The Truth about History

Each class then gets the same introduction, with slight variance in the one class that covers a different time period than the other two. One, two, three times I convey the typical DAY ONE information: details on the assignments and essays, what students can expect from me, what I expect from students, a handful of bad jokes, and a clear picture of how many handfuls of bad jokes are in store for the rest of the semester. And then, toward the end of each class, I let my students in on a little secret (or maybe it’s no secret at all): history sucks.

The truth about history is that it is boring. I will observe students jerk themselves away from teetering too long at the border between sleep and consciousness during my lectures this semester. I will take note of the various reasons for why students won’t complete this or that assignment because [insert story about anything that doesn’t admit “how much I am bored by history”]. And I understand: soon I will fall asleep after reading five pages of the nearly 50-page chapter that my students will also read from their history textbook for the second week of class. History is boring.

The truth about history is that it is impractical. Today I ask my students, “Who knows the date that Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered his army to Union forces at the end of the Civil War?” One, two, three times I ask the question, and, each time, after roughly fifteen seconds of wide eyes, shaking heads, and utter silence, I direct them to “Google it.” The fact is that knowing this date in history (April 9, 1865) will never, ever, ever be useful in anyone’s life. It won’t get you a college degree, it won’t get you a job, and in the unlikely event that you need this information to save yourself from a life or death situation, you can simply “Google it.” History is impractical.

The truth about history is that it is unrelatable. Every college history instructor I have had the pleasure (or otherwise) of seeing their class to its end has struggled to cover any content after 2001. “There is just so much content to cover before then,” they all say. I will struggle in the same way this semester, too. Furthermore, less than half of my students were alive when 9/11 happened and an even smaller percentage of my class has any idea of what life was like before the internet, let alone the telephone, or even the lightbulb. History is unrelatable.

Despite the fact that history is boring, impractical, and unrelatable, it is still a part of the state-mandated core curriculum at Texas colleges and universities. “If we do our job right,” my Humanities Collaborative at EPCC-UTEP mentor at El Paso Community College tells me, “then the state will continue to keep history as a part of the core curriculum.” But why? What good does history do for the twenty-first century college student? I’m not sure that I know the answer, even today—DAY ONE—but I have an idea. . . .

DAY ONE, Spring Semester, 1999
I am terrified. I’m even shaking in my seat. I have no idea what to expect other than the fact that as soon as my first class as a college student at El Paso Community College (EPCC) is over, I will have to leave the EPCC Valle Verde Campus and drive to the west side of El Paso, Texas, and work the afternoon shift. I took a semester off school after graduating from El Paso’s Eastwood High School last May so that I could work and save up some money. But gas is more expensive now—just over a dollar per gallon—and commuting back and forth between the east and west sides of town every day can take its toll on how much I had planned to save up—so can the need for guitar strings, picks, and effects pedals to use in my new band (I will be a rock star someday). Luckily, though, Mom came through for me and was able to cover my tuition for the semester. But I have no idea what to expect.


An image of a future rockstar, 1999

Before today, the idea was to take some general classes until I figured out what I wanted to do in life (other than being a rock star). By the end of my high school senior year, I was so sick of school that it was almost a relief when Mom told me that I couldn’t qualify for financial aid for the fall semester and would have to wait to start college. Since then I haven’t developed a clearer picture of what I want from college, other than to be around friends and get a bit of respite from work. Now that I am in this classroom, shaking in my seat, I’m terrified.

By finals week, I will forget the names of all my instructors. In a year, I will even forget which classes I am currently enrolled in. There are a few things, however, that I will remember for years to come. I will remember getting into a fight with my girlfriend in the cafeteria annex because, according to her, I was staring at another girl. Despite my innocence, we will still break up shortly after that. I will remember getting into a car accident in the campus parking lot adjacent to the “B” building. No one will get hurt, but my car will be too expensive to fix completely. I will remember my band playing a short set in the cafeteria annex at lunch one day. We will be amazing (obviously), as we always are (super obviously), and this will be just one small step closer to me becoming a rock star. Most of all, I will remember the look of disappointment Mom will give me at the end of the semester—almost as if I have broken her heart. I will stop going to classes after a month and a half. I won’t even drop out. I will just give up. But today—DAY ONE—I have no idea what to expect. . . .

DAY ONE, Fall Semester, 1969
There is no one in their seats. No hands raised to ask questions. No pens or pencils, no paper, no desks. There aren’t even any instructors to lead the class in lecture or in discussion about topics such as history, math, or science. There are no walls, no rooftops, no buildings. At least not yet. It wasn’t until June this year that voters in El Paso approved even the mere idea of having a junior college in their community. Despite this approval, however, there was no money to put toward making that idea a reality. At least not yet, as seen in the image below:


An unavailable image of a non-existent El Paso Community College, 1969

The first classes at El Paso Community College will begin for 901 students in September 1971. The Valle Verde Campus, where I will one day stop showing up for classes as a misguided student in 1999, and where I will return as a slightly less misguided history instructor twenty years later, will not open its doors to students for the first time until 1978. By 2019, EPCC will have five campuses in El Paso with more than 35,000 students attending classes per semester and, more than once, it will have been ranked first out of 1,200 community colleges in awarding Latinx students with associate degrees. Fifty years can make a difference. Today, however—DAY ONE—the school is just an idea that has yet to become a reality.

POSTSCRIPT, December 13, 2019
It is no surprise that the majority of my students find history to be a difficult (or boring or impractical or unrelatable) subject. We tend to always be looking forward. Most of what we do is for the future. We sleep to rest for the next day. We eat to have energy for the next task. We take classes for that future degree, which will serve to secure that future career. It almost feels unnatural to take a moment (or rather, an entire semester) to look back—oftentimes far, far back—to a time when the world was a much different place full of much different people who lived much different lives. The past can be unrecognizable.

But so can the future.

Today is the last day of my first semester teaching at EPCC. My students are turning in their finals, and I am bracing myself for a long weekend of grading. Their final essays will discuss the ways in which the concept of citizenship in the US has changed over time, or, more generally, how an idea about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness has become a reality for some (but, sadly, not all) people living in the US. While I wait for my weekend reading material to flood my inbox, I am taking a moment to look back.

All that I have expected from students over the past several weeks is for them to think about the ideas that various people have come up with throughout several hundred years of history, and about how some of those ideas have become realities. I have also challenged my students to think about how some people over time have had no idea what to expect from their futures, and about whether or not that absence of foresight should exclude someone from the ideas-turned-realities of others.


An image of an individual who MAY be my history instructor, but who is obviously NOT a rockstar, 2019

Looking forward, I will not expect students to remember much of anything from my class. I won’t even expect many of them to remember my name. My hope, however, is that the practice that they have had this semester in thinking about the ways in which ideas become realities will prepare them in facing their own unrecognizable futures, even in times when they will inevitably have no idea what to expect from life, school, or a seemingly straight and sure path towards rockstardom.

The truth about history is that it is important—not because it will teach students lessons about the past (that are boring, impractical, and unrelatable), but because it can give them a better idea of how to make the future.

Written by jecoa ross, The University of Texas at El Paso
Doctoral Teaching Fellow, The Humanities Collaborative at EPCC-UTEP