The Curse

Becoming a specialist creates a curse.

An engineer cannot stop trying to figure out how things work. A psychologist cannot have an average conversation. A historian cannot live entirely in the present, a condition which annoys my friends and family to no end. Because much of history is bleak, darkness follows me.

Knowing what most do not compels me to teach, even unwanted lessons. I can really be a bummer sometimes.

“Look at that beautiful tree,” a friend might say. “It’s invasive. It is more aggressive than our native trees, which will result in species decline,” I reply.

I quiz my wife on trips. “What’s that, honey?” I ask. “River cane,” she enthusiastically replies. “And why is river cane important?” I continue. “Because Native Americans only lived where it grew,” she replied.

She loves me, so she does not kill me.

The supreme hope is that it will all be worth it someday. I will get a job at some college or university and earn little to some standards, but plenty to mine. Then my knowledge will have “value.”

Of course, I could always shut up. That is like trying to keep a runner from running or a cow from chewing. It is what I am.

Many professors tried to convince me not to pursue history as a profession. There are no jobs. There is little money. Departmental politics are stressful. One of them asked me why I wanted to put myself, my family, and friends through the gauntlet. I suppose my response is similar to that from anyone who pursues a passion.

“I am a historian,” I told him. “I might as well learn to be a good one.”