
D'Maris Coffman
History
with President Gutmann and Interim Provost Peter Conn

“History is not the past; history is thinking about the past.”
Jonathan Steinberg’s pithy summary of what professional historians
do best encapsulates my own philosophy of teaching history. Our students
too often complain that the history they learned in school could be
reduced to a simple recitation of facts, a discouraging catalogue
of what Edward Gibbon once described as “little more than the
register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.”
If ‘history’ were simply that past, undergraduates would
be justified in their skepticism towards its putative ‘lessons.’
They know very well that the past is no sure guide to the future.
‘Thought experiments’ about a shared, if often alien,
human past may well better equip them for sensitive, critical, and
nuanced engagement with the present.
I want students to see, from the outset, that if professional historians
are in dialogue with the past, we are in conversation with one another.
In teaching for survey courses, I emphasize and elaborate upon the
historiographical traditions – Whig, Marxist, and revisionist—and
ask students to marshal the information in their readings to evaluate
the arguments to which they are exposed. In recitation, I will often
argue for a different interpretation than the professor did in lecture.
Students frequently realize for themselves that such interpretations
can operate simultaneously; in other instances, I ask them to tell
me how they would resolve competing claims about the past. I find
it very satisfying to see students recognize how the explanations
advanced by academic historians inform, often unconsciously, their
own views of their world.
I challenge students—especially those from other schools,
disciplines and majors—to bring concepts and ideas from coursework
in micro- and macroeconomics, psychology, sociology, anthropology,
political science, philosophy, literary and religious studies to
bear on their thinking about the past. History as a discipline offers
few indigenous methodologies; instead, we must often import analytical
models from the social sciences and hermeneutic approaches from
the other humanities. I want students to understand how critical
theory develops and how historians use it. I also want them to see
that what history offers, in turn, is an appreciation of the material
realities and mental worlds in which canonical theorists (Adam Smith,
Karl Marx, Charles Darwin, Sigmund Freud, Emile Durkheim, Max Weber,
to name a few) conducted their own analyses.
If history is thinking about the past, thought occurs in language.
I rely on techniques I developed as a critical writing fellow to
introduce students to the conventions of historical writing. I insist
that students express themselves precisely in their written work.
I emphasize that in assessing that work I am chiefly interested
in the clarity and quality of their arguments. Inadequate command
of factual material, poor control of narrative, vague or sloppy
argumentation, and unwieldy prose can all mar an essay. I do my
best to allay their anxieties about grading by making my expectations
for an assignment clear to the students and by entertaining their
questions and concerns. Yet I insist that they confront the reality
that objectivity is a mirage. I stress fairness as my chief goal.
As such, I do not read drafts or otherwise coddle students. I want
them to see themselves engaged in historical thinking by and for
themselves. I caution them against re-hashing received interpretations.
On a personal level, I try to make myself accessible. I hold two
sets of office hours a week and invite students to contact me by
email if they wish to discuss the course. I do not distinguish between
their content and administrative questions. Because I am ten years
older than most of them and a Penn alumna myself, I feel comfortable
encouraging them to address me informally. I ask them to bring their
problems with all aspects of the course to me. While I make sure
they know that they can contact the professor if they cannot resolve
them, I see my role as teaching assistant chiefly in terms of my
relation to the course director. I try to keep the professor informed
of potential problems, but I fully appreciate that I would hardly
be of much real assistance if I could not resolve them myself.
I do believe that sharing my enthusiasm for the discipline is the
only thing I can do to combat the tendency of undergraduates at
elite institutions to value their educations for the credential
alone. In their frenzied pursuit of grades and degrees, too many
have lost the ability to derive pleasure from using the intellects
that got them into Penn. For these students, the pursuit of knowledge
is a nerve-racking chore. More than anything else, I want to impart
to students something of the rigors and rewards of ‘thinking
about the past.’ I hope that will, in turn, encourage them
to think critically and self-reflexively about the material realities,
social problems, and ideological controversies of the present.
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