rights struggles (the politics of
whiteness in the origin of the Mexican American civil rights movement). I asked
students to compare these readings and these narratives to standard textbook
narratives. The readings, discussions, and resulting essays shed light not only
on a poorly understood chapter of regional history, but on the complexity of
textbook construction and the broader narrative construction of American
history itself. Why did textbooks mention some of these incidents, and not
others? What aspects of the Valley’s history reinforced established historical
narratives and which challenged them? What does all of this say about the
process of “making” history?
Teaching local history as American history, if done consciously
and with particular pedagogical ends in mind, promises not to provincialize American
history but to expand and enrich it. Content and strategies will vary from
place to place, but the ends and rewards remain the same.
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