Scooters, Soldiers, and Selective Memory: Why We're Zooming In to Zoom Out

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    This week, our American Politics group took a hard turn—but don't worry, it wasn't because we found something too scandalous in the archives (though, to be fair, we're still holding out hope). After weeks of valiantly attempting the impossible—covering four separate wars, Kenyon's institutional memory, and staying within our strict limit of 15 archival items (a number clearly chosen by someone who's not as in touch with their hunter-gathering instincts and the yearning to collect as I am)—we finally said enough is enough. Our scope narrowed dramatically: it's all Civil War, all the time. This shift feels like finally closing the 50 browser tabs you've kept open for three weeks "just in case." Suddenly, our project feels manageable, purposeful, and—dare I say it—even enjoyable (it always has been, trust, but for the sake of the metaphor…).

    We're now diving into the stories of four Kenyon-connected figures—Rutherford B. Hayes, Edwin Stanton, Lorin Andrews, and David Davis—to explore their roles in the Civil War and Kenyon's complex legacy of commemorating their contributions. And while you'd think Civil War archives might be a bit dry, we hit the jackpot this week with a 2007 Collegian article about the Peeps O' Kenyon reenacting the Battle of Antietam using scooters and bicycles as cavalry—proof that Kenyon students have always had a flair for historically questionable yet undeniably charming decisions.

    Conveniently, this week's reading from Hajar Yazdiha's The Struggle for the People's King gave us the lens we needed to understand why quirky reenactments like these matter. Yazdiha emphasizes that collective memory isn't a passive or neutral thing—it's actively shaped by groups seeking to promote certain stories while sidelining others (p.36). Memory, she argues, operates along three key dimensions: relational (who holds power, who's left out), temporal (how past narratives shape our imagined futures), and perceptual (how we see ourselves and our communities through these histories) (pp.43–47). In other words, how we remember isn't just about the past; it's about influencing the present and shaping the future.

    


Viewing our project through Yazdiha's framework completely changed our approach. We're not here just to neatly retell Kenyon's Civil War history; instead, we're pulling back the curtain on how that history has been selectively crafted. Why does Lorin Andrews get immortalized in a statue as the heroic college president who enlisted, while other, messier parts of his story stay quietly hidden in boxes? Why does the silly yet oddly insightful scooter cavalry of 2007 resonate in our conversations about memory? Yazdiha helps us see that Kenyon's historical choices—the people we memorialize, the events we reenact, and even the absurd details we laugh at—actively shape how students understand their identity and the school's history. So our task is now crystal clear and straightforward: we're here not just to present the past, but to interrogate how it's been remembered—and maybe, just maybe, give the scooter cavalry the dignified recognition it's long overdue.

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