Today’s New York Times front page article on the dilemma facing the Walt Disney Company over revamping its icon über alles, Mickey Mouse, struck me as very odd, indeed. Aside from a certain perplexity regarding the significance of this issue over, say, the war in Afghanistan (relegated to the interior), the article’s claim that the corporation’s purportedly bold move to tamper with Mickey’s visage was unprecedented failed to note the notorious litigiousness of said corporation whenever outsiders dared to parody or alter in any way the rodent’s sacred features. Nor did the article mention the corporation’s influence over the promotion and passage of the 1998 Copyright Term Extension Act, which was in no small part created to preserve its profitable control of that face just as the latter was in danger of slipping into the public domain.

But there is a great tradition of monkeying around with Mickey’s mien. The late great Will Elder, in league with Harvey Kurtzman, established the bonafides of what would become Mad Magazine in its early comic book years with such brash send-ups of the sacred and profane as his brilliant 1955 “Mickey Rodent” (see above).  Then there was the short-lived assault on Disney’s carefully cultivated saccharine style in a short series of underground comix called Air Pirates, which portrayed Mickey and his cohort of Disney pals committing acts of an un-family-friendly nature that probably blew out the windows of the Disney Company’s corporate headquarters (cartoonist Dan O’Neill actually succeeded in getting copies smuggled into a board meeting) before the corporation sued for copyright infringement in 1972.

But, in quest of a teachable moment, for me the most significant rearranging of Mickey’s mug, not to mention disposition, occurred during the 1941 strike by Disney’s animators. The strike had a profound effect on Walt Disney’s politics and on postwar animation in general—delineated in Michael Denning’s (written with Holly Allen) illuminating essay, “‘Who’s Afraid of Big Bad Walt?’ Disney’s Radical Cartoonists,” in his The Cultural Front: The Laboring of American Culture in the Twentieth Century (New York, 1996), supplemented by the more recent anecdotal Tom Sito, Drawing the Line: The Untold Story of the Animation Unions from Bosko to Bart Simpson (Lexington, 2007). As evidenced by their leaflets and posters (see right) and rare film footage, striking Disney artists were not shy about using the characters they labored over daily to promote their cause.

Pace the Times, one may only expect (dare I say hope) that the tradition of irreverent fair use manipulation of Mickey’s face continues— nay, blossoms—online.

Normally I applaud it when popular culture attempts a historical allusion, however imperfect, especially if its to one of our lesser known historical eras.  True, these references can be simplistic or misinformed, but rarely do they miss the mark as much as the posting in yesterday’s Daily Candy for a “Gilded Age Road Trip.” (For those of you uninitiated into the femi-urban consumer orgy that is Daily Candy, think of it as the antithesis of Craigslist designed for aspirants to the Sex in the City lifestyle.)  The article entices readers to “make out like a robber baron” and head to the Berkshires for a sumptuous weekend filled with golf, “Vanderbilt-worthy victuals,” and pampering (including “results-orientated treatments like the Monticelli mud wrap”).  History buffs can head to the Gilded Age Museum to see the exhibit, 200 Years of Berkshire Brides!

Lately, our professional development programs have featured a framework for history education called Thinking Like a Historian.  The authors, Nikki Mandell and Bobbie Malone, identify several categories of historical thinking including “Using the Past,” which they define in the form of a question: “How does the past help us make sense of the present.”  Alas, this is not the answer they had in mind.

Raymond Hood's "apartment bridges" project, 1929

This morning I heard a WNYC report that profiled an iPhone app from a project called The Museum of the Phantom City. The museum chronicles architectural projects that were envisioned but never built. Like Raymond Hood’s 1929 idea for “apartment bridges”: described as “unusually desirable as to exposure, light and air,” they give a whole new meaning to the snobbish Manhattan notion of “bridge and tunnel” people.

For the iPhone-less, their site allows you to view the same entries on a map, with sketches and text descriptions, and even allows you to add your own. Maybe our friends at City Lore can create a similar app for their wonderful Place Explorer registry.

When temporarily displaced from your desk at work, you never know what you might stumble across. I noticed the book Crossing the Boulevard staring at me from the bookshelf. Being the New York-centric individual I am, I automatically assumed that must be referring to Queens- and I was correct. I immediately turned to the pages about the people who lived in Astoria, and I suddenly found myself with a new appreciation for the neighborhood I live in- which apparently has a name that I had never heard until this week, “Little Egypt.”

Al-Iman Mosque, Steinway St., Astoria Queens

Little Egypt refers to the stretch of Steinway Street in Astoria between 28th avenue and Astoria Blvd that is full of kabab shops, hookah bars, coffee shops, Middle Eastern groceries, Islam fashion, a Mosque and many places serving (delicious) falafel. The population is extremely diverse, and the streets are lively- especially at night when lively conversations and backgammon games outside hookah bars and coffee shops well into the night.

What struck me once I began reading about this small stretch of Steinway was that this neighborhood was the site of violence and hostility in the wake of the September 11th attacks. Hard working residents was targeted in the wave of cultural violence; though the neighborhood seems peaceful on the surface currently, underlying tensions still exist. For example, though Little Egypt’s streets are as lively and the businesses as busy as those before 28th ave, the business owners are not part of the Steinway Street BID despite efforts to get included.

Perhaps in the wave of Barack Obama’s attempts to reach out to the Muslim World (and his recent Nobel Peace Prize) we may see a change in this situation, though it seems that the words of Hassan Sayed in a 2005 Columbia Journalist article still ring true today for some Muslims:

“Arabs are afraid to get together and meet or organize… They think if they say something wrong, the government will exaggerate it and put pressure on them.”

Muslims such as Mona who works at the Nile Deli on Steinway St. in Astoria said, “He [Obama] speaks very well about Islam…But will he change anything? I can’t answer this question. In two, three years, we will see.” For now, a good start would be to give a voice to Little Egypt’s shop owners in the Steinway Street BID and include them in the 2009 Steinway St. shopping guide.

This week, a friend and I went to the New York Public Library’s exhibit Mapping New York’s Shoreline, 1609-2009. It’s a rare opportunity to see some truly spectacular 17th and 18th century maps made by Dutch and English cartographers and artists. They inspire a sense of wonder, both for their beautifully rendered decorative elements and their confident (and surprisingly successful) attempts to render an unfamiliar land. Intended largely to market these faraway lands to patrons and potential migrants, the boosterism is evident in many of the maps. My favorite was one of the British North American colonies from 1720 or so, which included an inset panel scene depicting a troupe of busy (and vaguely menacing) beavers felling trees…was it meant to suggest that there was a viable non-human labor force to be had?

Nova Belgica et Anglia Nova. Copper engraved, hand colored map by Willem Janszoon Blaeu. Amsterdam, 1635. NYPL, The Lionel Pincus and Princess Firyal Map Division (Courtesy of The New York Public Library)

I was most taken with the early maps, but the exhibit includes a range of other maps, images, and artifacts about New York’s waterfront and maritime history, plus a video about the conservation process. These are a bit of a mish mash, but include a few real gems: I especially liked the still intact 1840 (!) fold-out map designed for tourists cruising up the Hudson river, and the punchy graphics on an illustrated tourist map of Long Island from the 1940s.

It’s open through June 26, 2010, and it’s free, so there’s plenty of time and no excuse not to stop by and check it out.

Jerry Garcia in Haight-Ashbury, 1967

The New-York Historical Society has in recent years displayed a penchant for mounting lavish exhibits about the contributions of dead white men to U.S. history. (In fairness, N-YHS has also mounted excellent shows on the history of slavery in New York City.) Now they’ve taken that tendency to a logical, and sure to be revenue-generating, conclusion with the announcement of their upcoming exhibit on the Grateful Dead. From dead white men to the white men of The Dead: it’s time to add Jerry Garcia to the N-YHS pantheon of Hamilton, Lincoln, Grant, and Lee. If the New York City connection is less than clear, no matter—for the first time, my husband won’t complain about accompanying me to an exhibit there.

The American Social History Project is proud to announce the launch of their new website! We’ve added a lot of new features, in addition to making our old features easier to find.

In brief, this month we’re featuring a video of Roscoe C. Brown Jr’s talk “They said it couldn’t be done, but the Tuskegee Airmen did it.” We will be continuously adding more podcasts of ASHP talks and seminars. You can now watch 2-4 minute video clips of our documentaries, and we’ve enhanced our shop page.

We invite you to take a look and share any feedback you might have.

Where do we go from here? We’re developing a resource database that will allow teachers to access primary source materials that we provide in our seminars. More will be posted on our site, and on this blog as development continues.

It strikes me that no matter how well you think you know New York, there’s always something here, literally right under your feet, waiting to be discovered.

The Yiddish Walk of Fame is a tribute to the stars of Yiddish theater in the late 19th and early 20th century. Sadly, I don’t recognize any of the names (even Wikipedia has little on some of the figures), and it seems that without the walk of fame many important figures in the cultural life of the once very important Yiddish theater might fade further into obscurity.

Unbelieveably, the walk of fame was erected in only 1984 and yet some stars are already worn down and unreadable: (Video walkthrough / Photographic Walkthrough) The long term survival of the stars is tenuous. The deli owner who built the walk has since died, and his family has moved the deli to a new location, leaving the stars in their original location. The building owner has not expressed interest in their maintainence and upkeep ; the Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation is working to have the sidewalk made a landmark (though there exists no precedent for it in the current historic preservation code). One can hope that somehow this important piece of New York City’s past is preserved, though as Lost New York so poingantly states, the people who would most appreciate the plaques will likely be eating at the Deli’s new location and not on second avenue.

John L. Magee, "Southern Chivalry—Argument versus Club's," lithograph, 1856

While words cannot necessarily be equated with deeds, context is everything. In that light, and through the lens of history, Representative Joe Wilson’s outburst during President Obama’s healthcare address before a joint session of Congress could be interpreted as more than a mere breach of decorum. To be sure, the code he violated might be viewed, in contrast to, say, the normal transactions in the British Parliament or Israeli Knesset, as unduly, well, decorous. On the other hand, the Republican South Carolinian’s shout, because of that code, embodies a disrespect that only further legitimates, in some circles, the sort of gun-toting, bullying tactics we saw and read reported in town hall meetings this past summer. Wilson’s bellow is not as brazen nor as deadly as the attack by one of his predecessors, South Carolinian congressman Preston S. Brooks, on Massachusetts senator Charles Sumner on the Senate floor on May 22, 1856 (see above right)—Brooks’s assault, in the name of southern honor, justifying the sort of violence that long had been inflicted on antislavery advocates—but it carries a similar threat that deserves denunciation.

While not U.S. history, the recent appearance on the Web of Persepolis 2.0 offers a compelling argument for appropriation as a method for quickly creating a graphic history of recent events. This ten-page comic posted on a website called Spread Persepolis briskly and critically recounts the events leading up to the Iranian election last June 12th and the popular protests and repression that followed Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s questionable victory, ending with the death of 26 year old Neda Agha-Soltan on June 20th. The comic is called Persepolis 2.0 because the two Iranian exiles who produced it reused art from Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, her graphic memoir (first published in France in 2000, then in the US in 2003, and then produced as an animated film in 2007) about the Iranian revolution and its repressive aftermath. The authors, using the pseudonyms Sina and Payman, used selected panels from the original work and inserted new dialogue and captions to tell their story. Satrapi gave permission for the project but did not participate.

Using Satrapi’s graphic work in Persepolis 2.0 was a wise decision, both for purposes of convenience and because her style is so distinctive and immediately recognizable, which in itself lends the work some legitimacy. The linking of intimate memories with larger historical events that made the original work so compelling is, of course, sacrificed in the comic’s collapsed narrative of events—and sometimes comes across as disconcerting when previously developed characters are now seen operating as ciphers exclaiming exposition.

And I must admit to a certain unease with the history being told—or, rather, the lack of a clear indication of the perspective that the authors, who now live in Shanghai, are espousing. Who can argue against a general critique of corruption and repression? But I was left wondering if there is a more particular motivation behind Persepolis 2.0. One panel showing “Iranians of all backgrounds” explaining why they decided to demonstrate against the election outcome stands out (see above), especially an older woman who states, “We were happier before ’79.” It’s a peculiarly revanchist expression—Ah, for the good old days of the shah!—that you will not find in Satrapi’s work.

Sina, in an e-mail interview, admitted that, “Unlike her original work, Persepolis 2.0 is filled with flaws and inaccuracies, but the bottom line is that it has helped spark hundreds of conversations and that’s more than we could have expected.” I would be interested to hear more about those “flaws and inaccuracies.”