The Life Of An Imaginary Historian
I had no idea that I was a potential historian in training as a kid, but I was. I loved history, although I really thought I loved something else; comic books, classic horror movies, movies in general, boxing, jazz, rock and roll, the blues, those were just a few of things that drove me to look deeper into history. I really did love all those things, though.
Eventually, however, I learned that I had a need to understand how they evolved. The how, the why of it, that was what drove me. And, like all budding historians I just needed to find something I cared enough about, to actually sit down and do the research. Which, for me, wasn't work at all, it was pure pleasure.
In that sense, I was an amateur historian with a constantly shifting focus. One that changed as my interests changed. I think I realized fairly early on that I was never going to be a real historian or an academic. I simply lacked the discipline. Or, maybe, it was a case of not wanting the thing that gave me so much pleasure, to become a drudgery. That, probably more than anything, was the roadblock that kept me from pursuing what I loved as a career, in no small part, because I associated school with torturous, drudgery. It's hard to be an authentic academic when you hate something as badly as I hated school. For me, school was a severe punishment, an eight hour gap of lost time that could not be recaptured.
What I really wanted to do was run out into the world and explore. In that way, I was like most boys, whose internal energy seemed unending and the world a wondrous environment to be explored and experienced—a tactile, endlessly fascinating rush to the senses, a place of excitement. School, by comparison, had none of those things, only pale representations of the real thing, expressed through photographs or drawings, laid out on a flat, two dimensional surface in a book. Yet, that's where I was, stuck, just like every other kid who yearned to breathe free, but couldn't.
I eventually came to understand that school was not designed with me in mind. It was an assembly line—mass produced education for the masses, that's what it was. It was intended to make education cheap and available to all, not merely the wealthy, as had been the case throughout most of history.
I suppose I should be grateful. And, in some broadly general sense, I am. But, for me, school was a losing proposition. It's unyielding template was not designed with me in mind, nor was it reasonable to expect that it should be. All the things that might have come with it, were likewise, placed just outside my grasp as the result.
Inevitably, I can blame no one but myself. We all make do with what we have. I had more than most, historically speaking, that is. Certainly, more than most people have by virtue of having been fortunate enough to born at a certain time and place. So, who could complain without sounding like a whining child.
Either way, as the decades have gone by, I still find myself typing away, writing about whatever gets my attention. I still enjoy the world, even if my energy has, overtime, dissipated. I will make do with what I have, enjoy the things that I enjoy, live life to the fullest, within the obvious limitations that are imposed by life and personal choices. That's not so bad after all. People love me, I love them, I eat well, maybe too well. I sleep reasonably soundly, sometimes with a bit of help. My memories are good, mostly. And, where they are not, my capacity for denial is as powerful as ever, honed to a fine edge over a lifetime—and skillfully applied as needed.
Thank God for the little things. Thank God for the big ones, as well.
Mark Magula
Eventually, however, I learned that I had a need to understand how they evolved. The how, the why of it, that was what drove me. And, like all budding historians I just needed to find something I cared enough about, to actually sit down and do the research. Which, for me, wasn't work at all, it was pure pleasure.
In that sense, I was an amateur historian with a constantly shifting focus. One that changed as my interests changed. I think I realized fairly early on that I was never going to be a real historian or an academic. I simply lacked the discipline. Or, maybe, it was a case of not wanting the thing that gave me so much pleasure, to become a drudgery. That, probably more than anything, was the roadblock that kept me from pursuing what I loved as a career, in no small part, because I associated school with torturous, drudgery. It's hard to be an authentic academic when you hate something as badly as I hated school. For me, school was a severe punishment, an eight hour gap of lost time that could not be recaptured.
What I really wanted to do was run out into the world and explore. In that way, I was like most boys, whose internal energy seemed unending and the world a wondrous environment to be explored and experienced—a tactile, endlessly fascinating rush to the senses, a place of excitement. School, by comparison, had none of those things, only pale representations of the real thing, expressed through photographs or drawings, laid out on a flat, two dimensional surface in a book. Yet, that's where I was, stuck, just like every other kid who yearned to breathe free, but couldn't.
I eventually came to understand that school was not designed with me in mind. It was an assembly line—mass produced education for the masses, that's what it was. It was intended to make education cheap and available to all, not merely the wealthy, as had been the case throughout most of history.
I suppose I should be grateful. And, in some broadly general sense, I am. But, for me, school was a losing proposition. It's unyielding template was not designed with me in mind, nor was it reasonable to expect that it should be. All the things that might have come with it, were likewise, placed just outside my grasp as the result.
Inevitably, I can blame no one but myself. We all make do with what we have. I had more than most, historically speaking, that is. Certainly, more than most people have by virtue of having been fortunate enough to born at a certain time and place. So, who could complain without sounding like a whining child.
Either way, as the decades have gone by, I still find myself typing away, writing about whatever gets my attention. I still enjoy the world, even if my energy has, overtime, dissipated. I will make do with what I have, enjoy the things that I enjoy, live life to the fullest, within the obvious limitations that are imposed by life and personal choices. That's not so bad after all. People love me, I love them, I eat well, maybe too well. I sleep reasonably soundly, sometimes with a bit of help. My memories are good, mostly. And, where they are not, my capacity for denial is as powerful as ever, honed to a fine edge over a lifetime—and skillfully applied as needed.
Thank God for the little things. Thank God for the big ones, as well.
Mark Magula