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In 1917, Henri Gaillard led a delegation of deaf French men to the United States for the centennial celebration of the American School for the Deaf (ASD). The oldest school for deaf students in America, ASD had been cofounded by renowned deaf French teacher Laurent Clerc, thus inspiring Gaillard’s invitation. Gaillard visited deaf people everywhere he went and recorded his impressions in a detailed journal. His essays present a sharply focused portrait of the many facets of Deaf America during a pivotal year in its history.

       Gaillard crossed the Atlantic only a few weeks after the United States entered World War I. In his writings, he reports the efforts of American deaf leaders to secure employment for deaf workers to support the war effort. He also witnesses spirited speeches at the National Association of the Deaf convention decrying the replacement of sign language by oral education. Gaillard also depicts the many local institutions established by deaf Americans, such as Philadelphia’s All Souls Church, founded in 1888 by the country’s first ordained deaf pastor, and the many deaf clubs established by the first wave of deaf college graduates in their communities. His journal stands as a unique chronicle of the American Deaf community during a remarkable era of transition.

Runner-up, Spur Award for Best Western Nonfiction—Contemporary, Western Writers Of America, 2001

The Galveston storm of 1900 reduced a cosmopolitan and economically vibrant city to a wreckage-strewn wasteland where survivors struggled without shelter, power, potable water, or even the means to summon help. At least 6,000 of the city's 38,000 residents died in the hurricane. Many observers predicted that Galveston would never recover and urged that the island be abandoned. Instead, the citizens of Galveston seized the opportunity, not just to rebuild, but to reinvent the city in a thoughtful, intentional way that reformed its government, gave women a larger role in its public life, and made it less vulnerable to future storms and flooding.

This extensively illustrated history tells the full story of the 1900 Storm and its long-term effects. The authors draw on survivors' accounts to vividly recreate the storm and its aftermath. They describe the work of local relief agencies, aided by Clara Barton and the American Red Cross, and show how their short-term efforts grew into lasting reforms. At the same time, the authors reveal that not all Galvestonians benefited from the city's rebirth, as African Americans found themselves increasingly shut out from civic participation by Jim Crow segregation laws. As the centennial of the 1900 Storm prompts remembrance and reassessment, this complete account will be essential and fascinating reading for all who seek to understand Galveston's destruction and rebirth.

Traces how Chinese migrants challenged racialization and disenfranchisement by establishing Chinese restaurants during the Gilded Age. 

In Gastrodiplomacy, Heather Ruth Lee dives deep into not just the history of Chinese restaurants in early twentieth-century New York City but the delicate, inchoate, and constantly evolving dynamics among their owners, workers, and their predominantly white clientele. Lee argues that the stylistic and capitalist choices made by restaurateurs (“gastrodiplomats”) had outsized political effects on paternalistic white diners (“gastroliberals”) who patronized their establishments, particularly when it came to racial relations in cities that were growing and diversifying. Lee is not starry-eyed—satisfying white tongues and stomachs didn’t lead to an urban utopia of peace, harmony, and brotherhood—but she shows the great and subtle influences of Chinese migrants on American urban space, culture, and metropolitan identity in a defining time.

In Lee’s capable and compelling telling, the Chinese restaurant becomes a distinctive locus for the negotiation of political power, cultural influence, urban identity, and more. Gastrodiplomacy reveals much about burgeoning and increasingly cosmopolitan American cities, as well as about their dynamic relationships with the fluidities of the American character.

Born in Clear Lake, Wisconsin, in 1916, Gaylord grew up as immersed in his parents' political work and community service as he was in playing practical jokes and exploring the natural world surrounding his home town. Along the way he encountered experiences that would shape him in fundamental ways: as a man who stood up for what he believed in the face of opposition and yet who also understood how to treat his opponents with respect. Both traits would serve him well as he rose from law student to state senator to Wisconsin governor and finally to three terms as a United States Senator.

Nelson fought to treat all races equally and to condemn McCarthy-era paranoia, but his greatest contribution was to sound the alarm about another battle: the fight to save the natural world and the earth itself. It was his idea to use teach-ins to let people know that the environment needed their help. Thanks to him, more natural resources were conserved and new laws demanded clean air and water. Now, every year on April 22, people all over the world plant trees and pick up litter to celebrate Earth Day. The Earth and its inhabitants aren't safe yet, but Gaylord Nelson demonstrated that even one person can help to save the world.

The book begins by tracing the history of public discourse on gender from the 1890s through the 1930s, a discourse that included the rise of feminism. Each chapter then analyzes works by female and male novelists that address key issues related to gender and nationalism: the concept of intrahistoria, or an essential Spanish soul; modernist uses of figures from the Spanish literary tradition, notably Don Quixote and Don Juan; biological theories of gender prevalent in the 1920s and 1930s; and the growth of an organized feminist movement that coincided with the burgeoning Republican movement.

This is the first book dealing with this period of Spanish literature to consider women novelists, such as Maria Martinez Sierra, Carmen de Burgos, and Concha Espina, alongside canonical male novelists, including Miguel de Unamuno, Ramon del Valle-Inclan, and Pio Baroja. With its contrasting conceptions of modernism, Johnson's work provides a compelling new model for bridging the gender divide in the study of Spanish fiction.

Tracing the roots of earth science before the Civil War.

Geological Sciences in the Antebellum South by James Corgan offers a rich and revealing examination of the origins and development of geological inquiry in the American South during the decades (1796-1850s) leading up to the Civil War. At a time when scientific disciplines in the United States were still taking shape, Southern scholars, educators, and naturalists played a critical—if often overlooked—role in advancing geological knowledge. Corgan brings this history to life through a careful exploration of the people, institutions, and ideas that defined early earth science in the region.

From the study of mineral resources and soil composition to the broader effort to understand the region’s unique landscapes, geology intersected with agriculture, industry, and economic development in powerful ways. Corgan demonstrates how these scientific endeavors were shaped by—and in turn helped shape—the cultural and intellectual environment of the South. This book also highlights the contributions of key figures and institutions that fostered scientific inquiry, including early universities, state surveys, and learned societies. These networks connected Southern researchers to national and international scientific communities, positioning the region as an active participant in the broader expansion of 19th-century science. At the same time, the book addresses the challenges and limitations faced by Southern scientists, offering a nuanced perspective on how regional identity, resources, and social structures influenced the trajectory of scientific progress.

By situating geology within the broader context of antebellum history, Corgan provides readers with a deeper understanding of how scientific thought developed alongside—and in dialogue with—the political, economic, and cultural forces of the period. The result is a compelling interdisciplinary study that bridges the history of science and Southern history, shedding new light on a formative era in American intellectual life. Geological Sciences in the Antebellum South will appeal to historians, geologists, and scholars of American studies. It is an essential resource for anyone interested in the foundations of scientific inquiry in the United States and the enduring impact of geology on the development of the American South.

Georg Lukács, the philosopher and literary critic, and Thomas Mann, the creative artist were two towering figures in the twentieth-century European intellectual life. Although they enjoyed a fruitful literary relationship, the two men never established an intimate friendship. In fact, Lukács once said that the only “dark spot” and “unsolved mystery” in his life was Mann’s life-long unresponsiveness to him as a bad person. Based primarily on Lukács, Katja Mann, Ernst Bloch, Arnold Hauser, and others, Part I of this study traces the development of “spiritual-intellectual symbiosis” between Lukács and Mann that lasted at least until the First World War. Part 2 turns to the question of the inspirational sources for Mann’s fictional characters, Leo Naphta, in his novel The Magic Mountain. Exploring the claim that Lukács himself was the model for his protagonist, Judith Marcus looks at the “Jewish intellectual” as an ideal type throughout Mann’s oeuvre. She concludes that Naphta’s totalitarian personality was inspired by the radicalism, rigidity, dogmatism, and asceticism of the young, then non-Marxist Lukács, and that is was in part these very traits in Lukács that stymied the growth of personal intimacy between the two men.

This book offers lively description and convincing interpretation of the most significant events, cruxes and ongoing themes in German history from the end of the Second World War up to the present. The main features of the last fifty years are not only succinctly and vividly presented and interpreted, they are also placed in the context of international political developments.

The chronologies that accompany each chapter record the most important dates, facts and names occurring in the narrative. Jürgen Weber’s text supplies the reader with a combination of vivid descriptive history, easily absorbed chronology, and a reliable reference work for the parallel lives of the two Germanies, a product of the Cold War.

    Historian Gilad Margalit eloquently fills a tragic gap in the historical record with this sweeping examination of the plight of Gypsies in Germany before, during, and since the era of the Third Reich.
    Germany and Its Gypsies reveals the painful record of the official treatment of the German Gypsies, a people whose future, in the shadow of Auschwitz, remains uncertain. Margalit follows the story from the heightened racism of the nineteenth century to the National Socialist genocidal policies that resulted in the murder of most German Gypsies, from the shifting attitudes in the two Germanys in 1945 through reunification and up to the present day.
    Drawing upon a rich variety of sources, Margalit considers the pivotal historic events, legal arguments, debates, and changing attitudes toward the status of the German Gypsies and shines a vitally important light upon the issue of ethnic groups and their victimization in society. The result is a powerful and unforgettable testament.

Linda Marianiello here translates into English for the first time Dieter Kühn’s highly praised and definitive biography of one of Germany’s greatest poets, Gertrud Kolmar. Kolmar carried German-language poetry to new heights, speaking truth in a time when many poets collapsed in the face of increasing Nazi repression. Born Gertrud Käthe Chodziesner in Berlin in 1894, she completed her first collection, Poems, in 1917. She took her pen name, Kolmar, from the name of the town where her family originated.

Kolmar’s third collection of poems appeared in 1938 but soon disappeared in the wake of the overall repression of Jewish authors. At the time, she served as secretary to her father, Ludwig Chodziesner, a prominent lawyer. In 1941, the Nazis compelled her to work in a German armaments factory. Even as a forced laborer, the strength of her poetic voice grew, perhaps reaching its highest level before her deportation to Auschwitz. From gentle nature verses to stirring introspection, these are poems in which we can still find ourselves today. Both she and her father died in Nazi concentration camps, he in 1942, she the following year. The translation of Dieter Kühn’s biography conveys the tragic, yet courageous, life of a great poet to an English-speaking audience.