The Multiplicity of Conversations
Dear Readers,
There are so many books, aren’t there? There is even a terrific little book called So Many Books, by Gabriel Zaid, a book that I often think with:
“We complain about the confusion of languages, the multiplicity of conversations, because we dream of the world’s undivided attention, beyond the grasp of our finiteness. But culture is a conversation without a center.” (33)
If you’re reading this newsletter, you probably know that I’m in the phase of having just published a book where I am indeed seeking the world’s undivided attention and yet thankfully I have been saved from actually getting it. Instead, and this is my topic today, I get to be a part of some wonderful conversations at 1pm ET on Wednesday and Thursday.
(If you’ve read enough, you can unsubscribe here.)
This is the U.S. National Archives in D.C., which will host one of those conversations!
Zaid makes use of a lovely metaphor, imagining a reader coming to a book as akin to a person nudging their way into a conversation at a party. They listen in a bit, get the lay of the land, and start to feel their way into what is going on. When books work well, they do not just make some contribution to on-going debate, they also merge readers onto new avenues of inquiry.
A book launch, then, is misnamed. The point should not be to send a rocket off into space. The point should be to clear some space at the table, to make room at the bar. Come one, come all, and let us see what conversations commence.
This week, Democracy’s Data provides an excuse for two actual, literal (and yet also, somehow, virtual) conversations that I am super excited for.
And! You are all invited!
On Wednesday, at 1pm ET, I get to sit down (digitally) with the Senior Director for Census & Data Equity at The Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights—my brilliant, charming friend Meeta Anand. REGISTER HERE.
I was writing Democracy’s Data as the 2020 census took shape, at a moment when many smart people committed to American democracy got rather worried about whether political shenanigans might undermine this crucial count. Some of those people founded Census Quality Reinforcement (CQR), a group of advocates, academics, and community leaders working to support the census and help generate accurate, reliable, and legitimate facts. I learned so much from my CQR peers: their insights and questions shaped this book so much. I’m excited to party with them, and with Meeta (who really made a mark on this book). So, like I said: Join us!
Then, on Thursday, we pivot a bit, from civil rights and governance to genealogy and the stories we tell about ourselves and our families. The thing that remains the same: SO MUCH CENSUS NERDERY!!
I literally could not believe it when Maud Newton agreed to be my partner for this event, hosted by the National Archives, on Thursday, 9/8 at 1pm ET. Register here, or just watch it live on YouTube.
Ancestor Trouble came out to rave reviews in March. I really like this line from a New York Times reviewer: “She asks questions that make you ask more, which is also how genealogical inquiries unfold.” It is, also, my favorite mode of intellectual activity. Sure, sometimes we have to settle facts or quiet controversies. But most of the time, I prefer a question or comment that opens up the conversation to one that shuts it down.
In Ancestor Trouble, Maud Newton investigates her own ancestors and brings us along for the journey. Her curiosity throughout is infectious and it is wide-ranging. (She is also very skilled at finding things out!) So the story of one person’s family becomes a story about all of us, and especially about how we tell stories about who we are.
As Maud writes (immediately before a fascinating and thoughtful investigation into genetic genealogy):
“The stories we tell ourselves about our ancestors have the power to shape us, in some ways nearly as much as our genetics do.” (30)
We’ll be meeting in a virtual space opened for us by the US National Archives to talk through our shared obsession with census records and as we go we’ll think together about the ways such documents influence the stories we tell about ourselves, our families, our communities, and the nation.
Speaking of genealogy, identity, mysteries, and history, check out this NYT story by Rachel L. Swarns, a journalist I really admire. The article involves a woman who discovers a genetic link “to descendants of the Maryland families who had been sold to save Georgetown.”
In 2016, Swarns wrote a piece that introduced into the national conversation the fact that 272 slaves had been sold in 1838 to save the then-foundering university and her work has helped drive the effort to find and engage with the descendants of those enslaved people who were sold.
A few newsletters ago, I asked you (my readers) to let me know about any podcasts where I should be talking about Democracy’s Data. One of the people who responded was Kate Carpenter, host of Drafting the Past and so we had little talk. You can listen here.
It won’t take you long to realize that Kate is a phenomenal interviewer: smart and generous, fun and thoughtful. If you experience half as much joy listening to this as I did recording it, well, that would be an hour well spent.
Remember how I said that I really like comments that open up new inquiry?
Well…
Readers of my last newsletter will recall a certain book review had me screaming in delight. It began with this line:
“The U.S. census has inspired a surprising amount of poetry, Dan Bouk notes in his endearingly nerdy new book…”
A reader of that review, a fellow scholar, Hollis Robbins, got in touch. There is, it turns out, even MORE census poetry out there!
In 1789, William Wordsworth published a poem titled “We Are Seven”. In the poem, a passing gentleman speaks with a young girl asking after her family. How many are you, he asks? She replies, seven. And that is where their disagreements begin, disagreements about how or whether the dead still count, about whether we carry our departed with us, and about who gets to decide.
Robbins wrote a revealing analysis of the poem in 2010, one that placed it in the context of preparations for a British census in 1801. (She also makes note of Robert Frost’s “The Census Taker.”)
I love these lines, which appear toward the end of Robbins’ essay:
“Bureaucratic census-taking and poetic representation both register some kind of truth, though the object of official representation is merely to enroll material truths and facts, whereas the point of Romantic poetry is transcendental truth.”
The magic thing about reading the census, for me, is the way both kinds of truth linger and mingle, right there in the sheets.
Thanks, as always, for reading!
until next time,
Dan