Introduction: Scenes from a Survey

"How Do Americans Understand Their Pasts?" Beginning an Inquiry, Spring 1989

On Monday morning, May 15, 1989, ten people crowded around the dining-room table at the Chateau Delaware, a nineteenth-century stone mansion in Indianapolis. The mansion--recently converted into a bed-and-breakfast--seemed an appropriate setting for a retreat devoted to mapping previously uncharted intersections between present and past. We looked out on a historic block--Benjamin Harrison's house was down Delaware Street--in a neighborhood just north of the city's thoroughly modern downtown. Next door, another mansion housed the Indiana Humanities Council.

The retreat itself was the brainchild of Allie Stuart, a program officer with the Council. A few months earlier, she had invited David Thelen to lunch at a Cajun cafe in Bloomington to talk about better ways of connecting academic historians with larger audiences. Dave had said that he knew several professionals at universities and museums who shared the same dream, and mused that it would be great to get them together. He remembers choking on his Diet Coke when Allie replied that the Indiana Humanities Council would provide the funding for such a conference if Dave would invite participants and report their ideas.

The defining moment of the weekend--and the birth of this book--occurred that first morning as we went around the table, sharing our concerns about the practice of professional history. Person after person described struggles to imagine or build alternatives that might break down barriers between professionals and wider audiences. As we talked, it became clear that we shared the conviction that professional historians were painfully unaware of how people outside their own circles understood and used the past. We discussed books we'd read and experiments we'd tried, and as these began to mount, we felt a sense of excitement--a sense that we, the individuals in that room, might actually be able to make a difference in narrowing the gap.

John Gillis, who was leading a project on the historical construction of identities at Rutgers University, said his research had led him to see the history that families create as a rich alternative to academic history. D. D. Hilke, director of audience research at the National Museum of American History, described her ethnographic studies of how museum visitors turned exhibits into things they recognized from their own experience. Philip Scarpino, John Bodnar, and Michael Frisch, leaders in the fields of oral history and public history, discussed oral historians' attempts to share authority--to create history jointly with the people they interviewed. The historians around the table reported on studies and theories from many fields that investigated the ways Americans use the past in their everyday lives, screening professional "texts" (museum exhibits, books, movies) through these everyday uses.

We spent the rest of the weekend trying to design ways of improving exchanges between professional and popular historians. Someone would grab a Magic Marker, write four or five themes on a piece of paper, and drape it over the back of a chair. Then someone else would impose a second dimension and turn the list into a grid. On grids and maps we constructed models that compared professional historymaking with that done by individuals in their daily lives, by television producers, by advertisers, by leaders of ethnic and religious groups, and by collectors.

How should we proceed? Each of us had brought along favorite ideas for projects, and we dreamed up more on the spot: ethnographic observation of people in natural settings; in-depth interviews with people who pursue history as a hobby; participant observation of the uses of history in family conversations; textual analyses of diaries or memoirs; experiments that ask people to visualize the past by having them draw a picture of what history looks like to them. While this group of humanists had ingrained skepticism about the scientific claims of survey research, some of us were enthusiastic about surveying a cross section of Americans. We believed that this would allow us to listen to people as they used the past in their daily lives, to map out patterns, and to define starting points for deeper investigations.

As we tried to define the questions to investigate, we used terms like "historical consciousness" and "historical memory." At one point somebody threw out the phrase "popular historymaking." Many of us liked its implication that Americans take an active role in using and understanding the past--that they're not just passive consumers of histories constructed by others.

The intensity and urgency of our conversation that weekend grew out of the conjunction of two historical circumstances. Writing a few months later in one of the dozens of internal documents generated by the group, Michael Frisch captured this intellectual and political moment: "The study and understanding of history occupies a paradoxical and problematic place in contemporary American culture. On the one hand, it is widely believed that we face a general crisis of historical amnesia; on the other hand, there is clearly enormous and growing public interest in history, manifest in museum attendance, historically oriented tourism, participation in festivals, and even the media-driven excesses of nostalgia and commemoration of recent historical periods."1

We met in an atmosphere of both crisis and excitement, Roy recalls, about the state of historymaking in America. In the late 1980s, much-publicized jeremiads warned ominously of historical amnesia and historical illiteracy suffocating the nation. Shortly before Dave began to plan the Indianapolis meeting, Lynne Cheney, then chairman of the National Endowment for the Humanities, had issued a pamphlet called American Memory, which began with the declaration: "A refusal to remember . . . is a primary characteristic of our nation."2

The historians gathered in Indianapolis thought that the real issue was not, as pundits were declaring, what Americans did not know about the past but what they did know and think. Incredibly, since many commentators had surveyed American ignorance, no one had actually investigated how Americans understood and used the past. And we believed that we needed to seek out and listen to the voices of the people who were being denounced for their ignorance.

Our motivations were more complex than a desire to offer a different perspective on what would become known as the culture wars and the history wars. We also approached the question of "how Americans understand the past" from the opposite direction--from excitement rather than worry, from our perception of deep public fascination with the past. Here, the historical context was not the conservative assault on historical illiteracy but the emergence, starting in the late 1960s, of what was called "public history" or "people's history."

Carried along by the social movements of the 1960s and 1970s, many advocates of people's history and public history saw the past as a source of empowerment and political mobilization. They wanted to democratize not just the content of history (adding the stories of African Americans, industrial workers, immigrants, women, and gays) but also its practice; they wanted to turn audiences into collaborators. In the 1970s and 1980s some of us had begun collaborating with new audiences through museums and state humanities councils, historical films, community oral history programs, and trade union historical classes. These successes inspired us at the Chateau Delaware.

But our failures also goaded us. While we and others of our generation had widened the topics, voices, methods, and viewpoints that scholars called "history"--indeed, this success had provoked the conservative counterattack--we had been less successful in turning audiences into partners. In a paper he presented that weekend, Dave argued that the major barrier to such collaboration came not from conservatives but from scholars who had failed to overcome habits of professionalization. Reporting responses from a thousand readers to a Journal of American History survey, he noted that an increasingly voluminous, fragmented, and specialized scholarship--though wonderfully rich and diverse--seemed "narrow, overspecialized, and boring" even to many Journal subscribers.3

As we contemplated reaching outside our professional circles, we realized how little we knew about the values and perspectives Americans were bringing from their personal experiences to these historical dialogues. To help create a history that would extend beyond the content and practice of elites, we needed to hear a much wider range of people tell us about how (or even whether) the past mattered to them.

Because many of us in Indianapolis had contributed to an emerging body of scholarship on popular historical consciousness and historical memory,4 we were particularly aware of the limitations of this scholarship. It told much more about how the past had been popularly presented than about how it had been popularly understood. Historians had begun to look at the presentations of the past in textbooks, children's books, movies, museums, and magazines, but we often fell back on speculation when it came time to talk about what people made of those sources. We had been influenced by the movement to write "history from the bottom up," but we had done little to uncover popular historical consciousness at its most obvious source--the perspectives of a cross section of Americans.

By the late 1980s, scholars from many fields were decrying this omission and developing theories and methods to study popular reception, reader response, and visitor behavior. The studies in these new fields suggested that Americans engaged historical texts (and all cultural forms) in ways molded by their own personalities, experiences, and traditions and that their engagements were often quite different from what producers of those texts had hoped for.5

These overlapping practical, political, and scholarly agendas heated up our conversations in Indianapolis and propelled us forward. As we circulated position papers and met once again, we evolved a concrete plan and sketched out a number of ambitious projects.

One of them was a national survey.

Piloting the Survey, October 1990-January 1992

On October 19, 1990, we walked through the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History, acutely aware of the presence of the past. Time frames shifted and merged; the air seemed saturated with their fluidity. Hundreds of visitors streamed by exhibits of eighteenth-century chairs and nineteenth-century guns and twentieth-century cars, intently scrutinizing these artifacts or chatting with their companions about what they'd observed.

That afternoon four of us (D. D. Hilke, Roy Rosenzweig, Dave Thelen, and Lois Silverman, who had recently come to work at Indiana University on history projects) met in one of the museum's conference rooms to brainstorm about the popular historymakers outside the door. What did they make of what they were seeing? What questions would allow them, and Americans like them, to open up to us--to speak candidly about how they used and understood the past?

D. D. and Lois had both studied the responses of museum visitors; they pointed us in useful directions, helping to hone and refine questions for a survey of popular historymaking. By the end of the meeting, we'd come up with an eclectic list that covered both historical activities (How often do you visit history museums? Have you done any research--formal or informal--into your family's history?) and attitudes (What do you think of when you hear the word history/past/heritage/tradition? Where do you go for trustworthy information on the Civil War, the Vietnam War, and your family's history? Do you use a knowledge of the past in everyday life?). It was time to take the questions on the road for their first tryout.

In January 1991 fifteen graduate students in the Public History Program at Arizona State University joined Dave for a week-long course designed to test and refine the questions we had come up with. For him, Dave recalls, the challenge of turning vision into reality took concrete form in Tempe. The first morning began with some rough questions we hoped might lead people to talk about their uses of the past. Each afternoon students would conduct two- or three-hour-long open-ended interviews with people of all ages and educational backgrounds from the rich ethnic mix of people in Phoenix. (All together, they interviewed 135 people that week.) The next morning the class would compare results, trying to find wording that had elicited the richest responses. At the end of the week, students wrote essays about the questions that had worked best and the themes that had emerged during the interviews.

The conversations reported by these students convinced us that we needed to pay attention to how we introduced our topic. History is the word that scholars privilege to describe how they approach the past. But in Phoenix history conjured up something done by famous people that others studied in school; respondents said history was formal, analytical, official, or distant. Words like heritage and tradition conjured up warm and fuzzy feelings but not very rich experience or sharp observation. The past was the term that best invited people to talk about family, race, and nation, about where they had come from and what they had learned along the way. Trust was the concept that best captured how people viewed sources of information about the past. And the metaphor that best captured what mattered to them in the past could be elicited by the concept of connection. To which pasts did they feel most connected?

A few months later, graduate students at the University of Toledo took our questions into the field. These and other trials convinced us that it was time to carry out the project in a systematic, nationwide manner. But that required money--around $200,000. Our best bet, the National Endowment for the Humanities, turned us down initially. In the summer of 1993, we hatched a last-ditch funding scheme that sought money from a consortium of state humanities councils.

As we worked on that complicated series of proposals, we received unexpected good news: we had received a $25,000 chairman's discretionary grant from the Spencer Foundation and the NEH had reconsidered its rejection of our proposal. In the winter of 1993-94, we suddenly had money to carry out the survey we had conceived in Indianapolis three and a half years before.

Listening to Americans Talk About the Past: Bloomington, Indiana,March 1994

On March 7, 1994, we crowded around the desk in the office of John Kennedy, director of the Center for Survey Research at Indiana University, listening to amplified snatches of telephone conversations. With some trepidation, we had just begun a week of what survey professionals call pretesting. Having thought and talked about this survey for almost five years, we were finally getting a chance to try out our questions through random telephone calling. The pretesting might be less politely and more accurately called eavesdropping. John Kennedy would push a button, and his office would be filled with voices from an interview in progress. Next door, in a large room segmented into small cubicles, half a dozen Indiana University students talked on the telephone. As these young interviewers conversed, they stared at computer screens that generated questions for them to ask and space for them to type in answers. The process was mechanistic, but the conversations themselves were intensely human.

Person after person was willing--even eager--to talk. We felt a rush of excitement and relief. Anyone who has been interrupted at dinner by phone calls from salespeople and solicitors (and who in the 1990s has not?) knows the strong temptation to slam down the phone. But that week more than forty people spent half an hour talking with a stranger from Indiana. For many of them, the past was clearly part of the rhythm of everyday life. We listened as a government office clerk told an interviewer: "When you think about the past, you feel comfortable, like you belong, and that is the way I feel with my family."

We had feared that a telephone survey would evoke vague or abstract responses. But people took the past personally: many of their answers were vivid, candid, creative, passionate. We had fretted that people might not reveal their deepest feelings. On the contrary, emotions often ran high in the conversations we overheard. Several people shared intimate details about their past and their present. One woman described being sexually abused. Another started to cry when asked to talk about the person from the past--her mother--who had particularly affected her.

That week we were often moved by the powerful presence of the past. But we had work to do. We were trying to refine the survey--to decide which questions gave us the richest answers, to come up with final wording for those questions. We wanted to feel that we had taken full advantage of every phone call, that the interviewer had given the person at the other end of the telephone line the most compelling invitation to talk.

Every evening at ten or eleven o'clock, when the students had finished their interviews, they met with us to discuss which prompts and follow-ups had worked and which hadn't. We learned, for example, that we got next to nothing when we asked historians' favorite question--Why did you do something?--but we got wonderful answers when we asked how or when or with whom, when we asked respondents to elaborate on an experience. The interviewers were our collaborators. We'd all sit around a table and toss out alternative wordings. (We describe our methods in fuller detail in appendix 1.)

By the time the week was over, we had confirmed some of the hunches we had had at the Chateau Delaware--about both the depth and variety of popular historymaking and the value of surveying a cross section of Americans. We felt exhilarated, but also a little worried. Nothing in our professional training had prepared us to interpret what we were hearing. With the help of these terrific student interviewers, we were getting transcripts of rich conversations, but how would we find general patterns to make sense of these individual encounters?

Interpreting Patterns of Popular Historymaking: Arlington, Virginia, June 1994

On June 5, 1994, the past lay piled up on the porch of Roy's house in Arlington, Virginia. It lay on our laps in thick spiral-bound volumes and printouts of computer-generated tables as we tried to get a hold on what we had learned since March. How do Americans understand their pasts?

The data in front of us were somewhat overwhelming. Between March and June, John Kennedy's survey team had called almost all the 808 people who would make up the "national sample." The calls had taken about thirty minutes each. Interviewers had devoted about ten minutes of each call to asking closed-ended (and hence readily quantifiable) questions like: "During the past twelve months, have you read any books about the past?" They used the rest of the time for follow-up questions like "What were the reasons you looked into the history of your family or worked on your family tree?" In an innovation in standard survey practice, the interviewers had been allowed to use humor, interjections, and more probing questions ("Can you recall any of the history books you read?") to get people to open up. Typing as rapidly as possible, the interviewers transcribed respondents' answers. Those transcripts filled the formidable spiral volumes stacked before us.

Although the national survey was not quite done and we were still planning three "minority" samples that would eventually reach more than six hundred African Americans, Mexican Americans, and American Indians, we decided that this was a good moment to compare notes on what we had gathered so far and describe to each other the headlines that leaped out at us from the data.

From the start we saw that the interviews were filled with intimate talk about the past. Families and their stories dominated the numbers as well as the words. For the people we called, the past was pervasive, a natural part of everyday life, central to any effort to live in the present. By June, our quick impressions from listening to the pretest interviews could be confirmed by the statistical evidence. Looking at the tables, we found overwhelming evidence that Americans participated regularly in a wide range of past-related "activities," from taking photos to preserve memories, to watching historical films and television programs, to taking part in groups involved in preserving or presenting the past. We also found that people said they felt particularly connected to the past in a range of different settings, from museums and historical sites to gatherings with their families.

If the past was omnipresent in these interviews, "history" as it is usually defined in textbooks was not. This absence of conventional historical narratives and frameworks surprised us. Roy recalls that he had assumed we would hear people talking about how the defeat of the South in the Civil War, the struggle to settle Montana, or the victory of the auto workers in the 1937 sit-down strikes shaped their identities or their current political views. He had expected to gather stories about how grandparents had faced "No Irish Need Apply" signs or had been barred from neighborhoods because they were Jewish. But these stories weren't there. Neither were the narratives of American national progress--the landing of the Pilgrims, the winning of the American Revolution, the writing of the Constitution, the settling of the West--that have been told for generations in grade school classes and high school textbooks.

Dave remembers our excitement as we discovered that each of us had separately identified the same social traits as consistently important to respondents and others as strangely unimportant--strange because the absent traits were ones that scholars presumed to be essential in determining values and behavior. We had independently concluded that social class, regional identity, political conviction, and ethnicity among whites were much less important in shaping respondents' understanding of the past than race (particularly for blacks and Indians) and religion (particularly for evangelicals of all kinds).

Black respondents started out sounding like white respondents as they talked about the importance of the family. But most of them quickly moved beyond their families to talk of African Americans. In extending out from the family to broader historical narratives, black respondents shared a common set of references--slavery, the civil rights movement, and Martin Luther King Jr.--that we couldn't find in the interviews with European Americans. Black respondents not only constructed group narratives and drew on materials from the conventional canon of American history (like the story of slavery), they also presented stories that fit the standard narrative of group progress. A 42-year-old African American from Milwaukee said he was born in Mississippi, where "you always got to say yes ma'am and no ma'am," but that thanks to the civil rights movement, "we don't have to be on the back of the bus."

Sitting on the porch that afternoon, we got an inkling that Native Americans also tended to move from family stories to group stories and connect to larger national narratives. Asked why he rated the history of his "racial or ethnic group" as most important to him, one man said, "I'm an Indian. We got screwed out of everything that was ours, pushed aside." The national sample--which reached 76 African Americans, 33 Latinos, 20 American Indians, and 13 Asian Americans--did not include enough minority voices for us to be sure about these conclusions. But we couldn't ignore what we saw.

Since the transcripts were reported by case number and not by demographic characteristic, we had to refer to a separate record when we wanted to know about the social characteristics of a respondent. As we read transcripts without reference to demographic features, we thought we could almost always tell whether a respondent was black or Indian. Since we hadn't asked about religion, we both were struck by how important religion was for evangelicals in ordering their perspectives on family and nation alike. We, two secular scholars, were so puzzled by this finding that at dinner that night we kept talking about it with Deborah Kaplan, Roy's very patient wife, who shared our attempts to understand the implications of a society in which the only things that seemed really to unite some blacks and some whites in their uses of the past were their commitments to family and evangelical religion.

Understanding How Americans Understand the Past, May 1995-June 1997

On May 16, 1995, six years after our meeting in Indianapolis, we sat around another dining-room table, this time at Roy's house in Arlington. We'd moved beyond "data" to our interpretation of the data, organized into rough drafts of chapters. Our training as historians did not equip us to handle the rich and messy responses we heard. (During the nine months of the survey, interviewers spent a thousand hours talking to 1,500 Americans. The transcripts of those conversations totaled about 850,000 words and the statistical summary of the answers that could be tabulated covered several hundred pages.) On many big questions we nodded in agreement, but on many specific issues we argued for different frameworks or interpretations.

We have come to understand that, given the intractable and unfamiliar material we're analyzing, different responses to the same information are inevitable. Our long conversations (and sometimes arguments) have led us to a joint interpretation of most of the data--but not all of it. Over the next two years we returned on many occasions to the interviews themselves, questioning and revising our interpretations. Our different interpretive preferences and styles--for example, Roy's tendency to comment on group distinctions and Dave's tendency to emphasize shared human qualities--inevitably shaped these chapters.

We concluded that we could best make our different emphases into strengths by writing separate chapters, so that each wrote about the material he most cared about. Roy drafted chapters 1, 5, 6, and appendix 1; Dave drafted chapters 2, 3, and 4. And we have written separate statements for the conclusion--not only because we sometimes disagree, but also because individual afterthoughts seem particularly appropriate to a book built on the experience and belief of individual Americans. We thought that this division of labor both solved the problem of getting the data reported in book form and conveyed that we agreed on the large patterns buried in these stories and disagreed more often on the weight or centrality to assign to those patterns.

Chapter 1 ("The Presence of the Past: Patterns of Popular History-making") provides an overview of what we heard from the 1,453 Americans who told us about the ubiquitous presence of the past in their everyday lives. More than one third had investigated the history of their family in the previous year; two fifths had worked on a hobby or collection related to the past. For most of the people who talked with us, the familial and intimate past, along with intimate uses of other pasts, matters most. They prefer the personal and firsthand because they feel at home with that past: they live with it, relive it, interpret and reinterpret it; they use it to define themselves, their place in their families, and their families' place in the world.

In chapter 2 ("Using the Past to Live in the Present") and chapter 3 ("Revisiting the Past to Shape the Future") we listen to Americans talk about their intimate uses of the past--about how they engage the past to live their lives. Individuals turn to their personal experiences to grapple with questions about where they come from and where they are heading, who they are and how they want to be remembered. Again and again, the Americans we interviewed said they want to make a difference, to take responsibility for themselves and others. And so they assemble their experiences into patterns, narratives that allow them to make sense of the past, set priorities, project what might happen next, and try to shape the future. By using these narratives to mark change and continuity, they chart the course of their lives.

The people who told us they want to get as close to experience as possible--to use the past on their own terms--also recognize the need to reach toward people who have lived in other times and other places. Chapter 4 (" 'Experience Is the Best Teacher': Participation, Mediation, Authority, Trust") follows Americans as they move beyond firsthand experience in search of sources with trustworthy perspectives on the past. Many respondents said they fear being manipulated by people who distort the past to meet their own needs--whether commercial greed, political ambition, or cultural prejudice. In their desire to strip away layers of mediation, respondents trust eyewitnesses more than television or movies. They feel connected to the past in museums because authentic artifacts seem to transport them straight back to the times when history was being made. They feel unconnected to the past in history classrooms because they don't recognize themselves in the version of the past presented there. When asked to describe studying history in school, they most often use the words dull and irrelevant.

The Americans we surveyed do not reject all aspects of national history; they simply reject nation-centered accounts they were forced to memorize and regurgitate in school. Chapter 5 ("Beyond the Intimate Past: Americans and Their Collective Pasts") explores the ways individuals reach into history by reaching out of their own lives. As they build bridges between personal pasts and larger historical stories, Americans--especially white Americans--tend to personalize the public past. African Americans, American Indians, and evangelical Christians sometimes construct a wider set of usable pasts, building ties to their communities as well as their families. Mexican Americans occupy a figurative--as well as geographical--borderland. Like white European Americans, they rely on family pasts as they work through multiple allegiances and sort out fundamental issues of identity, but they also draw on their ethnic and national roots. Unlike white European Americans, Mexican Americans tell a version of the traditional national narrative of progress: they talk about getting closer to owning a piece of the American dream.

In chapter 6 ("History in Black and Red") we hear another version of the national narrative--one with a bitter twist. In this counternarrative, the arrival of Columbus, the westward movement of European settlers, slavery and emancipation, wars and treaties at home and abroad add up to an American history in which blacks and Indians have been oppressed and betrayed by whites, who then depict their actions in movies and textbooks that lie about Indians and exclude African Americans. A collective voice comes easily to these two groups. African Americans speak of "our race," "our roots," "our people"; American Indians speak of "our history," "our heritage," "our culture," "our tribe." The "we" they invoke stands in sharp opposition to the triumphal American "we": the narrative of the American nation-state--the story often told by professional historians--is most alive for those who feel most alienated from it. This departure from conventional wisdom, like so many other insights that emerged during survey interviews, eloquently supports the hunch we discussed that weekend in Indianapolis: professional history practitioners have much to learn from listening to Americans talk about how they use and understand the past.


1. Michael Frisch, "Cracking the Nutshell: Making History-Making," unpublished document, 20 September 1989, in possession of authors. Back.

2. Lynne V. Cheney, American Memory: A Report on Humanities in the Nation's Public Schools (National Endowment for the Humanities, undated but published in September 1987), 5. (Cheney is approvingly quoting the poet Czelaw Milosz.) See also Chester Finn Jr. and Diane Ravitch, "Survey Results: U.S. 17-Year-Olds Know Shockingly Little About History and Literature," The American School Board Journal 174 (Oct. 1987): 31-33, as quoted in Dale Whittington, "What Have 17-Year-Olds Known in the Past?" American Educational Research Journal 28 (Winter 1991): 763; Diane Ravitch and Chester Finn Jr., What Do Our 17-Year-Olds Know? A Report on the First National Assessment of History and Literature (New York: Harper & Row, 1987). There is a large literature debating the work of Ravitch and Finn. For one brief critique, see William Ayers, "What Do 17-Year-Olds Know? A Critique of Recent Research," Education Digest 53 (Apr. 1988): 37-39. Back.

3. David Thelen, "How Do Americans Understand Their Pasts? A Second Working Draft," unpublished paper, April 1989, in possession of authors. Back.

4. See, for example, the essays in Journal of American History 75 (4) (March 1989) (special issue on "Memory and American History") and in Susan Porter Benson, Steve Brier, and Roy Rosenzweig, Presenting the Past: Essays on History and the Public (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1986). Back.

5. See, for example, Janice Radway, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984). See also Robert Merton, Mass Persuasion: The Social Psychology of a War Bond Drive (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1946); David Morley, The Nationwide Audience: Structure and Decoding (London: British Film Institute, 1980); Doris A. Graber, Processing the News: How People Tame the Information Tide (New York: Longman, 1984); Patricia Palmer, The Lively Audience: A Study of Children Around the TV Set (Sydney and Boston: Allen and Unwin, 1986); John Fiske, Television Culture (London: Methuen, 1987), chapter 6. Back.



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