O Say Can You See?

Four questions with a disability history researcher

If you want to study how museums and memorial sites interpret the history of disability in America, Washington, D.C., is the place to do it. That's what brought Andrew Marcum, a PhD candidate in American Studies at the University of New Mexico, to the museum, where he is a dissertation research fellow. Andrew answered a few questions about his research, artifacts he has explored, and the way museums help us "make meaning" about disability in American history. Sites he focused on included this museum, the U.S. Capitol building, and the Franklin D. Roosevelt (FDR) memorial.

Photograph on left by Flickr user Richard Urban. Photograph on right by Flickr user Musebrarian/Wynnie Kwok. Both photographs used under the creative commons license.

1. Two of the sites you focused on in your study were the U.S. Capitol building and the FDR memorial, where you looked at the Helen Keller statue and the representation of FDR in a wheelchair. What stood out to you about these two depictions?

I think what stood out the most is that, while the Keller statue draws on the popular and familiar image of Helen Keller as a child transcending her multiple disabilities with her teacher at the water pump, the FDRstatue challenges the popular perception that Roosevelt "overcame" his paralysis and instead illustrates the ways in which his persistent and profound disability actually strengthened his leadership and enhanced his political acumen.

Photograph of the Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial in Washington, D.C., by Flickr user "wallyg" (Wally Gobetz), used via the Flickr creative commons license

FDR strategically deployed his disability to inspire veterans, advocate for ground-breaking medical research, and subtly but powerfully encourage the nation to persevere through its own challenges in a way that would make us stronger, smarter, and more resilient. Helen Keller worked throughout her adult life to do much the same thing. She not only advocated for the blind but also for the poor, for workers, for racial equality, and nuclear disarmament. Though she worked hard to adjust to her circumstances and was not always progressive in her politics, Keller insisted that her disabilities did not diminish her humanity. Suggesting that her disabilities did not need to be corrected or triumphed over, Keller once declared, "I would rather walk with a friend in the dark than walk alone in the light."

Her statue, of course, does not explicitly offer audiences these kinds of narratives. The fact that the statue is the first at the Capitol's collection to present an American with a disability is significant and the piece is popular with audiences and engaging in multiple ways. In contrast to the FDR piece, however, it freezes her in childhood and makes no clear mention of her specific contributions to history.

 

This commercially marketed lap blanket was altered by hand to include the universal access symbol made up of stitched stars. It was sewn by disability-rights advocates affiliated with ADAPT, which stands for the American Disabled for Attendant Programs Today. ADAPT was founded in 1983 in Denver.

2. Can you tell us about an object in the museum's collection that you found particularly powerful or meaningful in your research?

Katherine Ott, curator in the Science and Medicine division, showed me three hand-made keys confiscated from inmates at a psychiatric institution in Winnebago, Wisconsin. It is not known why these keys were made or what their makers were looking to get out of or in to. Each is distinctive, however, and the fact that they exist is powerful evidence that, even in confinement, people seek to exercise their humanity and individual ingenuity. Katherine presented them to me along-side a straight jacket in order to illustrate the contrast between individual creativity and difference and attempts by society to manage those differences.

 

Patients at Winnebago State Hospital in Wisconsin made these key from "found" materials.

One of my favorite artifacts from the museum's collection is a chunk of street curb. It looks like an ordinary piece of stone, but it tells the story of how wheelchair users used sledge-hammers to create home-made curb-cuts prior to the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). I like this artifact because it's not just the history of disability activism and agency that's being told through it. It is also a history of urban design and the story of how people with disabilities have influenced that design in ways we often take for granted. This piece of curb illustrates how disability has shaped our history in surprising and important ways and also demonstrates how particular aspects of larger social movements—such as wheelchair accessibility—can not only shape our view of history, but also the experiences and interactions of everyday life we often fail to contemplate.

 

Homemade curb cut

3. How has the interpretation of disability changed since the 1970s?
I think the biggest change is that disability is no longer seen as simply a physical or psychological challenge to be corrected or managed through medical or technological intervention. It is now also widely understood, both as a social and cultural construct that changes over time, and as a lived experience that shapes identity.

In my archival research I found a 1973 exhibition catalog on the history of rehabilitative medicine focused entirely on how technological advances in medicine have made persons with disabilities "more able." I also found well-meaning museum brochures designed for the "very special audience" of museum-goers with disabilities. Thanks to the work done by disabled Americans to expand our understanding of what it means to be disabled, we now have a better understanding of disability as something more than a medical category and we recognize people with disabilities not as alien, distinct, or special, but as human—with all the complexities and contradictions that entails.

4. We learn about disability history in museums, but something more also happens. Can you tell us about how museums are "critical spaces for meaning-making about disability" and give us an example?

[Another] of my favorite examples is a sign featuring the universal emblem for disability accessibility and wheelchair use which reads "I have evolved past the need for legs." The image's ubiquity on handicapped parking signs and public buildings means it is instantly recognizable. It cleverly demonstrates the humor and politics of the disability rights movement by framing disability as an asset, not a detriment.

 

A sign in the museum's Collection of Medicine and Science captures the politics and humor of the disability rights movement.

 

Each of these examples demonstrates how objects are important for meaning-making at museums. Pictures and words are very important but objects contain history and allow audiences to connect the past with the present in ways that texts and images alone simply can not because they allow us to imagine the people and histories connected to them. "Who made that sign?" "Who cut that rock from the curb?" "Curb-cuts haven't always been around?"

The placement and arrangement of objects is also important for meaning-making. This is why curators of the 2005 exhibition on polio placed FDR's leg braces on display in the section on Rehabilitative Medicine and not in the section on FDR's Presidency. This allowed audiences to contemplate FDR as part of a community of millions of people with polio who changed America and the world, not to simply consider him as an exceptional and inspirational polio patient who triumphed over his disability individually.

 

Originally made to tell time in the dark, this watch belonged to Helen Keller.

Andrew Marcum is a PhD candidate in American Studies at the University of New Mexico and a dissertation research fellow at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.

Editor's note: Marcum was inspired to take on this topic after hearing a 2008 campaign speech by then presidential candidate Barack Obama. "He praised FDR's courage in confronting disability as an example for all Americans," said Marcum, who decided to explore "cultural understandings of disability as something to be heroically overcome." He then presented a paper on the FDR Memorial debate at the 2009 American Studies Association Conference, where he met museum curator Katherine Ott. "Dr. Ott graciously took time to answer my questions about the process of creating a public history of disability and my interest in the topic grew," he said.

The quest for Grandmere’s cookies

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Editor's note: On your next visit to the museum, take a look at our new exhibition FOOD: Transforming the American Table, 1950-2000, which explores the social and technological changes that have affected what's on our plates.

Like so many people, one of my earliest holiday memories is related to—what else—food. In particular, when December arrives, I start to crave gingerbread cookies made by my paternal grandmother, who we called Grandmere.

Grandmere and Grandpere, around 1973

 

These cookies were rich, chewy, spicy molasses cookies cut out in the shapes of angels, birds, and houses, then iced with a smooth vanilla glaze. When we spent Christmas with Grandmere, they were a staple of the dessert table; if we were spending the holidays apart, they would arrive in the mail, carefully packed in wax paper. (Sadly, no pictures of the cookies survive. That's how fast they were typically scarfed down. What? They were REALLY good.) As Grandmere slowed down, she stopped baking them herself, but wrote out the recipe for me and my sister and our three cousins.

A few years after she passed away, I decided to try to make them for Christmas. The only problem? I couldn’t find the recipe, and neither could anyone else in the family. What to do? I poked around online, not wanting to admit that the secret of Grandmere’s cookies might be lost. There are, of course, tons of wonderful recipes out there, but none seemed quite right.

 

Two baking-related artifacts in the museum's collection. On the left, a Deluxe Cookie King used to make "spritzbegack," a Scandinavian cookie. On the right, a cake pan depicting Santa Claus emerging from the chimney. Both are from the 1950s.

 

Then, inspiration struck! I had recently gotten married and been given one of her cookbooks as a wedding present—The Settlement Cook Book, dog-eared and full of Grandmere's notes. This copy had been given to her in 1933 by her own mother shortly before her wedding, but the cookbook was first printed in 1901, and was intended to help recent immigrants learn about American culture.

Grandmere's parents had come to the United States from Germany in the early 1900s. You can check out excerpts from the cookbook online, courtesy of the Wisconsin Historical Society. There was a recipe pasted in the back for a molasses cookie that looked promising. One of my cousins remembered Grandmere mentioning the recipe came from a magazine. Could this be the original source?

 

"The Settlement Cook Book" and a pasted-in recipe for molasses cookies

 

I dutifully whipped up a batch, and they came out looking pretty good! And then, I took a bite. They were…okay. A bit bland, or as one taste tester put it, "a little dusty." But they were definitely not Grandmere's cookies. Still, I got a kick out of using her cookbook, imagining her trying out different recipes, perhaps trying to recreate dishes from her own childhood.

 

Me and Grandmere, about 1974

 

I've continued searching for a recipe that comes close to hers, using my family as taste testers. We all agree that I haven't quite cracked the code yet. But that's okay. It's a delicious problem to have, and each time I try a new one, I think of Grandmere and appreciate all the love she put into every batch.

Have you ever tried to recreate a long-lost family recipe? Do you use cookbooks passed onto you through your family?

Andrea Lowther is manager of visitor programs.

 

Memories and family history

George Scurlock (son of George Scurlock, the photographer) with his siblings in front of the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. 

A couple of years ago, my coworkers and I were discussing our most memorable Christmas gifts over lunch. Most of the memories were of beloved or most-wished-for things, but when it came to my turn to share, what came to mind were stories.

I thought about the year that a heavy snow knocked out the power at my grandparents' house on Christmas Eve. My family and I sang carols and told stories of past Christmases by candlelight. I thought about the year that I had come home midway through a year abroad and decided to record my family singing "Let it Snow" together to take back with me, and how grateful I am to have that recording now that we can no longer gather for the holidays. Those times to be together, to use traditions as an entrée into conversations about family history, were what made Christmas special to me.

As much as museums are about objects, they are just as much about the stories that exist behind those objects. If your family is gathering, it may be a time that you're able to talk, especially with children, about family stories. If you do, our History Explorer website has a few resources that may help you expand on and record the conversation. Our oral history kit, while focused on documenting stories of immigration and migration, provides some useful guidance in preparing to record your family's history.

 

A 1957 Scurlock Studio photo of "Miss Margo Brown's Children's Party"

For younger children, our Design a Family Flag activity encourages children and their caregivers to work together to think of symbols and colors that represent their family to them. Both of these activities can help children to understand their family history, while the experience of interviewing a relative or creating a family flag together may become the memory they share at some future lunch table conversation.

While my coworkers talked about objects and I talked about an experience when thinking of memorable Christmas gifts, the essence was the same. Their objects were perhaps gone, but the joy preserved in their memories remained. For all of us, those memories were the greatest gifts of all.

Naomi Coquillon is an education specialist at the National Museum of American History. She has shared other museum resources in this blog post.

History in the walls

One of the cola cans discovered in the museum's walls

Museum people have a hard time throwing things away—our offices are proof of this. When the Washington Post took a peek into the office of a senior curator who had worked at the National Gallery of Art for 38 years, I recognized the telltale signs of a long career of sharing collections and stories with the public. As museum folk, we see the value of the stuff we preserve and interpret—and we tend to hang onto that.

But curators aren't the only ones guilty of keeping props from exhibitions that closed years ago, scraps of public feedback on comment cards, and other bits and pieces of the building's history. Property Management Specialist Angela Perez and Architect/Project Manager Pedro Colon recently acquired their own office decor.

As two staff members involved in the renovation of the museum's west wing, a project that will bring the museum new galleries, an education center, interior public plazas, performing arts spaces, and a panoramic view of the Washington Monument, Perez and Colon were doing a routine walk-through when they noticed something odd.

"There were two cans hanging out of a wall where the contractors had already started to cut through," said Perez. "The cans caught our eye." They turned out to be RC Cola cans from around 1958. "Pretty cool, huh? What a fun and great find! I wonder what else are in those walls..." she said.

"There are perks in everyone's job," said Perez. "That day was a perk for us!"

A wall mural celebrates RC Cola and MoonPies. Photograph by Flickr user C_Knaus (Christopher Knaus) found via the creative commons.

To some, the cans may just be junk. But to museum folks, the discovery piqued our interest in learning more about RC Cola. The combination of an RC Cola and a MoonPie were known in the 1930s as the "working man's lunch," a ten-cent meal popular among laborers and coal miners. Perhaps workers from the building's construction had enjoyed the beverages—after all, the groundbreaking took place in August of 1958. In the 1950s, a country song called celebrated the sweet combination, which some still enjoy today, especially at the Bell Buckle, Tennessee, annual festival honoring the treat.

 

Workers move the 1401 steam locomotive into the museum building using a pulley system in 1961.

But there are many other historical angles from which to explore the cans, especially if you're a museum curator. "I would encourage viewers to take a closer look at the can to think about manufacturing, labeling, and marketing changes," said Shannon Perich, associate curator for the photographic history collection. "History is everywhere, even in someone's hidden trash."

As renovation transforms the museum, the cola cans offered us an opportunity to reflect on the museum's history and the different angles we take on historical objects and stories. It reminded me of an activity I've done while training museum volunteers to visually investigate objects. You give them a McDonald's food container (or any other everyday object) and ask them 50 questions about it. 50 Ways to Look at a Big Mac Box challenges us to truly mine an object for the maximum number of possible meanings; once you try this, you have a new appreciation for the job of writing a museum label or picking a theme for a section of an exhibition.

Have you ever stumbled upon a piece of history while renovating a room or moving? Tell us in the comments!

The museum's center core and east wing remain open during renovation. Before visiting, check out our renovation website to see which exhibitions have moved or closed and plan your visit.

Erin Blasco is an education specialist in the New Media Department. Besides an occasional cola or two, she also likes to enjoy cider, hot chocolate, or tea—just like people drank in colonial times. 

Thanksgiving, forty one years later

Editor's note: A tweet from the National Museum of African American History and Culture recently caught our eye. They asked an interesting question: who was your first friend of another race? For curator Karen Lee, her first friend of another race was also her first best friend. In the Thanksgiving spirit of reflecting on memories, family, and friends, we're sharing the story of Karen's recent reunion with her best buddy from long ago.

We didn't recognize each other at first. When her Dad answered my call from the airport he said, "Find Tammy, she's at baggage claim, I'll pick you both up." Last I had seen her, I was nine years old. Once we stood face-to-face, 41 years evaporated through our tears. Without hesitation I said, "Let's go, your Dad's outside in the car." Driving from the airport in Shreveport to their farm in Mansfield, Louisiana, we laughed about our momentary disconnect—did we seriously think we would recognize each other after four decades? Then I pulled out a photograph of us—inseparable friends in New York during the 1960s—and the memories erupted. We didn't stop smiling, crying, eating, or remembering for the rest of the weekend.

 

Melissa Lee, Karen Lee, and Tammy Jones, Peekskill, New York, 1967

Tammy and I grew up together in Peekskill, New York, where my grandfather settled after immigrating from Czechoslovakia. Tammy's Dad moved his family to New York for better teaching jobs but later returned to Louisiana when his in-laws became sick. Looking back, he recalled the difficulty of going back to segregated schools in Mansfield after teaching in integrated ones up North. Tammy's brother Horace Sharp served two tours in Vietnam. Sometimes we'd sneak into his room to snoop around. I remember his art work taped to the walls. Now his paintings hang in museums.

 

Horace Jones, "Taste of Freedom"

Mr. Jones, me, Horace, Tammy

Adulthood had taken Tammy and me in different directions and we lost touch. While I was traipsing around the world, she built a family. She worked hard and tried her hand at many trades to raise eight kids. She loves her current job in the local elementary school kitchen. "Feeding people makes me happy," she told me. We share this love for feeding people but, unlike me, she's at ease cooking for large numbers. Tammy's kids now have their own children so when she prepares a family dinner, it's usually for 20 people. 

 

Serving gumbo

My life—full of friends and professional responsibility—seems lacking by comparison. But when I mentioned it, Tammy was quick to remind me that I've visited all the places we used to fantasize about when we played with the globe. How many times had we tried to dig to China? And where did that idea come from? Turns out it was inspired by a storybook our grade-school teacher used to read at nap time. Would any kid today—with the internet and Facebook friends around the world—ever believe you could dig to China? What a different world we grew up in.

At church on Sunday, when the pastor asked if there were any visitors, my first thought was to ignore him until I realized I was the only white person in the audience. Moments later Tammy made an amazing dedication to our childhood—testifying to how, "we didn't know the difference between Black and White." She and the choir dedicated a song to me that I'll never forget.

Zion Hill Missionary Baptist Church, Mansfield, Louisiana

Tammy's brother Horace took me to visit his mother's grave—fulfillment of a promise I made to my mom. She and Mrs. Jones were best friends, too, and it was my mother's ongoing contact that led me back to this, my first family. So as I look forward to celebrating Thanksgiving with my mother in Peekskill, I look back with certainty that attributes of my personality—curiosity for world culture, stubborn persistence for righteous causes, and optimism despite despair, to name just a few—were lovingly shaped by this vibrant family and good luck that Tammy was my first best friend. Before I left Mansfield, she reminded me that we will always be best friends no matter the time or distance. Happy Thanksgiving.

So who was your first friend of another race? Tell us in the comments below or send us a tweet. 

Above, video clips of Karen's trip. 

Karen Lee is a curator of numismatics at the National Museum of American History. Karen's first book is The Private Sketchbook of George T. Morgan, about the sculptor and coin designer George T. Morgan, whose works of art include the Morgan silver dollar minted beginning in the 1870s. The book is now available.