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The number of people who roll their eyes or make couched, snide remarks about the possibilities for employment, useful contribution or even making ends meet when I tell them that I am about to complete an M.A. in Medieval History is astonishing. Being surrounded almost 24/7 by others with a similar passion to my own, I too often lose perspective as to why this process, with its accompanying $20,000 of debt, is worthwhile. Recently, however, I have begun contributing to the craigslist discussion forums, particulary the one entitled “history.” Hobnobbing with the general populace, ok, let’s be honest – the general adolescent populace – has helped me reassert my own self-worth. As if I weren’t arrogant enough already.

Perhaps the greatest revelation that studying medieval history has given to me is the following: if you think you understand someone (or something in the social realm) – you are wrong. I have yet to encounter a problem or historical phenomenon that does not have at least four interpretations. Causal links are complex. Meta-narratives are overly reductionist. Or… if you like… PEOPLE ARE COMPLICATED.

We, the graduate students and professional academics, joke amongst ourselves regularly: “Wouldn’t it be great if something were simple? If I actually finished studying something and felt I understood it better than when I begun?” Alas, that is not going to happen.

It has taken even historians a horrifyingly long time to uncover this – and I think we, as a practitioners of an academic discipline, may in fact be best placed to appreciate the incredible wealth of human experience. I am reading a beautiful article by Barbara H. Rosenwein in a 2002 issue of The American Historical Review entitled “Worrying About Emotions in History that spends considerable time talking about the representation of medieval people’s emotional lives before the 1980s. She uses a particularly cogent quotation from Norbert Elias (whom I do not regret not having read, the man is an anathema to all good medievalists and it appears to be for good reason from his numerous citations):

People [in the Middle Ages] are wild, cruel, prone to violent outbreaks and abandoned to the joy of the moment. They can afford to be. There is little in their situation to compel them to impose restraint on themselves. Little in their conditioning forces them to develop what might be called a strict or stable super-ego (Elias’ The Civilizing Process).

Eew. This kind of reductionism makes my skin crawl.

So, as I am finishing up this degree, I share with the general population the one insight I value most and one insight that I think will just might begin to break down your own preconceptions about the historical subject.

1. I do not understand why I do things – and I have direct access to my actual thought process. I am never REALLY going to understand another person whose thought process I cannot access. The most I can do is attempt to appreciate the factors, situations and motivations that contributed to their actions. WHY is not an answerable question. Anyone who has ever played the “why” game with a three-year-old will appreciate this point.
2. The Middle Ages was a period covering 1000 years. We are 100% closer to Christopher Columbus than someone alive in the early Middle Ages was to someone of the late medieval period. Think about that for a moment… If we are all modern – do you really think anything could be gleamed about your lived experience from studying someone who lived in 1870 London? Even 1990 Bosnia? This is not to say that tracing continuities is pointless – it is to say “be wary of grand statements, categorizations, periodizations and other forms of reductionism.”

So, what use is a degree in medieval history? It allows me to appreciate and yet not be overwhelmed by the complexity in any relational situation. It furthermore has encouraged me to attempt the impossible – to understand a radically different way of life about which I have very little investment. Anything that challenges you to go about completing a task that you know is impossible – is a good thing. It’s called faith. I have no longer believe in higher powers, destiny or intelligent cosmological creation, but I have faith in something else – that attempting the impossible is not futile.