Exhibition Reviews

"The Price of Freedom: Americans at War." National Museum of American History, 14th St. and Constitution Ave. NW, Washington, DC 20560.       Permanent exhibition, opened Nov. 11, 2004. Daily 10–5:30, summer hours (May 26-Sept. 4) 10–6:30, closed Christmas Day. Free. 18,200 sq. ft. David Allison, project director; Lynn Chase, project manager; Dik Alan Daso, Jennifer L. Jones, and Howard Morrison, curators; Christopher Chadbourne & Associates, designers.       Internet: text, photographs, video, collection search, and educational resources <http://www.americanhistory.si.edu/militaryhistory/> (April 11, 2005).
After the slaughter of Fredericksburg, Robert E. Lee stated, "It is well that war is so terrible. We should grow too fond of it." It is unfortunate that the curators of "The Price of Freedom: Americans at War" at the National Museum of American History (NMAH) did not echo Lee's wisdom when they conceptualized the exhibition. This celebration of the sacrifices and heroics of wartime valor comes with a high price tag itself: "The Price of Freedom" ignores the cost of war, both on the home front and abroad.	1
At first glance, "The Price of Freedom" appears to be little more than a banal conglomeration of militaria and war-related paraphernalia ranging from the mildly interesting (such as Andrew Jackson's circa 1815 uniform—who knew Old Hickory was so petite?) to the morbidly intriguing (the Revolutionary War-era bloodletting set used to relieve the pains of "camp fever"). Muskets of all kinds, swords, buttons, and military insignia adorn the gallery cases of this massive exhibit, representing the glory that is the Smithsonian Institution's vast collections.	2
Metal remnants of the World Trade Center in "The Price of Freedom: Americans at War." Presented as evidence of America's current "war on terror," the twisted metal poses conceptual and political issues for this historical exhibition. Photo by Carole Emberton.
However, "The Price of Freedom" is not meant to be a lesson in the evolution of military ordnance nor the difference between smoothbore and rifled barrels. The exhibit's title suggests an interpretive stance that assumes freedom is, and has always been, the objective of American military engagements. But freedom is a problematic term, and in failing to recognize how the meaning of freedom has been contested historically, the exhibit takes the viewer on a whiggish stroll through American social and political history, conveniently indulging any desire he or she might have to rely on a facile belief in the mythic march of progress and democratic expansion. Take, for instance, its treatment of the Mexican War. While an interactive screen allows the viewer to push a button to hear views from contemporaries who were divided over the United States' provocation of a war to annex Texas and much of the West, the exhibit fails to mention the role slavery played in America's lust for the frontier. Acknowledging Texas as an "empire for slavery," as the historian Randolph B. Campbell argued (An Empire for Slavery, 1991), would have required the curators to reconsider their exhibit's title. As a result, the ideology of Manifest Destiny remains a benign and inevitable outgrowth of American democracy.	3
Portraying a sense of inevitability is an egregious analytical transgression for an institution of the NMAH's stature. It is unsophisticated. And when dealing with a topic such as war, it is irresponsible. This makes the exhibit's lack of attention to antiwar and peace movements all the more disappointing. Antiwar activities have contributed much to American ideas about war and its justifications and not just in the last half century. From the Quakers and Transcendentalists to the National Women's Party and the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), there have been critics of every American war, but one would not know that from visiting the exhibit. Because "The Price of Freedom" reduces the myriad causes and effects of American warfare to one thing—freedom—no room is left for dissent.	4
This utter collapse of analysis is attributable to what I call the Ambrosization of American military history. The heroic tales of the "band of brothers" popularized by Stephen Ambrose, whose production of World War II histories of manly sacrifice and honor rivaled any wartime munitions factory in sheer output, effectively depoliticized not only World War II but also the entire scope of American warfare. Seeing his mission as recovering the story of neglected heroes, Ambrose sought to aid present-day American men in the recovery of their masculinity. Critics denounced his books as "boosterish," the literary equivalent of recruiting posters (an impressive selection of which hangs in "The Price of Freedom"), but Ambrose was in awe of war and of the tales of battlefield heroics that he spun. Like Ambrose, curators of this exhibit are equally in awe of the transformative power of the American war machine, but to what end? Gone are the machinations of governments, the dislocations of entire countries, the demise of whole generations. Slavery, Indian removal, imperialistic endeavors in Asia and Latin America, strikebreaking at home, internment camps, all these less-than-heroic war stories become muted in the glowing light of "brotherhood," "duty," and "sacrifice."	5
Ambrosian military history could be scoffed at when there was no war being fought. But America's current "war on terror" makes this historian question the ill effects of decontextualized history, especially when the curators overstep the boundaries of good public history at the exhibit's culmination to include artifacts from the World Trade Center, Afghanistan, and Iraq. While linking the past and the present is certainly an admirable goal of any public history institution,"The Price of Freedom" serves as an apologia for current U.S. undertakings by sheltering them under the protective umbrella of freedom and sacrifice here placed over earlier wars. Of course, Abu Ghraib did not make it into the exhibit's narrative. With the events of 9/11 still too present to be past for most of the museum's visitors, the silence emanating from the twisted metal heap taken from ground zero drowns out any whispers of criticism that might emerge within the exhibit's walls.	6
Stephen Ambrose is not the only one to blame. Fault also lies with NMAH's wealthy donor, the real estate developer Kenneth Behring. The museum's building bears his name, as does the Kenneth A. Behring Hall of Military History where "The Price of Freedom" now resides. Behring donated $80 million to the museum with the idea for "The Price of Freedom" already in mind. The donation required the museum to construct a permanent exhibit "highlighting the history and contributions of the American people (but focusing primarily on the military's role) in preserving and protecting freedom and democracy" ("At American History, a Battle Brews," Washington Post, Nov. 7, 2004). The relationship between the production of public history and corporate/private financing is a thorny one and no doubt will continue to plague institutions such as the Smithsonian as long as the politics of historical exhibitions, like the politics of warfare, are written out of the record.	7
Carole Emberton Northwestern University Evanston, Illinois

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