Assassination Vacation Blog Post

Dear Simone,

I write to you today to inform you of the final legs of my grand American adventure. I am concluding my tour in the archives of the American polis.  Betwixt stacks of library books and among the glass cases enshrining historical relics, I am imbued with the desire to know more of the past. After all I have seen, witnessed, and experienced in this land, I am watching and re-watching the seeds of the future sprout and grow into the world that we see today.

Inspiring this having delved into the world of the past are the words of a spunky, close-cropped tour guide who has led me through dimly-lit back rooms, personal collections, and museums. She told me, "If there is one thing I've learned in my time studying America, it is that being part of history is rarely a good idea." Those words have remained on the tip of my tongue for months, and I have had trouble explicating exactly why they have moved me so.

If it is true that history is the constant iteration of war and violence, then perhaps my studies make me a masochist. I am captivated by the momentary disruptions that natural disasters and murders provide to the normal ebb and flow of daily life. The insight engendered by these interruptions provides nothing if not a glimpse into the vastly complex social world that we so often unconsciously inhabit.

I yearn to know, for example, why some lives are constantly imperiled by this state of vertigo. Why has the research I've been exposed to exclusively focused on white men and their historical murders? It is undoubtedly true that women and people of color are killed just as often (likely more often) than white men. Where are our memorials? Where are the testimonies for our lives, the dirges of our deaths, and the eulogies singing our praises? What about the structure of American social life precludes the mourning, or even the recognition, of those deaths which were formative in the creation of this very nation?

In seeking to find answers to these questions, I will conclude my studies and return to France with rose-colored glasses. Informed by my all of my experiences in America but more so by what was omitted, I am intent on understanding the textures of history. Education, I have learned, is not reading history books, but writing and re-writing them as palimpsests of each other until we are able to discern the truth, in whatever form it may take up.

I look forward to seeing you soon and speaking with you further.

With love and warm regards,
Your Aunt Marge