The Michigan Historical Review

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By Susan Paton, Assistant Editor, the Michigan Historical Review

For those of you who have not yet heard of us, the Michigan Historical Review is the state’s only scholarly journal covering Michigan history, and we are published twice a year out of our office in the Clarke Historical Library. It has its roots in an earlier journal, The Great Lakes Review, which began publication in 1984 out of CMU’s English Department (they took it over from Northeastern Illinois University who had been publishing it since 1974). It was then ‘repurposed’ into an academic history journal and came under the jurisdiction of the Clarke and CMU’s History Department. Under a unique partnership, the University provided the salary for an assistant editor, the Clarke supplied the office space, the History Department provided a course release and stipend for an editor (and for many years the book review editor as well), and the Historical Society of Michigan guaranteed a large number of printed copies by including it as part of one of their membership packages.

Thus, in 1986, the Michigan Historical Review was born, and we have been publishing twice a year ever since. What that means to Michigan and Midwestern history is the addition of over 200 articles (double-blind, peer-reviewed) and 1100 book reviews into the field. Most of our subscribers are university libraries, though we also have individual subscribers, and we can currently be found in either paper or electronic form in over twenty nations and thirty US states. Our participation in JSTOR, a national database of humanities-related journals, means an even wider distribution, averaging over 25,000 article requests and 12,000 article downloads per year.

I have worked as the MHR’s Assistant Editor during two separate periods: first for a couple of years in the late 1990s, while working on my PhD, and then again beginning in 2012. (In the interim period I owned and managed a restaurant and a wine & cheese market—but that is another story.) In my capacity here at the MHR, I edit article manuscripts and book reviews as well as oversee the daily operations of our small office. My duties are, thus, extremely varied, perhaps the primary reason I enjoy this job so much. On any given day I get to read (oh, and correct) a range of history articles, contact publishers about new books on Midwestern history, keep tabs on our many subscribers, answer our correspondence, and remind tardy book reviewers that we are hoping to hear from them soon—and a host of other little details.

I have learned so much about Michigan’s remarkable history over these past few years, and I have really enjoyed getting to know and work with so many fascinating and curious people. And the pleasure of getting to work at a job with so many appealing facets is matched by what is perhaps an even greater perk of my job—I get to work in the Clarke Library. For a nerd like myself (and I am probably safe in assuming like many of you), being around such a wealth of fusty volumes and beguiling artifacts is a dream come true. But the best part of working at the Clarke is its people, truly the kindest staff on CMU’S campus. And if this sounds a bit like a swan song, I guess it is. It is with very mixed emotions that I leave this job at the end of next month. I am moving to sunny California so I can be a bigger part of my grandson’s life. If CMU had a crown, the MHR and the Clarke would be its brightest gems. And I am so honored and gratified to have been able to call this little corner of campus home for these past six years. If you haven’t read one of our issues yet, I hope you will stop on by sometime soon. 


Susan Paton, has been the Assistant Editor of the Michigan Historical Review for a couple of years in the late 1990s, and then again since 2012. She will retire at the end of next month.

Fragments of Women’s Lives

Catherine Flanagan of Connecticut Delivers Her State’s Suffrage Ratification to the State Department. 1920.  Library of Congress .

Catherine Flanagan of Connecticut Delivers Her State’s Suffrage Ratification to the State Department. 1920. Library of Congress.

By Tara McCarthy

I tell myself that my next project will have plenty of sources available—that I will choose something I know has sources—manuscript collections, but in the end, I doubt this is the case because I find myself drawn to study women who didn’t leave much behind. I am convinced that I will be able to find something anyway. We will see. But this women’s history month, I would like to reflect on the risks and rewards of studying obscure women. There is indeed something very rewarding about uncovering the everyday, the rank and file, and the forgotten.

I have just completed a book manuscript. I spent many years on it, but I still found it hard to let go of the research without being able to answer all my questions. I have to accept that many aspects of these women’s lives will never be known. In fact, even though I have created file folders for each of them, sometimes I can’t even find them in the census; sometimes, I can’t tell you very much at all. These limitations are true for many historical topics, but women are hard to trace, and working class or immigrant women left very little behind. Still, I confess that I enjoy the digging, and digitized newspaper databases have really opened up possibilities to find new leads—as long as women made news. Few did, but since I am looking for activists, I am occasionally lucky enough to find organizations, meetings, and speeches. Of course there are limitations to using newspapers too, but some of the women in my forthcoming book only came to life when I stumbled across them in the press. They left no other sources.

For example, Mary Donnelly worked for the socialite and suffragist Alva Belmont. She ran a suffrage lunchroom for Belmont in New York City where working women came for an affordable meal. She had previously been a matron at the Queens County jail where she was fired (I don’t know why), but later she accused the jail of abusing female prisoners. There is a lot more to this outspoken woman’s story, but I doubt I will ever find it. Another Catholic suffragist, Sara McPike, led the St. Catherine’s Welfare Society and became an active supporter of the Democratic Party. She believed that the votes of Catholic women could help protect against radicalism, revolution, and changing gender roles. Frances Perkins (who served as Secretary of Labor under FDR—the first woman to hold a cabinet position) described McPike as a “troublemaker” who accused those she disagreed with of being communists, but she also acknowledged the importance of Catholic women’s support for the suffrage movement. Kate Hogan was a lawyer and a teacher, who led a New York’s teacher organization in the fight for an equal pay law in the early 20th century, but she died of pneumonia in her first year. I hope to return to her story, but fear that I will not find much.

These are just a few of the activists that I have been trying to trace. They were all Irish American; they appear rarely (or not at all) in current scholarship, and their stories are incomplete. They could never be the subject of a biography or even an article, but collectively their stories do show a rich history of political organization and participation by women who were asking for equal rights and equal pay. They made significant contributions to women’s history, at least on the local and state level. I began this project to show that Irish American women sought to shape their communities through political activism, and I found more women than I expected, even if what remains of some of their lives is only fragments.


Tara McCarthy is an Associate Professor of History at Central Michigan University and the author of Respectability and Reform: Irish American Women’s Activism, 1880-1920, which is coming out this month from Syracuse University Press.

A Passion for the Gothic

the beautiful drawing of the 15th century misericord from the Norwich Cathedral on the cover of the book was done by Robert's daughter Leah.

the beautiful drawing of the 15th century misericord from the Norwich Cathedral on the cover of the book was done by Robert's daughter Leah.

By Robert A. Faleer

For more than twenty years, I have been very actively involved in extensive research on structural and decorative medieval church woodwork in the British Isles, including iconographic aspects of the carved imagery. I recently fulfilled an invitation to make a presentation to Dr. Brittany Fremion’s HST 120 course to discuss several aspects of that research. I have made similar guest presentations for a number of other courses on campus in the Department of History as well as other academic disciplines. What made the presentation for Dr. Fremion’s class unique was her request that I also include why I have ultimately focused my research on ecclesiastical woodwork, and how I initially became interested in medieval church architecture. This offered me an interesting opportunity to explore, and ultimately explain how and why I developed such a passion for this line of research.

I have been intensely interested in the ecclesiastical architecture from a very early age, and particularly in churches built in the Gothic style. As I was growing up on the east side of Detroit, I attended Jefferson Avenue Presbyterian Church at the edge of the historic Indian Village neighborhood, a place of worship built in 1925 in the English Gothic Revival style. One of the great joys of my childhood in that church was singing as a member of the youth choir in the large balcony at the rear of the sanctuary nave every third Sunday of the month. This wonderful vantage point allowed me to view the entire magnificent vista of the church, including the enormous soaring pipes of the Skinner organ, and the great oak-encased pulpit and choir loft, all surmounted by the great limestone Gothic archway framing the entire front chancel of the church.

As beautiful as the chancel of the church was to behold, what truly fascinated me were the massive timber trusses of the hammer beam roof. Each corbel stop of the beam-ends features a carved crowned figure representing one of the Apostles who holds out in front of him a shield on which is emblazoned the symbols of his faith and martyrdom—the heavenly crossed keys of St. Peter, the saltire cross of St. Andrew, stones and flaying knife showing St. Bartholomew’s manner of death, etc. Of particular interest to me, though, was the wooden apostolic figure that bore a shield with no symbol, only a dark blank square. This was the figure of Judas Iscariot. My young eye frequently wandered to that betrayer of Christ—why was Judas, such a profane Scriptural figure, included among the most holy patriarchs of the Faith? That question and the mystery surrounding it always remained in the back of my mind, waiting for an eventual answer many decades later.*

As a child and adolescent, Jefferson Avenue Presbyterian Church served as just one of the inspirations for the development of my great interest in medieval churches. Early in my life, I had also developed deep and driving passion for “things British,” which spurred my desire not only to visit the UK, but also to live there for a time if possible. In my junior year as an undergraduate at Central Michigan University, I was afforded just such an opportunity. I successfully applied to perform half of my student teaching as part of CMU’s very first foreign student teaching program, which had been arranged with many K-12 equivalent schools in the southern English cities of Winchester and Southampton. I was assigned to teach English Literature and History in a boy’s grammar school, Peter Symonds College, in Winchester.

During the three months in early 1974 in which I lived and taught in that very medieval city, I went nearly every weekday to Winchester Cathedral after school to enjoy the quiet and unwind from teaching. I eventually became acquainted with many of the cathedral staff members, as well as some of the volunteer guides, all of whom taught me a great deal about the structures and the symbolic aspects of that great church. The single event, though, that acted as the true catalyst for my interest in medieval church woodwork was the day that one of the guides got permission to allow me into the choir stalls, where she showed me the early 13th century carved oak misericord seats that had been used for centuries by clerics and choristers. Misericord seats were cleverly designed to fold up and down like theater seats, the difference being that when the misericord seat is folded up, there is a projecting corbel ledge that allowed the clerics to rest their posteriors while mainly standing through the eight daily devotional services prescribed by the monastic Rule of St. Benedict. In other words, the upturned misericord seat allowed the clerics to stand in reverence, while simultaneously putting them at ease through those long daily services!

My personal “discovery” of misericord seats, and the elaborately carved figures that are invariably found underneath their corbel ledges, is what ultimately drove my interest—my passion—for medieval church woodwork. Upon reflection, it was a long-simmering passion ignited quite by chance by a single choir stall visit. Since then, I have traveled to many medieval cathedrals, priories, abbeys, collegiate, and parish churches in England, Wales, and Scotland, spending much time examining and photographing their structural and decorative woodwork. My proudest accomplishment resulting from my research has been the publication of my reference book, Church Woodwork in the British Isles, 1100-1535: An Annotated Bibliography (2009), published under the Scarecrow Press imprint by Rowman and Littlefield.

 

*During my years of research, which has included extensive explorations of carved symbolism and iconography, I came to realize that the church buildings were constructed as a representation of both the spiritual and the temporal world—God’s entire universe, if you will. To the medieval mind, holy imagery, which has always been predominant in medieval churches, could not exist without the context of the profane imagery also sharing these spaces. The representation of evil, of the pagan, and even of the obscene were regularly incorporated into the physical fabric of each church in order to serve as a spiritual warning and a potent reminder to actively seek the holy, and by doing so, avoid eternal damnation.


Robert Faleer is faculty reference librarian in the CMU Libraries, where he has served as an academic librarian for 39 years. In addition to his book mentioned above, he has written several peer reviewed articles on various topics, and he has presented scholarly papers on this specific subject at the annual meetings of several scholarly conferences, including the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts, and the International Medieval Congress.

Writing Arthur Vandenberg

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By Hendrik G. Meijer

In 1979, after five years as a reporter and editor in Plymouth, I rejoined the family retail business in Grand Rapids.  I also began graduate work in history at Western Michigan University, attending in the evening, but did not complete my thesis.

At that time, Meijer had evolved over half a century from a grocery store opened by my grandfather to a regional mass retailer.  My father and I talked about doing a company history.  But my interest lay less in the blow-by-blow development of the business than in the story of my grandfather, who was fifty years old when he opened that little store in Greenville.

The book that resulted was Thrifty Years, a biography of Hendrik Meijer.  I fell in love with biography as a form. The research, including the interviewing I loved from my reporting days, as well as the writing, and, ultimately, the discovery of a life taking shape, was exhilarating.  I wanted to write another.

I had done some research in the Grand Rapids Public Library.  Its archive was presided over by city historian Gordon Olson.  In the course of my research, I became curious about other archival material. Here were microfilm copies of the Grand Rapids Herald, Arthur Vandenberg's newspaper.  I also recalled a book I'd read in the 1970s by Daniel Yergin, Shattered Peace: The Origins of the Cold War and the National Security State. One of the featured characters was the colorful senator from Grand Rapids.  I kept coming across Vandenberg's name.  Yet he seemed largely forgotten, even in his hometown.

A professor in Chicago had already turned his University of Michigan dissertation on Vandenberg into the first book of a projected two-volume life.  It ended in 1945, just as Vandenberg was revving up for his pivotal years.  I assumed a second volume would be forthcoming, and that the world did not need two Vandenberg biographies.

But Olson was putting together the program for the 1989 conference of the Historical Society of Michigan.  Eager—or perhaps desperate—to fill the schedule, he suggested I do something on Vandenberg.  "Just take an episode from his career," he suggested.  So I talked (for an audience of about six) on the 1939 debate over the repeal of the arms embargo provision of the Neutrality Act.  This was the embargo that tied Franklin Roosevelt's hands on the eve of World War II, hindering him from aiding the British.  Vandenberg, legendary for his later conversion to an internationalist perspective, led the isolationists fighting repeal.

In January 1990, the professor in Chicago died.  His adult daughter, selling his house in Wilmette, wondered what to do with the files on Vandenberg that filled his basement.  Boxes of Xerox copies from the Truman Library, the Roosevelt Library, the British Foreign Office, and other sources had no monetary value, but she hated to throw out a lifetime of research.  Local libraries had no interest, so she called the Historical Society of Michigan.  Did they know of anyone with an interest in Arthur Vandenberg?  They only knew me because I had been on their program a few weeks earlier.  They gave her my number, and I came back from Wilmette with a van-load of papers—and a sense of mission.

In an essay in Brave Companions, David McCullough noted, among other topics, the need for a study of Arthur Vandenberg after 1945.  My sense of mission grew.  I felt fortunate to have as a subject someone so pivotal in the creation of an American foreign policy consensus destined to prevail to the present day—when the nature of American leadership once again appears to be in question.  And Vandenberg also became iconic for his efforts to find bipartisan solutions.   

I felt like I had stumbled upon a missing link in American history, as well as a model of the sort of politics we long for today.  And with files in hand, some of the research travel required in those pre-internet days could be shortened or avoided.  I could concentrate on the Vandenberg Papers at the Bentley Library at the University of Michigan, and pursue my favorite part of researching a not-quite-contemporary figure: interviewing people who knew him.

Vandenberg's papers occupy only eight linear feet.  For someone with decades of prominent public service who was himself a prolific journalist, these were slim pickings.  After he died in 1951, his son, who had been his chief of staff, published an elegant account called The Private Papers of Senator Vandenberg.  And apparently disposed of many of his father's papers when he was through.  After the Grand Rapids Herald was acquired by its rival, the Grand Rapids Press, later in the 1950s, its long-time librarian was so upset that she reportedly threw out the morgue.

Ah, but the interviews!  Vandenberg's surviving child, his younger daughter, lived in Connecticut.  As I spent more time with her, she became increasingly candid, even producing telling pages from her step-mother’s scrapbook that the family withheld when the papers were given to the library.  Others who had known the senator were also in their dotage, which brought mixed results.  For President Gerald Ford, Vandenberg was a hero and model.  Clark Clifford wished he’d known Vandenberg's mistress. Margaret Truman said how much her father admired Vandenberg, but told me not to believe Clifford, who was among her father's closest advisors. Gore Vidal offered a different slant. Harold Stassen recalled the United Nations Organizing Conference.  William Fulbright struggled to remember a story as we spoke.  In words that send a shiver down a biographer's spine, he lamented at one point in our interview, "You waited too long to talk to me."  He was 88. 

As research deepened, the manuscript ballooned past 1,000 pages.  This was a "life and times" when I should have known I would be lucky just to get a "life" published.  (Classic later-draft realization: all that hard-won local color would have to be jettisoned to get the hero to Washington.)  My breakthrough came when biographer James Tobin agreed to consult on the manuscript.  He suggested bold cuts that pulled it below 500 pages and gave me something marketable.  (Later, at the Bentley, researcher Rob Havey rescued my footnotes and had the Vandenberg Papers handy when decades-old index cards were misplaced.)  The University of Chicago Press, with experience in reaching general readers, agreed to take a chance on someone who lacked formal academic credentials and published the book in 2017

Finding freedom to research and write is always the challenge.  I am fortunate that my day job offers a degree of flexibility, as well as colleagues who tolerate my big avocation.  When someone asks where I find the time, however, the answer seems too easy: it only took me twenty-five years.


 

Hendrik G. Meijer, author of Arthur Vandenburg: The Man in the Middle of the American Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017) and co-chairman and CEO of Meijer, Inc., will give a talk on his book on March 19 at 7:00pm in the Park Library Auditorium at Central Michigan University.

Colonists had Political Satire Too

History News Network posted and op-ed by our own professor Andrew Wehrman. In the piece Wehrman compares the SNL parody of the current administration to the satirical political commentary leading up to the American Revolution. His piece places the current trend into historical context.

An excerpt from "To the American Colonists, Steve Bannon, Sean Spicer & the Rest of the Trump Crowd Would Seem Familiar Characters"

"The cartoon-like representations of Donald Trump and his advisors Sean Spicer, Kellyanne Conway, Ivanka Trump, Jared Kushner and perhaps especially Steve Bannon on Saturday Night live point to a crisis of constitutional authority perhaps not seen in American popular culture since America’s first constitutional crisis during the tense decade prior to the American Revolution ... Saturday Night Live’s depictions of Trump’s narcissistic know-nothingness, Sean Spicer’s weaponized podium, Conway’s “alternative facts,” Ivanka Trump’s complicity, Jared Kushner’s speechless power-grab, and, of course, Steve Bannon’s ominously skeletal grim reaper, harken back to early fears that constitutional checks and balances do not protect a nation from nefarious advisors, ministers, family members, and interlopers. 

While the policies, issues, and people differ greatly, these representations echo with the ways in which political satirists in the 1760s and 1770s warned colonial Americans of an impending constitutional crisis."

To continue reading: http://historynewsnetwork.org/article/166118

Without Faith: Church Interactions

By Jonathan Truitt

This week has been a lesson in irony. This is no reflection on my students or my family, they have all been awesome. Rather, it is on the state of other responsibilities within my professional and personal life. I am a colonial Latin American Historian. My research focuses on indigenous interaction with the Catholic Church in colonial Mexico City. I am not actually interested in whether or not the indigenous population believed in the faith, but rather I’m interested in their day-to-day interactions with it and how those interactions influenced the rest of their community. To put it simply I am trying to remove religion from an examination of religious life. I know what you are thinking, what good is this? The short answer is that the Catholic Church, in order to serve the Spanish faithful in the manner in which they were accustomed, a whole lot of requirements needed to be met in order to operate, and there simply were not enough Spaniards to keep it functioning, so they needed the indigenous population to plug the very large gap.

To place it in more modern terms I think about this interaction in the ways in which people who live in a company town, like Midland, Michigan -- home of Dow Chemical -- interact with the company on a daily basis even if they don’t work for the company. Simply stated a lot of infrastructure needs to be in place to support the people who work for the company. That reaches beyond the business itself and includes everything from supporting a good school system to recreational activities. Whenever the company opens a new plant somewhere they have to make sure they have the infrastructure in place. If they don’t, it can still work, but the results are going to be mixed. This is the very basic version of what I spend my time thinking about when I am not grading, playing with my children, sitting in meetings (though truth be told I am sometimes thinking about this while I am in meetings), working on developing game-based pedagogy, or meeting with students and colleagues.

So where is the irony? My book is written and the press has had it for almost a year at this point. Rather, I should say the presses, plural, because it has been jostled between presses with changing partnerships. They are still very interested in my book and this past Tuesday asked me to make some edits based on a reviewer’s comments on my conclusion. They would like the corrections by the end of next week. The reviewer is having difficulty understanding the premise of my book. The idea of studying people’s interaction with something rather than their actual belief is apparently a hard sell. Here is the irony. My book is reflective of my own interaction with the church. I am not a religious person, yet I attend church regularly with my wife who is a devoted Christian and wants to raise our children in the Christian faith. I am currently getting ready to head to church with my boys (my wife has gone on ahead as she plays hand bells and has a performance today). When I get to church I will be helping out in the nursery, next week I will be at a personnel committee meeting for the church (on which I serve), I have just finished leading an eight-week educational course for children at the church, and have been asked to create a special discussion group on immigration, also for the church. I am a member and many of the people at the church know my views. I value the community and support them in many things and they support me. In my interactions with the community my belief doesn’t matter, but my actions do. This is the very thing that I study and somehow I haven’t made it clear to the anonymous reviewer that my book isn’t about belief, but about the day-to-day interactions, even though I live it. So, as I sit here preparing to take my kids to church I wonder, have I sold you?