A recent event that took place in my home led me to reflect, as an historian and as a parent, on evidence and agency. It had snowed so school was closed and my daughter and her friend were playing nicely in her room, or so I thought. Much to my surprise, they even included the much disdained little sister.
While they played and I was preparing for class my daughter’s friend came to me complaining about some orange stains on her hands and clothes. I asked the obvious question: “Where did they come from?”
“I don’t know.”
I decided to do some basic research to discover the answer. On a shelf in my daughter’s room was a tube of bright orange oil paint, neatly severed in two.
Another obvious question: “Where did this come from?”
“I don’t know.”
I have found the raised eyebrow to be an effective tool in extracting information from recalcitrant small girls. Eyebrows up. No effect. So I up the ante and try the furrowed brow.
“Well, it was on top of the computer.”
“How did it get there?”
“I don’t know.”
Well this was a line of inquiry that went nowhere. I gave up, threw the paint tube away, and applied stain remover to the clothes.
Later that evening, little sister, says, “Mom, what’s this on my puzzle?” It’s one of those little recessed wooden trays that holds interchangeable faces, dresses and shoes. It is covered with a mystery sticky red substance. So I try my favorite question once again: “Where did this come from?” I am nothing if not persistent.
Small children are sometimes more forthcoming than larger ones. “Well…. maybe it came from the Hawaiian Punch from the tea party.”
Hawaiian Punch. I knew that buying it for my lowbrow-themed dinner party was a bad idea.
So (with studied casualness): “Where was this tea party?”
In my sister’s room. Uh oh. Food in bedrooms is verboten. Especially sticky, sugary food that attracts bugs and vermin. Investigation is in order.
Eyebrows up. A confession of sorts is forthcoming. Yes, there was clandestine Hawaiian Punch use but no responsible party is identified. So evidence but no agency. Next question: “Did any of it get spilled?” Eye contact avoidance. Bingo. A stern look produces a balled up white blanket with telltale red stains from under the bed.
Emboldened by my partial success, I return to the mystery of the orange oil paint. After some pointed questions and much squirming, I get the following hesitant reply: “Well…. some scissors might have cut the paint?”
Such grammatical contortions make a lot of sense in Spanish or Portuguese but don’t come across so well in English. For the moment, I continued in this vein and tried to acquire evidence without assigning agency.
“Did you see the scissors cut the paint?”
“No.”
“Did you see anybody use the scissors?”
“No.”
“Did you use the scissors?”
“No.”
A search for the scissors commences. We have learned that despite not seeing the scissors that they are blue and purple. The pair under the bed does not fit this description. The other pair cleverly concealed in the desk drawer has telltale orange stains on the grips. OK.
Much later in the evening in an effort to regain some credibility, my daughter confesses that “there may also be some paint on the laptop keyboard.” By this time I’m inwardly cringing, but the damage turns out to be inconsequential.
So at the end of the day we have material evidence: a severed tube of paint, orange stains on hands clothes, keyboard, and scissors. We have Hawaiian punch in unauthorized locations. We have scissors with agency and human beings that lack it. What is a historian (or a parent) to do?
My daughter’s friend’s mother is also a historian. Knowing that arriving at THE TRUTH is never possible we decide to give up and punish them equally. But it also reveals a central quandary: If it is impossible to arrive at a consistent narrative moments after the event by eyewitnesses who were directly involved, then the authority of written documents or oral testimony produced at some remove from the events they describe is even more contingent. As for determining human agency, when in doubt, pick an inanimate object.