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Since its founding in 1846 “for the increase and diffusion of knowledge,” the Smithsonian Institution has been an important feature of the American cultural landscape. In A Living Exhibition, William S. Walker examines the tangled history of cultural exhibition at the Smithsonian from its early years to the chartering of the National Museum of the American Indian in 1989. He tracks the transformation of the institution from its original ideal as a “universal museum” intended to present the totality of human experience to the variegated museum and research complex of today.

Walker pays particular attention to the half century following World War II, when the Smithsonian significantly expanded. Focusing on its exhibitions of cultural history, cultural anthropology, and folk life, he places the Smithsonian within the larger context of Cold War America and the social movements of the 1960s, '70s, and '80s. Organized chronologically, the book uses the lens of the Smithsonian's changing exhibitions to show how institutional decisions become intertwined with broader public debates about pluralism, multiculturalism, and decolonization. 

Yet if a trend toward more culturally specific museums and exhibitions characterized the postwar history of the institution, its leaders and curators did not abandon the vision of the universal museum. Instead, Walker shows, even as the Smithsonian evolved into an extensive complex of museums, galleries, and research centers, it continued to negotiate the imperatives of cultural convergence as well as divergence, embodying both a desire to put everything together and a need to take it all apart.

Intersectional and original, Black Women Legacies explores the memorialization of African American women and its distinctive impact on physical and cultural landscapes throughout the United States.

Trees are not just natural resources; they are also cultural ones that present unique challenges and opportunities for public historians. Trees can serve as important objects of memory, recalling past triumphs or tragedies. They can be the last living witness to important events or community stories. Trees can also be objects of preservation, sometimes as individuals, other times as stands or even forests, all of which can take on historical significance for people, sites, and institutions. But as living entities they defy the kind of permanent legal preservation applicable to buildings and other non-living historical objects. Furthermore, their organic fragility can actually make them significant problems for historical sites and local preservation activities. For example, communities have had to cope with extensive tree loss from storm and fire damage, and dying trees can drop limbs or topple over, creating considerable danger to people and resources. Climate-change-driven increasing storm intensity has also highlighted the ways that trees—however historical or beloved—can become considerable threats.

The fourteen new essays in this volume explore the many ways that trees are an integral part of public history practice and sites. The authors draw on a range of approaches and historiographies to look at how memories of race-based hate, patriotic stories, community identities, and changed places have all centered on trees. In addition to contributions from the volume editors, this collection features scholarship by Sonja Dümpelmann Andrew Hurley, Carolyn M. Barske Crawford, Brian Dempsey, Liz Sargent, Sasha Coles, Mariaelena DiBenigno, Evan Haefeli, Krista McCracken, Alena Pirok, Christian Kosmas Mayer Alaina Scapicchio, and David Glassberg. 

There are thousands of historic sites across Pennsylvania. The question of whose memories, what histories, and what local heritage deserve preservation has animated historians and communities for centuries. The editors and contributors to Complex Commonwealth provide a collection of accessible essays about public history in Pennsylvania that show how we have commemorated and preserved the state’s material culture, museums, monuments and memorials, parks, archives, libraries, and historic sites over centuries.

Chapters examine the Homestead Steel Strike, the Carlisle Indian School’s Digital Resource Center, and African American cemeteries and burial grounds, among other case studies. The methodologies these public historians use are as diverse as the various histories of labor, gender, religion, and race. It is by shedding light on these underseen histories that Complex Commonwealth affirms the importance of state and regional history to everyday Pennsylvanians.

Complex Commonwealth emphasizes the importance of place and space in shaping how we know what we know about the past and how that collectively shapes our future.

Contributors: Barbara Barksdale, Zachary L. Brodt, Steven Burg, Mary Catherine Foltz, Kelly C. George, James Gerencser, Alexandra Acri Godfrey, Kris Lowrey, Devin C. Manzullo-Thomas, Carol W. Smith, Frank Vitale IV, and the editors

Winner of the 2015 National Council on Public History Book Award 
Today well over two hundred museums focusing on African American history and culture can be found throughout the United States and Canada. Many of these institutions trace their roots to the 1960s and 1970s, when the struggle for racial equality inspired a movement within the black community to make the history and culture of African America more “public.”

This book tells the story of four of these groundbreaking museums: the DuSable Museum of African American History in Chicago (founded in 1961); the International Afro-American Museum in Detroit (1965); the Anacostia Neighborhood Museum in Washington, D.C. (1967); and the African American Museum of Philadelphia (1976). Andrea A. Burns shows how the founders of these institutions, many of whom had ties to the Black Power movement, sought to provide African Americans with a meaningful alternative to the misrepresentation or utter neglect of black history found in standard textbooks and most public history sites. Through the recovery and interpretation of artifacts, documents, and stories drawn from African American experience, they encouraged the embrace of a distinctly black identity and promoted new methods of interaction between the museum and the local community.

Over time, the black museum movement induced mainstream institutions to integrate African American history and culture into their own exhibits and educational programs. This often controversial process has culminated in the creation of a National Museum of African American History and Culture, now scheduled to open in the nation's capital in 2015.

Who has the right to represent Native history?
 

The past several decades have seen a massive shift in debates over who owns and has the right to tell Native American history and stories. For centuries, non-Native actors have collected, stolen, sequestered, and gained value from Native stories and documents, human remains, and sacred objects. However, thanks to the work of Native activists, Native history is now increasingly being repatriated back to the control of tribes and communities. Indigenous Archival Activism takes readers into the heart of these debates by tracing one tribe’s fifty-year fight to recover and rewrite their history.

Rose Miron tells the story of the Stockbridge-Munsee Mohican Nation and their Historical Committee, a group of mostly Mohican women who have been collecting and reorganizing historical materials since 1968. She shows how their work is exemplary of how tribal archives can be used strategically to shift how Native history is accessed, represented, written and, most importantly, controlled. Based on a more than decade-long reciprocal relationship with the Stockbridge-Munsee Mohican Nation, Miron’s research and writing is shaped primarily by materials found in the tribal archive and ongoing conversations and input from the Stockbridge-Munsee Historical Committee.

As a non-Mohican, Miron is careful to consider her own positionality and reflects on what it means for non-Native researchers and institutions to build reciprocal relationships with Indigenous nations in the context of academia and public history, offering a model both for tribes undertaking their own reclamation projects and for scholars looking to work with tribes in ethical ways.

Examining how former prisons became tourist destinations and what that means for past, present, and future carceral spaces

Beginning in the 1970s, the U.S. War on Drugs and tougher crime policies drove incarceration rates to unprecedented levels, leading to severe prison overcrowding and a surge in prison construction. As new facilities opened, many older prisons, some dating to the nineteenth century, were closed and abandoned. Communities faced difficult decisions about their future. Demolition was expensive, and adaptive reuse was often constrained by the distinctive architecture of confinement.

One response, often inspired by the success of institutions such as Alcatraz Island and Eastern State Penitentiary, has been to preserve former prisons as historic sites and tourist attractions, welcoming visitors and using tours and exhibits to shape public understanding of incarceration. Today former prisons operating as such exist in every region of the United States. For many visitors, these sites provide a primary point of contact with the history and realities of imprisonment.

 Yet transforming places of confinement into destinations for tourism and heritage raises important questions. How should these sites interpret difficult histories? For whom? What responsibilities do they have to the formerly incarcerated, previous staff, and affected communities? How can they balance education, commemoration, entertainment, and economic development?

Preserving Punishment offers the first sustained historical study of prison museums in the United States. Examining how these institutions preserve, interpret, and present the history of incarceration, C. Morgan Grefe and Megan Cullen Tewell highlight the role of preservationists and public historians in shaping narratives, addressing ethical challenges, and fostering critical engagement with America's past and present systems of punishment. Grounded in local and regional contexts, they argue that historic prison sites are uniquely positioned to encourage informed public conversations about incarceration, memory, and criminal justice.

Explores the way Italian women writers craft identities through writing.

In this important volume, Graziella Parati examines the ways in which Italian women writers articulate their identities through autobiography—a public act that is also the creation of a private life. Considering autobiographical writings by five women writers from the seventeenth century to the present, Parati draws important connections between self-writing and the debate over women’s roles, both traditional and transgressive.

Exploring how public history creates collective memory of this white ethnic group through memorials
 
Cajuns arrived in southern Louisiana in the 18th century after the British exiled them from eastern Canada. Also known as Acadians, they retain a unique dialect of French, and their distinctive music, food, and other cultural traits characterized them as an ethnic group. Until the 1960s, authorities viewed them as a serious problem, allegedly blocking the state’s progress as they clung to their antiquated ways. Few Cajun residents in the region remembered the remote past of their ancestors, but by the 1970s, organizations ranging from local non-profits to the National Park Service created sites that commemorated their history, such as the Acadian Memorial in St. Martinville, allowing Cajuns to connect their lives to their past and claim it as their own.
 
In Remembering the Cajun Past, anthropologist Marc David studies the cultural and political dynamics that reconfigured Cajun memory and identity. Focusing on St. Martinville and the Acadian Memorial, he explores how authorities changed their minds about Cajuns and demonstrates how Cajuns’ historical memories took shape. Part ethnography and part history, David examines the racial aspects of the Memorial’s creation in the wake of the Civil Rights movement and the growth of a new Cajun history, one through which individual Cajuns rejected the label’s connotation of “white trash” and embraced belonging within a storied white ethnic group. Based on decades of fieldwork and deep engagement with public history practices, David explores how historical memory and the historic sites that foster it are intertwined with the politics of civic life.

On February 2, 1848, representatives of the United States and Mexico signed the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, officially ending hostilities between the two countries and ceding over one-half million square miles of land to the northern victors. In Mexico, this defeat has gradually moved from the periphery of dishonor to the forefront of national consciousness. In the United States, the war has taken an opposite trajectory, falling from its once-celebrated prominence into the shadowy margins of forgetfulness and denial.

Why is the U.S.–Mexican War so clearly etched in the minds of Mexicans and so easily overlooked by Americans? This book investigates that issue through a transnational, comparative analysis of how the tools of collective memory—books, popular culture, historic sites, heritage groups, commemorations, and museums—have shaped the war's multifaceted meaning in the 160 years since it ended. Michael Van Wagenen explores how regional, ethnic, and religious differences influence Americans and Mexicans in their choices of what to remember and what to forget. He further documents what happens when competing memories clash in a quest for dominance and control.

In the end, Remembering the Forgotten War addresses the deeper question of how remembrance of the U.S.–Mexican War has influenced the complex relationship between these former enemies now turned friends. It thus provides a new lens through which to view today's cross-border rivalries, resentments, and diplomatic pitfalls.

As Americans enter the new century, their interest in the past has never been greater. In record numbers they visit museums and historic sites, attend commemorative ceremonies and festivals, watch historically based films, and reconstruct family genealogies. The question is, Why? What are Americans looking for when they engage with the past? And how is it different from what scholars call “history?” 

In this book, David Glassberg surveys the shifting boundaries between the personal, public, and professional uses of the past and explores their place in the broader cultural landscape. Each chapter investigates a specific encounter between Americans and their history: the building of a pacifist war memorial in a rural Massachusetts town; the politics behind the creation of a new historical festival in San Francisco; the letters Ken Burns received in response to his film series on the Civil War; the differing perceptions among black and white residents as to what makes an urban neighborhood historic; and the efforts to identify certain places in California as worthy of commemoration. Along the way, Glassberg reflects not only on how Americans understand and use the past, but on the role of professional historians in that enterprise. Combining the latest research on American memory with insights gained from Glassberg's more than twenty years of personal experience in a variety of public history projects, Sense of History offers stimulating reading for all who care about the future of history in America.

In the early nineteenth century, Lowell, Massachusetts, was widely studied and emulated as a model for capitalist industrial development. One of the first cities in the United States to experience the ravages of deindustrialization, it was also among the first places in the world to turn to its own industrial and ethnic history as a tool for reinventing itself in the emerging postindustrial economy. The Lowell Experiment explores how history and culture have been used to remake Lowell and how historians have played a crucial yet ambiguous role in that process.

The book focuses on Lowell National Historical Park, the flagship project of Lowell's new cultural economy. When it was created in 1978, the park broke new ground with its sweeping reinterpretations of labor, immigrant, and women's history. It served as a test site for the ideas of practitioners in the new field of public history—a field that links the work of professionally trained historians with many different kinds of projects in the public realm. 

The Lowell Experiment takes an anthropological approach to public history in Lowell, showing it as a complex cultural performance shaped by local memory, the imperatives of economic redevelopment, and tourist rituals—all serving to locate the park's audiences and workers more securely within a changing and uncertain new economy characterized by growing inequalities and new exclusions. 

The paradoxical dual role of Lowell's public historians as both interpreters of and contributors to that new economy raises important questions about the challenges and limitations facing academically trained scholars in contemporary American culture. As a long-standing and well-known example of “culture-led re-development,” Lowell offers an outstanding site for exploring questions of concern to those in the fields of public and urban history, urban planning, and tourism studies.

The most important national commemoration of the twentieth century, the 1976 bicentennial celebration gave rise to a broad-ranging debate over how the American Revolution should be remembered and represented. Federal planners seeking an uncritical glorification of the nation's founding came up against an array of constituencies with other interests and objectives. Inspired by the “new social history” that looked at the past “from the bottom up,” Americans who had previously been disenfranchised by traditional national narratives—African Americans, women, American Indians, workers, young people—demanded a voice and representation in the planning. Local communities, similarly suspicious of federal direction, sought control over their own bicentennial events. Corporate representatives promoted an approach that championed the convergence of patriotism and private enterprise, while commercial interests applied the marketing techniques of an expanding consumerism to hawk every imaginable kind of patriotic souvenir to all of these groups.

The end result of these competing efforts, Tammy S. Gordon shows, was a national celebration that reflected some common themes, including a mistrust of federal power, an embrace of decentralized authority, and a new cultural emphasis on the importance of the self. The American Revolution Bicentennial can thus be seen as both a product of the social and political changes of the 1960s and a harbinger of things to come. After 1976, the postwar myth of a consensus view of American history came to an end, ensuring that future national commemorations would continue to be contested.

On any given night, hundreds of guests walk the darkened streets of Colonial Williamsburg looking for ghosts. Since the early 2000s, both the museum and private companies have facilitated these hunts, offering year-round ghost tours. Critics have called these excursions a cash grab, but in truth, ghosts and hauntings have long been at the center of the Colonial Williamsburg project.

The Spirit of Colonial Williamsburg examines how the long-dead past comes alive at this living-history museum. In the early twentieth century, local stories about the ghosts of former residents—among them Revolutionary War soldiers and nurses, tavern owners and prominent attorneys, and enslaved African Americans—helped to turn Williamsburg into a desirable site for historical restoration. But, for much of the twentieth century, the museum tried diligently to avoid any discussion of ghosts, considering them frivolous and lowbrow. Alena Pirok explores why historic sites have begun to embrace their spectral residents in recent decades, arguing that through them, patrons experience an emotional connection to place and a palpable understanding of the past through its people.

Inspired by the fiftieth anniversary of the University of Utah’s American West Center, the oldest regional studies center in the United States, Western Lands, Western Voices explores the many dimensions of public history. This collection of thirteen essays is rooted in the real-world experiences of the authors and is the first volume to focus specifically on regional public history. 

Contributors include tribal government officials, state and federal historians, independent scholars and historical consultants, and academics. Some are distinguished historians of the American West and others are emerging voices that will shape publicly engaged scholarship in the years to come. Among the issues they address are community history and public interpretation, tribal sovereignty, and the importance of historical research for land management. The volume will be indispensable to researchers and general readers interested in museum studies, Native American studies, and public lands history and policy. 

Cities, states, and nations are grappling with how best to commemorate historical events and anniversaries in ways that are fair, accurate, and open public dialogue about the often contested past. This volume springs from varied approaches to the historical commemoration of Maine’s state bicentennial in 2020 that involved academics, independent scholars, local and statewide cultural organizations, sovereign Wabanaki nations, and the state itself in the form of the Maine State Bicentennial Commission. While wide-ranging in their goals and values, all sought to take advantage of opportunities for collaboration to contribute to a dynamic and multi-faceted practice of public history. These new essays use Maine’s bicentennial as a focal point to put public history theory into action. Its diverse contributors share stories about the past that move beyond celebration to reflect crucial ways that the past shapes our understanding of the present and our aspirations for the future.

This volume’s core argument is that academics need to collaborate more fully with independent scholars, history-based cultural institutions, and the general public in order for public history to thrive and to improve the quality of civic life. What We Know, What We Wish does this through wide ranging essays that discuss the long statehood era in Maine from the 1770s to 1820s as well as its legacies in the state centennial commemoration of 1920 and museum exhibits from the 2020 bicentennial. The occupational and cultural diversity of the collection’s contributors together with the content of their essays offer a model for how to put public history principles into practice to foreground meaningful historical reflection that is urgently needed in divided communities around the world.

Contributors include the volume editors, as well as Maulian Bryant, Osihkiyol (Zeke) Crofton-Macdonald, Charles H. Lagerbom, Ryan LaRochelle, Stuart Kestenbaum, Michael McVaugh, Kevin D. Murphy, Micah A. Pawling, Jessica Skwire Routhier, Donald Soctomah, Laura Fecych Sprague, Alan Taylor, and Laurel Thatcher Ulrich.