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![]() To explain the way I teach history, I am going to use an analogy. History is a craft, requiring both tools and materials. My education makes me the master of my craft. Students are apprentices of my craft. As master, I supply the apprentices with the materials of history: primary sources, a textbook, my own lectures and other classroom presentations. (The apprentices, of couse, pay for the textual materials themselves.) I supply apprentices with a tool: the facts-significance-theme approach to doing history. The tool is free, but needs to be studied and used with care. By working from facts, to interpretation, to analysis, apprentices apply this tool to the materials. Since students are apprentices, no experience is necessary before entering the workshop. However, the ability to read at the college level is required. The burden of learning is on the apprentice. I am here to answer questions, but students must first try to use the tools to work with the material. In my workshop, one learns by doing, not by being told. This means that I have students read materials first, and do homework on their own, before coming to class. In class, I may provide additional material, or an opportunity to work with the materials they have. Students working together in groups can help each other. During the Middle Ages in Europe, apprentices came to work for various reasons. Some had a real skill in the craft. Others were sent by their parents at the age of seven, even if they had no interest. The master worked best with those willing to learn. So do I. But what makes history interesting? I think the materials themselves create the interest. If the master has put together the proper materials, they should fit like a jigsaw puzzle to give a possible view of the past. History is never an old subject, because each historian (apprentice, journeyman, or master) can use the events of the past to explore a fresh interpretation. History, in general, gives us an identity, a view of ourselves. We are nothing without our past. There is little commonality, or community, without common experience. |