Waiting for Godfroy

I’ve reached an existential crisis as a scholar and historian. As a teacher, I have no problem seeing the fruits of my labor through the successes of current and former students. But, scholarly reassurances are far more elusive. Perhaps this is the case of all first time authors who simultaneously await reception of their initial book while charging forth with new projects. It’s a dual feeling of trepidation and excitement. At times it can be paralyzing. Unless validated by colleagues for the first book, what gives me the right to move forward?

It also raises questions about my role as a historian in writing about the dead. What are my responsibilities? As a historian educated in the twenty-first century, I’ve been trained most specifically to find the ironies that plague our past. But is it enough to simply highlight the contradictions of colonialism (in the case of indigenous studies) or argue that the past is more complex than we once believed? Certainly there is more to what we do, right?

When I teach historical methods and practices, I almost always begin with Jill Lepore’s insights about studying and writing about people of the past (for her students, individuals associated with the American Revolution). In a humorous and perceptive handout she reminds undergraduate students at Harvard, “You’ll be dead one day, too, so please play fair, and remember: never condescend. It’s probably bad enough being dead without some smart aleck using your life and times to make a specious claim.” Scholar Avery Gordon asks us to think about the “complex personhoods” of those whom we study. “All people,” she argues, “remember and forget, are beset by contradiction, and recognize and misrecognize themselves and others.” In essence, in every time period, humans have pulled from their pasts to make their present and project an image for their future. Thus, to study them requires a delicate and deliberate touch. One in which we tease apart these varying elements of their worlds. We might also remember David Lowenthal’s reminder to study the past as a foreign country—recognizable yet different than our own. As I’ve thought about how to approach Francis Godfroy, all of these ideas have popped in and out of my head. But I’ve struggled most with my personal role in writing about his life.

When I first began this project, I wanted to refocus the manuscript and interject myself as the central character. In the style of John McPhee, the book would be about my journey. My own experiences would serve as entryways into discussing larger issues about Godfroy and the Miami Indians. My students joked that I was heading down the road of becoming the Nicholas Cage of historians—hunting for treasures and retelling my adventure stories? I’m not sure if that was a compliment or not. Were they referencing the Nicholas Cage of National Treasure or Ghostrider? Regardless, my working title highlighted the focus on self: “Finding Francis Godfroy.”

I’m torn between writing the book as a biography or as a postmodern search and methodological guidebook for studying a person of the past. In an email exchange with George Ironstrack (of Miami University of Ohio’s Myaamia Project), he suggested that I title the book “Waiting for Godfroy”--a clear allusion to Samuel Beckett’s play “Waiting for Godot.” I’m not sure whether I’m Vladimir or Estragon in this analogy, but in any case, like Beckett’s work, the title hints at the absurdity of waiting for the unknown (in this case the dead) to arrive and speak to us. Instead, the book would focus on the journey itself. Ultimately, ending with an admission that I can’t speak for the dead or truly write their story, only my own. Until very recently, I wasn’t sure how to express these thoughts into words. And then…….

After my last post on dead historians and oddly placed statues, my friend Coll Thrush commented on the blog’s Facebook link. I’m not sure how many readers caught his comment there, but I thought it worth sharing here. “I increasingly think of us as translators for the dead,” he wrote, “which in other societies would be a sacred task.” What a profound thought. And one that makes a historian reflect on their special role in conversing with those who have come before us.

I’ve been on an intellectual journey as of late, attempting to explain to myself why studying the past is important; why digging into the lives of the deceased is worth the inordinate time spent in the archives; why I have the right to write on their behalf. Coll’s thoughts best address those dilemmas. It is a sacred task—one that requires a deft hand, an open mind, and sensibilities perhaps lost on our predecessors. We write for a purpose—to remind ourselves that large and obscure historical issues (like colonialism) had/have real, personal, and intimate consequences. Studying the past is ultimately about engaging with the lives of people and places. And that should not be an easy thing.

In that spirit, the next stage of my research will take me out of the archives and into conversations with people (and explorations of place). I have returned to Oklahoma to finish some departmental business, advise students, and coordinate Oklahoma City’s National History Day competition—the things we do for service to our departments and professions. Afterward, I am off to Oxford, Ohio to attend a conference hosted by the Miami Tribe of Oklahoma and the Myaamia Project and visit with Godfroy’s descendants. Then, it’s off to Indiana, where I plan to visit places closely connected with the Miami Indians of Indiana, including Godfroy’s former village and the family cemetery.

I’m not sure what to expect as I move forward, but I’m certain that I’ll continue to struggle with my role as a historian, biographer, and translator for the dead. Perhaps that’s not a bad thing.