Galatians 2:20a
I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not i, but Christ liveth in me:
My Life Verse

Ephesians 6:6

Not with eyeservice, as men pleasers; but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart;

Monday, September 14, 2009

History Paper that I worked SUPER HARD for!!! Please Read=) Its titled Misconception: Settlement in the New World Is Not What Students Thought

Rachel Campbell

Dr. Bucy

History 2010 - 10:10

September 14, 2009

Misconception: Settlement in the New World Is Not What Students Thought

“When was the country we now know as the United States first settled?”

James W. Loewen asked many college students this very question, hoping the answer would be 30,000 B.C., but the consensus among the students was 1620. Yes, the year of the First Thanksgiving was in their minds. Loewen states in his article, “The Truth about the First Thanksgiving” (76), “…my students’ heads have been filled with America’s origin myth, the story of the First Thanksgiving.” The well-known story of the First Thanksgiving portrayed America as a bright land where the Pilgrims and Indians met in peace and shared a feast. But according to Loewen this is not so, and students have this misconception about the first settlement in America because their history textbooks have not told them otherwise; there has either been no acknowledgement or textbooks have barely mentioned the massive amount of death that took place and bad relations between the pilgrims and the Indians.

Loewen believes one of the important factors that students are oblivious to is the enormous amount of death during the settling of America. Settlers from Europe carried diseases to the Americas themselves, as did their livestock. These diseases the Indians had no immunity to. Second, Natives and settlers were naturally rivals. This too resulted in many Indian deaths. Sadly, as a result, each time new settlers came to the new world there were less and less natives.

In addition, Loewen believes students have the wrong idea about the Pilgrims. Some choose to debate why the Pilgrims ended up in Massachusetts when they set out for Virginia, but that’s history, we may never know. More importantly is what they did when they got here. Loewen says, while textbooks paint Pilgrims to be “a pious and moral band” (89), he knows another side of the Pilgrims that the textbooks do not tell. Pilgrims did not have agricultural knowledge, so they forced Indians to teach them, “slavery” Loewen calls it. Not only that, the Pilgrims stole from Indian’s homes, and also robbed their graves. Indeed the Pilgrims were not the sweet spirited, innocent people students think them to have been.

When I looked back at what I believe to be true about the settlement of America, I realized I viewed it from the same perspective as Loewen’s students. But, The American Past, by Joseph R. Conlin, justly represents Loewen’s non-traditional perspective of death in America (17-19). However, unlike Loewen, Conlin blames the Indian casualties more on disease rather than rivalries between the pilgrims and natives. In respect to the Pilgrim’s actions toward natives, Conlin is traditional in his portrayal of the Pilgrims and acknowledges nothing of the thefts or slavery. In fact, according to Conlin, Squanto taught the Pilgrims to farm, and wealth was never mentioned.

Loewen believes that “Correctly taught, the issues of the era of the First Thanksgiving could help Americans grow more thoughtful and more tolerant, rather that more ethnocentric” (97). Is it important to know all possible truths about the past? Yes, students should be able to decide what they believe as truth. But in order to do so, they cannot just be told a small part of the story. Loewen states, “Surely, in history, ‘truth should be held sacred, at what ever cost’” (97).

Works Cited

Conlin, Joseph R. The American Past: A Survey of American History, Volume 1: To 1877, Enhanced Eighth Edition. Belmont, CA: Thomson Wadsworth, 2009.

Loewen, James W. Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong. New York: Simon & Schuster Inc., 1996.


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I Have Been Blessed!!!!

THE ROOM

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.
There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to
catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some
were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.
Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth.
Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.
I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it
and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this
room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.
No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw
a sorrow deeper than my own.
He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again.
He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.
Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name
of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.
- Brian Moore