Recognizing The 150th Anniversary Of The American Civil War
Mr. Speaker, I rise today to recognize the 150th anniversary of the start of the American Civil War and an important piece of journalism by Ken Burns entitled ``A Conflict's Acoustic Shadows.'' Mr. Burns' article in the New York Times…
Mr. Speaker, I rise today to recognize the 150th anniversary of the start of the American Civil War and an important piece of journalism by Ken Burns entitled ``A Conflict's Acoustic Shadows.'' Mr. Burns' article in the New York Times reminds us all of the importance of reflecting upon this pivotal moment in our nation's history.
[April 11, 2011]
A Conflict's Acoustic Shadows
(By Ken Burns)
More than once during the Civil War, newspapers reported a
strange phenomenon. From only a few miles away, a battle
sometimes made no sound--despite the flash and smoke of
cannon and the fact that more distant observers could hear it
clearly.
These eerie silences were called ``acoustic shadows.''
Tuesday, the 150th anniversary of the first engagement of
the Civil War, the Confederacy's attack on Fort Sumter, we
ask again whether in our supposedly post-racial, globalized,
21st-century world those now seemingly distant battles of the
mid-19th century still have any relevance. But it is clear
that the further we get from those four horrible years in our
national existence--when, paradoxically, in order to become
one we tore ourselves in two--the more central and defining
that war becomes.
In our less civil society of this moment we are reminded of
the full consequences of our failure to compromise in that
moment.
In our smug insistence that race is no longer a factor in
our society, we are continually brought up short by the old
code words and disguised prejudice of a tribalism beneath the
thin surface of our ``civilized'' selves.
And in our dialectically preoccupied media culture, where
everything is pigeonholed into categories--red state/blue
state, black/white, North/South, young/old, gay/straight--we
are confronted again with more nuanced realities and the
complicated leadership of that hero of all American heroes,
Abraham Lincoln. He was at once an infuriatingly pragmatic
politician, tardy on the issue of slavery, and at the same
time a transcendent figure--poetic, resonant, appealing to
better angels we 21st-century Americans still find painfully
hard to invoke.
The acoustic shadows of the Civil War remind us that the
more it recedes, the more important it becomes. Its lessons
are as fresh today as they were for those young men who were
simply trying to survive its daily horrors.
And horrors there were: 620,000 Americans, more than 2
percent of our population, died of gunshot and disease,
starvation and massacre in places like Shiloh and Antietam
and Cold Harbor, Fort Pillow and Fort Wagner and Palmito
Ranch, Andersonville and Chickamauga and Ford's Theater.
Yet in the years immediately after the South's surrender at
Appomattox we conspired to cloak the Civil War in bloodless,
gallant myth, obscuring its causes and its great ennobling
outcome--the survival of the union and the freeing of four
million Americans and their descendants from bondage. We
struggled, in our addiction to the idea of American
exceptionalism, to rewrite our history to emphasize the
gallantry of the war's top-down heroes, while ignoring the
equally important bottom-up stories of privates and slaves.
We changed the irredeemable, as the historian David Blight
argues, into positive, inspiring stories.
The result has been to blur the reality that slavery was at
the heart of the matter, ignore the baser realities of the
brutal fighting, romanticize our own home-grown terrorist
organization, the Ku Klux Klan, and distort the consequences
of the Civil War that still intrude on our national life.
The centennial of the Civil War in 1961 was for many of us
a wholly unsatisfying experience. It preferred, as the nation
reluctantly embraced a new, long-deferred civil rights
movement, to excavate only the dry dates and facts and events
of that past; we were drawn back then, it seemed, more to
regiments and battle flags, Minie balls and Gatling guns,
sentimentality and nostalgia and mythology, than to anything
that suggested the harsh realities of the real war.
Subsequently, our hunger for something more substantial
materialized in James McPherson's remarkable ``Battle Cry of
Freedom'' and many other superb histories, in the popular
Hollywood movie ``Glory,'' and in my brother Ric's and my
1990 documentary series ``The Civil War.''
It was an emotional archaeology we were all after, less
concerned with troop movements than with trying to represent
the full fury of that war; we were attracted to its
psychological disturbances and conflicted personalities, its
persistent dissonance as well as its inspirational moments.
We wanted to tell a more accurate story of African-Americans,
not as the passive bystanders of conventional wisdom, but as
active soldiers in an intensely personal drama of self-
liberation.
We wished to tell bottom-up stories of so-called ordinary
soldiers, North as well as South, to note women's changing
roles, to understand the Radical Republicans in Congress, to
revel in the inconvenient truths of nearly every aspect of
the Civil War.
Today, the war's centrality in American history seems both
assured and tenuous. Each generation, the social critic Lewis
Mumford once said, re-examines and re-interprets that part of
the past that gives the present new meanings and new
possibilities. That also means that for a time an event, any
event, even one as perpetually important as the Civil War,
can face the specter of being out of historical fashion.
Explore multimedia from the series and navigate through
past posts, as well as photos and articles from the Times
archive.
But in the end, it seems that the War of the Rebellion, the
formal name our government once gave to the struggle, always
invades our consciousness like the childhood traumatic event
it was--and still is.
Maybe Walt Whitman, the poet and sometime journalist who
had worked as a nurse in the appalling Union hospitals,
understood and saw it best. ``Future years,'' he said, ``will
never know the seething hell, the black infernal background
of the countless minor scenes and interiors . . . of the
Secession War, and it is best they should not.''
``The real war,'' Whitman admonished us, ``will never get
in the books.'' We are, nonetheless, obligated to try.