David Gaub McCullough
(July 7, 1933 - August 7, 2022)
Seventy years ago, President Harry S. Truman was giving his
311th news conference, held in the Indian Treaty Room (Room 474) in the
Executive Office Building at 10:30 a.m. on Thursday, August 7, 1952. Though
much of our nation’s attention was focused on the presidential election in
November of that year, President Truman gave a series of statements beginning
with an acknowledgement that “we have had a terrible drought situation in
several States, and the Federal Government is going to do everything it can to
help the farmers in those areas.” Secondly, he mentioned although “everybody is
talking about the November election these days,” he shared his concern that
“more than 29 million adult Americans were not even registered to vote. I think
we should all be disturbed by the fact that all during this century more and
more citizens are staying away from the polls."
Just before he took questions from reporters, he stated,
"The privilege of voting is one of the most treasured rights on earth, as
those who live in totalitarian countries can testify, but we cannot have a big
vote in this country without a big registration.
"Newspapers, magazines, radio and TV, and other media
can do much to enlist interest in this subject. So, too, can many nonpartisan
organizations that exist in every community. A great decision will be made by
the electorate on November 4 of this year, and I hope every American of voting
age will participate in it."
On that same day—August 7, 1952—a 19-year-old student
named David McCullough was likely enjoying the final weeks of summer before
returning to Yale University for his sophomore year as an English major.
Seventy years later, to the very day, he would pass away at the age of 89 in
Hingham, Massachusetts, leaving behind one of the richest legacies in American
letters.
Years ago, about thirty-six miles west of Hingham, in what was then
still the town of Framingham, I was born and raised there with an interest in
History. While my own parents did not encourage or even instill in me a love
for History, it was fostered from my teenage years into adulthood indirectly
through my viewings of history programs on PBS hosted, and sometimes narrated,
by David McCullough. I first encountered David McCullough’s voice in middle
school, during a showing of Ken Burns’ “The Civil War.” While most of my
classmates were restless, I was transfixed. His narration gave the events
weight, reverence, and an unexpected intimacy. I had never seen or heard
anything like it.
Years later, on one evening in February of 2001, months before
I became a teenager, I stayed up to watch the premiere of “Abraham & Mary
Lincoln: A House Divided,” a six-part PBS documentary series on the dual lives
of President Abraham Lincoln and his wife, First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln. For
the first time, I began to see that these historical icons as real and
relatable human beings. I felt especially connected to Abraham Lincoln, who
suffered from depression, and he became a person I could relate to. This was
helped through the narration of David McCullough for this series. I had
recorded the series on VHS and later bought a copy at a local video store where
I would rewatch the series over and over again. It became a therapeutic balm
while my parents were having their divorce.
During my college years, I briefly studied film, thinking
I wanted to become a director. But I soon realized I wasn’t drawn to film
itself—I was drawn to the stories, especially historical ones. One night in
2008, I watched the HBO documentary “David McCullough: Painting With Words,” and
something shifted in me. Seeing his life and work laid out with such purpose
and grace, I knew then: I wanted to do what he did. I wanted to become a
historian. After consulting friends and professors, I then
switched my major to History. I had started out well, my history professors
liked my papers, and they all said I had potential. I was looking forward to the
future. However, I did not have enough money to return to school, and I did not
do well the classes I was indifferent to, so I sadly had to drop out of school.
I entered into a dark period in my life. After dropping out
of school, I became depressed. I worked at a series of dead-end jobs while
still hoping for one chance to go back to school and finally graduated with a
bachelor’s degree in History to write a book. While being trapped, there were
some therapeutic balms that helped me cope with my loss of an education.
During those quiet years after leaving school, the local
library became a sanctuary. At their book sales, I found secondhand hardcovers
of McCullough’s 1776, John Adams, and Truman—each for just a couple of dollars.
These weren’t just books. They were lifelines. Reading his work gave me
something school no longer could: direction, hope, and the sense that history
might still have a place for me. Reading these books and viewing Mr. McCullough’s lectures and interviews helped
me and inspired me to write in my spare time and to keep developing a voice in
the written word as I was hoping to return to school. He became my indirect
mentor and teacher during this time as I gleaned lessons from his words. I wish
I could have taken a one-on-one master's class taught by him. I had also hoped to meet him
someday.
Weeks turned into months and months turned to years until,
when chance came, the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum was
hosting a series of forums, one of which would include a presentation by David
McCullough on his new book on the Wright Brothers. I registered immediately as
I knew there would be limited space available. I became excited as my dream of
meeting with Mr. McCullough would finally become true. When the day finally
came, I was tired from having to run errands and took a nap in the early
afternoon, when I woke up, I realized I was going to be late for the lecture,
so I quickly got dressed formally, grabbed the books which I bought from my
local library, and boarded a commuter train headed for South Station in Boston.
From there, I took a cab to the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum and when I arrived after paying my fare, I entered inside with my books.
The lecture had already ended and there was a long line of people for the book signing, which was now taking place. I purchased a copy of his book on the Wright Brothers at the
gift shop and made my way toward the back of the line and even let people cut
the line because I wanted to be the last person to speak to him. At one point,
there was a lady, about Mr. McCullough’s age, that was coming out of Smith
Hall. I asked her if she would like to go ahead of me in the line for the book
signing. She smiled and politely replied that it was okay and that was she just
here for the presentation. I later realized that the same woman I had spoken to
was Mr. McCullough’s wife. I internally felt embarrassed when I found out.
As I was waiting in line, I was nervous because I also
wanted to take a photo with Mr. McCullough and I wasn’t sure if they were going
to allow it, but I was determined to get this photo op because I wanted to have
a visible reminder that I had met David McCullough and that dreams can come
true. I had to think quickly. I soon saw a man with a badge with the last name
of McCullough and realized that it was one of his sons. I smiled and motioned
for him indicating that I wanted to speak with him. He came forward, probably
thinking, “Why would this young man want to talk to me?” I then politely asked
him if I could take a photo with his father. He said it would be fine and when
it was time for the actual meeting, I could call him over and he even offered
to take the photo with my camera. To this day, I am indebted to Geoffrey
McCullough for taking the photo of myself with his father.
Finally, the time came, Geoffrey McCullough motioned for me
to go behind the table where his father was signing books. The attendant who
helping Mr. McCullough to sign the books stepped back and with a nod gave me permission to
stand next to him while he was still seated. I stepped behind the table, heart pounding. The Red Sea had parted, and the
miracle was taking place before my eyes. “Hey Dad,” Geoffrey said to his
father, “look up and smile. There’s a young man standing next to you who wants
a picture with you.” David McCullough looked up, smiling gently. “Oh?” he asked. “Do I know who he is?” I laughed—of course he didn’t. But for a brief moment, I felt seen. His son snapped the photo, and just like that, the moment was mine. A quiet, private dream fulfilled.
As I went back into the line, I inspected the photo and to
my relief it came out well. I thanked Geoffrey for taking the photo and told
him how much I appreciate what he had done for me. Then came my turn for the
signing. When Mr. McCullough looked up at me, I said, “Hello Mr. McCullough,
I’m the young man that was standing next to you while your son was gracious
enough to take the photo. I wanted to tell you that I switched my major to history
because of you and I’m planning to become a historian just like you.” “Oh well
bless your heart,” he kindly replied. I wanted to ask him for his advice on how
to be a good writer and how to become a historian, but I didn’t because there
were a few people behind me, and I didn’t want to take up too much time. After
he signed my copies of his books, I then said to him, “Thank you, Mr.
McCullough, it was nice to meeting you." And from there, I soon left the
building with one of my dreams fulfilled.
I never saw him in person again after that. I acquired more
of his books and had hoped to have him sign more of my copies of his books for
my own collection and then I could ask him directly for advice, but this was
not to be. He would live on for another 7 years, 1 month, and 16 days after our
meeting at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum on June 22,
2015. I am satisfied though that I at least got meet him, if only once. The impact of our
meeting would have a lasting effect on me. I still thought of him when I
visited Quincy, Massachusetts where I made a pilgrimage to the homes and grave
to the protagonist of his book, John Adams, in October of 2017 and attended the
Fourth of July celebrations held on the grounds of former President Adams' home
where he died on the 50th Anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of
Independence. When I moved closer to the Boston area, the very first items I
brought with me were my copies of Mr. McCullough’s books while still hoping to
go back to school. When I joined a book club on twitter in early 2020, I was
deeply influenced by Mr. McCullough’s words to encourage my new friends that
history could be their friend too and that it could be something they could
learn from for their benefit.
Just as seventy years ago President Truman expressed his concern
that not enough Americans were registered to vote in 1952, Mr. McCullough
expressed his concern that not enough Americans know enough about their own
history. In Brian Bolduc's opinion piece in the Wall Street Journal from June
18, 2011, he reported that "the Department of Education released the 2010
National Assessment of Educational Progress, which found that only 12% of
high-school seniors have a firm grasp of our nation's history. And consider: Just
2% of those students understand the significance of Brown v. Board of
Education."
In that same opinion piece, Mr. Bolduc sat down with Mr.
McCullough "in a quiet meeting room at the Boston Public Library."
Mr. McCullough recounted in a story that years before, he had given a lecture a
university in the Midwest in which a young "college sophomore" came
up to him and said that "Until I heard your talk this morning, I never
realized the original 13 colonies were all on the East Coast." Mr.
McCullough was indeed shocked by the answer and was genuinely concerned by the
historical illiteracy that even now plagues students of all ages across
America. Mr. Bolduc also wrote that " 'History is a source of
strength,'" citing Mr. McCullough, "'It sets higher standards for all
of us.' But helping to ensure that the next generation measures up, he says,
will be a daunting task."
It will be a daunting task, but I don't want to give up
either. Since Mr. McCullough's passing, I feel a sense of obligation to read
more history and biographical books to educate and inspire people in letting
them know that they too have a part to play while they are still living, have
their vitality, and as they are developing their talents and skills. He once cited
child psychology Professor Margaret McFarland of the University of Pittsburgh,
"What she taught in essence is that attitudes aren't taught, they're
caught. If the attitude of the teacher toward the material is positive,
enthusiastic, committed and excited, the students get that. If the teacher is
bored, students get that and they get bored, quickly, instinctively." If
we love history, we need to teach it in such an enthusiastic way that captures
the attention of our students and we can show them that history is not merely
about facts and dates, but about life and people. There is an audience for
history, but we need to present it as fresh and alive. We have to teach it
better then we have before.
“History isn’t just something that ought to be taught, read,
or encouraged only because it will make us better citizens," Mr.
McCullough once said, "It will make us a better citizen and it will make
us more thoughtful and understanding human beings. It should be taught for the
pleasure it provides. The pleasure of history, like art or music or literature,
consists in an expansion of the experience of being alive."
As for me personally, all I have from David McCullough is
the photo of myself with him and four copies of his nine books that he
personally signed for me. However, he gave me more than just those personal
items that I will treasure for the rest of my life. He also indirectly left to
me and those who love books and history all over the world, his words. He lives
on through his words, both vocally in his narration for PBS documentaries and
through the printed pages of his books.
David McCullough painted with words, not just to inform,
but to inspire. He reminded us that ordinary people could live extraordinary
lives—and that history, when written with care and reverence, could become a
form of art. Through his books and his voice, he became my teacher, my mentor,
and a quiet companion in my loneliest seasons. I hope to carry forward a
portion of his spirit in the life I’m still building.
As Secretary of War Edwin Stanton said of President Abraham Lincoln when Lincoln breathed his last, so true it will be said of David McCullough: "Now He Belongs To The Ages."
To conclude this blog entry, I want to share a passage from
"The American Spirit: Who We Are and What We Stand For," which is a
collection of speeches given by Mr. McCullough beginning from 1989 to 2016. He once said,
“The lessons of history are manifold.
Nothing happens in isolation. Everything that happens has
consequences.
We are all part of a larger stream of events, past, present,
and future. We are all the beneficiaries of those who went before us--who built
the cathedrals, who braved the unknown, who gave of their time and service, and
who kept faith in the possibilities of the mind and the human spirit.
An astute observer of old wrote that history is philosophy
taught with examples. Harry Truman liked to say that the only new thing in the
world is the history you don't know.
From history we learn that sooner is not necessarily better
than later ... that what we don't know can often hurt us and badly ... and that
there is no such thing as a self-made man or woman.
A sense of history is an antidote to self-pity and
self-importance, of which there is too much in our time. To a large degree,
history is a lesson in proportions."
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