The Archaeology of the Mediterranean World

Tourists and Photos in Hesperia

Last week, I pulled down a box full of slides that I had taken between 1997 and 2003. I was looking for photographs of Lakka Skoutara in 2001 and 2002 (and found them, for all you who doubt my filing system), but I also found my pictures of my first trip to Greece and my two years as an associate member at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. I looked through box after box of them with a combination of nostalgia and amazement as I realized the completely clinical character of my pictures. My photos focused almost totally on ancient and Byzantine monuments with almost no shots of my friends, traveling companions, or the physical surroundings. As I thought about this more, I remembered how expensive slide film and processing was (particularly for a graduate student) and how important I thought it was to produce a teaching collection of images (in the days before Google Image), and this helped me relax a bit.

It was pleasant surprise to see an article in the most recent volume of Hesperia that looked at the 19th century equivalent of my touristic perambulations and their photographic record. D. Harlan's "Travels, Pictures, and a Victorian Gentleman in Greece" continues Hesperia's recent interest in articles on early travelers and tourists to the Mediterranean and the role that they played in shaping our archaeological expectations and perceptions of Modern Greece. Harlan's article focused on the slides of T.R.R. Stebbing who traveled to Greece and Turkey at the end of the 19th century. He took a series of glass-plate lantern-slides of famous monuments and well-known scenes, like the harbor at Smyrna. These slides came eventually to reside in the archives of the Institute of Archaeology of Oxford and some of them may have contributed to a published series of educational slides distributed by Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies. These slides, then, provide insights into not only the itinerary and values of a late 19th century tourist in the Eastern Mediterranean, but also the development of well-known educational collections that circulated on lantern slides widely in the the UK and the US.

The University of North Dakota has a small collection of these slides distributed by The Keystone View Company -- one of the standard American firms distributing such lantern slides. Orin G. Libby, the long-time chair of the Department of History lobbied continuously for new and updated Lantern slide projectors. At the same time, Webster Merrifield the president of the University of North Dakota and, more or less, a contemporary of Stebbing traveled regularly to Europe and the Mediterranean. While there is no record of him taking slides photographs, Merrifield's Classical training would have made it a likely possibility. After all, we know that he returned with a small number of objects purchased from across the Eastern Mediterranean and destined for a small (and now mostly lost) collection of University antiquities.

As Harlan argues, these slides served to link the tourist itineraries of the early guide books, like Murray's, Cook's, and Baedeker's, to classroom instruction in the US. There is a direct parallel between these early tourist itineraries and the modern day itinerary of the American School of Classical Studies which, in turn, continues to reproduce and reinforce a standardized view of Greece as captured by the camera's eye. (Check out this collection of images and compare them, broadly speaking, to the Stebbing's pictures) The persistence of such structured engagements with both Ancient and Modern Greece is nothing short of remarkable. The distribution of such "tourist" photos (that is photos linked directly to a tourists itinerary) serve to condition particular engagements with the Greek landscape that, in turn, shape the itineraries of future tourists. One goes to Greece, according to this kind of structured engagement, less to see the country, per se, and more to reproduce images, vistas, and scenes burned into your memory through the wide distribution and use of images. This likely accounts for the slow rate of change in tourist itineraries (and the itinerary of the American School and other study tours to Greece) and the persistent (if slowly dissipating) view of Greece as a place of history rather than a dynamic society with its own character, problems, and potentials.

More on this exciting fascicule of Hesperia later in the week!

The Flu, The University, and the Department of History

We've recently been barraged by university communications regarding prospects of a serious outbreak of the H1N1 Swine Flu.  This is not the first time that the University of North Dakota has had to deal with an outbreak of the flu.  In 1918, UND endured a particularly tragic outbreak of flu as the campus transformed itself into a base for the Student Army Training Corps (SATC).  Similar to our current situation, the flu crisis was managed by a new university president, Thomas Kane, who had been inaugurated just a year earlier.  Unlike our current leader, Robert Kelley, however, Kane had had a controversial first few months in office including the botched handling of a student drinking case, a flip-flopping attitude toward the tense political situation in the state, and an inflammatory inaugural address that rankled the sensitivities of many longtime university faculty members including the irascible Orin G. Libby.

Louis Geiger's The University of the Northern Plains provides the best summary of the flu's decent on campus in October of 1918.  The university had just re-organized itself to take on the training of over  400 army cadets who greatly outnumbered the small body of regular students on campus.  The campus moved to a quarter system, Davis Hall, Budge Hall, the dinning hall of the Commons, and the Phi Delta Theta Fraternity house were turned over to military use as barracks and headquarters for the cadets and money was allocated for the construction of an Armory. 

Despite what would have appeared to be significant preparations for the arrival of these new students, the university was unprepared for the influenza epidemic when it struck campus in October.  By October 9th, the university had suspended classes and placed the entire campus under a quarantine.  Training and classes for the SATC abruptly stopped as growing numbers of the corp became ill and parts of Budge Hall and the Phi Delta Theta house were converted to make-shift hospitals to serve the increasing number of sick students.  The hospitals, however, lacked proper equipment, toiletries, and bedding making them poorly suited to care for the sick.  Moreover, the Grand Forks community, an important support network for the university, suffered at least as grievously as the university campus.  By mid-October Grand Forks reported over 3000 cases of the flu and on campus 320 of the 470 cadets were ill.  Tragically, 29 of these students would die and Geiger reports that no other university campus had a worse record (p. 298).  In contrast, the Agricultural College in Fargo had far fewer cases and deaths despite having a larger number of SATC students; the quick acting Dean of the Medical School, Harley E. French, took decisive measures to prevent the spread of the flu among campus women (who were organized and housed separately from the SATC).  One died, but far fewer were ill.

The upshot of the flu tragedy on the University of North Dakota's campus was significant. Orin G. Libby, the noted historian, had served as the chair of the University's War Committee and had worked alongside President Kane to bring to make the arrangements necessary to accommodate the SATC on campus.  Libby, whose feathers had been ruffled already by Kane's impolitic speech at his inauguration, placed the blame for the tragic student deaths squarely on Kane's shoulders.   In 1920, Libby joined a group of faculty members including John M. Gillette, perhaps the most well-regarded and influential member of the university faculty during the first half of the 20th century, to call for Kane's removal.  Kane for his part rallied support from Vernon Squires (who would later write the first history of the university) and, perhaps significantly, Dean French of the Medical School.  The precise details of this conflict have been lost, but it attracted sufficient attention from various university stakeholders to compromise in a serious way both Kane's and Libby's ability to serve as campus leaders.  Libby and the Department of History, in particular, suffered at the hands of Kane as they clashed repeatedly throughout the early years of the 1920s (for more the Kane-Libby clashes see my three-part series: Politics and the Presidency at UND: Reflections on the Past at the Dawn of a New Era, part 1, part 2, part 3)

Stay healthy, UND!

Teaching Tuesday: A non-thesis M.A. degree in history

I spent part of yesterday afternoon thinking about the prospects for a non-thesis M.A. degree in history here at the University of North Dakota.  At present, we have a traditional thesis based M.A. in a graduate program where most of our students go elsewhere to continue their graduate education or regard the program as a terminal M.A.  Many of the terminal M.A.s plan to teach secondary school in the area, although some reveal a wait-and-see attitude toward graduate education; that is, they complete their degree and plan to wait and see what opportunities arise before deciding whether to continue their degree.

Over the past four or five years, we've produced some top rate M.A. degrees.  Several of my students have moved from our M.A. program to decent Ph.D. programs and most of these students have produced very fine M.A. theses and completely their M.A. degree within two academic years (around 6 semesters including summer).  These theses tend to be between 70 and 100 pages, are filled with the typical scholarly apparatus, and make some unique contributions to the discipline.

We have also had a number of students who really struggled to complete their Master's Theses despite performing admirably in the classroom.  This is partially a product of our willingness to take risks on marginal or non-traditional students who would not have a chance to pursue graduate education at a traditional, top-tier program.  Some of these students have time limits or family obligations that make it difficult for them to complete a good thesis within the time available.  Others struggle intellectually to complete a sustained research project or discover at some point during their M.A. program that graduate work simply isn't for them.  These students are often good students and are capable of performing well in seminars style classes, but for whatever reason come apart at the seams during the thesis writing process.  As faculty, we are then left in the difficult position of deciding how to do with good students who are either stalled in their thesis writing process or in such a rush that they can't produce a good quality thesis for a proper defense.  In the past few years this situation has produced some poor quality M.A. theses and has led the the attrition of some good students.  Neither of these results reflects accurately the ability and dedication of either the students or the faculty who have worked with them.

It took less than an hour to collect a considerable number of examples of non-thesis M.A. programs in history from across the interwebs.  Many schools with the non-thesis option are similar to UND.  They have small departments with small Ph.D. programs and presumably accept a wider range of students than we might expect at a larger, top-tier graduate program.  In some cases, however, even better programs have non-thesis M.A. programs geared toward students who are leaving the graduate programs before achieving a Ph.D. or geared toward local teachers.

In any event, these programs tended to have 4 characteristics:

1. Many of the non-thesis programs required students to demonstrate research proficiency through seminar papers.  It seemed common for students to have to produce two research papers over the course of two seminars.  In some cases these papers had to be submitted to the department for review; in other cases, the student was required to defend one of these papers publicly.  Since any graduate degree in history requires the student to demonstrate some advanced competence in research, these papers provide a good opportunity to demonstrate such abilities.  Moreover, they allow a student to "double dip" so to speak and use papers that had been developed over the course of their course work rather than to create a separate research paper for the completion of the M.A.  One program required that non-thesis students prepare an "article length" manuscript (10,000).  I thought that this was a particularly smart idea as the traditional M.A. thesis -- which can run as long as 50,000 words -- is neither sufficiently long (or developed) to stand as an independently publishable manuscript and too long to for publication in a scholarly journal.  An article length manuscript for a non-thesis student would give them a chance to demonstrate a level of professional ability that is consistent with the most common form of peer-reviewed scholarship.

2. Many non-thesis M.A. programs require additional course work.  Like many M.A. programs, we require students to take 6 "thesis credits".  These are "empty" courses which allow the students time to do research on their thesis while still remaining a full-time student.  If a student isn't writing a thesis, these credits become available for additional coursework.  I could imagine a non-thesis program requiring the student to demonstrate an additional level of content mastery.  These credits might also become available for new programs, like Public History, which could, perhaps, replace a thesis with an internship or some other form of professional development.  Several of the programs that I surveyed actually required students to take more credits for a non-thesis option.  While I like the idea of making sure that a non-thesis option had a similar level or rigor to a thesis based program, I worry that adding another layer of course work would be unfair.

3. Many non-thesis M.A. programs in history had some form of comprehensive examination.  I like the idea of some kind of culminating experience for any non-thesis student and the idea of a comprehensive exam based on a selection of courses is appealing.  But I wonder whether thesis kind of exercise will end up being redundant.  I would like to assume that the completion of a graduate level course with an acceptable grade is sufficient to demonstrate the mastery of that course material.  I suppose a comprehensive exam could include material that was not presented over the course of typical graduate course work, but such an option might come at the expense of additional course work or a revised and refined seminar paper.  That is to say, any exam based option would have to take into account workload and any additional requirements in terms of coursework or research.

4. Many of the non-thesis M.A. programs had explicit ties to either public history programs or education programs. Since most of our non-thesis students will consider the M.A. degree their terminal degree in the field of history, it only makes sense that they dovetail their degree with training in a more practical direction.  Education is the traditional partner for history and public history, archival/library studies are increasing in popularity.  One might also want to consider a certificate in Geographic Information Systems or certification in editing.  Building partnerships across the curriculum (they call these synergies here at UND) might attract new students to our M.A. program while at the same time expanding the influence of history across the curriculum.  One might even see a non-thesis M.A. as a stepping stone into our one-of-a-kind Doctor of the Arts in History program.

These are just my preliminary thoughts regarding the non-thesis M.A. and in now way reflect anything official from our department.  We are still in the early moments of an exploratory phase.  Let me know if you have experiences with these kinds of degrees or in these kinds of programs.

From Merrifield to O'Kelly

Late this past summer, the big move finally happened.  Decried as an act of fundamental injustice by some and accepted as the irresistible hand of fate by others, the administrators of the College of Arts and Sciences moved the Department of History from its traditional digs in Merrifield Hall across the quad to O'Kelly Hall.  The move is still a work in progress with aesthetic and practical matters still outstanding.  On the whole, however, I think that whatever our new digs have lost in dignity, they have more than made up for in character.

First, if Merrifield Hall was rough around the edges, O'Kelly is positively jagged.  For Merrifield Hall's neglected dignity, O'Kelly provides a kind of genuine, authentic, urban-type neglect.  The building itself was built in the mid-1950s as the home to the Medical School.  It was the first major post-war construction project initiated on campus.  Like most of the central campus, the building is in College Gothic style, although it lacks the refinement and attention to detail of Merrifield hall.

There are remnants of its past use as a space for laboratories and other medical facilities (although these are fast disappearing).  One of my favorite new rooms that the Department of History acquired was clearly a "wet" lab.  (I lobbied unsuccessfully to have this as my office primarily so I could call my office my "Laboratory").  The brown tile walls pierced by various ducts complement a a battered Formica floors complete with drains and rusted pipes.  For the time being, the space is filled with cast-off furniture and, for lack of a better phrase, undifferentiated crap.  It is destined to become a lounge of some sort, but for now, it's a place for the imagination.

The halls of O'Kelly stand out as well.  Cheerful yellow lockers alternate with ratty and disused display cases.  I can imagine the lockers serving the needs of medical students with their lab coats and stacks of thick books.  The display cases apparently replaced the lockers at some point and they displayed the triumphs of the now defunct school of communication.

The most famous wall-treatment in O'Kelly is the Rich2 painted graffiti wall.  A miscalculated plan to paint over this wall created a minor splash across the blogosphere. Apparently calmer heads prevailed and the wall still graces our building.  It adds to the more urban, more provisional feeling of O'Kelly especially compared to the traditional and rooted feeling of Merrifield. 

My office is just short of palatial.  I've imported most of my old Merrifield style furniture rather than succumbing to the temptation to upgrade to latest particle-board masterworks like many of my colleagues.  I have a solid wall of tables and desks suitable for Rankian ruminations over dusty tomes, stacks of important archaeological documents, and, of course, my happy gaggle of computers.

 

The classroom space is adequate.  The seminar room, the heart-and-soul of any Department of History, is still a work in progress.  They've made it a "smart classroom" by adding a digital projector and computer, but they've neglected to install a blackboard or white board.  We've been promised one, but it's four weeks into the semester and I haven't seen it yet.  My favorite aspect of the new seminar room is the obstructed view seat.  It's just like an old ball-park!

We've been promised, many, many upgrades over the course of the semester, but I've already come to like the ratty, urban, and disjointed feeling of our new digs.  For some reason (perhaps it's the palatial office), I feel relaxed and creative in this space.

Making the Professional Office

There has been quite the stir around here this past few weeks as the Department of History's new office space in O'Kelly Hall is being prepared, and the last of us in Merrifield Hall are anxiously awaiting access to our new digs.  Much of the buzz about our new space has centered on the idea that it must look "professional".  Whenever there is any conversation surrounding professionalism in the discipline of history, I'm interested -- as both my History 240: The Historians Craft and my graduate historiography class have a section on the development of the discipline of history as a profession. 

Like many academic professions, history has always had an awkward relationship with the professionalization process.  We have the requisite institutional components: the American Historical Association, the American Historical Review, et c. which all have esteemed and glorious pedigrees.  (For example, the AHA was actually founded by an act of congress).  On the other hand, unlike archaeology (for example) or other professional disciplines (like Law), history does not have frame the values and standards of the profession precisely in terms of ethics.  There are, of course, ethical statement surrounding matters such as plagiarism and practices of employment, but these are rather universal rules that would be more or less at home in any academic profession.  What I am trying to say is that history has few professional standards that are distinctive or unique to history as discipline.  There is no professional obligation to belong to the AHA, there is no professional certification processes, there is no accrediting body for department (although departments do evaluate one another periodically), and there are no formal standards for what constitutes a B.A. or M.A. or even Ph.D. in history (outside of what the universities provide and what is expected for accreditation of the university and graduate program in a very general way).  Moreover, as P. Novick has made abundantly clear, debates over issues of methodology and capital "T" truth have produced more conflict than consensus.

So, from the perspective of history as a discipline, there is some irony that we are being moved into "more professional" offices.  The appearance of professionalism and professional substances should not in this case be confused with the real thing in the eyes of the public.  Even if all of our offices are a lovely blue color and the floors clad in state-of-the-art carpet squares, we will still represent a cross section of the motley "professional" agglomeration that is the discipline of history.

Another concern, of course, is that the days of the traditional, homogenized, professional identities are on the wane more generally.  The University has recently unveiled a series of new "branding" words which include "innovative", "creative" and "entrepreneurial".  In today's economic and professional climate, these words evoke the opposite of blue walls and carpet tiles.  In fact, the corporate interpretation of "professionalism" has fallen into deep repute as "perp walks" and congressional hearings increasingly involve individuals decked out in uniforms associated with the professional world.  The teetering global economy challenges the traditional white-collar standards of professionalism as the traditional professional styles come to be associated with unethical or even illegal behavior, mismanagement, and violations of the public trust.

Ironically (perhaps), the saviors of our current crisis and the bastions for innovation, creativity, and the entrepreneurial spirit are the free-wheeling tech start ups with their chaotic, open offices, hipster presentation, and decentralized, bi-coastal, workspaces.  Carpet squares give way to graffiti art and mismatched furniture.  The future of American professionalism is not in institutional colors and homogeneity (specifically designed to promote the public trust and to hide the obscure and sneaky white-color criminals), but the bright, chaotic, informal spaces of tech start ups whose office space reveals the flexibility, edginess, and dynamism required to stay ahead of the current curve.  (See for example, Twitter Headquarters, Apple, Craiglist, Friendfeed (recently acquired for an undisclosed amount by Facebook), et c.)

As universities remain one of this country's greatest assets, and there is optimism that universities will also contribute significantly to finding solutions for future economic, social, and technological problems.  The intellectual life, opportunities to experiment, and innovation cultivated in American universities represent an important and powerful impetus for global creativity.  So, it is reasonable to wonder whether the iconic models of professionalism represent the way forward?  This question is all the more salient for a profession such as history which has always cultivated a dynamic professional foundation

To put this question another way, can we afford to paint over creativity?

Friday Varia and Quick Hits

Just a gaggle of quick hits for your enjoyment:

• News came this week that John Mering has passed away.  Mering taught in the Department of History from 1968-1970.  He received his Ph.D. at the University of Missouri which had strong ties to UND.  A UND History alumnus served as Missouri's president from 1955-1963 and had already produced Louis Geiger, one of the most important faculty members in the Department of History and at the University in the postwar period.  Mering taught 19th century U.S. history at UND before moving on to the University of Arizona in 1969.  He was replaced by Thomas Howard, an IU graduate who would serve on UND's faculty for many years.
• Last month the Princeton Review released its various lists.  The University of North Dakota appeared on two of the better known; it ranked 18th on the list of the top party schools and 5th on the list of schools where students study the least.  While on the surface, these are not particularly promising areas to receive high marks.  But when we look at our peer institutions on this list, it is really quite striking.  First, the top 20 party schools list is made up 3 types of institutions: major state universities (Penn State (1), Florida (2), Georgia (4), West Virginia (6), Texas (7), Wisconsin (8)).  In any other context many of these schools would be good schools to find as one's peers.  These schools have powerful Division 1 sports traditions, stand as the "flagship universities in their respective states, have good academics and graduate programs, have Carnegie Basic Classificiation of Research University/Very High Research (UND, West Virginia (6), Ohio University (5)and UCSB (10) have basic classifications of Research University/High Research)  , and have large and vibrant student bodies.  In fact, the top 10 party schools are all at least 50% larger than UND.  The second group of schools are the three liberal arts colleges: Union College (NY), DePauw University (IN), Sewanee: The University of the South (TN).  These are all competitive and well-established liberal arts colleges with student bodies under 2,500.  Again, if this were any other list, it would be an honor to rank among these school.  Some of the same observations can be applied to the list of schools where students study the least.  To my mind, the real issue is not whether our students study enough (many clearly study plenty) or whether they party enough, but how did it happen that UND ranked in these categories?  Princeton review bases their rankings on a survey conducted through their website by students (as well as information from the university administration).  So, it's not just that someone thinks UND is a party school, but someone cared enough to participate in a survey that produced these rankings.  The student willingness to participate in a survey must account for something and it seems like this energy could be parsed and analyzes in a positive way.  After all, it's not every day that UND ranks among the school on this list in anything.
• My parents are in town and we visited Chuck Kimmerle's fantastic exhibit at the North Dakota Museum of Art called "An Unapologetic Landscape."  It was fantastic!  Kimmerle, who is also the University photographer, was able to capture both the clear, sharp, and vivid qualities of North Dakota light as well as the subtle and austere character of the North Dakota countryside.  It's a must see for anyone interested in landscapes.
• The fourth test in the Ashes started this morning and before I got out of bed, England was 42/3.  By the time I was done this post, England was 72/6 at lunch.  A good start for Australia.

Treasures from Moving Merrifield

A second post today, but be sure to read today's main post.  I was chatting with our Department Chair, Kim Porter, in her former office and couldn't help but notice this on the back of a bookshelf:

She had asked Gordon Iseminger about it and he suggested that it might have been done by Charles Carter.  His speciality was Near Eastern Languages, with a particular focus on the Hittites, but he worked to identify and translate the fragmentary hieroglyphics inscription held by the University Archives.  It could have also been done by either of the subsequent ancient historians at the University of North Dakota: Linda Ricketts who wrote her dissertation on Ptolemaic Egypt or Walter Ellis, my immediate predecessor, who also worked on the same period.

So what does it say?

Is it a curse on anyone who dares to move the Department of History?

UPDATE:

Chuck Jones of the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, Near Easternist, and digital librarian extraordinary, identified the drawing as "a sketch of one of the reliefs at Yazilikayathis which depicted Tudhalyia IV in the embrace of his god":

And thought that it was likely to be Charles Carter's work.

The Merrifield Move

It's finally happening.  After all the bluster and delays, the department is finally moving from its long-held place in Merrifield Hall to O'Kelly Hall.  As my colleagues are slowly being moved out of their offices, I've been able to sneak in and get some final pictures of the offices before they are lost to us forever (how's that for dramatic?).

It will also give me a chance to add some little odds and ends that I had meant to include in other posts about Merrifield, but had not for various reasons.

First, this note greeted me on my return from Europe:

 

As the days past the "faculty still in Merrifield" became less and less true as they moved, one by one.

One of the great offices on campus has been until recently occupied by Han Broedel our Early Modernist.  It has a bathroom, for one thing:

It is also, almost certainly, Orin G. Libby's former office from the day that Merrifield opened in 1928 until his retirement in 1944.  I am basing this idea, Pausanias like, on a passage from Elwyn B. Robinson's autobiography:

"Dr. Libby had two rooms for his office, side by side at Merrifield #221 and #223, with a door connecting them. The first was larger than the other with a toilet, important to me [Elywn B. Robinson] because of the frequent, urgent bowel movements [Robinson had serious problems with his digestive track nearly his entire adult life. ed.]. It had Dr. Libby's desk, a worktable, and a lot of bookcases. The other room, #223, had bookshelves to the ceiling and a worktable. Its door to the hallway was not used. From the books on the shelves, I believed it was a workroom connected with Dr. Libby's editorship of the North Dakota Historical Quarterly. That publication of the State Historical Society was suspended for lack of funds in the Thirties, so the room was not much used. A folding army cot was set up there, and I would lie down and rest between classes."

The door linking the two offices was not used in recent times, but was still there, to the left of the tall bookshelf:

Dr. Iseminger, the most outspoken opponent of the move from Merrifield, has vacated his office.  He had been in his office since the mid-1960s.  His office was famous for a number of reasons.  First, he still pounds out missives on an old manual typewriter, so the office had a particular sound.  He also had a massive philodendron plant that crept around the top of the overflowing bookshelves.

Finally, the office preserved some of the original flooring in Merrifield Hall. The local rumor is that this was the surplus battleship decking installed as cost cutting measure (and perhaps salvaged from the 15 odd battleships scrapped at the end of World War I in accordance with the Washington Treaty including, ironically, the USS North Dakota (which wasn't officially scrapped until 1931)).  Whether the floors were actually old battleship decking or not is relatively unimportant.  They are funky:

The move from Merrifield Hall is pretty sad.  The building was tied to the Department of History since its inception.  Moreover, by moving our department we will be separated from the departments most closely allied with the study of the past: English, Philosophy and Religion, and Languages.  But we've been promised a better future in our new digs in O'Kelly Hall including upgraded office space, better classrooms, and easier access to the Memorial Union food court. 

It's still hard not to think that this isn't an end of an era.  For more of my tribute to Merrifield Hall see: Check out Room 215, Room 217, Room 209,  Room 300, the hallways of Merrifield, and even Merrifield Graffiti.

Under Libby's Gaze: Merrifield 300

The big lecture hall in Merrifield Hall at the University of North Dakota is Merrifield 300.  It seat right around 150 students and is an almost a living museum of different pedagogical insights and movements.

Theater style seating establishes an immutable relationship between the student and the teacher. 

 

The front of the room is crowded with the latest in visual teaching aids from the last 50 years: chalkboards, televisions, maps (of course), overhead video projector screens, media center, but oddly no podium.  It's impossible, for example, to put your lecture notes down on the media island and refer to them in a comfortable way.  It's also impossible to use both the chalkboards and the moveable screen.  I've never used the televisions, but their "olde skool", tube-tv, appearances do not inspire confidence.  The doors open directly into the orchestra so the first part of class is always interrupted as late arrivals seek to slip inconspicuously by the lecturer and situate themselves in the auditorium.  It's a wonder that more theaters aren't designed in this way.

 

These complaints aside the room has a certain charm.  I realized that last night will likely be my last night teaching my Western Civilization I survey in this classroom.  The auditorium in our new building will have its own character, I am sure, but it will almost certainly lack the bizarre, orange-patterned carpet on the walls. Whether this was designed to calm the students, fill them with eagerness to learn, or simply deter them from looking at anything other than the lecturer in front of the room, is anybody's guess.  The photo below preserves one of my favorite features of Merrifield 300, the dark right corner.  This corner of the room is always packed with students, hoping, I suppose, that the lack of light makes them less visible to their classmates and the instructor.

This is the final room of my Merrifield Hall farewell tour.  (Check out Room 215, Room 217, Room 209, and the hallways of Merrifield) Friday afternoon, I begin to pack up my office and hope to have it reasonably squared away before my impending departure for Cyprus. Merrifield Hall has been the home of the Department of History for over 80 years at the University of North Dakota, an admirable tenure for any department in any building.  Most of the Department's notable graduates studied in its rooms, the most productive faculty in the Department's history worked in its offices, and the rooms, hallways, and offices bear witness to research practices, student habits, and teaching techniques of the building's long history.  Documenting some of the spaces and places in Merrifield hall has revealed the accumulated traces of practice from its long history.  By midsummer, we will begin to process of inscribing the new building with the evidence for our activities, habits, and routines.

Merrifield Graffiti

One reason that I abandoned my beloved Blackberry for a less-loved Samsung Omnia is that it has a 5 megapixel camera which has encouraged me to document more regularly "archaeological" aspects of my everyday life.

Every day I walk leave Merrifield Hall on the University of North Dakota's campus past one of the oddest and yet most traditional pieces of campus graffiti.  Unlike more urban campuses, UND's campus is remarkably graffiti free.  Even restroom poets, so common to the semipublic space of university campuses, seems to be scarce.  So this one example of campus graffiti really stood out.  Someone had scratched a Chi-Rho on the inside doorframe at the southeast corner of Merrifield Hall.   The Chi-Rho is an important symbol to Christians, representing the first two letters of Christ's name in Greek.  According to most of the major sources for Constantine's reign, the Chi-Rho appeared associated with the battle of Milvian bridge after which Constantine showed a particular dedication to the Christian cause.  It was famously incorporated into Constantine's military standard (called the labarum). By the later 4th and 5th centuries, the Chi-Rho became a symbol of the Christian cause appearing in both formal inscriptions, mosaic decoration, and graffiti.

This immediately reminded me of ancient examples of graffiti -- especially the Christian graffiti found at various points along the Hexamilion wall in Greece.  While none of those graffiti were Chi-Rhos (that I can recall), several cross graffiti were located at doors entering towers or at gates into the fortress. (See: T. Gregory, The Hexamilion and the Fortress. Isthmia 5  (Princeton 1993), p. 126, ill. 23.).  Scholars have often interpreted such graffiti as being apotropaic; that is designed to ward off evil of both the human and spiritual kind.  Thresholds such as the door of a building or a city gate are liminal spaces (quite literally) and are unstable places being neither within the protected area of the building nor safely outside and away from protected space.  The vulnerability of such places often prompted appeals to divine powers to protect the space.

Of course, in some instances, the evil or restless powers have already infiltrated the interior space and the apotropaic marker -- like the graffiti on the Hexamilion -- are reminders that the bad things of the world can't always be kept at bay.