Tagged digital humanities

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Confessions of a Premature Digital Humanist

Abstract

Traditional interpretations of the history of the Digital Humanities (DH) have largely focused on the field’s origins in humanities computing and literary studies. The singular focus on English departments and literary scholars as progenitors of DH obscures what in fact have been the DH field’s multidisciplinary origins. This article analyzes the contributions made by the US social, public, and quantitative history subfields during the 1970s and 1980s to what would ultimately become the Digital Humanities. It uses the author’s long career as a social, quantitative, and public historian (including his early use of mainframe computers in the 1970s to analyze historical data) and his role and experiences as co-founder of CUNY’s pioneering American Social History Project to underscore the ways digital history has provided a complementary pathway to DH’s emergence. The piece also explores the importance of digital pedagogy to DH’s current growth and maturation, emphasizing various DH projects at the CUNY Graduate Center that have helped deepen and extend the impact of digital work in the academy.

“And you may ask yourself—Well… How did I get here?”
Talking Heads, “Once In a Lifetime” (1981)

 
Much actual and virtual ink has been spilled over the past few years recounting how the field of Digital Humanities came into being. As a social historian and someone who has been involved in digital work of one sort or another since the mid 1970s, I am somewhat bemused by what Geoffrey Rockwell has aptly termed the “canonical Roberto Busa story of origin” offered by English department colleagues (Rockwell 2007). That canonical DH history usually starts with the famous Father Roberto Busa developing his digital concordances of St. Thomas Aquinas’s writings beginning in 1949 (the first of which was published in 1974) with critical technical support provided by Thomas Watson, head of IBM.[1] It quickly moves from there to recount the emergence of humanities computing (as it was originally known) in the 1980s, followed by the development of various digitized literary archives launched by literary scholars such as Jerry McGann (Rossetti) and Ed Folsom (Whitman) in the 1990s (Hockey 2004). In this recounting, academics in English, inspired by Father Busa, pushed ahead with the idea of using computers to conceive, create, and present the digital concordances, literary editions, and, ultimately, fully digitized and online archives of materials, using common standards embodied in the Text Encoding Initiative (TEI), which was established in 1987.[2] The new field of Digital Humanities is said to have emerged after 2004 directly out of these developments in the literary studies field, what Willard McCarty terms “literary computing” (McCarty 2011, 4).[3]

As a historian who believes in multi-causal explanations of historical phenomena (including what happens intellectually inside of universities), I think there are alternative interpretations of this origin story that help reveal a much more complicated history of DH.[4] I will argue in this piece that the history field—particularly historians working in its social, public, and quantitative history sub-fields—also made a substantial and quite different contribution to the emergence of the Digital Humanities that parallels, at times diverges from, and even anticipates the efforts of literary scholars and literary studies.[5] I will first sketch broader developments in the social, public, and quantitative history sub-fields that began more than four decades ago. These transformations in the forms and content of historical inquiry would ultimately lead a group of historians to contribute to the development of DH decades later. I will also use my own evolution over this time period (what I dub in the title of this piece my “premature” Digital Humanism), first as a social and labor historian, then as a media producer, digital historian, and finally now as a teacher of digital humanities and digital pedagogy, to illustrate the different pathways that led many historians, myself included, into contributing to the birth and evolution of the Digital Humanities. I will use my ongoing collaborations with my colleagues at the American Social History Project (which I co-founded more than 35 years ago) as well as with Roy Rosenzweig and the Center for History and New Media to help tell this alternate DH origins story. In the process, I hope to complicate the rather linear Father Busa/humanities computing/TEI/digital literary archives origin story of DH that has come to define the field.

Social and Labor History

Social history first emerged in the pre-World War II era with the founding in 1929 in France of the Annales school of historical inquiry by Lucien Febvre and Marc Bloch and carried forward by Fernand Braudel in the 1950s and Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie in the 1970s. The field of social history found fertile new ground in the United States during the 1960s and 1970s. The “new” social history was very much a product of the rejection of traditional political history narratives and a search for new methodologies and interdisciplinary connections. Social history examined the lives and experiences of “ordinary people”—workers, immigrants, enslaved African Americans, women, urban dwellers, farmers, etc.—rather than the narrow focus on the experiences of Great White Men that had dominated both academic and popular history writing for decades if not centuries. This changed historical focus on history “from the bottom up” necessitated the development of new methodological approaches to uncover previously unused source materials that historians needed to employ to convey a fuller sense of what happened in the past. Archives and libraries had traditionally provided historians access to large collections of private and public correspondence of major politicians, important military leaders, and big businessmen (the gendered term being entirely appropriate in this context) as well as catalogued and well-archived state papers, government documents, and memoirs and letters of the rich and famous. But if the subject of history was now to change to a focus on ordinary people, how were historians to recount the stories of those who left behind few if any traditional written records? New methodologies would have to be developed to ferret out those hidden histories.[6]

The related sub-field of labor history, which, like social history, was also committed to writing history “from the bottom up,” illustrates these methodological dilemmas and possibilities. Older approaches to US labor history had focused narrowly on the structure and function of national labor unions and national political parties, national labor and party leaders, and what happened in various workplaces, drawing on government reports, national newspapers, and union records. The new labor history, which was pioneered in the early 1960s, first by British Marxist historians such as Eric Hobsbawm and E. P. Thompson, sought to move beyond those restricted confines to tell the previously unknown story of the making of the English working class (to appropriate the title of one of Thompson’s most important works). Hobsbawm and especially Thompson relied heavily in their early work on unconventional local and literary sources to uncover this lost history of English working people. The new labor history they pioneered was soon adapted by US labor historians, including David Montgomery, David Brody, and Herbert Gutman and by graduate students, deploying an array of political and cultural sources to reveal the behaviors and beliefs of US working people in all of their racial and ethnic diversity. The new US labor history embraced unorthodox historical methodologies including: oral history; a close focus on local and community studies, including a deep dive into local working-class newspapers; broadened definitions of what constituted work (e.g. women’s housework); and working-class family and community life and self-activity (including expressions of popular working-class culture and neighborhood, political, and religious associations and organizations). I committed myself to the new labor history and its innovative methodologies in graduate school at UCLA in the early 1970s when I began to shape my doctoral dissertation, which sought to portray the ways black, white, and immigrant coal miners in the West Virginia and Colorado coal fields managed to forge interracial and interethnic local labor unions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Brier 1992).

Public History

A second activist and politically engaged approach to communicating historical scholarship—public history—also emerged in the 1970s. Public history grew in parallel to and was made possible by the new academic field of social history. To be sure, while social history spoke largely to the history profession, challenging its underlying methodological and intellectual assumptions, public history and the people who self-identified as public historians often chose to move outside the academy, embedding themselves and their public history work inside unions, community-based organizations, museums, and political groups. Public historians, whether they stayed inside the academy or chose to situate themselves outside of it, were committed to making the study of the past relevant (to appropriate that overused Sixties’ phrase) to individuals and groups that could and would most benefit from exposure to and knowledge about their “lost” pasts (Novick 1988, 512–21).

Public history’s emergence in the mid-1970s signaled that at least one wing of the profession, albeit the younger, more radical one, was committed to finding new ways and new, non-print formats to communicate historical ideas and information to a broad public audience through museum exhibits, graphic novels, audio recordings and radio broadcasts, and especially film and television. A range of projects and institutions that were made possible by this new sub-field of public history began to take shape by the late 1970s. I worked with fellow radical historians Susan Porter Benson and Roy Rosenzweig and the three of us put together in 1986 the first major collection of articles and reports on US public history projects and initiatives. Entitled Presenting the Past, the collection was based on a special theme issue of the Radical History Review (the three of us were members of the RHR editorial collective) that we had co-edited five years earlier.[7] Focusing on a range of individual and local public history projects, Presenting the Past summarized a decade of academic and non-academic public history work and projects in the United States (Benson, Brier, and Rosenzweig 1986).[8]

Stephen Robertson, who now heads the Roy Rosenzweig Center for History and New Media (CHNM)[9] at George Mason University, has correctly noted, in a widely read 2014 blog post,[10] that we can and should trace the origins of the much newer sub-field of digital history, a major contributor to the Digital Humanities’ growth, to the public history movement that was launched a quarter century earlier (Robertson 2014). Robertson goes on to suggest that this early focus on public history led digital historians to ask different questions than literary scholars. Historians focused much more on producing digital history in a variety of presentational forms and formats rather than literary scholars’ emphasis on defining and theorizing the new Digital Humanities field and producing online literary archives. This alternative focus on public presentations of history (i.e., intended for the larger public outside of the academy and the profession) may explain why digital historians seem much less interested in staking out their piece of the DH academic turf while literary scholars seem more inclined both to theorize their DH scholarship and to assert that DH’s genesis can be located in literary scholars’ early digital work.

Quantitative History

A third, and arguably broader, methodological transformation in the study and writing of US history in these same years was the emergence of what was called quantitative history. “Cliometrics” (as some termed it, a bit too cutely) held out the possibility of generating new insights into historical behavior through detailed analyses of a myriad of historical data available in a variety of official sources. This included, but was certainly not limited to, raw data compiled by federal and state agencies in resources like census manuscripts.[11] Quantitative history, which had its roots in the broader turn toward social science taken by a number of US economic historians that began in the late 1950s, had in fact generated by the early 1970s a kind of fever dream among many academic historians and their graduate students (and a raging nightmare for others) (Thomas 2004).[12] Edward Shorter, a historian of psychiatry (!), for example, authored the widely-read The Historian and The Computer: A Practical Guide in 1971. Even the Annales school in France, led by Ladurie, was not immune from the embrace of quantification. Writing in a 1973 essay, Laurie argued that “history that is not quantifiable cannot claim to be scientific” (quoted in Noiret 2012). Quantitative history involved generating raw data from a variety of primary source materials (e.g., US census manuscripts) and then using a variety of statistical tools to analyze that data. The dreams and nightmares that this new methodology generated among academic historians were fueled by the publication of two studies that framed the prominence and ultimate eclipse of quantitative history: Stephan Thernstrom’s Poverty and Progress, published in 1964, and Robert Fogel and Stanley Engerman’s Time on the Cross, which appeared a decade later (Thernstrom 1964; Fogel and Engerman 1974).

Thernstrom’s study used US census manuscripts (the original hand-coded forms for each resident produced by census enumerators) from 1850 to 1880 as well as local bank and tax records and city directories to generate quantitative data, which he then coded and subjected to various statistical measures. Out of this analysis of data he developed his theories of the extent of social mobility, defined occupationally and geographically, that native-born and Irish immigrant residents of Newburyport, Massachusetts enjoyed in those crucial years of the nation’s industrial takeoff. The critical success of Thernstrom’s book helped launch a mini-boom in quantitative history. A three-week seminar on computing in history drew thirty-five historians in 1965 to the University of Michigan; two years later a newsletter on computing in history had more than 800 subscribers (Graham, Milligan, and Weingart 2015). Thernstrom’s early use of quantitative data (which he analyzed without the benefit of computers) and the positive critical reception it received helped launch the quantitative history upsurge that reshaped much US social and urban history writing in the following decade. Without going into much detail here or elaborating on my own deep reservations about Thernstrom’s methodology[13] and the larger political and ideological conclusions he drew from his analysis of the census manuscripts and city directories, suffice it to say that Thernstrom’s work was widely admired by his peers and emulated by many graduate students, helping him secure a coveted position at Harvard in 1973.[14]

The other influential cliometric study, Fogel and Engerman’s Time on the Cross, was widely reviewed (including in Time magazine) after it appeared in early 1974. Though neither author was a social historian (Fogel was an economist, Engerman an economic historian), they were lavishly praised by many academics and reviewers for their innovative statistical analysis of historical data drawn from Southern plantation records (such as the number of whippings meted out by slave owners and overseers to enslaved African Americans). Their use of statistical data led Fogel and Engerman to revise the standard view of the realities of the institution of slavery. Unlike the conclusions reached by earlier historians such as Herbert Aptheker and Kenneth Stampp that centered on the savage exploitation and brutalization of slaves and their active resistance to the institution of slavery, Fogel and Engerman concluded that the institution of slavery was not particularly economically inefficient, as traditional interpretations argued, that the slaves were only “moderately exploited,” and that they were only occasionally abused physically by their owners (Aptheker 1943 [1963]; Stampp 1956 [1967]). Time on the Cross was the focus of much breathless commentary both inside and outside of the academy about the appropriateness of the authors’ assessments of slavery and how quantitative history techniques, which had been around for several decades, would help historians fundamentally rewrite US history.[15] If this latter point sounds eerily prescient of the early hype about DH offered by many of its practitioners and non-academic enthusiasts, I would argue that this is not an accident. The theoretical and methodological orthodoxies of academic disciplines are periodically challenged from within, with new methodologies heralded as life- (or at least field-) changing transformations of the old. Of course, C. Vann Woodward’s highly critical review of Fogel and Engerman in the New York Review of Books and Herbert Gutman’s brilliant book-length takedown of Time on the Cross soon raised important questions and serious reservations about quantitative history’s limitations and its potential for outright distortion (Woodward 1974; Gutman 1975; Thomas 2004). Gutman’s and Woodward’s sharp critiques aside, many academic historians and graduate students (myself included) could not quite resist dabbling in (if not taking a headlong plunge into) quantitative analysis.

Using a Computer to do Quantitative History

Though I had reservations about quantitative history—my skepticism stemming from a general sense that quantitative historians overpromised easy answers to complex questions of historical causation—I decided to broaden the fairly basic new labor history methodology that I was then using in my early dissertation research, which had been based on printed historical sources (government reports, nineteenth-century national newspaper accounts, print archival materials, etc.). I had been drawn to coal miners and coal mining unionism as a subject for my dissertation because of the unusual role that coal miners played historically as prototypical proletarians and labor militants, not only in the United States, but also across the globe. I was interested in understanding the roots of coal miners’ militancy and solidarity in the face of the oppressive living and working conditions they were forced to endure. I also wanted to understand how (or even if) white, black, and immigrant mineworkers had been able to navigate the struggle to forge bonds of solidarity during trade union organizing drives. I had discovered an interesting amount of quantitative data in the course of my doctoral dissertation research: an enumeration of all coal strikes (1,410 in number) that occurred in the United States in the 1881–94 period detailed in the annual reports of the US Commissioner of Labor.[16] This was what we would now call a “dataset,” a term that was not yet used in my wing of the academy in 1975. This critical fourteen-year historical period witnessed the rise and fall of several national labor union organizations among coal miners, including the Knights of Labor, the most consequential nineteenth-century US labor organization, and the birth of the United Mine Workers of America, the union that continues to represent to this day the rapidly dwindling number of US coal miners.

In my collaboration with Jon Amsden, an economic and labor historian and UCLA faculty member, the two of us decided to statistically analyze this data about the behavior and actions of striking coal miners in these years. The dataset of more than 1,400 strikes statistically presented in large tables was simply too large, however, to analyze through conventional qualitative methods to divine patterns and trends. Amsden and I consequently made a decision in 1975 to take the plunge into computer-assisted data analysis. The UCLA Computer Center was a beehive of activity in these early years of academic computing, especially focused on the emerging field of computer science.[17] The center was using an IBM 360 mainframe computer, running Fortran and the Statistical Package for the Social Sciences (the now venerable SPSS, originally released in 1968, and first marketed in 1975) to support social scientific analyses (Noiret 2012).

IBM 360 Computer, circa 1975
Figure 1: IBM 360 Computer, circa 1975

 
Amsden and I began by recording some of the characteristics involved in each of the 1,410 coal strikes that occurred in those 14 years: year of the strike, cause or objective of the strike, and whether a formal union was involved. To make more detailed comparisons we drew a one-in-five systematic random sample of the coal strikes. This additional sampled data included the number of workers involved in each strike, strike duration, and miners’ wages and hours before and after the strike. We laboriously coded each strike by hand on standard 80-character IBM Fortran coding sheets.

IBM Fortran Coding Sheet
Figure 2: IBM Fortran Coding Sheet

 
We then had a keypunch operator at the UCLA Computer Center (no doubt a woman, sadly unknown and faceless to us, righteous labor historians though we both were!)[18] transfer the data on each strike entry to individual IBM Fortran punch cards, originally known at Hollerith cards (Lubar 1992). That process generated a card stack large enough to carry around in a flat cardboard box the size of a large shoe box.

Fortran Punch Card
Figure 3: Fortran Punch Card

 
We regularly visited the UCLA Computer Center in the afternoon to have our card stack “read” by an IBM card reading machine and then asked the IBM 360 to generate specific statistical tabulations and correlations we requested, trying to uncover trends and comparative relationships among the data.[19] The nature of this work on the mainframe computer did not require us to learn Fortran (I know DHer Steve Ramsay would disapprove![20]), though Amsden and I did have to brush up on our basic statistics to be able to figure out how to analyze and make sense of the computer output. We picked up our results (the “read outs”) the next morning, printed on large, continuous sheets of fanfold paper.

IBM 360 Fanfold Paper
Figure 4: IBM 360 Fanfold Paper

 
It was a slow and laborious process, with many false starts and badly declared and pointless computing requests (e.g., poor choices of different data points to try to correlate).

Ultimately, however, this computerized data analysis of strike data yielded significant statistical correlations that helped us uncover previously unknown and only partially visible patterns and meanings in coal miners’ self-activity and allowed us to generate new insights (or confirm existing ones) into the changing levels of class consciousness exhibited by miners. Our historical approach to quantitative analysis was an early anticipation, if I can be permitted a bit of hyperbole, of Franco Moretti’s “distant reading” techniques in literary scholarship (Moretti 2005), using statistical methods to examine all strikes in an industry, rather than relying on a very “close reading” of one, two, or a handful of important strikes that most labor historians, myself included, typically undertook in our scholarly work. Amsden and I wrote up our results in 1975 and our scholarly article appeared in the Journal of Interdisciplinary History in 1977, a relatively new journal that featured interdisciplinary and data-driven scholarship. The article received respectful notice as a solid quantitative contribution to the field and was reprinted several times over the next three decades (Amsden and Brier 1977).[21]

One of our key statistical findings was that the power and militancy of coal miners increased as their union organizations strengthened (no surprises there) and that heightened union power between 1881 and 1894 (a particularly contentious period in US labor history) generated more militant strikes in the coal industry. Our data analysis revealed that these militant strikes often moved away from narrow efforts to secure higher wages to allow miners across the country to pose more fundamental challenges to the coal operators’ near total control over productive relations inside coal pits. Below are two screen shots, both generated by SPSS, from the published article: a scatter diagram (a new technique for historians to employ, at least in 1975) and one of the tables. The two figures convey the kinds of interesting historical questions we were able to pose quantitatively and how we were able to represent the answers to those questions graphically.

Scatter Diagram of Multi-establishment US Coal Strikes, 1881 to 1894
Figure 5: Scatter Diagram of Multi-establishment US Coal Strikes, 1881 to 1894

 
Figure 5 above shows the growth in the number of multi-establishment coal strikes and the increasing number of mines involved in strike activity over time, a good measure of increasing union power and worker solidarity over the critical 14-year period covered in the dataset.

Table 3: Index of Strike Solidarity, comparing Union-Called Coal Strikes with Non-Union Strikes
Table 3: Index of Strike Solidarity, comparing Union-Called Coal Strikes with Non-Union Strikes

 
Table 3 employs a solidarity index that Amsden and I developed out of our analysis of the coal strike statistics, based on the ratio of the number of strikers to the total number of mine employees in a given mine whose workers had gone out on strike. The data revealed that union-called strikes were consistently able to involve a higher percentage of the overall mining workforce as compared to non-union strikes and with less variation from the norm. This table lay at the heart of why I had decided to study coal miners and their unions in the first place. I hoped to analyze why and how miners consistently put themselves and their unions at the center of militant working-class struggles in industrializing America. I might have reached some of these same conclusions by analyzing traditional qualitative sources or by looking closely at one or a handful of strikes. However, Amsden and I had managed to successfully employ a statistical analysis in new ways (at least in the history field) that allowed us to “see” these developments and trends in the data nationally and regionally. We were able therefore to argue that the evolving consciousness of miners over time was reflected in their strike demands and in their ability to successfully spread the union message across the country. I should note here that the United Mine Workers of America had become the largest union by far in these early years of the American Federation of Labor. In sum, we believed we had developed a new statistical methodology to analyze and understand late nineteenth-century working-class behavior. We had used a computer to help answer conceptual questions that were important in shaping our historical interpretation. This effort proved to be a quite early instance of the use of digital techniques to ask and at least partially answer key historical (and, by definition, humanities) questions.

From Quantitative History to the American Social History Project

Around the time of the 1977 publication of the coal miners on strike article I decided to follow my public history muse, morphing from a university-based history scholar and professor-in-training, albeit one who had begun to use new digital technologies, into an activist public historian. I had moved to New York City soon after completing the computer-aided project on coal mining strikes to learn how to produce history films. This was a conscious personal and career choice I made to leave the academy to become an independent filmmaker. My commitment to historical ideas having a greater public and political impact drove my decision to change careers. On my first job in New York in 1977 as research director for a public television series of dramatic films on major moments in US labor history I met Herbert Gutman, one of the deans of the new labor and social history whose work I had read and admired as a graduate student. I spent the next two years researching and producing historical documentaries and other kinds of dramatic films.

The author in 1980 doing research for an educational television project on NYC history at the Columbia Univ. library. (Picture credit: Julie List)
Figure 7: The author in 1980 doing research for an educational television project on NYC history at the Columbia Univ. library. (Picture credit: Julie List)

 
Two years after meeting Gutman I was invited by Herb, who taught at the CUNY Graduate Center, to co-teach a summer seminar for labor leaders for which he had secured funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH). The NEH summer seminars, in an innovative combination of academic and public history, were designed to communicate to unionized workers the fruits of the new social and labor history that Herb had done so much to pioneer and to which I had committed my nascent academic career in graduate school at UCLA. With the success of these summer seminars, which we taught at the CUNY Graduate Center in 1979 and 1980, Gutman and I decided to create the American Social History Project (ASHP) at CUNY. We reasoned that reaching 15 workers each summer in our seminars, though immensely rewarding for all involved (including the two teachers), was not as efficient as creating a new curriculum that we could make available to adult and worker education programs and teachers across the country. The project quickly received major grants in 1981 and 1982, totaling $1.2 million, from the NEH and the Ford Foundation, and under Herb’s and my leadership we rapidly hired a staff of a dozen historians, teachers, artists, and administrators to create a multimedia curriculum, entitled “Who Built America?” (WBA?). The curriculum mixed the writing of a new two-volume trade book focused on working people’s contributions to US history with a range of new multimedia productions (initially 16mm films and slide/tape shows, VHS videos and, later, a range of digital productions, including two Who Built America? CD-ROMs and several web sites such as “History Matters”). ASHP also had a second, clear orientation, in addition to developing multimedia materials: We built a vibrant education program that connected the project in its first few years with CUNY community college faculty and also New York City high school teachers who used our media materials (including specially designed accompanying viewer guides) in their classes that helped deepen and refine Who Built America?’s pedagogical impact on students. We hoped this multimedia curriculum and ASHP’s ongoing engagement with teachers would broaden the scope and popular appeal of working-class and social history and would be widely adopted in high school, community college, and worker education classrooms around the country as well as by the general public.[22]

I should note here that my early exposure to electronic tools, including being a “ham” radio operator and electronics tinkerer in high school in the early 1960s and using mainframe computers at UCLA in 1975, inclined me to become an early and enthusiastic adopter of and proselytizer for personal computers when they became publicly available in the early 1980s. I insisted in 1982, for example, against resistance from some of my ASHP colleagues who expected to have secretarial help in writing and editing their WBA? chapter drafts, that we use personal computers (I was Kaypro II guy!) to facilitate the drafting and editing of the Who Built America? textbook, work on which began that year (ASHP 1990, 1992).[23]

Kaypro II Computer
Figure 8: Kaypro II Computer

 
ASHP stood outside of the academic history profession as traditionally understood and practiced in universities at that time. As a grant-funded, university-based project with a dozen staff members, many of us with ABDs in history who worked on the project full-time (not on traditional nine-month academic schedules), ASHP staff were clearly “alt-ac”ers several decades before anyone coined that term. We wore our non-traditional academic identities proudly and even a bit defiantly. Gutman and I also realized, nonetheless, that ASHP needed a direct link to an academic institution like CUNY to legitimize and to establish an institutional base that would allow the project to survive and thrive, which led us to instantiate ASHP inside of CUNY. The American Social History Project, in fact, celebrated its 35th anniversary in CUNY in October 2016.[24] That was a consequential decision, obviously, since ASHP might not have survived without the kind of institutional and bureaucratic support that CUNY (and the Graduate Center) have provided over the past three and a half decades. ASHP, at the same time, also stood outside of the academic history profession in believing in and in producing our work collaboratively, which militated against the “lone scholar in the archive” cult that still dominates most academic scholarship and continues to fundamentally determine the processes of promotion and tenure inside the academy. Public history, which many ASHP staff members came out of, had argued for and even privileged such collaborative work, which in a very real sense is a precursor to the more collaborative work and projects that now define much of the new digital scholarship in the Digital Humanities and in the “alt-ac” careers that have proliferated in its wake. Well before Lisa Spiro (2012) enumerated her list of key DH “values”—openness, collegiality and connectedness, diversity, and experimentation—we had embodied those very values in how we structured and operated the American Social History Project (and continue to do so), a set of values that I have also tried to incorporate and teach in all of my academic work ever since.

ASHP’s engagement with collaborative digital work began quite early. In 1990 we launched a series of co-ventures with social historian Roy Rosenzweig (who had been a valued and important ASHP collaborator from the outset of the project a decade earlier, including as a co-author of the Who Built America? textbook) and Bob Stein, the head of The Voyager Company, the pioneering digital publisher. Roy and I had begun in the late 1980s to ruminate about the possibilities of computer-enhanced historical presentations when Bob Stein approached me in 1990 with a proposal to turn the first volume of the WBA? trade book (which had just been published) into an electronic book (ASHP 1990).[25] Applying the best lessons Roy and I and our ASHP colleagues had learned as public historians who were committed to using visual, video, audio, and textual tools and resources to convey important moments and struggles in US history, we worked with Voyager staff to conceive, design, and produce the first Who Built America? CD-ROM in 1993, covering the years 1876 to 1914 (ASHP 1993).[26] As noted earlier, our use of multimedia forms was an essential attribute that we learned as practitioners of public history, a quite different orientation than that relied on by literary DHers who work with text analysis.

The disk, which was co-authored by Roy Rosenzweig, Josh Brown, and me, was arguably the first electronic history book and one of the first e-books ever to appear. The WBA? CD-ROM won critical popular acclaim and a number of prestigious awards, inside in the academy and beyond (Thomas 2004). It also generated, perhaps because of its success, a degree of political notoriety when its inclusion by Apple in the tens of thousands of educational packs of CD-ROMs the company gave away to K-12 schools that purchased Apple computers in 1994-95 led to a coordinated attack on WBA?, ASHP, and Apple by the Christian Right and the Moral Majority. The Radical Right was troubled by the notion conveyed in several of the literally hundreds of primary historical documents we included in the CD-ROM that “gay cowboys” might have been involved in the “taming” of the West or that abortion was common in early twentieth-century urban America. The right-wing attacks were reported in the mainstream press, including the Wall Street Journal and Newsweek.

Putting the ‘PC’ in PCs,” Newsweek, February 20, 1995
Figure 9: “Putting the ‘PC’ in PCs,” Newsweek, February 20, 1995

 
The Right, however, ironically failed in all the furor to notice the CD-ROM’s explicitly pro-worker/anti-capitalist politics! The Right tried to get Apple to remove the WBA? CD-ROM from the education packs, but Apple ultimately backed ASHP and WBA?, though only after much contention and negative publicity.[27]

Despite this political controversy, the first WBA? CD-ROM and early historical web projects like Ed Ayers’s Civil War-era The Valley of the Shadow (1993) helped imagine new possibilities for digital scholarship and digital presentations of historical work. I would suggest that the appearance of the first WBA? CD-ROM nearly a quarter century ago was one of the pioneering instances of the new digital history that contributed a decade later to the emergence of the Digital Humanities, making Roy, Josh, and me and our ASHP colleagues what I have termed in the title of this article and elsewhere in print “premature digital humanists.”[28] That said, I do believe we missed an opportunity to begin to build connections to other scholars outside of history who were undertaking similar digital work around the same time that we completed the WBA? CD-ROM in 1993. Jerry McGann, for example, was beginning his pioneering work at the University of Virginia on the Rossetti Archive and was writing his landmark study “The Rationale of HyperText” (McGann 1995). And while we became aware of each other’s work over the next half dozen years, we never quite came together to ponder the ways in which our very disparate disciplinary approaches to digital scholarship and presentation might have productively been linked up or at least put into some kind of active dialogue. As a result, digital history and digital literary studies occupied distinct academic silos, following quite different paths and embracing very different methodologies and ideas. And neither digital history nor digital literary studies had much in common with the digital new media artists who were also working in this same period and even earlier, grouped around the pioneering journal Ars Electronica.[29] This was a missed opportunity that I believe has hindered Digital Humanities from being more of a big tent and, more importantly, allowing it to become a more robust interdisciplinary force inside the academy and beyond.

In any case my digital history colleagues and I continued to pursue our own digital history work. Roy Rosenzweig, who taught at George Mason University, founded the Center for History and New Media in 1994 a year after the first WBA? CD-ROM appeared. Our two centers next collaborated on several award-winning digital history projects, including the History Matters website mentioned earlier, which made many of the public domain primary source documents presented originally in the WBA? CD-ROM available online. This proved to be a particularly useful and accessible way for teachers at both the high school and college levels to expose their students to a rich array of primary historical sources. And, following the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, DC, our two centers were invited by the Sloan Foundation to collaborate on the development of the September 11 Digital Archive (9/11DA). As Josh Brown and I argued in an article on the creation of the 9/11DA, September 11th was “the first truly digital event of world historical importance: a significant part of its historical record—from e-mail to photography to audio to video—was expressed, captured, disseminated, or viewed in (or converted to) digital forms and formats” (Brier and Brown 2011, 101). It was also one of the first digital projects to be largely “crowdsourced,” given our open solicitation of ordinary people’s digital reminiscences, photos, and videos of the events of September 11th and its aftermath. As historians faced with the task of conceiving and building a brand new digital archive from scratch that focused on a single world historical event, we were also forced to take on additional roles as archivists and preservationists, something we had previously and happily left to professional librarians. We had to make judgments about what to include and exclude in the 9/11 archive, how and whether to display it online, how to contextualize those resources, and, when voluntary online digital submissions of materials by individuals proved insufficient to allow us to offer a fully-rounded picture of what happened, how to target particular groups (including Muslims, Latinos, and the Chinese community in lower Manhattan) with special outreach efforts to be able to include their collective and individual stories and memories in the 9/11DA. Our prior work in and long-term engagement with public history proved essential in this process. We ended up putting the archive online as we were building it, getting the initial iteration of the site up on the web in January 2002 well before the lion’s share of individual digital submissions started pouring in. The body of digital materials that came to constitute the September 11 Digital Archive ultimately totaled nearly a quarter million discrete digital items, making it one of the largest and most comprehensive digital repositories of materials on the September 11 attacks.[30]

While literary scholars confront similar issues of preservation of and access to the materials they are presenting in digital archives, they usually have had the good fortune to be able to rely on extant and often far more circumscribed print sources as the primary materials they are digitizing, annotating, and presenting to fellow scholars and the general public. Public historians who are collecting digital historical data to capture what happened in the recent past or even the present, as we were forced to do in the September 11 Digital Archive, do not have the luxury of basing our work on a settled corpus of information or data. We also faced the extremely delicate task of putting contemporary people’s voices online, making their deepest and most painful personal insights and feelings available to a public audience. Being custodians of that kind of source material brings special responsibilities and sensitivities that most literary digital humanists don’t have to deal with when constructing their digital archives. Our methodologies and larger public imperatives as digital historians are therefore different from those of digital literary scholars. This is especially true given our commitment in the 9/11DA and other digital history archiving projects like the CHNM’s “Hurricane Digital Memory Bank” (on the devastating 2005 Gulf Coast hurricanes Katrina and Rita), as well as ASHP’s current CUNY Digital History Archive project. The latter focuses on student and faculty activism across CUNY beginning in the late 1960s and on presenting historical materials that are deeply personal and politically consequential.[31]

It is important to note that while ASHP continued to collaborate on several ongoing digital history projects with CHNM (headed first by Dan Cohen and Tom Scheinfeldt after Roy’s death in 2007, and, since 2013, by Stephen Robertson), the two centers have moved in different directions in terms of doing digital history. CHNM’s efforts have focused largely on the development of important digital software tools. CHNM’s Zotero, for example, is used to help scholars manage their research sources, while its Omeka software offers a platform for publishing online collections and exhibitions. CHNM has also established a strong and direct connection to the Digital Humanities field, especially through its THATCamps, which are participant-directed digital skills workshops and meetings.[32] On the other hand, ASHP has stayed closer to its original purpose of developing a range of well curated and pedagogically appropriate multimedia historical source materials for use by teachers and students at both the high school and college levels, intended to help them understand and learn about the past. Emblematic of ASHP’s continuing work are The Lost Museum: Exploring Antebellum American Life and Culture and HERB: Social History for Every Classroom websites as well as Mission US, an adventure-style online series of games in which younger players take on the role of young people during critical moments in US history.[33]

From ASHP to ITP and the Digital Humanities

I moved on in my own academic career after formally leaving ASHP as its executive director in 1998, though I remained actively involved in a number of ongoing ASHP digital projects. These included the development of a second WBA? CD-ROM, covering the years from 1914 to 1946, which was published in 2001 (ASHP 2001) and is still available, as well as the aforementioned 9/11 Digital Archive and the CUNY Digital History Archive. As I morphed over three decades from analog media producer, to digital media producer, to digital archivist/digital historian, I became keenly aware of the need to extend the lessons of the public and digital history movements I helped to build to my own and my graduate students’ classroom practices. That was what drove me to develop the Interactive Technology and Pedagogy (ITP) certificate program at the CUNY Graduate Center in 2002. My goal was to teach graduate students that digital tools offered real promise beyond the restricted confines of academic research in a single academic field to help us reimagine and to reshape college classrooms and the entire teaching and learning experience, as my ASHP colleagues and I began doing more than 30 years ago with the Who Built America? education program. I always tell ITP students that I take the “P” in our name (“Pedagogy”) as seriously as I take the “T” (“Technology”) as a way to indicate the centrality of teaching and learning to the way the certificate program was conceived and has operated. I have coordinated ITP for almost 15 years now and will be stepping down as coordinator at the end of the spring 2017 term. I believe that the program has contributed as much to digital pedagogy and to the Digital Humanities as anything else I’ve been involved in, not only at the CUNY Graduate Center where I have been fortunate to have labored for almost all of my academic career, but also in the City University of New York as a whole.[34] One of the ITP program’s most important and ongoing contributions to the Digital Humanities and digital pedagogy fields has been the founding in 2011 of the online Journal of Interactive Technology and Pedagogy, which is produced twice-yearly and is directed by an editorial collective of digital scholars and digital pedagogues, including faculty, graduate students, and library staff.

Working with faculty colleagues like Matt Gold, Carlos Hernandez, Kimon Keramidas, Michael Mandiberg, and Maura Smale, with many highly motivated and skilled graduate students (too numerous to name here), and committed digital administrators and leaders like Luke Waltzer, Lisa Brundage, and Boone Gorges, as well as my ongoing work with long-time ASHP colleagues and comrades Josh Brown, Pennee Bender, Andrea Ades Vasquez, and Ellen Noonan, I have been blessed with opportunities to help create a robust community of digital practice at the Graduate Center and across CUNY. This community of scholars and digital practitioners has helped develop a progressive vision of digital technology and digital pedagogy that I believe can serve as a model for Digital Humanities work in the future. Though far from where I began forty years ago as a doctoral student with an IBM 360 computer and a stack of Fortran cards, my ongoing digital work at CUNY seems to me to be the logical and appropriate culmination of a career that has spanned many identities, including as a social and labor historian, public historian, digital historian, digital producer, and, finally, as a digital pedagogue who has made what I hope has been a modest contribution to the evolution and maturation of the field of Digital Humanities.

Notes

[1] Busa, an Italian Jesuit priest, traveled to New York City in 1949 and convinced IBM founder Thomas Watson to let him use IBM’s mainframe computer to generate a concordance of St. Thomas Aquinas’s writing, Busa’s life work. The best book on the key role of Father Busa is Steven E. Jones. 2016. Roberto Busa, S.J., and The Emergence of Humanities Computing: The Priest and the Punched Cards. New York: Routledge. Geoffrey Rockwell argues that an alternative to starting the history of DH with Busa is to look to the work of linguists who constructed word frequency counts and concordances as early as 1948 using simulations of computers (Rockwell 2007). Willard McCarty, one of the founders of humanities computing, has recently suggested that we could probably trace DH’s origins all the way back to Alan Turing’s “Machine” in the 1930s and 1940s. See McCarty, Willard. 2013. “What does Turing have to do with Busa?” Keynote for ACRH-3, Sofia Bulgaria, December 12. http://www.mccarty.org.uk/essays/McCarty,%20Turing%20and%20Busa.pdf.

[2] The origins of the TEI are described at http://www.tei-c.org/About/history.xml.

[3] See especially the following contributions on DH’s origins in Debates in the Digital Humanities: Matthew Kirschenbaum’s “What is DH and What’s It Doing in English Departments?” http://dhdebates.gc.cuny.edu/debates/text/38; and Steven E. Jones’s “The Emergence of the Digital Humanities (as the Network Is Everting)” http://dhdebates.gc.cuny.edu/debates/text/52. Kenneth M. Price and Ray Siemens reproduce a similar chronology of the literary origins of DH in their 2013 introduction to Literary Studies in the Digital Age (https://dlsanthology.commons.mla.org/introduction/). Willard McCarty is apparently working on his own history of literary computing from Busa to 1991. It is interesting to note, on the other hand, that Franco Moretti, a literary scholar, a key player in DH, and author of one of the field’s foundational texts, Graphs, Maps, Trees: Abstract Models for Literary History, readily acknowledges that academic work in quantitative history (which I discuss later in this essay) helped shape his important concept of “distant reading” (Moretti 2005, 1-30). Distant reading is a fundamental DH methodology at the core of digital literary studies.

[4] I am obviously not tilling this ground alone. There are several major projects underway to dig out the origins/history of Digital Humanities. One of the most promising is the efforts of Julianne Nyhan and her colleagues at the Department of Information Studies, University College London. Their “Hidden Histories: Computing and the Humanities c.1949-1980” project is based on a series of more than 40 oral history interviews with early DH practitioners with the intention of developing a deeper historical understanding of the disciplinary and interdisciplinary starting and continuation points of DH (Nyhan, et al. 2015; Nyhan and Flinn 2016).

[5] My colleague Michael Mandiberg has astutely noted that DH has other important origins and early influences besides literary studies and history. He suggests that DH “has been retracing the steps of new media art,” evidenced by the founding of Ars Electronica in 1979. https://www.aec.at/about/en/geschichte/.

[6] One of the pioneers of this new social history methodology, the Philadelphia Social History Project, based at the University of Pennsylvania, employed early mainframe computers in the late 1970s to create relational databases of historical information about the residents of Philadelphia (Thomas 2004).

[7] Radical History Review 25 (Winter 1980-81). The RHR issue had two other co-editors: Robert Entenmann and Warren Goldstein.

[8] The Presenting the Past collection included essays by Mike Wallace, Michael Frisch, and Roy Rosenzweig analyzing how historical consciousness has been constructed by history museums and mainstream historical publications, as well as essays by Linda Shopes, James Green, and Jeremy Brecher on how local groups in Baltimore, Boston, and in Connecticut’s Brass Valley created alternative ways and formats to understand and present their community’s history of oppositional struggles.

[9] Roy founded CHNM in 1994. The center was appropriately named for him following his death in 2007.

[10] A much-expanded version of Robertson’s original blog post appeared in the 2016 edition of Debates in the Digital Humanities (Gold and Klein 2016): http://dhdebates.gc.cuny.edu/debates/text/76.

[11] A useful introduction to quantification in history can be found at “What Is Quantitative History?” on the History Matters website: http://historymatters.gmu.edu/mse/numbers/what.html. Historian Cameron Blevins also discusses the origins of quantitative history in his essay in Debates in the Digital Humanities 2016: http://dhdebates.gc.cuny.edu/debates/text/77.

[12] Carl Bridenbaugh, a traditional historian of colonial American history, sharply attacked those who would “worship at the shrine of the Bitch goddess QUANTIFICATION” (quoted in Novick 1988, 383–84; capitalization in the original).

[13] I devoted a chapter of my dissertation to a critique of Thernstrom’s conclusions in Poverty and Progress and subsequent publications about the political impact of a large “floating proletariat” on working-class social mobility in US history, which he concluded served to undercut working-class consciousness. My dissertation argued otherwise.

[14] Thernstrom had been teaching at UCLA, where I first encountered him while working on my doctorate. He departed for Harvard in 1973 just in time for Roy Rosenzweig to become one of his doctoral students. Roy completed his dissertation in 1978 on workers in Worcester, Massachusetts, which incorporated little of Thernstrom’s quantitative methodology, but instead employed much of Herbert Gutman’s social and labor history approach. See Rosenzweig, Roy. 1985. Eight Hours for What We Will: Workers and Leisure in an Industrial City, 1870-1920. New York: Cambridge Univ. Press.

[15] Peter Passell, a Columbia economist, in a review of Time on the Cross, declared: “If a more important book about American history has been published in the last decade, I don’t know about it” (Passell 1974). The authors, Passell concluded, “have with one stroke turned around a whole field of interpretation and exposed the frailty of history done without science.”

[16] The strikes were detailed in the third and tenth printed annual reports of the US Commissioner of Labor. U.S. Commissioner of Labor, Third Annual Report. . .1887: Strikes and Lockouts (Washington D.C.: U.S. GPO, 1888); U.S. Commissioner of Labor, Tenth Annual Report. . .1894: Strikes and Lockouts (Washington D.C.: U.S. GPO, 1896).

[17] UCLA was one of the first campuses on the West Coast to develop a computer center, growing out of its early ARPANET involvement. With Stanford, UCLA had participated in the first host-to-host computer connection on ARPANET in October 1969. See http://internetstudies.ucla.edu/. I have no idea what model number of IBM 360 UCLA was using in 1975, but it may well have been the last in the line, the Model 195. See http://www-03.ibm.com/ibm/history/exhibits/mainframe/mainframe_FS360.html. See also Roy Rosenzweig’s (1998) important review essay on the history of the Internet, “Wizards, Bureaucrats, Warriors, and Hackers: Writing the History of the Internet”: http://rrchnm.org/essay/wizards-bureaucrats-warriors-hackers-writing-the-history-of-the-internet/.

[18] Melissa Terras and Julianne Nyhan, in an essay in Debates in the Digital Humanities 2016, tell a similar story about the unknown female keypunch operators Father Busa employed. http://dhdebates.gc.cuny.edu/debates/text/57.

[19] These included regression analyses, standard deviations, and F and T tests of variance.

[20] In a short blog post, Ramsay argued that DHers needed to “make things,” to learn how to code to really consider themselves DHers; it caused quite a flap. See Ramsay, Stephen. 2011. “Who’s In and Who’s Out.” Stephen Ramsay Blog. http://stephenramsay.us/text/2011/01/08/whos-in-and-whos-out/.

[21] The 1977 article was reprinted in Rabb, Theodore and Robert Rotbert, eds. 1981. Industrialization and Urbanization: Studies in Interdisciplinary History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press and in excerpted form in Brenner, A., B. Day and M. Ness, eds. 2009. The Encyclopedia of Strikes in American History. Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe. One of the deans of U.S. labor history, David Montgomery, referenced our data and article and employed a similar set of statistical measures in his important article on nineteenth-century US strikes. Montgomery, David. 1980. “Strikes in Nineteenth-Century America.” Social Science History 4: 91-93.

[22] I continued to serve as ASHP’s executive director until 1998, when my shoes were ably filled by my long-time ASHP colleague, Joshua Brown, who continues to head the project to this day. I went on to serve as a senior administrator (Associate Provost and then Vice President) at the Graduate Center until 2009, when I resumed my faculty duties there.

[23] I needed special permission from our funder, the Ford Foundation, to spend ten thousand dollars of our grant to buy four Kaypro II computers (running the CPM operating system and the Wordstar word processing program) on which the entire first volume of WBA? was produced. I keep my old Kaypro II, a 30-pound “luggable,” and a large box of 5.25” floppy computer disks to show my students what early personal computers looked and felt like. My fascination with and desire to hold on to older forms of technology (I also drive a fully restored 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme as well) apparently resonates with contemporary efforts to develop an archeology of older media formats and machines at places like the Media Archaeology Laboratory at the University of Colorado. See http://mediaarchaeologylab.com/.

[24] This decision to formally establish ASHP as part of the CUNY Graduate Center proved particularly important, given Herb Gutman’s untimely death in 1985 at age 56. ASHP became part of the Center for Media and Learning (CML) that we founded at CUNY in 1990, which has also provided the institutional home for the Graduate Center’s New Media Lab (NML), which I co-founded in 1998 and continue to co-direct. The NML operates under the aegis of the CML.

[25] I recounted Roy’s and my visit in 1989 to a Washington, DC trade show of computer-controlled training modules and programs in my tribute to him after his death in 2007. See http://thanksroy.org/items/show/501.

[26] Because the first WBA? CD-ROM was produced for earlier Mac (OS9) and PC (Windows 95) operating systems, it is no longer playable on current computer systems, yet another orphaned piece of digital technology in a rapidly evolving computing landscape.

[27] Michael Meyer, “Putting the ‘PC’ in PCs,” Newsweek (February 20, 1995): 46; Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg, “U.S. History on a CD-ROM Stirs Up a Storm,” Wall Street Journal (February 10, 1995): B1-B2; and Juan Gonzalez. “Apple’s Big Byte Out of History.” New York Daily News (February 8, 1995): 10. We managed to fend off the Right-wing attack with what was then an unheard of barrage of email messages that we were able to generate from librarians and school teachers all over the world. It’s important to recall that email was still a relatively new technology in 1995 (AOL, Prodigy, and CompuServe were all launched in that year). The librarians emailed Apple in droves, convincing the company that unless it kept the WBA? CD-ROM in its education packs, the librarians would be unable to recommend future purchases of Apple computers for their schools. After the appointment of a panel of unnamed educators had endorsed the value of the WBA? CD-ROM, Apple resumed distributing copies of the disk in their education bundles for another year, with the total number of distributed WBA? CD-ROMs reaching almost 100,000 copies.

[28] I appropriated the “premature” phrase and explained its historical origins in the mid-1930s fight against fascism in a footnote to my article, “Where’s the Pedagogy? The Role of Teaching and Learning in the Digital Humanities” (Gold 2012, fn12). The standard work on digital history is Dan Cohen and Roy Rosenzweig. 2005. Digital History: A Guide to Gathering, Preserving, and Presenting the Past on the Web. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

[29] Lev Manovich (2001) in The Language of New Media notes that artists began using digital technology during the 1990s to extend and enhance their work, a key moment in what he describes as “the computerization of culture” (221).

[30] It remains, to this day, in the top 15 results one gets out of the nearly 200 million results in a Google search for “September 11.”

[31] See CHNM’s Sheila Brennan and Mills Kelly’s essay on the Hurricane Digital Memory Bank, “Why Collecting History Online is Web 1.5,” on the CHNM website at http://chnm.gmu.edu/essays-on-history-new-media/essays/?essayid=47. The initial online iteration of the CUNY Digital History Archive can be found at http://cdha.cuny.edu/.

[32] Descriptions and details about CHNM’s various projects described here can be found at http://chnm.gmu.edu/.

[33] Descriptions and details about ASHP’s various projects described here can be found on the ASHP website: http://ashp.cuny.edu/.

[34] My contribution to the 2012 edition of Debates in the Digital Humanities was an article entitled “Where’s the Pedagogy? The Role of Teaching and Learning in the Digital Humanities,” which argued that DHers need to pay more attention to pedagogy in their work. http://dhdebates.gc.cuny.edu/debates/text/8.

Bibliography

American Social History Project. 1990, 1992. Who Built America? Working People and Nation’s Economy, Politics, Culture and Society. New York: Pantheon.

———. 1993. Who Built America: From the Centennial Celebration of 1876 to the Great War of 1914 (CD-ROM). Santa Monica, CA: Voyager Co.

———. 2001. Who Built America? From the Great War of 1914 to the Dawn of the Atomic Age (CD-ROM). New York: Worth Publishers.

American Social History Project and Center for History and New Media. 1998. History Matters: The U.S. History Survey on the Web. http://historymatters.gmu.edu.

Amsden, Jon and Stephen Brier. 1977. “Coal Miners on Strike: The Transformation of Strike Demands and the Formation of a National Union.” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History: 8, 583–616.

Aptheker, Herbert. 1943 (1963). American Negro Slave Revolts. New York: International Publishers.

Benson, Susan Porter, Stephen Brier, and Roy Rosenzweig. 1986. Presenting the Past: Essays on History and the Public. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Brier, Stephen. 1992. “‘The Most Persistent Unionists’: Class Formation and Class Conflict in the Coal Fields and the Emergence of Interracial and Interethnic Unionism, 1880 –1904.” PhD diss., UCLA.

Brier, Stephen and Joshua Brown. 2011. “The September 11 Digital Archive: Saving the Histories of September 11, 2001.” Radical History Review 111 (Fall 2011): 101-09.

Fogel, Robert William and Stanley L. Engerman. 1974. Time on the Cross: The Economics of American Negro Slavery. Boston: Little, Brown and Company.

Gold, Matthew, ed. 2012. Debates in the Digital Humanities. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Gold, Matthew and Lauren Klein, eds. 2016. Debates in the Digital Humanities 2016. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Graham, S., I. Milligan, and S. Weingart. 2015. “Early Emergences: Father Busa, Humanities Computing, and the Emergence of the Digital Humanities.” The Historian’s Macroscope: Big Digital History. http://www.themacroscope.org/?page_id=601.

Gutman, Herbert. 1975. Slavery and the Numbers Game: A Critique of Time on the Cross. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press.

Hockey, Susan. 2004. “The History of Humanities Computing.” In A Companion to Digital Humanities, edited by Susan Schreibman, Roy Siemens, and John Unsworth. Oxford: Blackwell. http://www.digitalhumanities.org/companion/view?docId=blackwell/9781405103213/9781405103213.xml&chunk.id=ss1-2-1.

Lubar, Steven. 1992. ‘Do Not Fold, Spindle or Mutilate’: A Cultural History of the Punch Card.” Journal of American Culture 15: 43–55.

Manovich, Lev. 2001. The Language of New Media. Cambridge: The MIT Press.

McCarty, Willard. 2011. “Beyond Chronology and Profession: Discovering How to Write a History of the Digital Humanities.” Willard McCarty web page. University College London. http://www.mccarty.org.uk/essays/McCarty,%20Beyond%20chronology%20and%20profession.pdf.

McGann, Jerome. 1995. “The Rationale of Hypertext.” http://www2.iath.virginia.edu/public/jjm2f/rationale.html.

Moretti, Frank. 2005. Graphs, Maps, Trees: Abstract Models for Literary History. Brooklyn, NY: Verso.

Noiret, Serge. 2012 [2015]. “Digital History: The New Craft of (Public) Historians.” http://dph.hypotheses.org/14.

Novick, Peter. 1988. That Noble Dream: The ‘Objectivity Question’ and the American Historical Profession. New York: Cambridge Univ. Press.

Nyhan, Julianne, Andrew Flinn, and Anne Welsh. 2015. “Oral History and the Hidden Histories Project: Towards Histories of Computing in the Humanities.” Digital Scholarship in the Humanities 30: 71-85. Oxford: Oxford University Press. http://dsh.oxfordjournals.org/content/30/1/71/.

Nyhan, Julianne and Andrew Flinn. 2016. Computation and the Humanities: Towards an Oral History of Digital Humanities. Cham, Switzerland: Springer Open. http://link.springer.com/book/10.1007%2F978-3-319-20170-2.

Passell, Peter. 1974. “An Economic Analysis of that Peculiarly Economic Institution.” New York Times. April 28. http://www.nytimes.com/1974/04/28/archives/an-economic-analysis-of-that-peculiarly-economic-institution-vol-ii.html.

Robertson, Stephen. 2014. “The Differences between Digital History and Digital Humanities.” Stephen Robertson’s Blog. May 23. https://drstephenrobertson.com/blog-post/the-differences-between-digital-history-and-digital-humanities/.

Rockwell, Geoffrey. 2007. “An Alternate Beginning to Humanities Computing.” Geoffrey Rockwell’s Research Blog. May 2. http://theoreti.ca/?p=1608.

Rosenzweig, Roy. 1998. “Wizards, Bureaucrats, Warriors, and Hackers: Writing the History of the Internet.” American Historical Review 103: 1530-52. http://rrchnm.org/essay/wizards-bureaucrats-warriors-hackers-writing-the-history-of-the-internet/

Shorter, Edward. 1971. The Historian and the Computer: A Practical Guide. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall.

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Stampp, Kenneth. 1956 (1967). The Peculiar Institution: Slavery in the Ante-Bellum South. New York: Knopf.

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Acknowledgments

The author thanks Jon Amsden, Josh Brown, Matt Gold, Steven Lubar, Michael Mandiberg, Julianne Nyhan, Stephen Robertson, and Luke Waltzer for helpful comments and suggestions on an earlier draft of this essay.

About the Author

Stephen Brier is a social and labor historian and educational technologist who teaches in the PhD program in Urban Education and is the founder and coordinator of the Interactive Technology and Pedagogy doctoral certificate program, both at the CUNY Graduate Center. He served for eighteen years as the founding director of the American Social History Project/Center for Media and Learning and as a senior administrator for eleven years at the Graduate Center. Brier helped launch the Journal of Interactive Technology and Pedagogy in 2011 and served as a member of the journal’s editorial collective until 2017.

3

A Survey of Digital Humanities Programs

Abstract

The number of digital humanities programs has risen steadily since 2008, adding capacity to the field. But what kind of capacity, and in what areas? This paper presents a survey of DH programs in the Anglophone world (Australia, Canada, Ireland, the United Kingdom, and the United States), including degrees, certificates, and formalized minors, concentrations, and specializations. By analyzing the location, structure, and disciplinarity of these programs, we examine the larger picture of DH, at least insofar as it is represented to prospective students and cultivated through required coursework. We also explore the activities that make up these programs, which speak to the broader skills and methods at play in the field, as well as some important silences. These findings provide some empirical perspective on debates about teaching DH, particularly the attention paid to theory and critical reflection. Finally, we compare our results (where possible) to information on European programs to consider areas of similarity and difference, and sketch a broader picture of digital humanities.

Introduction

Much has been written of what lies inside (and outside) the digital humanities (DH). A fitting example might be the annual Day of DH, when hundreds of “DHers” (digital humanists) write about what they do and how they define the field (see https://twitter.com/dayofdh). Read enough of their stories and certain themes and patterns may emerge, but difference and pluralism will abound. More formal attempts to define the field are not hard to find—there is an entire anthology devoted to the subject (Terras, Nyhan, and Vanhoutte 2013)—and others have approached DH by studying its locations (Zorich 2008; Prescott 2016), its members (Grandjean 2014a, 2014b, 2015), their communication patterns (Ross et al. 2011; Quan-Haase, Martin, and McCay-Peet 2015), conference submissions (Weingart 2016), and so forth.

A small but important subset of research looks at teaching and learning as a lens through which to view the field. Existing studies have examined course syllabi (Terras 2006; Spiro 2011) and the development of specific programs and curricula (Rockwell 1999; Siemens 2001; Sinclair 2001; Unsworth 2001; Unsworth and Butler 2001; Drucker, Unsworth, and Laue 2002; Sinclair & Gouglas 2002; McCarty 2012; Smith 2014). In addition, there are pedagogical discussions about what should be taught in DH (Hockey 1986, 2001; Mahony & Pierazzo 2002; Clement 2012) and its broader relationship to technology, the humanities, and higher education (Brier 2012; Liu 2012; Waltzer 2012).

This study adds to the literature on teaching and learning by presenting a survey of existing degree and certificate programs in DH. While these programs are only part of the activities that make up the broader world of DH, they provide a formal view of training in the field and, by extension, of the field itself. Additionally, they reflect the public face of DH at their institutions, both to potential students and to faculty and administrators outside of DH. By studying the requirements of these programs (especially required coursework), we explore the activities that make up DH, at least to the extent that they are systematically taught and represented to students during admissions and recruitment, as well as where DH programs position themselves within and across the subject boundaries of their institutions. These activities speak to broader skills and methods at play in DH, as well as some important silences. They also provide an empirical perspective on pedagogical debates, particularly the attention paid to theory and critical reflection

Background

Melissa Terras (2006) was the first to point to the utility of education studies in approaching the digital humanities (or what she then called “humanities computing”). In the broadest sense, Terras distinguishes between subjects, which are usually associated with academic departments and defined by “a set of core theories and techniques to be taught” (230), and disciplines, which lack departmental status yet still have their own identities, cultural attributes, communities of practice, heroes, idols, and mythology. After analyzing four university courses in humanities computing, Terras examines other aspects of the community such as its associations, journals, discussion groups, and conference submissions. She concludes that humanities computing is a discipline, although not yet a subject: “the community exists, and functions, and has found a way to continue disseminating its knowledge and encouraging others into the community without the institutionalization of the subject” (242). Terras notes that humanities computing scholars, lacking prescribed activities, have freedom in developing their own research and career paths. She remains curious, however, about the “hidden curriculum” of the field at a time when few formal programs yet existed.

Following Terras, Lisa Spiro (2011) takes up this study of the “hidden curriculum” by collecting and analyzing 134 English-language syllabi from DH courses offered between 2006–2011. While some of these courses were offered in DH departments (16, 11.9%), most were drawn from other disciplines, including English, history, media studies, interdisciplinary studies, library and information science, computer science, rhetoric and composition, visual studies, communication, anthropology, and philosophy. Classics, linguistics, and other languages were missing. Spiro analyzes the assignments, readings, media types, key concepts, and technologies covered in these courses, finding (among other things) that DH courses often link theory to practice; involve collaborative work on projects; engage in social media such as blogging or Twitter; focus not only on text but also on video, audio, images, games, maps, simulation, and 3D modeling; and reflect contemporary issues such as data and databases, openness and copyright, networks and networking, and interaction. Finally, Spiro presents a list of terms she expected to see more often in these syllabi, including “argument,” “statistics,” “programming,” “representation,” “interpretation,” “accessibility,” “sustainability,” and “algorithmic.”

These two studies form the broad picture of DH education. More recent studies have taken up DH teaching and learning within particular contexts, such as community colleges (McGrail 2016), colleges of liberal arts and science (Alexander & Davis 2012; Buurma & Levine 2016), graduate education (Selisker 2016), libraries (Rosenblum, et al., 2016; Varner 2016; Vedantham & Porter 2016) and library and information science education (Senchyne 2016), and the public sphere (Brennan 2016; Hsu 2016). These accounts stress common structural challenges and opportunities across these contexts. In particular, many underscore assumptions made about and within DH, including access to technology, institutional resources, and background literacies. In addition, many activities in these contexts fall outside of formal degrees and programs or even classroom learning, demonstrating the variety of spaces in which DH may be taught and trained.

Other accounts have drawn the deep picture of DH education by examining the development of programs and courses at specific institutions, such as McMaster University (Rockwell 1999), University of Virginia (Unsworth 2001; Unsworth and Butler 2001; Drucker, Unsworth, and Laue 2002), University of Alberta (Sinclair & Gouglas 2002), King’s College London (McCarty 2012), and Wilfrid Laurier University (Smith 2014), among others. Abstracts from “The Humanities Computing Curriculum / The Computing Curriculum in the Arts and Humanities” Conference in 2001 contain references to various institutions (Siemens 2001), as does a subsequent report on the conference (Sinclair 2001). Not surprisingly, these accounts often focus on the histories and peculiarities of each institution, a “localization” that Knight (2011) regards as necessary in DH.

Our study takes a program-based approach to studying teaching and learning in DH. While formal programs represent only a portion of the entire DH curricula, they are important in several respects: First, they reflect intentional groupings of courses, concepts, skills, methods, techniques, and so on. As such, they purport to represent the field in its broadest strokes rather than more specialized portions of it (with the exception of programs offered in specific areas, such as book history and DH). Second, these programs, under the aegis of awarding institutions and larger accrediting bodies, are responsible for declaring explicit learning outcomes of their graduates, often including required courses. These requirements form one picture of what all DHers are expected to know upon graduation (at a certain level), and this changing spectrum of competencies presumably reflects corresponding changes in the field over time. Third, formal DH programs organize teaching, research, and professional development in the field; they are channels through which material and symbolic capital flow, making them responsible, in no small part, for shaping the field itself. Finally, these programs, their requirements, and coursework are one way—perhaps the primary way—in which prospective students encounter the field and make choices about whether to enroll in a DH program and, if so, which one. These programs are also consulted by faculty and administrators developing new programs at their own institutions, both for common competencies and for distinguishing features of particular programs.

In addition to helping define the field, a study of formal DH programs also contributes to the dialogue around pedagogy in the field. Hockey, for example, has long wondered whether programming should be taught (1986) and asks, “How far can the need for analytical and critical thinking in the humanities be reconciled with the practical orientation of much work in humanities computing?” (2001). Also skeptical of mere technological skills, Simon Mahony and Elena Pierazzo (2002) argue for teaching methodologies or “ways of thinking” in DH. Tanya Clement examines multiliteracies in DH (e.g., critical thinking, commitment, community, and play), which help to push the field beyond “training” to “a pursuit that enables all students to ask valuable and productive questions that make for ‘a life worth living’” (2012, 372).

Others have called on DH to engage more fully in critical reflection, especially in relation to technology and the role of the humanities in higher education. Alan Liu notes that much DH work has failed to consider “the relation of the whole digital juggernaut to the new world order,” eschewing even clichéd topics such as “the digital divide,” “surveillance,” “privacy,” and “copyright” (2012, 491). Steve Brier (2012) points out that teaching and learning are an afterthought to many DHers, a lacuna that misses the radical potential of DH for transforming teaching and professional development. Luke Walzer (2012) observes that DH has done little to help protect and reconceptualize the role of the humanities in higher education, long under threat from austerity measures and perceived uselessness in the neoliberal academy (Mowitt 2012).

These and other concerns point to longstanding questions about the proper balance of technological skills and critical reflection in DH. While a study of existing DH programs cannot address the value of critical reflection, it can report on the presence (or absence) of such reflection in required coursework and program outcomes. Thus, it is part of a critical reflection on the field as it stands now, how it is taught to current students, and how such training will shape the future of the field. It can also speak to common learning experiences within DH (e.g., fieldwork, capstones), as well as disciplinary connections, particularly in program electives. These findings, together with our more general findings about DH activities, give pause to consider what is represented in, emphasized by, and omitted from the field at its most explicit levels of educational training.

Methods

This study involved collection of data about DH programs, coding descriptions of programs and courses using a controlled vocabulary, and analysis and visualization.

Data Collection

We compiled a list of 37 DH programs active in 2015 (see Appendix A), drawn from listings in the field (UCLA Center for Digital Humanities 2015; Clement 2015), background literature, and web searches (e.g., “digital humanities masters”). In addition to degrees and certificates, we included minors and concentrations that have formal requirements and coursework, since these programs can be seen as co-issuing degrees with major areas of study and as inflecting those areas in significant ways. We did not include digital arts or emerging media programs in which humanities content was not the central focus of inquiry. In a few cases, the listings or literature mentioned programs that could not be found online, but we determined that these instances were not extant programs—some were initiatives or centers misdescribed, others were programs in planning or simply collections of courses with no formal requirements—and thus fell outside the scope of this study. We also asked for the names of additional programs at a conference presentation, in personal emails, and on Twitter. Because our sources and searches are all English-language, the list of programs we collected are all programs taught in Anglophone countries. This limits what we can say about global DH.

For each program, we made a PDF of the webpage on which its description appears, along with a plain text file of the description. We recorded the URL of each program and information about its title; description; institution; school, division, or department; level (graduate or undergraduate); type (degree or otherwise); year founded; curriculum (total credits, number and list of required and elective courses); and references to independent research, fieldwork, and final deliverables. After identifying any required courses for each program, we looked up descriptions of those courses in the institution’s course catalog and recorded them in a spreadsheet.

Coding and Intercoder Agreement

To analyze the topics covered by programs and required courses, we applied the Taxonomy of Digital Research Activities in the Humanities (TaDiRAH 2014a), which attempts to capture the “scholarly primitives” of the field (Perkins et al. 2014). Unsworth (2000) describes these primitives as “basic functions common to scholarly activities across disciplines, over time, and independent of theoretical orientation,” obvious enough to be “self-understood,” and his preliminary list includes ‘Discovering’, ‘Annotating’, ‘Comparing’, ‘Referring’, ‘Sampling’, ‘Illustrating’, and ‘Representing’.

We doubt that any word—or classification system—works in this way. Language is always a reflection of culture and society, and with that comes questions of power, discipline/ing, and field background. Moreover, term meaning shifts over time and across locations. Nevertheless, we believe classification schema can be useful in organizing and analyzing information, and that is the spirit in which we employ TaDiRAH here.

TaDiRAH is one of several classification schema in DH and is itself based on three prior sources: the arts-humanities.net taxonomy of DH projects, tools, centers, and other resources; the categories and tags originally used by the DiRT (Digital Research Tools) Directory (2014); and headings from “Doing Digital Humanities,” a Zotero bibliography of DH literature (2014) created by the Digital Research Infrastructure for Arts and Humanities (DARIAH). The TaDiRAH version used in this study (v. 0.5.1) also included two rounds of community feedback and subsequent revisions (Dombrowski and Perkins 2014). TaDiRAH’s controlled vocabulary terms are arranged into three broad categories: activities, objects, and techniques. Only activities terms were used in this study because the other terms lack definitions, making them subject to greater variance in interpretation. TaDiRAH contains forty activities terms organized into eight parent terms (‘Capture’, ‘Creation’, ‘Enrichment’, ‘Analysis’, ‘Interpretation’, ‘Storage’, ‘Dissemination’, and ‘Meta-Activities’).

TaDiRAH was built in conversation with a similar project at DARIAH called the Network for Digital Methods in the Arts and Humanities (NeDiMAH) and later incorporated into that project (2015). NeDiMAH’s Methods Ontology (NeMO) contains 160 activities terms organized into five broad categories (‘Acquiring’, ‘Communicating’, ‘Conceiving’, ‘Processing’, ‘Seeking’) and is often more granular than TaDiRAH (e.g., ‘Curating’, ‘Emulating’, ‘Migrating’, ‘Storing’, and ‘Versioning’ rather than simply ‘Preservation’). While NeMO may have other applications, we believe it is too large to be used in this study. There are many cases in which programs or even course descriptions are not as detailed as NeMO in their language, and even the forty-eight TaDiRAH terms proved difficult to apply because of their number and complexity. In addition, TaDiRAH has been applied in DARIAH’s DH Course Registry of European programs, permitting some comparisons between those programs and the ones studied here.

In this study, a term was applied to a program/course description whenever explicit evidence was found that students completing the program or course would be guaranteed to undertake the activities explicitly described in that term’s definition. In other words, we coded for minimum competencies that someone would have after completing a program or course. The narrowest term was applied whenever possible, and multiple terms could be applied to the same description (and, in most cases, were). For example, a reference to book digitization would be coded as ‘Imaging’:

Imaging refers to the capture of texts, images, artefacts or spatial formations using optical means of capture. Imaging can be made in 2D or 3D, using various means (light, laser, infrared, ultrasound). Imaging usually does not lead to the identification of discrete semantic or structural units in the data, such as words or musical notes, which is something DataRecognition accomplishes. Imaging also includes scanning and digital photography.

If there was further mention of OCR (optical character recognition), that would be coded as ‘DataRecognition’ and so on. To take another example, a reference to visualization and other forms of analysis would be coded both as ‘Visualization’ and as its parent term, ‘Analysis’, if no more specific child terms could be identified.

In some cases, descriptions would provide a broad list of activities happening somewhere across a program or course but not guaranteed for all students completing that program or course (e.g., “Through our practicum component, students can acquire hands-on experience with innovative tools for the computational analysis of cultural texts, and gain exposure to new methods for analyzing social movements and communities enabled by new media networks.”). In these cases, we looked for further evidence before applying a term to that description.

Students may also acquire specialty in a variety of areas, but this study is focused on what is learned in common by any student who completes a specific DH program or course; as such, we coded only cases of requirements and common experiences. For the same reason, we coded only required courses, not electives. Finally, we coded programs and required courses separately to analyze whether there was any difference in stated activities at these two levels.

To test intercoder agreement, we selected three program descriptions at random and applied TaDiRAH terms to each. In only a handful of cases did all three of us agree on our term assignments. We attribute this low level of agreement to the large number of activities terms in TaDiRAH, the complexity of program/course descriptions, questions of scope (whether to use a broader or narrower term), and general vagueness. For example, a program description might allude to work with texts at some point, yet not explicitly state text analysis until later, only once, when it is embedded in a list of other examples (e.g., GIS, text mining, network analysis), with a reference to sentiment analysis elsewhere. Since texts could involve digitization, publishing, or other activities, we would not code ‘Text analysis’ immediately, and we would only code it if students would were be guaranteed exposure to this such methods in the program. To complicate matters further, there is no single term for text analysis in TaDiRAH—it spans across four (‘Content analysis’, ‘Relational analysis’, ‘Structural analysis’, and ‘Stylistic analysis’)—and one coder might apply all four terms, another only some, and the third might use the parent term ‘Analysis’, which also includes spatial analysis, network analysis, and visualization.

Even after reviewing these examples and the definitions of specific TaDiRAH terms, we could not reach a high level of intercoder agreement. However, we did find comparing our term assignments to be useful, and we were able to reach consensus in discussion. Based on this experience, we decided that each of us would code every program/course description and then discuss our codings together until we reached a final agreement. Before starting our preliminary codings, we discussed our understanding of each TaDiRAH term (in case it had not come up already in the exercise). We reviewed our preliminary codings using a visualization showing whether one, two, or three coders applied a term to a program/course description. In an effort to reduce bias, especially framing effects (cognitive biases that result from the order in which information is presented), the visualization did not display who had coded which terms. If two coders agreed on a term, they explained their codings to the third and all three came to an agreement. If only one coder applied a term, the other two explained why they did not code for that term and all three came to an agreement. Put another way, we considered every term that anyone applied, and we considered it under the presumption that it would be applied until proven otherwise. Frequently, our discussions involved pointing to specific locations in the program/course descriptions and referencing TaDiRAH definitions or notes from previous meetings when interpretations were discussed.

In analyzing our final codings, we used absolute term frequencies (the number of times a term was applied in general) and weighted frequencies (a proxy for relative frequency and here a measure of individual programs and courses). To compute weighted frequencies, each of the eight parent terms were given a weight of 1, which was divided equally among their subterms. For example, the parent term ‘Dissemination’ has six subterms, so each of those were assigned an equal weight of one-sixth, whereas ‘Enrichment’ has three subterms, each assigned a weight of one-third. These weights were summed by area to show how much of an area (relatively speaking) is represented in program/course descriptions, regardless of area size. If all the subterms in an area are present, that entire area is present—just as it would be if we had applied only the broader term in the first place. These weighted frequencies are used only where programs are displayed individually.

Initially, we had thought about comparing differences in stated activities between programs and required courses. While we found some variations (e.g., a program would be coded for one area of activities but not its courses and vice versa), we also noticed cases in which the language used to describe programs was too vague to code for activities that were borne out in required course descriptions. For this reason and to be as inclusive as possible with our relatively conservative codings, we compared program and course data simultaneously in our final analysis. Future studies may address the way in which program descriptions connect to particular coursework, and articulating such connections may help reveal the ways in which DH is taught (in terms of pedagogy) rather than only its formal structure (as presented here).

Analysis and Visualization

In analyzing program data, we examined the overall character of each program (its title), its structure (whether it grants degrees and, if so, at what level), special requirements (independent study, final deliverables, fieldwork), and its location, both in terms of institutional structure (e.g., departments, labs, centers) and discipline(s). We intended to analyze more thoroughly the number of required courses as compared to electives, the variety of choice students have in electives, and the range of departments in which electives are offered. These comparisons proved difficult: even within an American context, institutions vary in their credit hours and the formality of their requirements (e.g., choosing from a menu of specific electives, as opposed to any course from a department or “with permission”). These inconsistencies multiply greatly in an international context, and so we did not undertake a quantitative study of the number or range of required and elective courses.

Program data and codings were visualized using the free software Tableau Public. All images included in this article are available in a public workbook at https://public.tableau.com/views/DigitalHumanitiesProgramsSurvey/Combined. As we discuss in the final section, we are also building a public-facing version of the data and visualizations, which may be updated by members of the DH community. Thus, the data presented here can and should change over time, making these results only a snapshot of DH in some locations at the present.

Anglophone Programs

The number of DH programs in Anglophone countries has risen sharply over time, beginning in 1991 and growing steadily by several programs each year since 2008 (see Figure 1). This growth speaks to increased capacity in the field, not just by means of centers, journals, conferences, and other professional infrastructure, but also through formal education. Since 2008, there has been a steady addition of several programs each year, and based on informal observation since our data collection ended, we believe this trend continues.

A bar chart showing the number of new Anglophone DH programs each year from 1991 to 2015. A line showing the cumulative total of programs increases sharply at 2008.
Figure 1. Digital humanities programs in our collected data by year established

Program Titles

Most of the programs in our collected data (22, 59%) are titled simply “Digital Humanities,” along with a few variations, such as “Book History and Digital Humanities” and “Digital Humanities Research” (see Figure 2). A handful of programs are named for particular areas of DH or related topics (e.g., “Digital Culture,” “Public Scholarship”), and only a fraction (3 programs, 8%) are called “Humanities Computing.” We did not investigate changes in program names over time, although this might be worthwhile in the future.

A stacked bar chart comparing the titles of Anglophone DH programs. The segments that make up each bar are color coded by degree type (e.g., doctoral, master’s, bachelor’s, certificate, other).
Figure 2. Titles of digital humanities programs in our collected data

Structure

Less than half of DH programs in our collected data grant degrees: some at the level of bachelor’s (8%), most at the level of master’s (22%), and some at the doctoral (8%) level (Figure 3). The majority of DH programs are certificates, minors, specializations, and concentrations—certificates being much more common at the graduate level and nearly one-third of all programs in our collected data. The handful of doctoral programs are all located in the UK and Ireland.

A stacked bar chart showing the number of Anglophone DH programs at the undergraduate and graduate levels. The segments that make up each bar are color coded by degree type (e.g., doctoral, master’s, bachelor’s, certificate, other).
Figure 3. Digital humanities programs in our collected data (by degree and level)

 

In addition to degree-granting status, we also examined special requirements for the 37 DH programs in our study. Half of those programs require some form of independent research (see Figure 4). All doctoral programs require such research; most master’s programs do as well. Again, we only looked for cases of explicit requirements; it seems likely that research of some variety is conducted within all the programs analyzed here. However, we focus this study on explicit statements of academic activity in order to separate the assumptions of practitioners of DH about its activities from what appears in public-facing descriptions of the field.
Half of DH programs in our collected data require a final deliverable, referred to variously as a capstone, dissertation, portfolio, or thesis (see Figure 5). Again, discrepancies between written and unwritten expectations in degree programs abound—and are certainly not limited to DH—and some programs may have not explicitly stated this requirement, so deliverables may be undercounted. That said, most graduate programs require some kind of final deliverable, and most undergraduate and non-degree-granting programs (e.g., minors, specializations) do not.

Finally, about one-quarter of programs require fieldwork, often in the form of an internship (see Figure 6). This fieldwork requirement is spread across degree types and levels.

A stacked bar chart showing whether Anglophone DH programs require independent research as a part of their degree requirements. The segments that make up each bar are color coded by degree type (e.g., doctoral, master’s, bachelor’s, certificate, other).
Figure 4. Independent research requirements of digital humanities programs in our collected data

 

A stacked bar chart showing the final deliverable requirement (dissertation, portfolio, etc.) of Anglophone DH programs. The segments that make up each bar are color coded by degree type (e.g., doctoral, master’s, bachelor’s, certificate, other).
Figure 5. Final deliverable required by digital humanities programs in our collected data

 

A stacked bar chart showing whether Anglophone DH programs require fieldwork as a part of their degree requirements. The segments that make up each bar are color coded by degree type (e.g., doctoral, master’s, bachelor’s, certificate, other).
Figure 6. Fieldwork requirements of digital humanities programs in our collected data

 

Location and Disciplinarity

About one-third of the DH programs in our dataset are offered outside of academic schools/departments (in centers, initiatives, and, in one case, jointly with the library), and most issue from colleges/schools of arts and humanities (see Figure 7). Although much DH work occurs outside of traditional departments (Zorich 2008), formal training in Anglophone countries remains tied to them. Most DH concentrations and specializations are located within English departments, evidence for Kirschenbaum’s claim that DH’s “professional apparatus…is probably more rooted in English than any other departmental home” (2010, 55).

A bar chart showing location of Anglophone DH programs within an institution (college/school, center, department. etc.)
Figure 7. Institutional location of digital humanities programs in our collected data

The elective courses of DH programs span myriad departments and disciplines. The familiar humanities departments are well represented (art history, classics, history, philosophy, religion, and various languages), along with computer science, design, media, and technology. Several programs include electives drawn from education departments and information and library science. More surprising departments (and courses) include anthropology (“Anthropological Knowledge in the Museum”), geography (“Urban GIS”), political science (“New Media and Politics”), psychology (“Affective Interaction”), sociology (“Social and Historical Study of Information, Software, and Networks”), even criminology (“Cyber Crime”).

The number of electives required by each program and the pool from which they may be drawn varies greatly among programs, and in some cases it is so open-ended that it is nearly impossible to document thoroughly. Some programs have no elective courses and focus only on shared, required coursework. Others list dozens of potential elective courses as suggestions, rather than an exhaustive list. Because course offerings, especially in cross-disciplinary areas, change from term to term and different courses may be offered under a single, general course listing such as “Special Topics,” the list of elective course we have collected is only a sample of the type of courses students in DH programs may take, and we do not analyze them quantitatively here.

Theory and Critical Reflection

To analyze the role of theory and critical reflection in DH programs, we focused our analysis on two TaDiRAH terms: ‘Theorizing’,

a method which aims to relate a number of elements or ideas into a coherent system based on some general principles and capable of explaining relevant phenomena or observations. Theorizing relies on techniques such as reasoning, abstract thinking, conceptualizing and defining. A theory may be implemented in the form of a model, or a model may give rise to formulating a theory.

and ‘Meta: GiveOverview’, which

refers to the activity of providing information which is relatively general or provides a historical or systematic overview of a given topic. Nevertheless, it can be aimed at experts or beginners in a field, subfield or specialty.

In most cases, we used ‘Meta: GiveOverview’ to code theoretical or historical introductions to DH itself, though any explicit mention of theory was coded (or also coded) as ‘Theorizing’. We found that all DH programs, whether in program descriptions or required courses, included some mention of theory or historical/systematic overview (see Figure 8).

A table of Anglophone institutions and DH programs showing whether researchers coded ‘Theory’ or ‘GiveOverview’ for the program or required course descriptions.
Figure 8. Theory and critical reflection in digital humanities programs in our collected data

Accordingly, we might say that each program, according to its local interpretation, engages in some type of theoretical or critical reflection. We cannot, of course, say much more about the character of this reflection, whether it is the type of critical reflection called for in the pedagogical literature, or how this reflection interfaces with the teaching of skills and techniques in these programs. We hope someone studies this aspect of programs, but it is also worth noting that only 6 of the 37 programs here were coded for ‘Teaching/Learning’ (see Figure 12). Presumably, most programs do not engage theoretically with issues of pedagogy or the relationship between DH and higher education, commensurate with Brier’s claim that these areas are often overlooked (2012). Such engagement may occur in elective courses or perhaps nowhere in these programs.

European Programs

All of the 37 programs discussed above are located in Anglophone countries, most of them in the United States (22 programs, 60%). We note that TaDiRAH, too, originates in this context, as does our English-language web searches for DH programs. While this data is certainly in dialogue with the many discussions of DH education cited above, it limits what we can say about DH from a global perspective. It is important to understand the various ways DH manifests around the globe, both to raise awareness of these approaches and to compare the ways in which DH education converges and diverges across these contexts. To that end, we gathered existing data on European programs by scraping DARIAH’s Digital Humanities Course Registry (DARIAH-EU 2014a) and consulting the European Association for Digital Humanities’ (EADH) education resources webpage (2016). This DARIAH/EADH data is not intended to stand in for the entirety of global DH, as it looks exclusively at European programs (and even then it is limited in interpretation by our own language barriers). DH is happening outside of this scope (e.g., Gil 2017), and we hope that future initiatives can expand the conversation about DH programs worldwide—possibly as part of our plans for data publication, which we address at the end of this article.

DARIAH’s database lists 102 degree programs, 77 of which were flagged in page markup as “outdated” with the note, “This record has not been revised for a year or longer.” While inspecting DARIAH data, we found 43 programs tagged with TaDiRAH terms, and we eliminated 17 entries that were duplicates, had broken URLs and could not be located through a web search, or appeared to be single courses or events rather than formal programs. We also updated information on a few programs (e.g., specializations classified as degrees). We then added 5 programs listed by EADH but not by DARIAH, for a grand total of 93 European DH programs (only 16 of which were listed jointly by both organizations). We refer to this dataset as “DARIAH/EADH data” in the remainder of this paper. A map of these locations is provided in Figure 9, and the full list of programs considered in this paper is given in Appendices.

A map of Europe showing the number of DH programs in each country, based on DARIAH/EADH listings.
Figure 9. Geographic location of programs in DARIAH/EADH data

 

The DARIAH/EADH data lists 93 programs spread across parts of Europe, with the highest concentration (33%) in Germany (see Table 1). We caution here and in subsequent discussions that DARIAH and EADH may not have applied the same criteria for including programs as we did in our data collection, so results are not directly comparable. Some programs in informatics or data asset management might have been ruled out using our data collection methods, which were focused on humanities content.

Table 1. Summary of programs included in our collected data and DARIAH/EADH data
Country Programs in our collected data
N (%)
Programs in DARIAH/EADH data
N (%)
Australia 1 (3%)
Austria 1 (1%)
Belgium 2 (2%)
Canada 6 (16%)
Croatia 3 (3%)
Finland 1 (1%)
France 8 (9%)
Germany 31 (33%)
Ireland 3 (8%) 4 (4%)
Italy 4 94%)
Netherlands 16 (17%)
Norway 1 (1%)
Portugal 1 (1%)
Spain 2 (2%)
Sweden 1 (1%)
Switzerland 6 (7%)
United Kingdom 5 (14%) 12 (13%)
United States 22 (60%)

Program Titles

A cursory examination of the DARIAH/EADH program title reveals more variety, including many programs in computer linguistics and informatics (see Appendix B). We did not analyze these titles further because of language barriers. And again, we caution that some of these programs might not have been included according to the criteria for our study, though the vast majority appear relevant.

Structure

Most programs in the DARIAH/EADH data are degree-granting at the level of master’s (61%) or bachelor’s (25%) (see Figure 10). While we are reasonably confident in these broad trends, we are skeptical of the exact totals for two reasons. In DARIAH’s Registry, we noticed several cases of specializations being labeled as degrees. Though we rectified these cases where possible, language barriers prevented us from more thoroughly researching each program—another challenge that a global study of DH would encounter. On the other hand, it’s also possible that non-degree programs were undercounted in general, given that the Registry was meant to list degrees and courses. Based on our inspection of each program, we do not believe these errors are widespread enough to change the general distribution of the data: more European programs issue degrees, mostly at the master’s level.

A stacked bar chart showing the number of European DH programs at the undergraduate and graduate levels, as listed by DARIAH/EADH. The segments that make up each bar are color coded by degree type (e.g., doctoral, master’s, bachelor’s, certificate, other).
Figure 10. Digital humanities programs (by degree and level, DARIAH/EADH data)

Location and Disciplinarity

Most European programs are also located in academic divisions called colleges, departments, faculties, or schools (see Figure 11), depending on country. Only a handful of programs are located in institutes, centres, or labs, even less frequently than in our collected data.

A bar chart showing location of European DH programs within an institution (college/department/faculty/school, centre, institute. etc.), as listed by DARIAH/EADH.
Figure 11. Institutional location of digital humanities programs (DARIAH/EADH data)

We did not analyze disciplinarity in the DARIAH/EADH data because the programs span various countries, education systems, and languages—things we could not feasibly study here. However, 43 programs in the DARIAH/EADH data were tagged with TaDiRAH terms, allowing for comparison with programs in our collected data. These speak to what happens in DH programs in Europe, even if their disciplinary boundaries vary.

DH Activities

To analyze the skills and methods at play in DH programs, we examined our TaDiRAH codings in terms of overall term frequency (see Figure 12) and weighted frequency across individual programs (see Figures 13 and 14). Several trends were apparent in our codings, as well as DARIAH-listed programs that were also tagged with TaDiRAH terms.

In our data on Anglophone programs of DH programs, analysis and meta-activities (e.g., ‘Community building’, ‘Project management’, ‘Teaching/Learning’) make up the largest share of activities, along with creation (e.g., ‘Designing’, ‘Programming’, ‘Writing’). This is apparent in absolute term frequencies (see Figure 12, excepting ‘Theorizing’ and ‘Meta: GiveOverview’) and in a heatmap comparison of programs (see Figure 13). Again, the heatmap used weighted frequencies to adjust for the fact that some areas have few terms, while others have more than double the smallest. It is worth noting that ‘Writing’ is one of the most frequent terms (11 programs), but this activity certainly occurs elsewhere and is probably undercounted because it was not explicitly mentioned in program descriptions. The same may be true for other activities.

A series of bar charts showing the number of times each TaDiRAH term appeared in the datasets. Terms are listed under their parent terms, and subtotals are given for each parent term. Data collected by researchers (Anglophone programs) are displayed in blue, and DARIAH data are displayed in orange.
Figure 12. TaDiRAH term coding frequency (grouped)

 

A heatmap of Anglophone DH programs and TaDiRAH parent terms. The saturation of each cell shows the number of times that terms within that parent term were coded for that particular program, whether in program descriptions or course descriptions.
Figure 13. Digital humanities programs in our collected data and their required courses (by area)

Many program specializations seem to follow from the flavor of DH at particular institutions (e.g. the graduate certificate at Stanford’s Center for Spatial and Textual Analysis, University of Iowa’s emphasis on public engagement), commensurate with Knight’s (2011) call for “localization” in DH.

In contrast with the most frequent terms, some terms were never applied to program/course descriptions in our data, including ‘Translation’, ‘Cleanup’, ‘Editing’, and ‘Identifying’. Enrichment and storage activities (e.g., ‘Archiving’, ‘Organizing’, ‘Preservation’) were generally sparse (only 1.9% of all codings), even after compensating for the fact that these areas have fewer terms. We suspect that these activities do occur in DH programs and courses—in fact, they are assumed in broader activities such as thematic research collections, content management systems, and even dissemination. Their lack of inclusion in program/course descriptions seems constituent with claims made by librarians that their expertise in technology, information organization, and scholarly communication is undervalued in the field, whether instrumentalized as part a service model that excludes them from the academic rewards of and critical decision-making in DH work (Muñoz 2013; Posner 2013) or devalued as a form of feminized labor (Shirazi 2014). Ironically, these abilities are regarded as qualifications for academic librarian positions and as marketable job skills for humanities students and, at the same time, as a lesser form of academic work, often referred to as faculty “service” (Nowviskie 2012; Sample 2013; Takats 2013). We suspect that many program descriptions replicate this disconnect by de-emphasizing some activities (e.g., storage, enrichment) over others (e.g., analysis, project management).

Generally, there seems to be less emphasis on content (‘Capture’, ‘Enrichment’, and ‘Storage’ terms) and more focus on platforms and tools (‘Analysis’ and ‘Meta-Activities’ terms) within programs in our collected data. In interpreting this disparity, we think it’s important to attend to the larger contexts surrounding education in various locations. The Anglophone programs we studied are mostly located in the United States, where “big data” drives many decisions, including those surrounding higher education. As boyd and Crawford note, this phenomenon rests on the interplay of technology, analysis, and “[m]ythology: the widespread belief that large data sets offer a higher form of intelligence and knowledge that can generate insights that were previously impossible, with the aura of truth, objectivity, and accuracy” (2013: 663). Within this context, programs advertising analysis, visualization, and project management may appear as more attractive to prospective students and supporting institutions, two important audiences of program webpages. This influence does not mean that such activities do not occur or are not important to DH, but it again turns attention to questions about the way in which these skills are developed and deployed and whether that occurs against a backdrop of critical reflection on methods and tools. How these broad program-level descriptions play out in the context of particular courses and instruction is beyond the scope of this program-level study, but we think that surfacing the way programs are described is an important first step to a deeper analysis of these questions.

When comparing our 37 programs to the 43 TaDiRAH-tagged European ones, several differences emerge—though we caution that these findings, in particular, may be less reliable than others presented here. In our study, we coded for guaranteed activities, explicit either in program descriptions or required course description. In DARIAH’s Registry, entries are submitted by users, who are given a link to another version of TaDiRAH (2014b) and instructed to code at least one activities keyword (DARIAH-EU 2014b). We do not know the criteria each submitter uses for applying terms, and it’s likely that intercoder agreement would be low in absence of pre-coordination. For example, programs in the Netherlands are noticeably sparser in their codings than programs elsewhere—perhaps submitted by the same coder, or coders with a shared understanding and different from the others (see Figure 14).

A heatmap of DH programs and TaDiRAH parent terms, as listed by DARIAH. The saturation of each cell shows the number of times that terms within that parent term were coded for that particular program.
Figure 14. Digital humanities programs (by area, TaDiRAH-tagged subset of DARIAH data)

We tried to compare directly our codings with DARIAH data by looking at five programs listed in common. Only one of these programs had TaDiRAH terms in DARIAH data: specifically, all eight top-level terms. When examining other programs, we found several tagged with more than half of the top-level terms and one tagged with 40 of 48 activities terms. These examples alone suggest that DARIAH data may be maximally inclusive in its TaDiRAH codings. Nevertheless, we can treat this crowdsourced data as reflective of broad trends in the area and compare them, generally, to those found in our study. Moreover, there does not appear to be any geographic or degree-based bias in the DARIAH data: the 43 tagged programs span ten different countries and both graduate and undergraduate offerings, degree and non-degree programs.

Comparing term frequencies in our collected data and DARIAH/EADH data (see Figure 12), it appears that enrichment, capture, and storage activities are more prevalent in European programs, while analysis and meta-activities are relatively less common (see Table 2). While both datasets have roughly the same number of programs (37 and 43, respectively), the DARIAH data has over twice as many terms as our study. For this reason, we computed a relative expression of difference by dividing the total percent of a TaDiRAH area in DARIAH data by the total percent in our study. Viewed this way, ‘Enrichment’ has over five times as many weighted codings in DARIAH as our study, followed by ‘Capture’ with over twice as many; ‘Analysis’, ‘Interpretation’, and ‘Meta-activities’ are less common. Thus, Anglophone and European programs appear to focus on different areas, within the limitations mentioned above and while still overlapping in most areas. This difference might be caused by the inclusion of more programs related to informatics, digital asset management, and communication in the DARIAH data than in our collected data, or the presence of more extensive cultural heritage materials, support for them, and integration into European programs. At a deeper level, this difference may reflect a different way of thinking or talking about DH or the histories of European programs, many of which were established before programs in our collected data.

Table 2. Summary of TaDiRAH term coding frequencies (grouped)
TaDiRAH parent term (includes subterms) In our collected data
N (%)
In DARIAH
N (%)
Factor of difference overall (weighted)
Capture 13 (6.1%) 73 (15.7%) 5.6 (2.55)
Creation 35 (16.5%) 74 (15.9%) 2.1 (0.96%)
Enrichment 4 (1.9%) 48 (10.3%) 12.0 (5.46)
Analysis 47 (22.2%) 77 (16.5%) 1.6 (0.75)
Interpretation 27 (12.7%) 40 (8.6%) 1.5 (0.67)
Storage 11 (5.2%) 43 (9.2%) 3.9 (1.78)
Dissemination 24 (11.3%) 63 (13.5%) 2.6 (1.19)
Meta-Activities 51 (24.1%) 48 (10.3%) 0.9 (0.43)

Reflections on TaDiRAH

Since TaDiRAH aims to be comprehensive of the field—even machine readable—we believe our challenges applying it may prove instructive to revising the taxonomy for wider application and for considering how DH is described more generally.
Most examples of hard-to-code language were technical (e.g., databases, content management systems, CSS, and XML) and blurred the lines between capture, creation, and storage and, at a narrower level, web development and programming. Given the rate at which technologies change, it may be difficult to come up with stable terms for DH. At the same time, we may need to recognize that some of the most ubiquitous technologies and platforms in the field (e.g., Omeka, WordPress) actually subsume over various activities and require myriad skills. This, in turn, might give attention to skills such as knowledge organization, which seem rarely taught or mentioned on an explicit basis.

A separate set of hard-to-code activities included gaming and user experience (UX). We suspect the list might grow as tangential fields intersect with DH. Arguably, UX falls under ‘Meta: Assessing’, but there are design and web development aspects of UX that distinguish it from other forms of assessment, aspects that probably belong better with ‘Creation’. Similarly, gaming might be encompassed by ‘Meta: Teaching/Learning’, which

involves one group of people interactively helping another group of people acquire and/or develop skills, competencies, and knowledge that lets them solve problems in a specific area of research,

but this broad definition omits distinctive aspects of gaming, such as play and enjoyment, that are central to the concept. Gaming and UX, much like the technical cases discussed earlier, draw on a range of different disciplines and methods, making them difficult to classify. Nevertheless, they appear in fieldwork and are even taught in certain programs/courses, making it important to represent them in the taxonomy of DH.

With these examples in mind and considering the constantly evolving nature of DH and the language that surrounds it, it is difficult and perhaps counterproductive to suggest any concrete changes to TaDiRAH that would better represent the activities involved in “doing DH.” We present these findings as an empirical representation of what DH in certain parts of the world looks like now, with the hope that it will garner critical reflection from DH practitioners and teachers about how the next generation of students perceives our field and the skills that are taught and valued within it.

Conclusion and Further Directions

Our survey of DH programs in the Anglophone world may be summarized by the following points.

  • The majority of Anglophone programs are not degree-granting; they are certificates, minors, specializations, and concentrations. By comparison, most European programs are degree-granting, often at the master’s level.
  • About half of Anglophone programs require some form of independent research, and half require a final deliverable, referred to variously as a capstone, dissertation, portfolio, or thesis. About one-quarter of programs require fieldwork, often in the form of an internship.
  • About one-third of Anglophone DH programs are offered outside of academic schools/departments (in centers, initiatives, and, in one case, jointly with the library). By comparison, most European programs are located in academic divisions; only a handful are offered in institutes, centres, or labs.
  • Analysis and meta-activities (e.g., community building, project management) make up the largest share of activities in Anglophone programs, along with creation (e.g., designing, programming, writing). By contrast, activities such as enrichment, capture, and storage seem more prevalent in European programs. Some of these areas may be over- or under-represented for various cultural reasons we’ve discussed above.

As with any survey, there may be things uncounted, undercounted, or miscounted, and we have tried to note these limitations throughout this article.

One immediate application of this data is a resource for prospective students and those planning and revising formal programs. At minimum, this data provides general information about these 37 programs, along with some indication of special areas of emphasis—a compliment to DARIAH/EADH data. As we discussed earlier, this list should be more inclusive of DH throughout the globe, and that probably requires an international team fluent in the various languages of the programs. Following our inspection of DARIAH’s Registry, we believe it’s difficult to control the accuracy of such data in a centralized way. To address both of these challenges, we believe that updates to this data are best managed by the DH community, and to that end, we have created a GitHub repository at https://github.com/dhprograms/data where updates can be forked and pulled into a master branch. This branch will be connected to Tableau Public for live versions of visualizations similar to the ones included here. Beyond this technical infrastructure, our next steps include outreach to the community to ensure that listings are updated and inclusive in ways that go beyond our resources in this study.

Second, there are possibilities for studying program change over time using the archive of program webpages and course descriptions generated by this study. Capture of program and course information in the future might allow exploration of the growth of the field as well as changes in its activities. We believe that a different taxonomy or classification system might prove useful here, as well as a different method of coding. These are active considerations as we build the GitHub repository. We also note that this study may induce some effect (hopefully positive) in the way that programs and courses are described, perhaps pushing them to be more explicit about the nature and extent of DH activities.

Finally, we hope this study gives the community pause to consider how DH is described and represented, and how it is taught. If there are common expectations not reflected here, perhaps DHers could be more explicit about how we, as a community, describe the activities that make up DH work, at least in building our taxonomies and describing our formal programs and required courses. Conversely, if there are activities that seem overrepresented here, we might consider why those activities are prized in the field (and which are not) and whether this is the picture we wish to present publicly. We might further consider this picture in relationship to the cultural and political-economic contexts in which DH actually exists. Are we engaging with these larger structures? Do the activities of the field reflect this? Is it found in our teaching and learning, and in the ways that we describe those?

Acknowledgements

We are grateful to Allison Piazza for collecting initial data about some programs, as well as Craig MacDonald for advice on statistical analysis and coding methods. Attendees at the inaugural Keystone Digital Humanities Conference at the University of Pennsylvania Libraries provided helpful feedback on the ideas presented here. JITP reviewers Stewart Varner and Kathi Berens were helpful interlocutors for this draft, as were anonymous reviewers of a DH2017 conference proposal based on this work.

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Appendix A

List of Digital Humanities Programs in our Collected Data

  • Minor (undergraduate) in Digital Humanities, Australian National University
  • Minor (undergraduate) in Digital Humanities & Technology, Brigham Young University
  • Minor (undergraduate) in Interactive Arts and Science, Brock University
  • BA in Interactive Arts and Science, Brock University
  • MA in Digital Humanities (Collaborative Master’s), Carleton University
  • MA (program track) in Digital Humanities, CUNY Graduate Center
  • Minor (undergraduate) in Digital Humanities, Farleigh Dickinson University
  • BS in Digital Humanities, Illinois Institute of Technology
  • MPhil/PhD in Digital Humanities Research, King’s College London
  • MA in Digital Humanities, King’s College London
  • BA in Digital Culture, King’s College London
  • MA in Digital Humanities, Loyola University Chicago
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, Michigan State University
  • Specialization (undergraduate) in Digital Humanities, Michigan State University
  • MA in Digital Humanities, National University of Ireland Maynooth
  • PhD in Digital Arts and Humanities, National University of Ireland Maynooth
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, North Carolina State University
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, Pratt Institute
  • Certificate in Digital Humanities, Rutgers University
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, Stanford University
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, Texas A&M University
  • Certificate (graduate) in Book History and Digital Humanities, Texas Tech University
  • MPhil in Digital Humanities and Culture, Trinity College Dublin
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, UCLA
  • Minor (undergraduate) in Digital Humanities, UCLA
  • MA/MSc in Digital Humanities, University College London
  • PhD in Digital Humanities, University College London
  • MA in Humanities Computing, University of Alberta
  • Specialization (undergraduate) in Literature & the Culture of Information, University of California, Santa Barbara
  • Concentration (graduate) in Humanities Computing, University of Georgia
  • Concentration (undergraduate) in Humanities Computing, University of Georgia
  • Certificate (graduate) in Public Digital Humanities, University of Iowa
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, University of Nebraska-Lincoln
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
  • Certificate (graduate) in Digital Humanities, University of Victoria
  • Certificate (graduate) in Certificate in Public Scholarship, University of Washington
  • Minor (undergraduate) in Digital Humanities, Western University Canada

Appendix B

List of Programs in DARIAH/EADH Data

A table of European institutions and DH programs. For each program, the type (e.g., Bachelor’s, Master’s) is listed, as well as whether the program was listed by DARIAH, EADH, or both.
Figure 15: European institutions and DH programs

Appendix C

Data

In addition to creating a GitHub repository at https://github.com/dhprograms/data, we include the program data we collected and our term codings below. Since the GitHub data may be updated over time, these files serve as the version of record for the data and analysis presented in this article.

Data for “A Survey of Digital Humanities Programs”

About the Authors

Chris Alen Sula is Associate Professor and Coordinator of Digital Humanities and the MS in Data Analytics & Visualization at Pratt Institute School of Information. His research applies visualization to humanities datasets, as well as exploring the ethics of data and visualization. He received his PhD in Philosophy from the City University of New York with a doctoral certificate in Interactive Technology and Pedagogy.

S.E. Hackney is a PhD student in Library and Information Science at the University of Pittsburgh. Their research looks at the documentation practices of online communities, and how identity, ideology, and the body get represented through the governance of digital spaces. They received their MSLIS with an Advanced Certificate in Digital Humanities from Pratt Institute School of Information in 2016.

Phillip Cunningham has been a reference assistant and cataloger with the Amistad Research Center since 2015. He received a BA in History from Kansas State University and MSLIS from Pratt Institute. He has interned at the Schomburg Center’s Jean Blackwell Hutson Research and Reference Division, the Gilder-Lehrman Institute for American History, and the Riley County (KS) Genealogical Society. His research has focused on local history, Kansas African-American history, and the use of digital humanities in public history.

5

Teaching Literature Through Technology: Sherlock Holmes and Digital Humanities

Abstract

How do we incorporate technology into the contemporary classroom? How do we balance the needs of teaching literature with teaching students to use that technology? This article takes up “Digital Tools for the 21st Century: Sherlock Holmes’s London,” an introductory digital humanities class, as a case study to address these questions. The course uses the Holmes stories as a corpus on which to practice basic digital humanities methodologies and tools, including visualizations, digital archives and editions, mapping (GIS), and distant reading, in order to better understand the texts themselves. This approach lets students find new patterns in well-known texts, explore the function of space in literature, and historicize their own technological moment.

 

 

As Digital Humanities materializes in undergraduate classrooms, faculty face the problem of how to teach introductory methods courses: the umbrella term digital humanities covers such a wide array of practices—from building digital editions and archives to big data projects—that even defining the term is no easy task. For anyone trying to create an interdisciplinary digital humanities class, the challenges multiply: the course needs to be applicable to students in such diverse fields as History, English, Anthropology, Music, Graphic Design, or Education, all of which examine different corpora; yet it still needs a unifying concept and corpus so the students can see how applying concepts such as digital mapping or distant reading can spark new insights.

To address these issues, I created “Digital Tools for the 21st Century: Sherlock Holmes’s London,” which uses Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories as a corpus on which to practice basic digital humanities methodologies and tools. The Holmes stories provide the perfect set of texts for a DH class, as they are flexible enough for us to use them in every unit: we use visualization tools (such as Voyant and word trees) to look for patterns in words and in sentence structure within a story, build a digital archive of Holmes artifacts, make TEI-encoded digital editions of Holmes stories, create maps of where characters travel, and topic model all 56 short stories to find thematic patterns. With this structure, students learn some of the most important digital humanities methodologies, analyze the Holmes stories from multiple perspectives, and use the character of Holmes as a model for both humanistic and scientific inquiry.

The stories also facilitate an interdisciplinary approach: they touch on issues of gender, class, race, the arts, politics, empire, and law. This ensures that students from almost any field can find something relevant to their major. Perhaps most helpfully for this class, Holmes solves his cases not just through his quasi-supernatural cognitive abilities, but also through his mastery of Victorian technology, including the photograph, railroad, and daily periodicals. This focus on technology enables students to address the similarities between the industrial and digital revolutions: the anxieties that accompany the rise of blogs and Twitter echo Victorian concerns about the proliferation of print and periodicals, as both audiences were wary about the increased public voice such technologies could invite. These connections help students historicize their own technological moment and better understand both the Victorian period and the discourses around modern technology. The course begins with close-reading and discussion of four Holmes stories to introduce students to the central themes of the class and of Victorian studies, and we use these stories as our core texts with which we practice digital humanities methodologies, so students can see first-hand how visualizations, maps, archives, and distant reading can lead us to new interpretations.

Teaching these methodologies, from digital archives to mapping, requires a tripartite structure that I have dubbed “Read, Play, Build.” First, students read articles from books and blog posts about the pros and cons of each methodological approach. They then examine current projects to discuss the ways each approach enhances scholarly fields and poses new research questions. Each unit concludes with an in-class lab component, in which students build small projects on the Holmes stories using a well-known tool and analyze the result. This structure ensures that students receive both theoretical and practical experience with each methodology and can see first-hand its strengths and weaknesses.

This structure is particularly successful in the digital archives unit, in part because the Holmes stories themselves show the benefit of compiling archives: Holmes maintains an archive, or “index,” which he consults regularly. Watson explains its significance in the story “A Scandal in Bohemia,” which we read in class: “For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information” (Conan Doyle [1891] 2006, 5). Holmes’s compulsion to categorize and preserve is a central humanist task—we use and compile archives of our own (whether digital or physical) in the course of our research all the time—and in this story, we see Holmes using the archive to solve cases. After seeing the archive in action, used and compiled by one of the great fictional geniuses of Western literature, the students are more ready to build their own archives.

Before building, however, we begin by examining a seminal work of archive theory: Jerome McGann’s 1996 essay, “Radiant Textuality.” From it, students learn how digital archives preserve works in danger of disintegrating, grant access to works from all over the world to make scholarship more equitable, and enable interdisciplinary and multimodal scholarship by including audio and video in ways that conventional print scholarship cannot. Students then examine McGann’s famous digital project mentioned in the article, The Rossetti Archive, which includes scans of every known painting, sketch, poem, manuscript, and translation produced by Pre-Raphaelite artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti, as well as essays on the importance and critical history of each item. Once the students have learned how to evaluate archives from their study of The Rossetti Archive, they apply this knowledge themselves by adding to a class archive of Holmes artifacts at holmesiana.net. This archive is powered by the content management system Omeka: a tool that lets people easily create websites without needing web design or development experience. Omeka is particularly useful for this project because, unlike other content management systems, it is specifically designed for curating digital collections of objects that resemble online museum exhibits. For this assignment, students choose three items related to Holmes (e.g. images, video or audio clips, or websites), upload them to the archive, group them into a collection, and then create an “exhibit,” or an essay that uses the items as illustrations. These exhibits range from analyses of portrayals of Irene Adler across multiple adaptations to discussions of the soundtrack in the Robert Downey Jr. Sherlock Holmes movie. This assignment does more than just teach students how to use a tool: it helps them see the broad appeal of Holmes stories, their role in contemporary popular culture, and, most importantly, the potential for digital tools to change the medium in which we make our scholarly arguments.

We conclude our archive unit by using Book Traces, a tool invented by Andrew Stauffer at the University of Virginia. Book Traces collects examples of nineteenth-century marginalia, or traces of previous readers—including dedications, inscriptions, pressed flowers, newspaper clippings—from nineteenth-century books found in the stacks (not Special Collections) of college and university libraries. When users find these traces, they upload images of the traces (and transcriptions if possible) to booktraces.org, thus contributing to a crowdsourced archive of how nineteenth-century readers interacted with books. We work with Stephan Macaluso, a librarian at SUNY New Paltz, who teaches the students how to recognize Spencerian handwriting (as opposed to Copperplate or the Palmer Method) so students can figure out if the notes in the books were written before or after 1923. Students also learn how to identify notes written in steel-point pen or fountain pen compared with ballpoint to further aid them in dating the traces, before they are let loose in the stacks to find their examples. Even though only 2000 books in our library are from before 1923, my students have had great success finding items for Book Traces. For instance, one student found the book Shakespeare: The Man and his Stage with the inscription “To Barry Lupino . . . .a souvenir, Theatre Royal Huddersfield, July 16, 1923 from Alfred Wareing”: with some research, she was able to determine that Lupino was a British actor, and Wareing, a theatrical producer with a reputation for producing demanding productions and creating the Theatre Royal. From this, my student concluded that this book had been a gift from the producer to an actor in the production, and that the people involved in the production had used this book to influence their Shakespeare productions. During the course of this project in Fall 2015, my students uploaded the 400th unique volume into Book Traces, and were thanked by Andrew Stauffer himself over Twitter.

This project has multiple benefits. First, it introduces students to the library. Many of my students are in their first semester of college and have never done research, been in the stacks, or looked for a book by call number, and Book Traces turns a library day into a fun and educational scavenger hunt. Book Traces also teaches students about the importance of libraries, even in a digital world: since so many books are digital and since shelf space is expensive, many libraries are forced to sell or destroy books that have free copies online. This project demonstrates why each book is important, and why it is not sufficient to have an online edition only. The assignment also encourages students to rethink their definition of a book: it is not merely the words of a story or poem, but the physical object itself, with all the marks that tell its history and highlight the differences in how nineteenth-century and modern readers used books and understood works of literature. Finally, the project lets students participate in a high-profile digital humanities project: they apply their learning outside the confines of the classroom by crowdsourcing, collaborating with each other and with a librarian, communicating directly with a well-known scholar, and creating new knowledge that will further scholarship on the nineteenth century.

The class also uses simple visualization tools to learn more about Sherlock Holmes stories. For example, as an introduction to visualizations, students read articles about the pros and cons of word clouds. For any readers new to this phenomenon, word clouds are visualizations of word frequency in texts, in which words are larger the more times they appear. Students make word clouds of Holmes stories, write blog posts on their findings, and then discuss the results with their classmates. They have made several interesting observations, particularly with “A Scandal in Bohemia.” “Scandal” is the only work in the Holmes corpus involving Irene Adler, the only woman who outwits Holmes. Adler’s ingenuity causes Holmes to reevaluate his opinion of women: as Watson writes at the story’s end, Holmes “used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late” (Conan Doyle [1891] 2006, 15). One might imagine that a story that revolves around a woman and the worth of women would mention words related to women (such as “woman,” “women,” or “Miss”) at least as frequently, if not more so, than words relating to men, especially since the story begins and ends by foregrounding Adler’s gender.[1] However, the word cloud actually shows that, although much of the narrative revolves around finding Adler and her photograph, the story contains far more references to men than to women: “men,” “man,” “Mr.,” and “gentleman” occur 45 times, whereas “woman,” “women,” “lady,” and “miss” occur 27 times. This difference suggests that, while the text focuses on one woman’s femininity, its sentences themselves focus more on the actions of men.

A word cloud of “A Scandal in Bohemia” in which “Holmes” is the largest word, closely followed by “man” and “photograph.”

Figure 1: Word Cloud of “A Scandal in Bohemia”

 

Students wanted to investigate gender in “A Scandal in Bohemia” at a more sophisticated level than a word cloud allows, so they switched to “word trees,” which, as Wattenberg and Viégas (2008) have explained, are “graphical version[s] of the traditional ‘keyword-in-context’ method [that] enable[…] rapid querying and exploration of bodies of text.” Word trees provide a more granular display of sentence construction and patterns by showing how particular words appear in context: users upload a text, search for a word, and are shown a visualization of the words that appear immediately before or immediately after that word in the text. My students uploaded the text of “A Scandal in Bohemia” into Jason Davies’s word tree tool to compare how Conan Doyle used the words “Holmes” and “Adler.” For example, a search for “Holmes” demonstrates that his name is often followed by verbs of action: Holmes “whistled,” “caught,” “laughed,” “scribbled,” “dashed,” “rushed,” “staggered,” etc. Essentially, then, Holmes is characterized by his movements and actions in the story, even though his actions end up being fruitless, as Adler evades him.

2. A screenshot of Jason Davies’s Word Tree tool showing the word “Holmes” and all words that come immediately after it in the story “A Scandal in Bohemia”: “Holmes” is sometimes followed by punctuation (e.g. a period or comma), but usually by verbs (“whistled,” “caught,” “laughed,” etc.)

Figure 2: Word Tree with “Holmes” from “A Scandal in Bohemia”

 

The word “Holmes” is often preceded by “said,” “remarked,” “asked,” or by the rest of his name and title (e.g. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes”). Syntactically, then, throughout the story, Holmes is associated with his actions and speech, and has a high degree of agency.

3. A screenshot of Jason Davies’s Word Tree tool showing the word “Holmes” and all words that come immediately before it in the story “A Scandal in Bohemia”: “Holmes” is most often preceded by “Mr. Sherlock” or “said.”

Figure 3: Word Tree with “Holmes” from “A Scandal in Bohemia”

 

A search for “Adler,” however, shows that her name is only followed by a verb once: the word “is” (in the phrase “is married”). Even though she, like Holmes, takes action repeatedly in the story, those actions are not syntactically associated with her name, and in fact, her action is technically associated with losing her name (as she becomes Norton rather than Adler). “Adler” is most frequently followed immediately by punctuation: a question mark, commas, and periods. Unlike Holmes, then, her name is syntactically associated with pausing and stopping, and thereby with silence and passivity.

4. A screenshot of Jason Davies’s Word Tree tool showing the word “Adler” and all words that come immediately after it in the story “A Scandal in Bohemia”: “Adler” is usually followed by punctuation (comma, period, or question mark), and only once by a verb (“is”).

Figure 4: Word Tree with “Adler” from “A Scandal in Bohemia”

 

When we reverse the tree and see what comes before “Adler,” we see that every instance is about her name: “Adler” is always preceded by “of Irene,” “Irene,” “Miss,” or “née” (as in “Irene Norton, née Adler). Again, unlike Holmes, whose name was prefaced by words associated with speech (and only sometimes with his full name), Adler is linked to her name only, and not her words, which again decreases her agency and actions.

5. A screenshot of Jason Davies’s Word Tree tool showing the word “Adler” and all words that come immediately before it in the story “A Scandal in Bohemia”: “Adler” is usually preceded by “of Irene,” “Irene,” “Miss,” or “nee.”

Figure 5: Word Tree with “Adler” from “A Scandal in Bohemia”

 

From these visualizations, we can see that, while the story does feature a proto-feminist plot, in which an intelligent, remarkable woman defeats Holmes, its sentence structure does not endorse that standpoint. Instead, the sentence construction renders Adler as a passive figure whose agency is only exercised in marriage. Word trees help us complicate the conventional feminist interpretation of the text.

Visualization technologies can illuminate more than patterns in sentences: they can also provoke new insights about geography in texts. Holmes stories lend themselves to spatial analysis, as they are very invested in locations: Holmes, Watson, and the criminals they track down often travel across London and beyond, and the stories painstakingly describe the paths they traverse. “The Blue Carbuncle,” for example, mentions the exact streets Holmes and Watson walk through en route to Covent Garden. However, many students have never been to London, and they know even less about areas of London in the nineteenth century. To address this, students read articles about GIS (Geospatial Information Systems) to understand how digital mapping projects require plotting data on maps and looking for patterns, rather than just digitizing historical maps. Then, they learn how to use a number of nineteenth-century mapping projects: “The Charles Booth Online Archive” is a digitized, searchable version of Booth’s poverty maps that let users see the income level of each area of London; “Locating London’s Past” lets users map crime data from the Old Bailey archive in addition to data on coroners’ records, poor relief, and population data; “London Buildings and Monuments illustrated in the Victorian Web” includes images and descriptions of various London landmarks; and “Mapping Emotions in Victorian London” maps positive and negative emotions associated with streets and landmarks in London from passages in nineteenth-century novels.

Students then choose a location from one of the Holmes stories we discussed in class, research it using previously mentioned websites to compare Conan Doyle’s fictionalized account of the area with the historical spot, and then map the locations with either Mapbox or Google Maps and look for patterns. They analyze the connections and often come up with interesting results. For example, one student considered the significance of Leadenhall Street in “A Case of Identity.” In that story, a wine importer (Mr. Windibank) disguises himself in order to court and then abandon his stepdaughter at the altar so she would be heartbroken and never marry, and he could live off of the interest of her inheritance. The fake fiancé claimed to work in Leadenhall Street and had the stepdaughter address her letters to him to the post office there. One student’s research showed that Leadenhall Street was the headquarters of the East India Company until it was disbanded in 1861, and this prompted her to observe parallels between the former East India Company and Mr. Windibank: both were importers of foreign goods, both were very invested in profits, and both acted cruelly to obtain those profits and to control others.[2] Consequently, what initially seemed to be a small, insignificant geographic reference turned into a detail that illuminated a character’s moral failings and also a larger political argument.

These small-scale research projects are equally illuminating for fictional locations: students also realized that, in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” all streets or locations most associated with Irene Adler are fictional, whereas all other landmarks in the story existed. This discovery prompted a passionate discussion about geography and feminism in the text: students debated whether Conan Doyle was trying to avoid being sued for libel, to claim that an intelligent women like Adler could never really exist, or to dramatize Adler’s ability to slip through Holmes’s fingers by having her slip through our own (since she can never be mapped). Without these mapping technologies, students wouldn’t realize the ways in which questions of geography are inextricably related to class, gender, and other political issues.

The Sherlock Holmes focus is useful beyond its application to visualization and spatial analysis: the character of Holmes himself provides a valuable introduction to the history of technology and close-reading. In “A Case of Identity,” for instance, Holmes proves that the stepfather is the criminal and that the stepfather and the missing fiancé are the same person by examining typewritten letters sent by both, in which certain print characters had the same idiosyncrasies due to wear and tear on the keys: as Holmes says, “a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. . . [I]n this note . . . in every case there is some little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the ‘r’” (Conan Doyle 1891, 14). This quotation not only shows how technology solves the case, but also how, even within the mechanical, the human (and humanist) shines through. Other Holmes stories likewise unite Victorian technology and writing: in “The Blue Carbuncle,” Holmes tracks down the owner of a Christmas goose (and missing bowler hat) by advertising in widely-circulated Victorian newspapers, specifically the “Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s, Evening News Standard, [and the] Echo” (Conan Doyle 1892, 8), papers whose distribution was only made possible by advances in paper and printing technology. Throughout the Holmes canon, then, cases revolve around Victorian technological advances because of how dramatically these innovations changed forms and methods of communication. To modern readers, and especially to students, these inventions hardly seem to count as technology, because “the technological” today is so often synonymous with “the digital.” The Holmes stories function as a corrective to that attitude: they encourage students to rethink their definition of “technology” to better understand the Victorian period as well as their own time.

Holmes’s facility with technology also furthers our image of Holmes as an expert thinker: his observational skills and “deductive reasoning” are already famous in popular consciousness. He repeatedly insists on the scientific method and the importance of unbiased data gathering, famously saying in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts” (Conan Doyle [1891] 2006, 3). Consequently, Holmes becomes a useful model for a digital humanist, especially when students may be unused to thinking about data in a humanities context.

In spite of his emphasis on scientific reasoning, Holmes is, at heart, quite the humanist. In addition to his love of the violin, opera, theater, French literature and archiving, Holmes also provides students with a metaphorical model of a close reader; this can be especially useful when teaching an interdisciplinary class full of students for whom close reading is a confounding, magical process. One particular passage, from “The Blue Carbuncle,” helpfully dramatizes Holmes’s analytical abilities. When examining a bowler hat, he first makes pronouncements about it, and then breaks down the close-reading process, explaining each step: “This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world” (Conan Doyle 1892, 4). To Watson (in this metaphor, the non-English major), it seems almost magical that someone could get so much meaning from such a small object (in this metaphor, the paragraph). And yet, by observing the style, the band, and later the hair and the size, and comparing those observations to his mental repository of expected characteristics and actions for people, Holmes figures out who must have owned the hat, much as we observe imagery patterns, sentence construction, and other narrative devices and compare them to our repository of genre or stylistic expectations to come up with a reading of a paragraph (or work as a whole).

Sherlock Holmes, then, brings together the humanities, the sciences, and the technological; the local and the global; and, in the classroom, the past and the present. Although we only read a small subset of the Holmes stories, they provide the perfect corpus for working across disciplinary boundaries, including History, Literature, Gender and Sexuality Studies, Sociology, Law, and Anthropology. As they are short stories, they are the perfect length for courses that contain students from majors beyond English, and their comparative brevity enables us to devote more time to the theoretical and practical import of digital humanities methodologies. Teaching Holmes stories with digital tools lets students build on the traditional humanities skills of close-reading, noting patterns, and using archives. It augments that scholarly toolkit by guiding students to a better understanding of rhetorical patterns and spatial significance, while also introducing them to techniques that have broad applications in their own fields beyond the nineteenth-century focus of this class. The stories’ own investment in technology lays the groundwork for the course’s own technological focus, and this enables us to thematically tie together the digital humanities methodologies with the Victorian works we study.

Naturally, this project has its challenges: for instance, students from the so-called “digital native” generation are often anything but. While some have specialized computer skills, including video editing or programming, most have only minimal experience, such as word processing or social media. Few have built their own projects, experimented with currently existing digital tools, or thought about how digital technologies can challenge conventional traditions of scholarship. Most students find digital technology intimidating, as they are aware of the limits of their knowledge and are afraid to experiment enough to figure out how programs work—an aspect of trial and error necessary to excel in digital humanities. To overcome these hurdles, I provide my students with detailed instructions, both written and verbal, for every lab day, and I meet outside of class with any students who need additional support. I also model trial and error throughout the semester: if a tool or project produces errors the first time, I explain the reasons I think it might be glitching and then walk them through the troubleshooting process (which often involves Google searches) so they can have the skills and confidence to try to address any stumbling blocks that might arise. I also update the syllabus each time I teach the course: for instance, I cut a unit on topic modeling the Holmes stories and graphing the results when I realized that students needed a comfort level with history and complex visualizations that was greater than I could provide in two weeks. I look forward to making additional alterations to the course as the field of digital humanities changes and new tools and methodologies become available.

The most recent incarnation of “Digital Tools for the 21st Century: Sherlock Holmes’s London,” from Fall 2015, has a course website that includes the syllabus, assignments, grading rubric, and student blogs; I hope they inspire others to borrow or build on my ideas. The approach can easily be adapted to a wide range of literary periods and authors, and is especially suited to works that reference real places and historical events, and works that have become part of pop culture. This structure teaches students history, literature, and technology in greater depth and with a greater degree of interaction and intellectual curiosity than often occurs in traditional classroom.

Appendix: Sample Assignments for “Digital Tools in the 21st Century: Sherlock Holmes’s London”

Online Assignment #2: Omeka Archive

Instructions:

As a class, we’re building an archive of items related to Sherlock Holmes stories (http://holmesiana.net/). Each student will contribute three related items, one collection (with your 3 items), and one exhibit (with a 300-word essay on the items) to the archive.

Due:

  1. Due 9/21 by 9:30am: Accept the Omeka invitation, create an account, and bring three related digital items for inclusion in a Holmes archive.
  2. Due9/25 by 8pm: Add three items, 1 collection, and 1 exhibit that contains a 300-word essay using the objects you added as images. Post links to the items, collection, and exhibit to the class blog.

Items:

These items can be anything at all: illustrations from the original Holmes stories, photographs of locations mentioned in the stories or of props in the movies, images of movie or TV show posters of adaptations, pictures of games based on Holmes, audio clips of theme songs of different Holmes adaptations, video clips of the credit sequences of different adaptations, etc. The only requirements are that the items involve Holmes and that you have the permission to put them online.

Copyright:

You CAN’T: upload a clip/poster from a TV show/movie/CD that you or a random YouTube user made

You CAN: use material from an official account (BBC, MGM) as long as you include a link (the image/clip URL) to the source.

Item Metadata:

For each item, you must write down the Title, Subject, Description, Creator, Publisher, a URL, and Item Type.

Getting Started:

  1. Check your email and look for an email from “A Study in Holmesiana Administrator vs hotrods.reclaimhosting.com <swafforj@newpaltz.edu>” with the subject heading is “Activate your account with the A Study in Holmesiana repository.” NOTE: Check your spam folder. It will probably be there.
  2. Open the email and click the link inside. You will be asked to create a password.
  3. Type your username (written in the email) and password to log in.

How to Add an Item:

(Modified from http://omeka.org/codex/Managing_Items_2.0)

  1. From your items page (net/admin/itemsclick the “Add an Item” button.
  2. This takes you to the admin/items/add page where you see a navigation bar across the top pointing you to different stages of adding an item.
  3. The first tab shows the Dublin Core metafields. Enter the Title, Subject, Description, Creator, and Publisher information.
  4. The Item Type Metadata tab lets you choose a specific item type for the object you are adding. Once you choose the type by using the drop-down menu, relevant metadata fields appear for you to complete.
    • If you have an image, select “Still Image” and put the URL of your image in the “External Image URL” field.
    • If you have a video, choose “Moving Image” and paste the embed code for the player in the “Player” field. Don’t know how to get the embed code? Follow these instructions.
  5. The Files tab lets you upload files to an item.
    • If you have an image, upload your image by clicking “Choose File” and selecting the file.
    • If you have a video from YouTube, you’ll need to make an image. Copy and paste the YouTube URL from the top of the webpage into this website, right-click on the image labeled “Normal Quality,” save it to the Desktop, and then upload it to Holmesiana.net through the Files menu.
  6. The Tags tab allows you add keyword tags to your item.
  7. IMPORTANT: Click the “Public” checkbox under “Add Item.”
  8. Click “Add Item” to add your item to Holmesiana.net

How to Build a Collection:

(Modified from http://omeka.org/codex/Managing_Collections)

  1. Next, you’ll group your items into a collection based on a similar theme.
  2. Come up with a name for your collection (e.g. “Irene Adler in Adaptations.”)
  3. Click on the “Collections” tab in the /admin interface top navigation bar. Any collections you create will be listed on the /admin/collections page.
  4. Click “Add a Collection.”
  5. Name and describe your collection.
  6. Click the “Public” checkbox to make this collection visible to the public.
  7. Be sure to click “Save Collection” to save your newly created collection.
  8. Next, assign items to a collection:
    1. Open an item you want to add to the collection.
    2. To the right of the page, under the “Add Item” button is a drop-down menu where you can assign your item to a collection. Remember, items can only belong to one collection.
  9. Be sure to click the “Add Item” button to save your data.

How to Build an Exhibit:

(Modified from http://omeka.org/codex/Plugins/ExhibitBuilder)

  1. Click on the Exhibits tab in the top nav bar of the Admin interface, and click the “Add Exhibits” button on the right side. You will arrive at an Exhibit Metadata page. Fill in the empty fields.
    • Exhibit Title: This is the title of the entire exhibit (e.g. “Irene Adler in Adaptations”).
    • Exhibit Slug (no spaces or special characters): This is the exhibit name as it appears in the website URL. “For example, “music” is the slug in http://holmesiana.net/exhibits/show/music
    • Exhibit Credits: These will appear with description on the public site. Put your name here.
    • Exhibit Description: Write a brief introduction to the entire exhibit that appears on the public site.
    • Exhibit Tags: Tags help associate exhibits with other items in your archive.
    • Exhibit is featured: Leave this blank.
    • Exhibit is public/not public: Check “Public.”
    • Exhibit Theme: By default, “Current Public Theme” is selected. DO NOT CHANGE THE THEME.
    • Use Summary Page: Uncheck the box. This will get rid of a title page for your exhibit.
  1. To proceed with your exhibit, you must create a page, so click“Add Page.”
  2. Give your page a title and a slug (e.g. “Adler Adaptations” for the title and “adler” for the slug).
  3. Next, you choose the layout for your exhibit. Since you’ll be writing 300 words about the objects in your archive, you’ll want to select “File with Text.” This lets you include images and a description about them.
  4. Select “Add New Content Block.”
  5. Now, you’re ready to add your text and items.
  6. Click the “Add Item” button, select your first item, click “Select Item,” give it a short caption (under a sentence), and click “Apply.”
  7. Type your text about the first item in the box labeled “Text” below.
  8. Click on the arrow next to the words “Layout Options.” Adjust the drop-down menus to change the position and size of your image.
  9. Repeat steps 5-9 for each item in your exhibit. Remember to click “Save Changes” frequently.
  10. Congrats! You made an exhibit! Click “Save Changes” one last time, then go to http://holmesiana.net, click “Browse Exhibits,” and find yours. Click on it and make sure you’re happy with how it looks.

Online Assignment #3: Book Traces

Instructions:

  1. Search the library catalogue for books published between 1820-1923 from the library stacks (not special collections) based on a certain topic (see list of topics below). Look through these books to find one with marginalia (annotations or marks) or inserts from the 19thcentury. Take pictures of up to five instances of marginalia or inserts in the book, fill out the information about your book and its marginalia, including the “description” field, on http://www.booktraces.org/, upload your photos, and submit your entry.

NOTE: If you have looked through 20 books from the 19th century without finding marginalia, you may stop searching, but you must still write a blog post.

  1. Write a 300-word blog post about the traces you found; provide information about the book it occurs in (title, author, publisher, etc.), describe the traces, include pictures of them, and include the link to your book on Book Traces. Explain what the traces have to do with the topic of the book and the pages on which they appear. If a trace includes a name or date, look up the person or date and provide any relevant info you can find (use Google). Here are sample blog posts about Book Traces written by undergraduates at Davidson College: http://sites.davidson.edu/dig350/category/prompts/prompt-3

If you can’t find any traces of previous readers, explain what search terms you used to find 19th century books, give some sample titles of books you looked at, and give some guesses about why books with your selected topic do not include any evidence of earlier readers.

The blog post and Book Traces submission are due by 9/30 by 8pm (6% of final grade).

USEFUL TIP: Book Traces states that participants have had the most luck finding markings in books from the PR or PS call numbers (British and American Literature), but it also recommends French and Spanish literature, history, religious texts, and philosophy.

Sample Traces:

Marginal notes, inscriptions, owner’s names, any other type of writing, drawing, bookmarks, inserts, clippings pasted into the book, photos, original manuscripts, letters.

Search Terms (grouped by category) in STL catalogue (http://library.newpaltz.edu):

  1. Literature, Poetry (or “Poetical Works”), Shakespeare, Impressions
  2. Women
  3. Antiquities
  4. Music (or Songs), Theater (and Theatre),
  5. Art, Fashion
  6. Travel, Empire, England,
  7. Science, Mathematics
  8. Law
  9. Religion
  10. History

Online Assignment #8: Victorian London Locations

Instructions:

In class, you’ll be split into three groups that correspond to the four Holmes stories we’ve read this semester. Choose a location from the Holmes story you’ve selected, research it using online scholarly sources on Victorian London, and write a blog post about how and why that background information about the location affects our understanding of the story.

Due:

11/8 by 8pm

Details:

  1. Choose one spot (not Baker Street) mentioned in the Holmes story you signed up for.
  2. Do a search for your street this digital map of Victorian London (http://maps.nls.uk/geo/explore/ – zoom=12&lat=51.5021&lon=-0.1032&layers=163) and then zoom in and take a screenshot.
  3. Use a combination of the following sites to learn about the area you have chosen:
  1. Write a blog post about what you’ve learned about the area and how it relates to the Holmes stories
  2. Include 3-4 specific details about the location
    b. Explain the location’s importance to the Holmes story, in terms of plot and theme
    c. Include screenshots and any other pictures you’ve found that you think will be helpful.

[1] The story begins with the sentence “To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman” (1) and concludes with a restatement of that opening idea: “And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman” (15)

[2] Conan Doyle again critiqued the East India Company’s unethical imperial project in a later work, The Mystery of Cloomber, set during the First Afghan War. In it, a Major-General in the East India Company massacres a group of Afridis on holy ground, and is punished for his crime years later.

Bibliography

Conan Doyle, Arthur. 1892. “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.” The Strand Magazine 3 (13): 73-85. Internet Archive. Accessed October 15, 2015. https://archive.org/details/StrandMagazine13.

Conan Doyle, Arthur. 1891. “A Case of Identity.” The Strand Magazine 2 (9): 248-259. Internet Archive. Accessed October 15, 2015. https://archive.org/details/StrandMagazine9.

Conan Doyle, Arthur. (1891) 2006. “A Scandal in Bohemia.” Facsimile reproduction of The Strand Magazine 1: January 27, 2006. Stanford: Stanford Continuing Studies. Accessed October 15, 2015. http://sherlockholmes.stanford.edu/pdf/holmes_01.pdf.

McGann, Jerome. 1996. “Radiant textuality.” Victorian Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Social, Political, and Cultural Studies 39 (3): 379.

Wattenberg, M., and F. B. Viégas. 2008. “The Word Tree, an Interactive Visual Concordance.” IEEE Transactions on Visualization and Computer Graphics 14 (6): 1221–28. doi:10.1109/TVCG.2008.172. Accessed October 15, 2015. http://hint.fm/papers/wordtree_final2.pdf.

Joanna Swafford is the Assistant Professor for Interdisciplinary and Digital Teaching and Scholarship at SUNY New Paltz, specializing in Digital Humanities, Victorian Literature and Culture, Sound, and Gender Studies. Her articles have appeared or are forthcoming in Debates in Digital Humanities, Provoke!: Digital Sound Studies,Victorian Poetry, and Victorian Review. She is the project director for Songs of the Victorians (http://www.songsofthevictorians.com/), Augmented Notes (http://www.augmentednotes.com/), and Sounding Poetry, and is the co-founder and coordinator of DASH (Digital Arts, Sciences, and Humanities) Lab at SUNY New Paltz. She is also Head of Pedagogical Initiatives for NINES.org (Networked Infrastructure for Nineteenth-Century Electronic Scholarship).

Featured Image "Nucleus cochlear implant Graeme Clark" courtesy of Flickr user adrigu.
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This Week: Issue 9 Submissions: Calling All Cyborgs!

Each week, a member of the JITP Editorial Collective assembles and shares the news items, ongoing discussions, and upcoming events of interest to us (and hopefully you). This week’s installment is edited by Carlos Hernandez and Tyler Fox.

 

Michael Chorost’s memoir Rebuilt: How Becoming Part Computer Made Me More Human is no cyborg valentine to technology. Chorost describes how, after he lost his hearing completely in 2001, he decided to undergo a radical surgery that would install a computer interface in his head that would interact with a computer he clipped onto his belt. With these, he would be able to hear again.

Well, “hear.” The interface between hardware and wetware took a long period of learning and adjustment. At the beginning of the process, the world Chorost heard made different sounds altogether: “In my experience,” writes Chorost, “paper made sounds like blap, snip,and vrrrrr, and if rudely treated, szzzzz. It didn’t go bingggg” (73). Different software for his computer-alternative hearing offered varying affordances; in a way, he was able to choose how he heard, which on the surface might sound like a cyber-blessing. But when every sound is a simulacrum, an ersatz version of the Platonic ideal of what you think sounds should sound like, you too might say, as Chorost does, “the implant [was] a tool that would enable me to do something which resembled hearing. It would not be hearing…. How bizarre” (79).

Chorost’s hearing never returned to what it had been prior to its loss. But his computer-assisted audition gave him a kind sound detection, one that proved useful, emotionally satisfying, and in the words of the book’s subtitle, humanizing. His vision for what humanity’s future could be–it’s a hard-one dream, arrived at only after a long katabasis–imagines a Haraway-esque incorporation (quite literally) of technology into our lives:

“When I think of the future of human potential in a hypertechnological age, I imagine a generation of people who have been educated to focus intensely on the world of matter and spirit, while also using powerful tools for mediating their perception of reality. They will bond with machines, but they will not be addicted to them. They will analyze while looking at art, and laugh while reading computer code. They will make exquisite use of floods of information, while not allowing themselves to be stunned into passivity” (181).

But such a thoughtful, critical, considered and salubrious relationship to technology will not happen by itself. Quite the contrary: we can expect Facebook to continue experimenting on its users (and issuing apologies after the fact); governments to continue tracking us through backdoors they pay corporations to create for them; and untold numbers of companies to continue collecting, in ways ranging from ignorant to willfully irresponsible, massive amounts of information from its users, only to have it stolen by hackers–to draw only three examples from the inexorable flood of news reports emerging about how increasingly, and how thoughtlessly, we lead our cyber lives.

As educators, our greatest ethical mandate is to create an informed and thinking citizenry. JITP exists to help us meet that obligation. We focus specifically on the interaction between technology and education, drawing from the educational traditions of critical pedagogy, constructivism, and the digital humanities. We are devoted leveraging both theory (writ large) and experimentation to serve as the twin foundations for best practices in the class. You can read more about our mission here.

We invite you to join us. We have a number of different formats to which you may submit your work to JITP, ranging in length and levels of formality. Full-length articles are peer-reviewed, but we don’t stop there; putting our own theories into practice, we work closely with authors in a pre-publication conversation about their work that our authors have found enriching and beneficial to their intellectual work (and you can see here and here [for the latter, jump to around 22:20 for soundbite!]).

Issue 9 has no theme; we welcome papers from all disciplines and all theoretical/experimental approaches. We promise you a thorough review process, and we seek not only to produce the best possible scholarship but to benefit you personally as a writer and researcher.

At one point in Rebuilt, Chorost reminds us that even chalk is technology. If we don’t believe him, he challenges us to try making our own. To my mind, that moment serves as not only a piece of wit, but a call to action: we are always already awash in technology. As educators, our job is to think critically about the technologies we employ, and to help our students understand our technology-inundated world. That’s why JITP exists, and why you should write with us.

P.S. Here’s an interview Michael Chorost conducted with NPR about Rebuilt.

 

Stark & Subtle Divisions
Graduate students from UMass Boston curate an Omeka site on desegregation in Boston.
http://bosdesca.omeka.net

Gender Equality in Science
A recent study indicates that poor nations are leading the way in gender equality in science.
http://www.scidev.net/global/gender/news/poor-nations-gender-equality-research.html

ECDS: 2016 Digital Scholarship Residency
ECDS is now accepting proposals for a 3-day digital scholarship residency at Emory University during the Spring semester 2016. Scholars from any discipline who use and promote digital scholarship methods in research and teaching are encouraged to apply.
https://scholarblogs.emory.edu/ecds/2015/09/09/ecds-2016-digital-scholarship-residency/

Editorial Violence…
http://www.theonion.com/article/4-copy-editors-killed-in-ongoing-ap-style-chicago–30806

Lastly, HASTAC/Futures Initiative is offering an online forum and live-streamed workshop on “Peer Mentoring and Student-Centered Learning,” part of The University Worth Fighting For #fight4edu series. http://bit.ly/peer-mentoring The forum will be open all month, and our live-streamed workshop will be this Thursday @ 1 pm EST.

 

Featured Image “Nucleus cochlear implant Graeme Clark” courtesy of Flickr user adrigu.

 

Images are for demo purposes only and are properties of their respective owners. ROMA by ThunderThemes.net

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