Have you ever thought about how historians write about the past? It’s a fascinating challenge because the past doesn’t change, but what we understand about it definitely does. For me, as someone who wants to share stories from history, it feels like I’m constantly trying to balance between just stating facts and really making sense of them. If I just list facts, it’s super boring. But if I just tell a story without solid facts, it’s not accurate and might even be misleading.
So, I’ve been trying to figure out how to do this well – how to tell a powerful story that’s also truthful. It’s not about choosing one over the other; it’s about making them work together so that the history I share is both accurate and helps people really understand.
Getting to the Bottom of “Objectivity” in History
Before I can balance anything, I need to know what I’m balancing. When I hear “objectivity” in history, I used to think it meant just spitting out facts with no emotion. But it’s actually way more complicated than that.
What I Mean by “Functional Objectivity”: Not Perfect, But Striving for Truth
Let’s be real, nobody can be perfectly objective. I’m a human being, and I bring my own experiences and thoughts to everything I do, including studying the past. I’m not a camera just recording things. But that doesn’t mean I can just make things up or ignore certain facts. For me, functional objectivity means really, really trying to be as accurate and fair as possible, based on all the information I can find. It’s about being intellectually honest.
- My action plan: Instead of trying to sound like a robot, I aim to sound fair. When I write, I ask myself: “Am I letting the evidence speak for itself, even if it goes against something I initially thought?”
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Here’s an example I think about: If I’m writing about the British East India Company, I want to share that they were incredibly successful and came up with some clever ways to run things. But at the exact same time, I have to share how exploitative they were and the suffering they caused. I can’t minimize the bad stuff to make the good stuff look better, or vice versa. I present both because they are both part of the complex story.
Evidence is Everything: My Unshakeable Anchor
For me, evidence is the absolute cornerstone of writing about history honestly. If I don’t have evidence, my interpretations are just my opinions. How good my sources are, how relevant they are, and how closely I examine them, all determine how strong my objective claims are.
- My action plan: Whenever I make a big statement, I stop and ask myself: “What specific proof do I have for this?” If I can’t point to something concrete and verifiable, then my statement is just an idea without a base.
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Here’s an example: If I said, “President Lincoln was very slow to make decisions during the war,” I’d need more than just a quick summary. I’d need to look at his actual letters, notes from his cabinet meetings, diaries from people who lived at the time, or telegrams that show specific instances of delays or indecision.
Checking and Double-Checking: Building Trust
No single piece of evidence tells the whole story. And individual sources can totally be biased, mistaken, or just not complete. That’s why I always try to find multiple separate sources to see if they confirm or contradict what I’m looking at. It’s like building a reliable network of information.
- My action plan: If I find some evidence that seems to perfectly fit my idea, I actually start looking harder for something that might prove me wrong, or for different ways of looking at it from other sources. This bit of skepticism actually makes my argument stronger.
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Here’s an example: A Civil War soldier’s diary might describe a cavalry charge as a glorious victory. But to be objective, I’d then go look at the official battle reports, diaries from other soldiers (even from the other side!), newspaper articles from the time, and even casualty lists. This helps me get a more complete and maybe less romanticized picture. Maybe that “victory” was strategically important but cost a lot of lives.
Being Transparent with My Sources: So You Can Check My Work
Transparency is a huge part of being objective for me. By clearly mentioning where I got my information, I’m letting you, the reader, trace my claims back to their origin. You can check my evidence and even challenge my interpretations if you want to. This builds trust and shows I’m serious about my research.
- My action plan: I make sure I have a super consistent way of keeping track of all my sources, even if I don’t use formal footnotes in what I eventually share with you. I need to know exactly where every single piece of information came from.
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Here’s an example: Instead of saying, “Many people thought the Great Depression was a punishment for being immoral,” a more objective way I’d write it is: “According to a sermon by Rev. John Smith on October 12, 1930, which was published in the Middletown Gazette, he attributed the economic downturn to ‘God’s wrath for our nation’s excesses.'” This way, I’m saying exactly who held that opinion, not just a vague “many people.”
The Creative Side: Embracing Interpretation in History
If being objective is like getting the bones right, then interpretation is like adding the muscles and skin. Without it, history is just a list of facts, not a story of human experiences. Interpretation is how I make sense of the evidence, spot patterns, figure out causes and effects, and build a cohesive argument.
Choosing What to Emphasize: My Historian’s Focus
There’s no way I can include every single fact when I’m writing about history. I have to pick and choose what’s important and what to emphasize. This act of choosing is inherently interpretive. Two different historians looking at the same event will inevitably highlight different aspects based on what they’re trying to understand and their personal viewpoint.
- My action plan: I try to be very aware and thoughtful about what I choose to include. I ask myself: “Why am I putting this fact in and leaving that one out? What argument am I trying to make with this selection?”
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Here’s an example: When I’m writing about the American Revolution, I might choose to focus on how unfair British taxes were, talking about trade disagreements and people boycotting goods. Someone else might focus more on the big ideas of liberty and self-governance, looking at pamphlets and intellectual debates. Both are valid ways to look at it, but they come from focusing on different pieces of information.
Connecting the Dots: Why Things Happened and Why They Matter
Facts usually don’t just explain themselves. My job as someone sharing history is to connect things, suggest why one thing led to another, and figure out how important events and people truly were. This is where I bring all the information together.
- My action plan: I try to avoid just listing facts without explaining how they relate to each other. For every factual statement, I think: “So what? What does this mean? How does it fit into the bigger picture or the sequence of events?”
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Here’s an example: Just saying, “Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated on June 28, 1914,” is a fact. But it doesn’t really explain much. If I add, “This assassination, while not the only reason, was the spark that set off a series of diplomatic mistakes and existing alliances, directly leading to the start of World War I,” then I’ve added important analysis and explained its significance.
How I Frame the Story: The Power of My Perspective
The way I structure my story, the tone I use, and the “lens” through which I tell it are all choices I make as the interpreter. Who is the main character in my story? What is the main conflict? How do I make you feel something (without trying to manipulate your emotions)?
- My action plan: I sometimes try different ways of telling the story. I consider whose perspectives I’m highlighting or maybe not including. I remind myself that the “story” I choose to tell about a certain period is just one of many possible stories.
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Here’s an example: When I’m writing about the Westward Expansion in the United States, if I only tell it as a story of brave pioneers overcoming challenges, then it becomes a story of triumph. But if I include the experiences of Indigenous peoples who were displaced, the impact on the environment, and the forced labor of exploited groups, then I’m giving a more complex, critical, and ethically responsible interpretation.
Being Honest About Gray Areas: Acknowledging Uncertainty
History is rarely neat and tidy. Many events have multiple interpretations, conflicting stories, and questions that aren’t fully answered. For me, admitting this ambiguity isn’t a weakness; it’s a huge strength because it shows I’m humble and committed to really understanding things.
- My action plan: When I find conflicting evidence or different interpretations, I resist the urge to just make it all neat. Instead, I present the different viewpoints, explain why they exist, and maybe even offer my reasoned opinion on which one seems more likely based on the evidence I’ve shared.
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Here’s an example: People still argue about why the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Instead of saying one view is definitely right, I might say: “While President Truman said it was to save American lives by avoiding a costly land invasion, other historians argue that the decision was also influenced by a desire to intimidate the Soviet Union and show America’s power after the war.” This way, I’m presenting both main interpretations without saying one is the absolute truth.
The Balancing Act: My Strategies for the Tightrope Walk
So, how do I actually bring these two seemingly opposite things together into something impactful and whole? This is where the real challenge begins.
Evidence is the Foundation, Interpretation is the Structure
I like to think about my objective facts and verifiable evidence as the building blocks – the bricks, mortar, and steel. My interpretations are like the blueprint, the design, and the purpose of the building. You can’t have a stable, meaningful structure without both.
- My action plan: When I’m writing a first draft, I identify my interpretive claims. Then, I go back and make sure each one is firmly based on, and directly supported by, verifiable evidence that I’ve already shared or will share.
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Here’s an example: If I interpret that “the social upheaval of the 1960s was mostly driven by young people rebelling against established authority,” I immediately need to follow that with objective evidence: statistics on youth activism, quotes from counter-cultural leaders, and descriptions of specific protest movements. Then I show how these facts demonstrate the generational rebellion.
“Show, Don’t Just Tell” Applied to History
This classic writing advice is super important for me when I’m writing about history. I don’t just state an interpretation; I show you how the evidence led me to that interpretation.
- My action plan: Every time I write a sentence that interprets something, I imagine you asking me, “How do you know that?” and then I immediately try to provide the evidence and explain the connection.
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Here’s an example: Instead of just saying, “The Industrial Revolution caused widespread suffering for the working class,” I show it. I might say, “Factory records reveal debilitating fourteen-hour shifts, confirmed by parliamentary reports detailing child labor where children as young as six worked machinery. Medical records from industrial towns document high rates of respiratory diseases and early mortality, indicating the profound human cost of rapid industrialization.” The evidence paints the picture that supports my interpretation.
Dealing with My Own Biases: The Hidden Influence
We all have biases – from our personal experiences, our culture, our political views, and even the historical theories we find interesting. If I ignore them, they’re more likely to creep into my writing. Acknowledging them and actively trying to lessen their impact is key to staying functionally objective.
- My action plan: I try to do a “bias check” on my own work. After I write a section, I ask myself:
- Am I giving too much importance to sources that just confirm what I already thought?
- Am I accidentally making one group look bad or another group look too good?
- Am I overlooking other explanations just because they don’t fit my story?
- Whose voices am I including, and whose might I be leaving out?
- Here’s an example: If I’m writing about a political figure I really don’t like, I consciously seek out positive reports or arguments from their supporters. Similarly, if I admire a historical figure, I actively look for their mistakes, failures, or criticisms against them. Presenting both sides, even if I ultimately lean one way, shows I’m committed to being fair.
Using Careful Language: Embracing Nuance
While I want to make strong arguments, making absolute statements about complex historical events can often make me seem less credible. Using nuanced language lets me interpret without sacrificing academic rigor.
- My action plan: I use phrases like “It appears that…”, “Evidence suggests…”, “It is plausible that…”, “One could argue…”, or “More research is needed to say for sure…” when my interpretation goes beyond what’s absolutely undeniable fact.
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Here’s an example: Instead of saying, “The American Civil War was only fought over slavery,” which is too absolute and ignores other factors, a more balanced statement I’d use is: “While the institution of slavery was undeniably the pivotal issue driving the American Civil War, competing interpretations highlight the role of states’ rights, economic disparities, and cultural differences as contributing factors, underscoring the conflict’s complex origins.”
The Back-and-Forth Process: Write, Review, Refine, Repeat
Figuring out this balance between objectivity and interpretation usually doesn’t happen in the first draft. It’s an ongoing process of writing, critically reviewing, and making it better.
- My action plan: As I revise, I actively question my own assumptions. I challenge my own arguments. I try to get feedback from trusted readers who can point out where my interpretation might be stretching beyond my evidence, or where my bias might be subtly influencing my story.
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Here’s an example: My first draft might have a very strong, emotional condemnation of a historical policy. During revision, I might realize that while my emotional “interpretation” of the policy’s impact is valid, I lack precise, objective data on its specific long-term consequences. I’d then either add that evidence or dial back how certain I am in my interpretive condemnation.
What I’ve Learned: My Ongoing Commitment
This balancing act between objectivity and interpretation isn’t a finishing line; it’s a continuous journey for me. It requires being humble intellectually, always being curious, and deeply respecting the past in all its messiness and complexity. By really sticking to the importance of evidence, carefully navigating my own biases, and skillfully weaving together factual accounts with meaningful analysis, I feel like I’m doing more than just listing events. I’m transforming facts into understanding. I’m helping you not just know what happened, but to grasp why it mattered. This is how I hope to share history that truly connects, teaches, and makes people curious to learn even more. For me, that’s the real power and deep responsibility of telling stories from the past.