Just A Little Bit Of History Repeating

I’m going to make an obvious statement. I announce this because, after I make this statement, I don’t want you to say things like, “Thanks, Captain Obvious.” I am prone to making obvious statements as much as I’m prone to receiving that comment in response. Here goes…

I wasn’t alive during the times of John F. Kennedy. There. We got it out of the way and you behaved yourself. Thank you. Now: I wasn’t alive during the times of John F. Kennedy, but I can bet I’d be one of the many in awe of him as my president. During my days in early and higher education it seemed the closest I’d ever get to experiencing greatness in history was through books and generational folklore. I’ve never been moved by politics. I’ve always felt something was missing or kept secret. Something pertinent withheld for what someone thought was in my best interest not knowing. I don’t like that feeling therefore politics and I have not been fast friends. But I do like history. It seems weird to like one and not like the other since they both go hand in hand. Where would most of our great historical stories be without a bit of embroiled political drama? Truth or slightly altered truth?

In our young dating life, I’d come to learn BFam as a history lover. Nothing captures his full attention like a good, long, LONG marathon of historical theater on the History Channel. Because of him, we have quite a bit of movies dated in the throws of some of the best historical stories in our DVD collection. I’m almost betting he knows all the words to Pearl Harbor. (And when he denies it, don’t believe him.) When I wasn’t looking, his thirst for historical knowledge grabbed hold of Mooter’s brain and shook it violently. Right now, her biggest hurdle is understanding the things she’s learning happened in the past, not in her lifetime. To a little kid, one who has no sense of time, this is a conundrum. Hard as I might, I believe I’d only hurt myself in trying to make her understand. So I don’t. At least not right now. No sense in her telling her college history professor that not only was Martin Luther King killed yesterday, but “King” is not even his government name. It’s KINGDOM. Oh, AND the killer wore a purple hat because she SAWED IT. Momma’s little Oliver Stone. She’s so precious.

As many Americans my age and younger have been surprised to discover, we have another historical moment unfolding in our midst. In our lifetime. As surprising as it may be, it’s also a little… strange. I’ve gone so long thinking I’d never see something of worthy of documenting besides the doom and gloom we’re fed lately, I’m not quite sure how a person living in a monumental moment should behave. I feel as if I’m under dressed; in a cocktail reception wearing jeans and a wife-beater.

What I love most in reviewing the moments that have shaped the past of my ancestors is pouring over the photography. I love the words. Stories envelope me. I’d be a hypocrite having a passion to write without loving a good story. But I am, and always have been, a visual person. It’s almost like making up your own story, or putting faces and emotion to the time capsule.

The summer before I entered high school, I was asked to attend a National Young Leaders Conference in Washington, D.C. A group of my peers and I walked the streets of our nation’s capitol learning how, no matter your age or background, anyone can make a difference. I was overwhelmed by the experience and fortunate enough to return to receive an extended internship with my district Congressman the summer before my freshman year of college. During my first visit, nothing stood out to me more than the Vietnam Memorial Wall. I don’t know why. I’d seen photos of it before so I knew what to expect. And even in those photos, I was moved. But it wasn’t until I was there, standing before this expansive stretch of sculpted black rock, shading random names into the sample paper given at the start of the memorial… I can still look at that paper and get chills. It’s something tactile to accompany my visual. I feel as though I’m apart of it.


During the election, inauguration, and now first 100 days of President Barack Obama, I feel the same way and I still don’t know why. To my knowledge, I haven’t touched him or made shadings of his profile (and, believe me, I’d try if I weren’t so afraid Michelle would put me in a headlock). Yet I feel apart of it. Apparently, so does Mooter as the mere mention of his name sends her into overdrive. BULLOCK NOTANNA! BULLOCK NOTANNA! OH, MOMMAMOMMAMOMMA! BULLOCK NOTANNA IS ON THE T.V. It’s amazing to witness a milestone in my lifetime, but more impactful to watch it happen to the generation beyond me. To know that something is happening in my child’s life that she won’t have to crack open a history book to experience is unreal.

When I was pregnant with Mooter, I’d visited my local Hallmark bookstore. Feeling the strong urges of nesting overwhelming me like a Mack truck, I had the need to document everything I could – my way of starting history for my own little one. So, I purchased a scrap book especially made for mothers-to-be. It would be my first pre-baby purchase as I was afraid to speak reality into my developing womb. Not that I didn’t want her. Nothing was further from the truth. But I was so afraid something would happen to her in utero. What can I say, I’m a paranoid person.

Seven months into gestation, New York was on fire.

I’d never wanted to not be a parent so badly as that moment. This couldn’t be the only historical event for my children.

And now…