Yale and Slavery, as one might expect from anything written by David Blight, is a very good work of history. It is intellectually rigorous, as thoroughly researched as any of Blight's previous work, and it effectively uses Yale as a lens through which to view broader intersections of colonialism, slavery, and institutional conservatism. New England-based readers will be particularly interested in the monograph's exploration of slavery in the Northeast, a region often overlooked in discussions on the subject. As such, it is difficult to argue that the book is anything other than a worthwhile read. Still, for all its academic quality, Yale and Slavery is something of a litmus test for one's own view of history's place within our contemporary social and political landscape. Because, while Blight (and former Yale president Peter Salovey, who contributes the forward) present the monograph as something that might “instruct, inspire, and sometimes give us truths with which to make a better day” (12), their prescriptions for redress remain confined squarely to the past.This should not distract from the fact that there really is a lot to like about this book. Throughout the first few chapters, Blight uses a robust collection of seventeenth and eighteenth-century sources to tie the university's founding to the larger colonial project in Connecticut, and to link Yale's early operation (along with the economy of colonial New England, at large) to the British Caribbean and, by extension, the transatlantic slave trade. In the book's second half, which is primarily concerned with the nineteenth century, he painstakingly retraces Yale and its alumni's engagement with abolitionism, westward expansion, and pro-slavery advocacy. Of particular note are vignettes regarding William H. Russell—an early Republican Party apparatchik, fourth-generation Yale alumnus, and key financier of John Brown—and the virulently pro-slavery John C. Calhoun, who, after leaving Yale, dedicated the rest of his life to defending southern slavery. These character studies (and the many others like them) help to drive home the importance of Yale not only to America's antebellum political ecosystem, but to broader political support for both slavery and abolitionism. They also speak to Blight's ability, as both a scholar and writer, to expose the “complex and often contradictory” (182) role that Yale played in national debates over slavery, as it retained an institutional conservatism while, at the same time, nurturing progressive voices.And yet, despite its commendable historical breadth, Yale and Slavery does not include much of a vision for future reparations. While the book does a great job of accounting for Yale's past indiscretions, it provides scant insight as to how its findings might prevent future wrongdoing. It does not countenance the possibility that Yale's sins might not just belong to its past, but to its present and future, as well. As a result, the reparative prescription offered in Yale and Slavery remains limited to well-meaning (and certainly justified) calls for revamped campus tours, commemorative murals, and honorary, posthumous degrees for formerly enslaved laborers, but does little to engage with Yale's attitude toward contemporary political issues.And then, of course, there is the elephant in the room. In the Spring of 2024—the same year Yale and Slavery was released—Yale administrators authorized university police officers to surveil and arrest their own students as part of a broader crackdown on campus-wide protests against the ongoing genocide in Gaza. These protests—and the subsequent arrests—remind us that Yale and its community members are as politically relevant now as they have ever been. The university's students, faculty, administrators, alumni, and trustees remain central to American political and social life. Yale and Slavery, therefore, must be measured not only by its historical value, but by its ability to inform and influence the university's policy toward present-day injustice.1Because Yale and Slavery is, at the end of the day, a self-portrait of a university that, despite its institutional conservatism, still educated antislavery crusaders like William H. Russell. Which brings us back to our operative question: what is the true value of history to contemporary life? Because I have no doubt that there are plenty of William Russells currently enrolled at Yale. Some might even have arrest records now, courtesy of the Yale police. And Yale and Slavery, at its best, makes a convincing argument in favor of supporting such voices, even if it does not provide much guidance for doing so. Which leaves the ball squarely in Yale's court. Will the institution and its administrators heed the lessons of the past and support their students and alumni in their present-day struggles? Or, in another hundred years, will our grandchildren be reading books that reckon with what, by then, will have been safely consigned to that nebulous place we call “The Past”?
Lincoln Hirn (Thu,) studied this question.