Active History

Matt Ormandy

The Alberta Penitentiary, 1908. Photograph: Byron May, City of Edmonton Archives (EA-500-151). Image Description: A large brick building with windows and guard towers, surrounded by a fence.

“There’s just one kind favor I’ll ask of you,

See that my grave is kept clean.”

Lemon Jefferson, 1927

The Alberta Penitentiary was a federal institution that operated from 1906-1920 just east of Amiskwaciwâskahikan, also known as Edmonton, located on the stolen lands of diverse Indigenous peoples. Forced labour in the prison coal mine, farm, and construction shops were a foundational part of incarceration practices in this period. The first group of prisoners built the prison buildings and prisoners were put to work digging the first mine shaft when the ‘Pen Mine’ opened in 1910, digging the coal that was used to heat the penitentiary. Given the harsh conditions and lack of quality nutrition and healthcare in the Alberta Penitentiary, two dozen prisoners died during their incarceration.

In this piece I explore the limited archival evidence about people in the Alberta Penitentiary and I situate the institution within the context of settler colonial, capitalist development in the early 20^th century. Despite the scarce sources, I endeavour tell the story of some of the individuals who died while incarcerated at the Alberta Penitentiary. For most such as Carl Bansemer (died c. 1911) and James Ford (died c. 1913) the archival record contains little but a name and the year they died.

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By Fionnuala Braun

Every month, my team at SPHERU (Saskatchewan Population Health and Evaluation Research Unit) meets to discuss the progress of our work and share professional development ideas. At the first meeting of the year, we all had to tell a bit about ourselves: our name, degree, and what project we were assigned to. Working around the room, it became clear I was in the company of medical doctors, public health researchers, and quantitative data specialists. When my turn came, I had never felt so out of place.

“I’m a recent history graduate, working mainly on homosexual societies and identity in 1950s France. I also work on a project looking at magic practitioners in 13^th-century Europe. And, I’m helping to write about the COVID-19 pandemic’s effects on Saskatchewan.”

I also admitted that this was a departure from the rest of the introductions in the room. Honestly, I had a limited understanding of the difference between qualitative and quantitative research– and I certainly hadn’t fully understood most of the projects my colleagues had described. As much as they had seemed bemused by my work, so too was I by theirs. I remember wondering if these differences would be reconcilable.

Active History is on its annual August hiatus. In honour of syllabus-writing season, we are reposting a selection of teaching-related articles from the past year. Today’s repost features Paul McGuire’s piece from 11 April 2024. While you’re here, we also invite you complete our survey.

Paul McGuire

This is the sixth entry in a monthly series on Thinking Historically. See the Introduction here.

Photo by author.

At least twice a year, we take a trip to the Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia. One of the most beautiful parts of the valley is Grand Pré and Hortonville. From here, you can see Blomidon and the vast expanse of the Minas Basin. Hortonville is also one of the ports used during the British expulsion of Acadians in 1755. Just down the road, you can see a Parks Canada plaque commemorating a vicious massacre of New England troops by French and Mi’kmaq fighters in the dead of night during a winter blizzard; some New Englanders died before they could stir from their beds.

Plaque describing the Attack at Grand Pré. © Parks Canada Agency / Agence Parcs Canada.

When I read the plaque at Grand Pré for the first time, it caught my attention. Somewhere in the recording of the battle, there was the suggestion, just a suggestion, that this nighttime raid may have been one of the reasons the Acadians in the area were expelled from their homes eight years later.

This is what history does: It captivates the reader and hints at the consequences to come. This is the way we need to teach history in public schools: Give the students a spark to ignite their desire to dig deeper and explore further. But how do we do this? Is there a method, a pedagogy, that teachers can use to engage students in historical inquiry?

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Active History is on its annual August hiatus. In honour of syllabus-writing season, we are reposting a selection of teaching-related articles from the past year. Today’s repost features Paul McGuire’s 2 November 2023 article. While you’re here, we also invite you complete our survey.

Paul McGuire

This is the second entry in a monthly series on Thinking Historically. See the Introduction here.

Researchers continue to write about the value and importance of teaching Historical Thinking Concepts (HTC). There is a near consensus on the importance of moving from a transmission approach to teaching history to one that focuses on inquiry.  This ongoing discussion has been shaped by the works of several researchers including Sam Wineburg who wrote, “the essence of achieving mature historical thought rests precisely on our ability to navigate the jagged landscape of history, to traverse the terrain that lies between the poles of familiarity with and distance from the past.” (Wineburg, 1999, p. 490)

Wineburg’s challenge to history teachers, written over twenty years ago, is to take students on a journey to a foreign land – his jagged landscape of history. While the research supports this aspirational goal, is it possible to do this in the classroom? There is no question that teaching historical thinking concepts offer a new way to engage students in the study of history, but no one really writes about how to do this.

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Active History is on its annual August hiatus. In honour of syllabus-writing season, we are reposting a selection of teaching-related articles from the past year. Next up is Erica L. Fraser’s piece from 21 February 2024. While you’re here, we also invite you complete our survey.

Photo by Fernando Arcos, public domain, https://www.pexels.com/photo/white-caution-cone-on-keyboard-211151/

This is the second in a three-part series on the use of content warnings in classrooms, archives, and museums. You can read the first entry here. 

Erica L. Fraser

Looking back, I probably began using content warnings for students after giving myself night terrors from reading the memoir of a Holocaust survivor as class prep. I was on an evening train back to Ottawa after winter break. I was tired, trying to anticipate how students in a new class on the topic would respond to Ruth Kluger’s Still Alive: A Holocaust Girlhood Remembered, and thumbing through it quickly to check it off my to-do list. It is a beautiful, horrifying memoir – but I had read material like this before. Next thing I knew, I was sitting bolt upright in bed the next three nights, terrified of something unnamed and with vague images from Kluger’s text fading from my mind.

(Before I go further, please note that this blog post contains references to Nazi atrocities during the Holocaust and the sexual assault of serf women in 18th century Russia).

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