It was a beautiful day today, as I drove to Chinatown for a meeting about writing a piece about, you know, history and stuff. The last time I’d been to the historical society, I went on a walking tour of Chinatown with over a dozen giggly undergrads who were getting extra credit for being there. This time, I got to talk with some of the folks whose hard volunteer work keeps the society running. I was struck by the passion with which they thought about the history of Chinese Americans in Los Angeles and southern California more generally.
And as they were talking, asking questions, referring to places and people, I couldn’t help but wish I could be as passionate as they are about this history. Not that I’m not passionate about what I study. I mean, I obviously decided to dedicate my life, in part, to the telling of the histories of my peoples. But I’ve never been the kind of historian who focuses on the details–the people, places and things. (That’s why I hated history in high school.) I’ve always been better at the big picture, the historical and thematic trends, the methodological interventions. And since I took those massive exams, I’ve become extremely focused on the story I’m telling in my dissertation. I’ve forgotten a lot of the details of the books I’ve read that are outside my specific topic and time period. In fact, I’ve even stopped reading books that are not directly related because I just don’t have time or mental space for it right now.
So as the conversation unfolded, I was reminded about just how little–and how much–I know. And I was reminded that we should never stop questioning who we are writing for.
sueñitos 