The Trouble with Objectivity

I like to think of myself as an honest broker of the past—a guide who leads students through the tangled terrain of American history with as much fairness and clarity as possible. I take pride in encouraging critical thinking and letting evidence speak for itself. But if I’m being truthful, I know that complete objectivity is beyond my reach.

Regardless of how hard I try, my own life—my upbringing, my beliefs, my blind spots— shapes how I frame the past. I am child of the American South, from a conservative working-class family, steeped in Christian tradition. I’ve lived through cultural shifts, political upheavals, and personal transformations that color the way I interpret history. And though I strive to present multiple perspectives, to challenge my own assumptions as much as my students’, I know that bias has a way of slipping in. Sometimes it’s in the emphasis I give to certain events; other times, it’s in the questions I ask—or don’t ask. 

This is not a confession so much as an acknowledgment: teaching history is an act of interpretation, and interpretation is never neutral. 

I do not think of history as a collection of facts waiting to be uncovered. Rather, it’s a story we construct from the fragments left behind—documents, artifacts, testimonies—all filtered through the priorities and prejudices of those who recorded them. And when I stand before my students, I am engaging in that same act of construction. 

I tell myself that I am fair. That I don’t shy away from uncomfortable truths. But fairness itself is subjective. What one person sees as balance, another might see as evasion. Take, for example, the Civil War. I could present it strictly as a conflict over states’ rights versus federal authority—a framing that would have felt familiar in my childhood. Or I could center it on slavery, emphasizing the words of the secession documents themselves, where Southern leaders plainly stated their motives. Both are “true” in some sense, but the emphasis changes the meaning. 

Which version do I teach? The answer, of course, is both—but the order, the weight, the tone all matter. And no matter how carefully I arrange the lesson, my choices reveal something about what I think is important. 

Memory is contested ground. What a society chooses to remember reflects its values, its fears, its aspirations. The same is true in the classroom. When we discuss the Founding Fathers, do we focus on their Enlightenment ideals or their contradictions as slaveholders? When we teach the Civil Rights Movement, do we highlight the courage of activists or discuss the meaning and implications of progress? These aren’t just academic questions; they shape how students understand justice, power, and their own role in the world. 

I try to give my students the tools to interrogate these narratives. We read primary sources. We debate. We sit with discomfort. But even then, I am making choices. Whose voices are amplified? Whose are left out? The very structure of the curriculum—what is included and what is omitted—reflects a bias. 

I don’t want to indoctrinate. My job isn’t to tell students what to think, but how to think. Yet, is it possible to teach without, in some subtle way, preaching? 

For instance, when we discuss industrialization, I might emphasize the exploitation of workers—the child labor, the brutal conditions. That emphasis comes from my own background, from hearing stories of grandparents who worked in mills or as tenant farmers. A teacher from a different background might focus more on innovation, on the rise of American economic power. Neither approach is “wrong,” but they lead to different conclusions. 

I try to catch myself when my own leanings become too pronounced. I play devil’s advocate. I assign readings that challenge my own views. But even in doing so, I am exercising a kind of bias—the bias of believing that self-correction is necessary. 

So where does that leave us? If pure objectivity is impossible, then how do we teach responsibly? Perhaps the answer lies in transparency—in admitting that every history teacher is, in some way, a biased narrator. Maybe the best we can do is to name our influences, to invite scrutiny, and to cultivate in our students the habit of questioning not just the past, but also the way it is presented to them. 

So I leave you with this: If every history teacher brings their own perspective to the classroom, is the goal to eliminate bias—or to acknowledge it, wrestle with it, and teach students to recognize it in themselves and others? How do we navigate the line between interpretation and indoctrination?  I don’t have a perfect answer. But I think the struggle itself is worth having.