Recently, in a letter addressed to me, my friend noted that one of the things she appreciates about me is my “strange history lessons”, usually occurring mid conversation and without warning. At first, I felt seen. A few seconds later, I laughed. 

I don’t think being into history is necessarily viewed as a weird hobby, but  it’s just that the people who love history are exactly that, a bit strange. In part because willingly trying to understand history forces one to battle with their understanding of the present.

It catapults an individual from their comfortability into the awkward space between black and white, the tangle of nuanced perspectives, lives and tales.

It holds up a mirror, with sharp cracks in the frame, and soot covering the reflection where you may see yourself. But, you don’t wipe it away, if only for the fact that confronting privilege or the causes of suffering is a sight too sore to be seen.

But sometimes, the strangeness of learning history is an abundant gift.

When you look up a family tree and find out you’re related to pseudo-celebrity from the twentieth century, learn about your culture from the lips of your grandpa, or stroll through museums vibrant with color and rich with secrets too far from you.

I am no stranger to any of these things. I enjoy historical fiction novels, and often add “vintage” before any search on pinterest. I pretend my macbook keyboard is a typewriter and look up cool maps in my free time. It’s odd, I’m aware. Though, I’m also aware of what all of this is: aestheticization, maybe even performance.

There’s nothing wrong with loving those things. I sure  do. However, it seems as if highlighting the aesthetic of history has ironically separated our relationship with history itself.

I’ll pleasantly read The Secret Garden by Francis Hogeston Burnett, but cringe at descriptions of characters’ overtly racist treatment towards Indians during British colonization.

I’ll see dozens of videos about the beauty of historical architecture and bridges, but won’t see any comments about how many of those same structures were built by slaves.

I’ll view an instagram post about the complexity of a certain culture’s past being repackaged into plastic or printed trinkets, while that same community’s needs suffer from neglect.

Although, that’s fine right? Who would like to ruin the mood by reading the fine print of every occurrence? Who would choose to spoil the sparkle of a vintage piece of jewellery? Who would like to constantly be reminded about all that has been stolen from a people when they pose in front of their landmarks?

Like John Green so eloquently said in his book Everything is Tuberculosis, “Nothing is so privileged as thinking history belongs to the past”.

In a way, reading that one line has both transformed and affirmed what I’m sure a lot of us already know about the world. There is no aspect of human society living today without reflection on what has come before it. To ignore such a notion would not just be ignoring the events we try to forget or the stories we’re too tired to care about, but also the present, which is banking on us to look past what has shaped it.

That is what makes it strange, being interested in history. Strange because to look beyond the aesthetic, you have to be willing to face what is devastatingly ugly.