Poverty and Racism in the Age of Neoliberalism: The New Face of an Old Struggle

by Connor Harney

Eric Hobsbawm once wrote that, “The destruction of the past, or rather the social mechanism that link one’s contemporary experience to that of earlier generations, is one of the most characteristic and eerie phenomena of the late twentieth century.”[1]  These phenomena have only become magnified as the triumph of neoliberalism, and its correspondent postmodern philosophy have converged to create a society that no longer has any relevant connection to the past but rather reproduces itself with little to no notion of continuity or direction.  Rather, society is in a constant process of collective forgetting, due in part to news media.  In such a world, events appear as though from nowhere.  This piece was originally written in the wake of the Freddie Gray tragedy and its subsequent fallout and condescension on social media at the violent nature of the Baltimore protests. As events have unfolded, this article is just as relevant, and allows recent events to be put into a historical context.  Back in May, many of the more enflamed reactions have come from the white community, who for the most part are isolated from the realities of urban poverty, and thus, have no groundings in their own life to understand the constant pressures faced by people of color.  The past decades have seen a rise in neoliberal policies that have in short order shred the social safety net.  No social program is safe from the politics of austerity championed by both the Democrats and Republicans.  Public schools, welfare, and social security are all on the chopping block.  It is this movement, coupled with the already existing conditions of poverty, brought further emiseration to those residing in working class neighborhoods nationwide. 

On a recent trip to Washington D.C, I could feel revolution in the air. The discrepancies in income were visible even blocks apart. High-end grocery stores were less than a quarter of a mile from public housing, which created the appearance of a war zone. Barbed wire menacingly lined the walls of the façade surrounding these buildings. I was surprised at the lack of police presence at first sight. Instead, every building was watched by at least three private security guards. When police appeared, they appeared in full combat attire: flak jacket, helmet, and what seemed to be a semi-automatic rifle. It was obvious to me at the moment, that the only way to sustain such disparities in income was through this show of force. Only through the militarization of the police and the supplementation by private security can the tensions created by such a reality be eased. It is no surprise killings of young black men by white police officers has resonated such response public outcry across the nation. The riot is merely the means by which those living under these conditions have tried to make their voices heard. The protest is simply giving voice to the voiceless. 

To say that these movements have sprung up sporadically out of nothing ignores the historical currents in the last fifty years. With the passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, some believed the work had been done, hence the idea of a post-racial America. Yet, as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. explained in a speech in 1967, “The gains in the first era of struggle were obtained from the power structure at bargain rates. It didn’t cost anything to integrate lunch counters.”  Further, “It didn’t cost the nation a penny to guarantee the right to vote. Now we are in a period where it will cost the nation billions of dollars to get rid of poverty—to get rid of slums, to make quality integrated education a reality. That is where we are now.”[2]  King made this prescription nearly sixty years ago, but for the most part it has been unheeded.  Instead, we are in much the same place we were in 1967. This desire to gain economic and social rights along with the legal rights the black community had gained through legal channels gave birth to the black power movement of late 1960s and 1970s. It was this frustration in the lack of progress through non-violence that gave rise to black-nationalist groups like the Black Panthers and their paramilitary the Black Liberation Army. These groups were brutally repressed by the Federal Government throughout that period and rendered irrelevant as a force for mass mobilization by the early 1980s. While conditions have only deteriorated in many respects for the black community in more recent decades, for the most part organized movements have been few and far between. Instead, there have been infrequent uprisings against the continued oppression of poverty. The 1992 riots, for example were in response to the beating of Rodney King by the LAPD.  This vicious act of violence was broadcast for the entire world to see, and brought condemnation from human rights groups. 

In American society, poverty and race often go hand, and people of color are often disproportionately affected by fluctuations. The recession of 2008 has served to heighten existing disparities in wealth and brought upon a spirit of questioning of the very institutions that many in American society hold so dear. Occupy Wall Street brought forward a new dialogue that questioned the very tenets of capitalism. Suddenly, the rhetoric of the 1% and 99% became part of the everyday vernacular of many Americans. While the movement itself has petered out, its legacy still remains.  Today, low-income service workers are organizing across the country for a living wage. With all of these issues, there is one elephant continuously in the room, and that is the authority of capital and the capitalist system. To question any income equality is to question the very legitimacy of the system itself, and this awakening of consciousness has certainly shown no signs of slowing. Those who feel the failings of this system the most are the ones living in urban centers across the nation—as  they are slowly pushed out by the processes of gentrification and outsourcing, as well as cuts to social programs meant to curb the worst abuses of poverty. 

Black and Hispanic communities who represent generally between 20% and 40% respectively of those living in poverty nationwide are disproportionately affected by this turn of events. This stands in stark contrast to the white communities, which represent 10% or less of those living at the poverty level. In the District of Columbia mentioned above, this difference is even more astounding.  The black community represents 36% of those living in poverty and the white community represents only 5%.[3]  The real level of these discrepancies is probably much higher, as these statistics are calculated using the U.S. Census Bureau’s definition of poverty, which is woefully inaccurate.  For instance, the poverty threshold given for a family of five in 2014 was 28,695 dollars.[4] Given these convergences of forces, it is almost as if American society has written off the plight of these communities in favor of the continued progress for the rest. It seems that American society has decided that black and brown lives do not matter. Is it surprising, then, that a new level of consciousness has arisen, in the wake of violence against young black men and women by police in urban areas? The protests that have emerged in response and that will likely continue to do so, represent the woeful cry of the unheard, who feel they have been reduced to the level of sub-humans. 

One of the most frequent criticisms of these riots has been the destruction of property. This phenomenon can be explained and justified on multiple levels. First, businesses represent part of the apparatus of oppression. They represent the process of gentrification and are viewed by members of those communities as the invading armies of an occupational force. These businesses are symbolic of the urban diaspora of black communities from their homes. The traditional inhabitants are being replaced by urban white professionals, who bring with them skyrocketing property values that are for the most part untenable for those living on one or two minimum-wage jobs. There is also the understandable disillusionment with the system that has failed these communities. These protests have let out the pent up rage and cynicism of the black community like a social safety valve. Instead of rushing to judge the victims, it is our duty to question the very system that has relegated the vulnerable community to poverty and misery despite the promises of the 1960s, a system that has not only allowed the failing of the compact that was made all of those decades ago, but has choked, shot in the back, and severed the spine of the very will of the people. For those not convinced of the role of violence in protest, I will leave you with words of Malcolm X, who pointed out the hypocrisy of those who denounce protest simply because it does not comply with their own non-violent model for social change:  

If violence is wrong in America, violence is wrong abroad. If it is wrong to be violent defending black women and black children and black babies and black men, then it is wrong for America to draft us, and make us violent abroad in defense of her. And if it is right for America to draft us, and teach us how to be violent in defense of her, then it is right for you and me to do whatever is necessary to defend our own people right here in this country.[5]

We as a people should all stand in solidarity with the oppressed people of this nation, from Ferguson to Baltimore, and decry the violence of the state.  

Blogger Bio:

Connor Harney, 24, is a second year graduate student in the History Department at Appalachian State University. His specialization is in Latin American History, in particular, the Cuban Revolution. After he finishes his Master’s at ASU, he hopes to attend UNC Chapel Hill and complete a dissertation on the role of ideological pragmatism and its relation to the continuation of the Cuban Revolution. When not engaged in coursework, he enjoys all things fitness related, binge watching Netflix, and reading social and economic theory. 

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[1] Eric Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes: A History of the World, 1914-1991, New York, NY: Vintage Books, 1994, pg. 3.

[2]Martin Luther King Jr., “Hungry Club Speech,” May 10^th, 1967, http://www.thekingcenter.org/archive/document/hungry-club-speech (accessed September 25, 2015), pg 3.

[3]The Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, “Poverty Rate by Race/Ethnicity,” State Health Facts, http://kff.org/other/state-indicator/poverty-rate-by-raceethnicity/ (accessed September 25, 2015).

[4] United States Census Bureau, “Poverty Thresholds,” Poverty, https://www.census.gov/hhes/www/poverty/data/threshld/index.html (accessed September 30, 2015).

[5] Malcom X, “Message to the Grassroots,” October 1963,  http://genius.com/Malcolm-x-message-to-the-grassroots-annotated/ (accessed September 25, 2015).  

Vesuvius Maximus

by Jimmie Vaughn

[The following is a short story set in Pompeii right before the destruction of the city by Mount Vesuvius.  It follows the final hours of a minor priest who has a premonition concerning the devastation to come.  While the story is fictional, the information regarding life in a Roman city and the descriptions of the city itself are historically accurate.]

During the early morning hours of the 24^th of Augustus, AD 79, the city of Pompeii slept peacefully while the watchful stars floated serenely above the land.  From a heavenly perspective, the city seemed small and insignificant compared to the vast land of Italia in which it dwelt.  Even the vast Roman Empire led by the benevolent Titus seemed trivial when compared to the magnificence of the earth.  However, to the inhabitants of Pompeii, whether slave or citizen, the city was their home.

            In the western corner of the city, within sight of the Forum Gate, lived a priest of the fetial class named Marcus Seudius Clemens.  While considered lowly among the many priests of the city, his heart was devout.  On this night, as the rest of the city slept quietly, Clemens lay drenched in sweat, tossing and turning upon his bed—a prisoner of his own mind.  Visions of fire and death consumed him…Standing before the grand temple of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva on the northern end of the Forum, Clemens stood frozen, watching in horror as his city burned.  Smoldering ash rained from the sky, bodies of the dead and dying littered the ground, and the terrified screams of both man and beast filled the air with a crazed cacophony of pain and despair.  Tearing his eyes away from this dreadful sight, Clemens turned and fled into the temple.  He planned to pray before the statue of mighty Jupiter, king of the gods, and beg for his city to be spared.  This was not to be, however, for as he caught sight of the statue, a new terror filled him.  Falling to his knees, he cried helplessly as the headless god sat powerless upon his throne.  Clemens knew that this was a sign.  Pompeii was lost, and the gods would not save them.  Through his sobs of grief and terror, Clemens gradually became aware of a new sound.  The cold hand which gripped his heart warned him that death drew near.  He could hear the Roar…

            Screaming, Clemens jumped out of his bed and frantically looked about him.  His fear turned to joy as he realized that he was still alive.  Still, a sense of urgency gripped him for he could hear the pounding echo of the Roar in his mind.  Clemens believed his dream to be a warning from the gods, but he was confused on how to act upon it.  As merely a minor priest, his betters would not take him seriously.  Sighing, he decided to visit the temple of which he had dreamt.  Perhaps there he would find some answers.

            After splashing water upon his face from the basin beside his bed, Clemens hastily put on his toga and left the room.  Walking to the atrium, he allowed himself a moment to soak in the warmth of the morning sun as its light shone through the open roof.  As he enjoyed this simple pleasure, he found himself admiring the grand images of Jupiter which adorned the surrounding walls.  Would this god, whom Clemens had faithfully worshipped for decades, truly allow Pompeii to be destroyed?  Shaking his head, he stood and made his way to the kitchen where a simple breakfast of bread and slightly stale cheese awaited him.

            His home was a humble dwelling, for he was not rich.  Single storied, it was centered around the atrium which provided the house with most of its light during the day—or at least, during a sunny day.  A small impluvium in the room’s center caught rainwater and stored it for future use.  The rooms which connected to the atrium from all sides consisted of his bedroom, kitchen, tablinium, a storeroom, and his personal shrine to Jupiter.  Most rooms were sparsely furnished.  His bedroom contained merely a bed, a small table which held a water basin, and a chest in which several personal items were kept.  The kitchen, as if deserving such a title, was practically just another storeroom that happened to contain some food within its claustrophobic confines.  The tablinium, however, where his occasional guests were received, was slightly more decorated.  Its walls were painted with colorful images of Lares and Penates, the gods of the home, as well as other pictures which displayed scenes straight out of the past—mainly of the founding of Rome by Aeneas.  Three couches capable of seating up to nine people were placed around a table where Clemens and his guests would dine.  Statues of the gods and ornately decorated vases were arranged meticulously around the room.  Clemens had personally supervised the decorating of his house, and he had been no easy task master.  Several local painters and carpenters would as soon curse him as say hello.  Though relatively small and simple, the house was his home, and he loved it.

            When Clemens had finished eating his meager meal, he walked through the tablinium and down a short corridor which led directly to the street.  As he exited his home, sights and sounds assaulted his senses.  Merchants dragged their heavily laden mules toward the Forum, messengers ran recklessly to complete their errands, and people talked and laughed as if they had not seen one another in ages.  Yet Clemens hardly noticed any of this, for he had been born and raised within vivacious Pompeii.  Even the putrid stench of the streets, which contained many droppings from the various creatures which traversed it, failed to kindle a reaction from him.

            Turning, Clemens began to walk quickly toward the temple.  Besides stopping to bid “good-morning” to a few familiar faces, he did not allow himself to become distracted by the activity of the city.  Once, he even deftly hopped across the stepping stones in order to cross the street and avoid a group of troublesome children who were carving pictures of faces, phalluses, and the gods only knew what else onto the path.

            Before long, Clemens found himself within the Forum.  In short, the Forum was a large rectangular area open to the sky where people sold wares, worshipped the gods, played music, and even hosted sporting events such as boxing and bullfighting.  However, this brief description does it no justice.  In a sense, the Forum was the center of Pompeii.  All of the inhabitants of the city—whether citizen, slave, priest, or politician—mingled within its vast expanse.  Giant marble pillars outlined the Forum and many statues of prominent citizens and rulers decorated the area.  Clemens made his way resolutely to Jupiter’s temple, hardly noticing any of these things.  Worry still gnawed at his mind, and he found himself constantly looking up at the sky—as if he expected ash to rain down upon him at any moment.

            As he climbed the many steps which led to the temple’s entrance, he took a deep breath and prayed silently that all would be well.  The Temple of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva was one of the grandest in the city.  It dwarfed the surrounding structures and seemed to caress the sky with its magnificent arched roof.  Six pillars supported the roof’s frontward overhang, which shadowed the podium where the priests would address the people during times of sacrifice.  Clemens, reaching the top of the steps, entered the temple through its high doorways.

            Inside of the temple, colorful paintings and beautifully carved statues graced the eyes.  Priests walked to and fro going about their daily rituals, and several average citizens were praying to the gods and offering gifts in order to earn their favor.  While these citizens surely meant well, the many gifts which were offered continued to pile up higher and higher over the years.  Sadly, the temple was beginning to resemble a giant storehouse instead of a place of worship.

            While the temple supposedly was the center of worship for Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, it was really just Jupiter upon which it focused.  Indeed, the entire complex was centered on a giant, mighty statue of the king of the gods—the same one from Clemens’ nightmare.  Approaching this statue, Clemens fell to his knees, loudly beseeching Jupiter to spare Pompeii from whatever horrors awaited it.  The other priests and citizens stopped their activities to observe this obviously tormented figure.  Their curiosity quickly turned to dread as Clemens suddenly convulsed and fell to the ground screaming.  The same visions had once again overwhelmed his mind, but, this time, they were even more potent.  Once again the Roar consumed him…

            Suddenly released from the dreadful vision, Clemens awoke to find himself surrounded by an odd mixture of concerned priests, citizens, and slaves.  Ignoring their worried questions, he jumped to his feet and faced the group.  He now knew that time was running out, and he could think of only one thing to do that might save them all.  Addressing a group of slaves, he commanded that they bring him the fattest bull that they could find as quickly as they could.  Turning to the other priests, he ordered them to fetch wine and incense.  As an afterthought, he asked that a musician be found as well if possible.  Though he had no real power, his sense of fear and urgency seemed to infect all those around him, for they hurried to carry out his instructions.

            Soon all was ready.  Clemens stood before the statue of Jupiter next to a hastily assembled alar.  While normally these rituals would have been performed outside before the people, Clemens felt that here, before the god’s image, his offering would take a more immediate effect.  Pulling part of his toga over his head, Clemens motioned for the bull to be brought forward.  As the beast blindly followed the slaves to its doom, Clemens began to recite the necessary prayers and incantations that would ensure the sacrifice would be accepted.  Retrieving the wine and incense from the priests, he poured an offering to the god—much more than was usually required.  The sound of Clemens’ prayers mixed eerily with the dreary melody of the musician as he played his pipes.  Finally satisfied, Clemens grabbed the axe from the hand of a slave and raised it above his head.  When the bull was positioned directly over the altar, he brought the axe crashing down—killing the poor beast instantly.

            Clemens watched silently as the creature’s blood flowed over the altar, spilling onto the floor and drenching his feet.  He realized that he was breathing heavily and shaking.  It was like some other being had inhabited his body during the sacrifice.  Never would he have normally acted so violently and desperately.  Still, he felt more at peace now.  Perhaps his actions had spared the city the fiery fate he had witnessed.  Unfortunately, these thoughts were short lived.  Outside the temple, the sun had reached its zenith in the sky, and, far in the distance, the mighty mountain of Vesuvius awoke.  The ground shook violently, causing people all over the city to stumble and fall.  Buildings began to crack, and several poorly constructed houses collapsed quickly.  Terror filled the hearts of the people as they watched smoke rise from Vesuvius.

            Inside the temple, Clemens had fallen to the ground.  He did not understand.  Why did the gods not accept his sacrifice?  Why were they so angry?  Looking back at Jupiter’s statue, Clemens’ gasped in disbelief.  As the ground continued to shake, a crack appeared around the god’s neck.  Before Clemens’ eyes, the neck soon crumbled into dust and Jupiter’s proud head fell to the ground with an ominous thud.  Now a new thought entered Clemens’ panicked mind.  He realized that Jupiter would never deface his own image.  With a feeling of hopelessness, he closed his eyes and accepted his fate.  Even the gods, it seemed, were powerless to stop this catastrophe.

           Cradling his head in his arms, he let his tears flow freely as he lay still and listened for it.  He knew it was coming to bring the fire and death.  He did not have to wait long.  Suddenly, the ground stopped shaking and an unnatural silence filled the air.  However, the inhabitants of Pompeii had no time to feel relieved.  A new terror awaited them.  They watched in silence as Vesuvius began to tremble, as if a giant beast were within it struggling to break free.  Sadly, it did.  The people began to scream anew as colossal Vesuvius opened its mouth and Roared…

Blogger Bio:

Jimmie graduated from Belmont Abbey College with a BA in History and a minor in medieval studies in 2010. He has started graduated school at ASU since August 2015 and hopes to earn his MA in Public History with a concentration in Museum Studies. When he's not drowning in homework, he enjoys hiking, reading, writing, daydreaming, and hanging out with other nerdy people. He aspires to work in a museum while writing historical fiction novels on the side. He pleads for your purchase of his would-be-published book in his clairvoyance as a broke author.

Film History: A Brief Intro to La Nouvelle Vague

by Ashlee Lanier

One of the first great leaps forward for the ingenuity of film began in 1959 with the French New Wave (La Nouvelle Vague). Classic Hollywood directors such as Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Orson Welles directly influenced French New Wave directors. Perhaps most influential was the work of Italian Neo-Realism directors such as Rossellini and Fellini. French auteurs who were mainly associated with the movement include: François Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, Agnès Varda, Alain Resnais, Jean-Pierre Melville, and Louis Malle to name a few.

(From left to right: Claude Lelouch, Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, Louis Malle, Roman Polanski)

French New Wave directly borrowed from the rebellious direction and humanistic themes present in post-WWII Italian films. The main point of the New Wave was to rebel against classic French film’s strict narrative format and to focus on the bourgeoisie (usually in the form of stiff period dramas). Films belonging to the movement were almost exclusively set in working class urban areas (usually Paris); they were often filmed with a minimal budget and nonprofessional actors (much like previous Italian films of the ’40s), and often broke the fourth wall (with characters directly engaging with the audience). New Wave films embraced new themes often left untouched in other films such as sexuality, the struggles of the working class, and Marxist politics. The discontinuity of narrative was perhaps the most important aspect of French New Wave cinema. This discontinuity is excessively evident in Jean-Luc Godard’s debut 1960 feature Breathless (À bout de soufflé) where he extensively employed jump-cuts with an anarchic editing style. Jump-cuts cause a sharp break in narrative by instantly changing from one scene to another without any explanation and in Godard’s case present the audience with a nonlinear ruptured storyline. An example of jump-cuts in Breathless: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ov4mQJIHhc

(Jean-Paul Belmondo, Jean Seberg, & Jean-Luc Godard on the set of Breathless)

François Truffaut’s 1959 semi-autobiographical Les quatres cents coups (The 400 Blows) is usually regarded as the first film of the movement. With its unique camerawork, focus on the working class, and bleak story it effectively helped to transform cinema into a new art form for French directors. The movement lasted well into the 1960s with its influence on fashion being most notable in the British working class mod subculture. British 1960s modernism borrowed heavily from the movement but soon became a global phenomenon with its own unique identity. The French New Wave’s influence on film has persisted since its inception, thanks to directors such as Wong Kar-wai, Sidney Lumet, Wes Anderson, Noah Baumbach, Stanley Kubrick, Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, and Terrence Malick among countless others who all borrow from French New Wave’s basic themes and chaotic structure.

The French movement went on to ignite the American, Hong Kong, and German New Wave movements of the 1970s and ’80s. Direct influence is also heavily evident in the emergence of the independent film movement of the 1990s. Modern cinema still shows traces of the French movement every now and then. Noah Baumbach’s 2012 film Frances Ha has a soundtrack littered with pieces from classic Nouvelle Vague films as well as a simplistic filming style directly related to the 1960s French movement.

(still from Baumbach’s Frances Ha)

The importance of the French New Wave movement in regards to film history would be difficult to overlook. It brought art-house films to mainstream international audiences, helped launch the careers of countless well-known directors and actors, aided in the legitimization of film as a form of art by ridding itself of strict dictatorial narratives, and ultimately gave film a wider audience because of its unique focus upon the everyman.

~Super brief author bio~

Ashlee is a Historic Preservation grad student who did her undergrad at NC State in osteoarchaeology & history, but besides studying old bones, she likes to watch art-house film & listen to ’60s British mod music. Her favorite films are City Lights, Dog Day Afternoon, Godfather Part II, & The Royal Tenenbaums; she also watches too much TV & enjoys complaining about everything.

Knowing How to Dust: Some Important Skills I Did (and Didn’t Learn) in Graduate School

by Zach Hottel

Not long after graduating from Appalachian State University’s public history program, I became the Shenandoah County (VA) Library System’s new archivist. As such, I am responsible for managing a large collection of local history resources including documents, photographs, maps, and manuscripts. I also handle all outreach programs, and as the only professionally trained, full time public history employee in the entire county, I serve as the area’s local history expert. Since the position had been unfilled for over five years, I’ve had to rebuild operations, develop management policies, and begin to process a large backlog of donated items. Now, just over a month later, I have begun to better understand the ways graduate school did, and didn’t prepare me, to complete these tasks.

I initially began to reflect on what skills I had and those I was learning on the fly, as I was processing a large collection of research books the library had recently acquired. Formally belong the Mid-Atlantic Germanic Society’s Lending Library, this assortment of books and newsletters had been on long term loan for over ten years. During that time, it sat unused, untouched by the staff, and, in accordance with the terms of the loan agreement, unprocessed. After some effort, we were able to contact the society’s leadership and to take ownership of the collection. As we assumed control of the collection and began the ongoing task of cleaning, processing, and cataloging the books, I realized how many times at App my cohort and I had assumed that we could simply delegate simple tasks like dusting to some other staff member, so that we could focus on the more important and exciting aspects of public history. While I knew the profession would require me to be a jack of all trades, how to dust a book shelf was something we had never discussed during my time in graduate school.

Dusting is not the only skill I failed to master in graduate school. Volunteer management has also proved to be a skill I continue to develop. When you are the only employee at a small local archives, you have to rely on volunteers if you try to accomplish any major initiatives. Many of the classes I completed at Appalachian State focused on working with volunteers, especially when it came to managing and motivating them. However, my academic work and experience never prepared me to work with people with a wide array of personalities and skill levels that we contend with in the library.

Over the past several weeks I have developed a deep understanding of what volunteers want to do, what they think they can do, and what tasks they can actually accomplish. When one is surrounded by a cohort of students or professionally trained staffers, methods can be standardized, understandings can develop, ideas can germinate, and responsibilities can be transferred from one individual to the next with little difficulty. However, when you are the only staffer, and professionally trained historian, much of this is lost. Ideas I once took for granted, such as a focus on connecting history to the public, the use of social media, or a desire to interpret the history of minority groups, have never entered the minds of many of the individuals responsible for interpreting history on the area.

While I may not have left graduate school with an understanding of exactly what I would be doing, or how I would be working with volunteers, it did give me the tools I needed to overcome these obstacles. My work at Appalachian State taught me to be flexible enough to change my priorities when I needed to, to remember the basic mission of my site, and to manage my resources so that the work that needs to be done is finished. My program taught me how to think, how to ask questions, and where to find the answers when I need them. Prior to working at the archives, I found these useful to be added to  my tool belt, and since starting here, their importance has not diminished. They allow me to overcome the obstacles I face on a day to day basis and help me push the historic interpretation in Shenandoah County into new areas. In the end, App’s focus on developing these skills, remaining open minded, and on practical experience, prepared to begin my career as a public historian.

Blogger Bio:
Zach graduated from our History MA program with a concentration in public history in May, 2015. He is a proud Virginian from Woodstock and received his BA in History from Roanoke College. Zach currently works as an archivist in Shenandoah County Library in Virginia. His research interests include local history, Civil War memory, and how to help people interact with the past.