O Say Can You See?

You asked, we answered: Why is there a question mark at the end of the National Anthem?

No, that's not a typo. Education Specialist Megan Smith explains the perspective behind the punctuation.

The short answer: because Francis Scott Key wrote it that way.

But we can do better than that. Let's have a look:

O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, 
o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Portrait of Francis Scott Key, attributed to Joseph Wood, about 1825. Walters Art Museum.

If, like most Americans, you've spent more time singing the Star-Spangled Banner than reading it, the question mark that appears at the end of the first stanza might look a little funny. When we sing the anthem, we don't end it questioningly, but with a firm, declarative (sometimes over-warbled) note.

It's easy to forget that the words to the national anthem describe a real battle during the War of 1812. The rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in air aren't just poetic flourishes—they were actual bombs and rockets being fired upon Baltimore's Fort McHenry on the night of September 13, 1814, as the fate of a young nation hung in the balance. Francis Scott Key had secured the release of an American prisoner of war, but was held behind the British fleet arrayed in Baltimore harbor until after the attack on the Fort. He was powerless to do anything but watch as the British bombarded the American forces. The first stanza of the Star-Spangled Banner captures the mix of fear, patriotism, and anxiety that Key felt throughout the long rainy night of the battle. Does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave? Would he have a country to return home to?

 

The first stanza of the national anthem is projected prominently on the wall above the Star-Spangled Banner in the museum.

We sing only the first stanza of Key's song, but the Star-Spangled Banner actually has four verses. Only the first stanza ends with a question mark. You can read the other four stanzas, which include plenty of exclamation marks but no question marks.

Today some people choose to interpret Key's words—and the question mark—more broadly, not just as a question of whether the flag is still flying, but as a moment to reflect on whether we are upholding the ideals embodied in the vision of America as the land of the free and the home of the brave.

So yes, there is a question mark at the end, but we give you permission not to sing it that way.

Megan Smith is an Education Specialist at the National Museum of American History. She has also blogged about why visitors can't photograph the Star-Spangled Banner on display in the museum. For more information on the Star-Spangled Banner (flag and anthem), check out the exhibition website or explore nearby sites on the the National Park Service's Star-Spangled Banner National Historic Trail.

Pocket-sized history

Curator William L. Bird explains why he has a lock of hair, a slice of very old birthday cake, and a chunk of Plymouth Rock in his collection, the topic of his new book Souvenir Nation.

Can you take that?

When it comes to collecting the history of the United States, the line between preservation and vandalism was never more apparent than in the 19th century. Visitors to Plymouth Rock expected to chip pieces from it. At Washington's Mount Vernon, visitors pried away small bits of the mansion and wandered the grounds for more. In the absence of a historic preservation movement, or for that matter a museum, why not? Pocketing the past recommended itself as a way to save history, a piece at a time.

 

Plymouth Rock fragment with painted inscription, 1830

Many of those pieces ended up in the newly-organized Section of Historical Relics at the Smithsonian's United States National Museum. In the following decades after the section's creation in the 1880s many more came the museum's way, including fragments of Plymouth Rock and Mount Vernon. Shortly after the turn of the twentieth century, the collection included a sugar-cube size piece of the Bastille; a stone from the dungeon of Joan of Arc; a table napkin from Emperor Napoleon; and a framed collection of hair locks from the Presidents of the United States, from Washington to Franklin Pierce, inclusive.

 

In the early 1800s, a hammer was kept near Plymouth Rock for the pilgrim who had forgotten to bring one. By the end of the 19th century, what was left of the rock was fenced off within a memorial.

As the museum grew, the Section of Historical Relics was subdivided into new divisions and departments for civil, military, and naval history; for numismatics, philately, costumes, furnishings and portraits. With each subdivision the collection was culled. Multiple reorganizations over many years left a legacy collection of unclaimed and relics in today’s Division of Political History at the National Museum of American History.

 

Cake pieces from Franklin D. Roosevelt's birthday ball, Washington, D.C., 1934

Often described as association objects, they are in fact relics that were closely held by their eventual donors. They are typically small—personal items—the kind of thing that easily fit into a pocket or purse. And they are characteristically nondescript—the kind of thing that would have been overlooked if not for the descriptive note that its owner carefully fixed to or kept with the object.

From the dark corners of the collection come ideas that Americans had about their place in the world. But more importantly, the reliquary of the unclaimed and the not taken represents the way in which Americans thought that they could save the past—a lock of hair, a chip of a building, a piece of a railroad tie.

 

Lock of Sir Walter Scott's hair in a glass vial, Melrose, Scotland, 1832

Before there was a national museum, we had a nation of savers—a souvenir nation. If the past could be touched, it could be chipped away, excavated, carted off, and whittled into pocket-sized bits giving form to memorable persons, places and events that lingered in the act of possession.

William L. Bird is a curator in the Division of Political History. Learn more about America's souvenir mania from Smithsonian magazine.

I'm going to save the world? The evolution of video/computer game packaging

Go on a quest for some nostalgia! Museum Technician Drew Robarge investigates a 1984 computer game that puts the player in control.

One of my research interests has been how specific groups of people have been represented in videogames, particularly people with disabilities. As a result, I became interested in studies of immersion in games, identity, and what makes the medium of videogames unique. When I was exploring the museum's videogame collection, I became intrigued when I saw myself in the packaging of one computer game called Sorcerer. There was a shiny, mirror-like design that actually reflected back a fuzzy view of my own face. The message was clever but clear: you're the enchanter/sorcerer who is going to save the world.

Boy, I sure hope they know what they're doing.

 

The box for the game with the "mirror"

What is this game that has summoned me? Sorcerer was a multiplatform computer game released by Infocom in 1984 and was the second game in the Enchanter series. The museum has the Apple II version of the game, but the game was released for at least 15 different computer operating systems. The game was written and coded by Steve Meretzsky who also created other interactive fictions such as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Planetfall.

As an enchanter, you seek to find your master, Belboz, who has mysteriously disappeared, and find out what happened to him. During your search, you explore the world and solve puzzles to advance further in your quest. There are no graphics in this game as it is an interactive text fiction. You use a text parser to give instructions to your player using specific verbs in conjunction with nouns like "Drink potion" or "Use torch on icicle." The introduction of graphics and the integration of direct user input to actions on the screen have made this interaction system almost obsolete, but variations of this system still live in games today.

The mirror in the packaging is meant to be a physical representation of what should happen when you play a game: you become the character you play. There are no graphical representations of your character or the world, so you need to construct your own perceptions of yourself as well as the world, much like you would when you read a novel. Easier said than done when you're just imagining the world and trying to explore and solve puzzles. Some people make maps and room diagrams to help solve puzzles and help players spot clues. We see this spatial reconstruction of the rooms created by the player of the game. Interestingly enough, the player only created the first few rooms he encountered, meaning either he gave up doing it for more rooms, felt that the other material included with the game was helpful, or it was simply not included with the game we have.

 

Some of the maps drawn by the player included with our game

On a more nostalgic level, it makes me long for the days when video or computer games came with a lot more in the packaging than they do today. Sorcerer came in a nice big box that includes a manual, a booklet that had hints hidden and required a special marker in order to reveal the clues, a folder which can hold your handwritten paper sheets, and a spinning game reference card called an "Infolater." To top it all, the company created a fictitious magazine called Popular Enchanting.

Back at the turn of the 1990s, my family purchased Dragon Warrior III for the Nintendo Entertainment System and the game came with a huge chart that listed all the enemies and their stats, the list of magic spells in the game, the list of equipment that can be found in the game as well as where. The instruction manual did not only explain controls and hints for the games, but also had a full strategy guide.

 

All the extra material that comes with the game and box

By contrast, my most recent physical game purchase came only with an instruction manual that was only about five pages long and told me absolutely nothing other than warnings regarding limiting playing time and a list of button commands. This reduction in packaging material comes with an evolution in game design and creating tiers of games. More games teach the mechanics of the game with extensive tutorials and scaffolding-level design that slowly builds your skills and knowledge up. In addition to game design, publishers seek to increase pre-orders or sell more expensive versions of the same game by offering the game plus extras at a higher price. My purchased game offered at least three special editions, and I opted for the regular version which got me very little other than the game.

As I look towards the future of gaming, I find myself worried from a professional and personal standpoint. As more games are released only through digital means, this becomes a problem for museums like us. How do we collect games that have only been released digitally? Even then, how do we display digital games in exhibitions? This is a challenge recently confronted by the Art of Video Games exhibition at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. We find ourselves approaching a time where perhaps all video and computer game content will only be distributed digitally. While it is understandable for many reasons, it is also lamentable. After all, I find it hard to see my reflection on a computer screen.

Drew Robarge is a museum technician in the Division of Medicine and Science of the National Museum of American History. He has also blogged about Battlestar Galactica glasses in the museum’s collection.

Remembering Esther Williams, 1921-2013

Dwight Blocker Bowers remembers actress Esther Williams, who died yesterday. 

She was much more than a would-be Olympic swimmer. Esther Williams was a genuine movie star with a thousand-watt presence.

 

This photograph of Esther Williams was made for the cover of "Modern Screen" magazine of March 1951 by Nickolas Muray. The color carbro process used to create the photograph is a layered pigment print process, of which Muray was a master. The colors are incredibly rich and vibrant. Light bounces through the paler parts of the photograph and it often subjects seem to emit a glow. Williams had just finished the film "Texas Carnival" when this photograph was made shortly after going back to work after having a baby and launching her line of swimwear.

For the decade that followed World War II, she was the Technicolor screen's million dollar mermaid in many a MGM musical, singing and dancing as well as being the center of a number of absurdly elaborate and wonderful water ballets that revealed her to be sort of an All-American Venus who ascended from the watery depths in a sequined bathing suit.

 

Sheet music cover for "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Sam DeVincent Collection of Illustrated American Sheet Music, ca. 1790-1980, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

Speaking of her skills as a singer, she even introduced the Oscar-winning song of 1949, "Baby, It's Cold Outside," in the film Neptune's Daughter. And for her talents as a dancer, she more than held her own with the brilliant Gene Kelly in the delightful movie Take Me Out to the Ball Game. 

Williams at a 2008 museum event

In 2008, the National Museum of American History hosted an event in Los Angeles, California, that featured Esther Williams, along with several of the screen's leading ladies. Pledging to the national collections the scrapbooks that her father made for her, Miss Williams regaled the audience with unsentimental, clear-eyed memories of her film career. At the event, Williams humorously recalled the skimpiness of the swim trunks worn by her interchangeable leading men.

 

Esther Williams and director George Sidney on the set of 1944 movie "Bathing Beauty." George Sidney Collection, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

Dwight Blocker Bowers is a curator in the Division of Culture and the Arts. More on Williams from the Around the Mall blog.

Jackie Robinson: Comic book hero

The movie 42 has introduced many to the story of Jackie Robinson. Archivist Cathy Keen explores one interpretation of the baseball player's life published early in his career.

Comic books help us escape reality. We read about the adventures of fictional superheroes with supernatural abilities. But this comic book is different. It inspires readers not with the hero's supernatural abilities but by his courage, poise, and dignity in the face of tremendous hostility, and by his natural gifts of speed, power and agility.

 

"As a Negro, Jackie, You'll have to take a lot of insults and gaff! You think you can do it?" asks Branch Rickey in the third panel of this page. Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

This comic was published in 1950, during Robinson's career and three years after he debuted with the Dodgers. The abuses he endured are addressed in a vague, sanitized way in the comic book, which mostly covers his minor league career and his call-up to the Dodgers. (This comic was part of a series.) Brief reference is made to "the Jim Crow code." The words "race" and "racist" are never used. Instead, the words "scheming foes," "sinister plotters," and "Jackie's enemies" are used to describe the abusers, virtually implying that there were only a handful of bad apples who made his life unpleasant. 

As is well documented, Jackie endured much worse than that. Base runners slid hard into him. There were beanings—attempts to hit him in the head with pitches—along with death threats, and even a petition against him by his own teammates. The comic includes a couple of scenes of the famous meeting between Robinson and Dodger President Branch Rickey, in which Rickey offered Robinson a Dodger contract, but warned him of some of the abuse he could expect if he accepted the offer. Surely he used stronger language than, "As a Negro, Jackie, You'll have to take a lot of insults and gaff! You think you can do it?"

 

"I heard this Robinson's going to play ball on a white team!" says one character in the first panel of this page of the comic book. "That's a dirty shame!" says another. "If he comes here, we'll run him out of town!" Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

Another example is the page, illustrated here, that informs us that in Montreal, where Robinson joined the Dodgers' minor league team before his rookie year with the Dodgers, "Jackie even received a few threatening letters!" These too, probably contained stronger words than "Jack Robinson: Don't try to play ball here!  — A Friend." 

The comic also briefly mentions that in Jersey City, where Robinson's team, the Montreal Royals, opened their season in 1946, "Jackie ignored the taunts of his enemies!" but does spend several frames describing Robinson's base running heroics.

 

In the final panel, a rival team member holds up a black cat, saying, "Yah, yah, Robinson! Here's one of your relatives!" Narrative text explains that "Jackie ignored the taunts of his enemies!" Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

The comic spends not even one frame on Robinson's major league debut game on April 15, 1947, one of the most pivotal moments in baseball history and civil rights history, instead concentrating on a game a few days later in which he got his first hit, a home run, against the New York Giants at the Polo Grounds. Optimistically, the comic gives a lot of power to this particular home run: "Jackie's first homer struck a death blow to intolerance which kept Negroes out of organized baseball for 70 years!" 

Unfortunately, it wasn't truly a death blow. Many teams resisted integration for years, and the last team to bring in a black player, the Red Sox, didn't do so until 1959, twelve years after Robinson's debut.

Why were the sharp edges of reality so blunted in this comic book? There are many possible reasons—protecting children who idolize the players, avoiding offense, wishful thinking—but perhaps one was to focus on the game.

 

Jackie Robinson baseball card from 1953, front and back, Ronald S. Korda Collection of Sports and Trading Cards. (Coll. 545). Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

"As the first black player in major-league baseball, Jackie Robinson was influential, in part, because he kept playing after the rough early years, for a total of ten seasons," wrote Margaret Talbot in a recent New Yorker article about N.B.A. player Jason Collins who recently announced that he is homosexual. "We need to see what happens after the barriers are broken, and we like to see the people who broke them doing what they wanted to do in the first place: playing the game they love."

Cathy Keen is an archivist in the museum's Archives Center. She has also blogged about one of her favorite teams, the Nationals. Comic books can be powerful teaching tools. Explore a 1960s comic book on the civil rights movement with children with this activity guide.