ACADEMIC HISTORIANS OFTEN talk about how they might bring their scholarship into the undergraduate classes they teach. For me it’s been much more valuable to think about how to bring my teaching into my scholarship. This time the connection is straightforward. The Shattering has its roots in a course on the 1960s I first offered at Ohio State University in 2006 and a course on the civil rights movement that I created at Northwestern University in 2014. I owe an enormous debt to the hundreds of undergrads who took one or the other of those classes—among them many of the finest students I’ve taught in the course of my career—as well as to the superb graduate students who served as their teaching assistants. Together they made those classes come alive.
The debts began to accumulate when I decided to move from teaching the courses to writing a book. I contacted Judy Kagan out of the blue to ask if she might be willing to tell me the story behind Eddy Street’s Fourth of July celebration. She responded with extraordinary generosity, even as our conversations ranged well beyond her dad draping their block in flags. It’s impossible to say just how grateful I am for her willingness to open her family’s history to me. I filled in the Cahills’ story with the invaluable assistance of Meg Hall, the director of the Archives and Records Center at Chicago’s Catholic Archdiocese; Patty Chavez of DePaul University’s Special Collections and Archives; Rachele Esola, the library media specialist at St. Patrick’s High; Mech Frazier, Anne Zald, and the incomparable Harriet Lightman of Northwestern’s library; the reading room staff of Chicago’s marvelous Newberry Library; the staff of the Harold Washington Library Center’s Municipal Reference Collection; and the extremely helpful staff of the Cook County Recorder of Deeds Office.
My thanks as well to Fr. Kevin Feeney of Northwestern’s Sheil Center, who made some valuable introductions; to Don Brown, who in the course of a fascinating conversation helped me understand the power of the networks that ran through Catholic Chicago; to Peter Hallam, who took the time to explain to me the intricacies of Chicago real estate; and to the audiences at the Chicago Humanities Festival, the Bay View Association’s American Experience Week, the National Humanities Center, the Alumnae of Northwestern University’s Continuing Education Program, and the Newberry Library Teachers’ Consortium, all of whom asked such searching questions when I finally stopped talking. I owe Jon Elfner a special thanks for his interest, his perspective, and his help. Someday I’ll manage to get down to Jon’s class, if he’ll have me.
The Shattering bears the mark of the wonderfully stimulating and encouraging world of Northwestern’s History Department. It’s an enormous privilege—and still a bit of a surprise—to have a place among my fellow Americanists Henry Binford, Martha Biondi, Caitlin Fitz, Leslie Harris, Daniel Immerwahr, Doug Kiel, Michaela Kleber, Kate Masur, Bob Orsi, Mike Sherry, Keith Woodhouse, and Ji-Yeon Yuh. Ken Alder, Brett Gadsden, and Danny Greene talked through portions of the book during some luxurious conversations in those halcyon days when it was possible to go out for a beer. Laura Hein offered her always original insights during discussions on our respective decks and then went above and beyond by reading and commenting on chapter seven. Deborah Cohen gave me a gentle push at a difficult moment. Gerry Cadava, Susan Pearson, Amy Stanley, and Helen Tilley extended valuable advice during our fellowship year writing group get-togethers. I’m particularly indebted to Michael Allen, who challenged me to think much harder than I had about the arguments I was making. I’m not sure he’d agree with where I ended up. But I wouldn’t have gotten there without him.
Sidney Fine passed away before I began The Shattering, George Hodgman while I was deep in its writing. But I like to think that they knew how much they shaped me. So have the grad students I’ve had the great luck to work with, some as TAs, some as advisees, many as both. Alvita Akiboh, Joe Arena, Ashley Johnson Bavery, Michelle Bezark, Chris Elias, Erica Gilbert-Levin, Andy Holter, Katie Harvey, Jenny Hasselbring, Ryan Irwin, Brian Kennedy, Greg Kupsky, Danielle Olden, Sian Olson Dowis, Lucy Reeder, Ana Rosado, Charlotte Rosen, William Sturkey, and Tyran Steward have taught me much more than I ever taught them, as brilliant young scholars and teachers will do. Since coming to Chicago I’ve reveled in the chance to talk about writing—and other things—with Elliot Gorn, Alex Kotlowitz, and Peter Slevin, whose remarkable talents I admire so much. Kathy Peiss gave me just the right encouragement over a New York City lunch a year and a half ago. I have only a casual acquaintance with Matt Lassiter and Jacquelyn Dowd Hall and haven’t even met Fredrik Logevall, David Garrow, or George Chauncey. But they have my deepest thanks for the inspiration I’ve taken from their dazzling scholarship. And I’ll always dream of writing with the power and grace of Taylor Branch, David Levering Lewis, and Isabel Wilkerson, since there isn’t any harm in dreaming.
Christy Fletcher has been incredibly supportive, even when I didn’t deserve her backing. And Steve Forman has been the finest editor I could have hoped to have. Steve signed The Shattering when it was nothing more a vague idea. Over the years he must have wondered whether it was ever going to be anything more than that. Instead of giving up on it—as I would have had I been in his place—he gently moved it forward with perfectly timed phone calls, comfortable conference lunches, and encouraging readings of developing chapters. When I stumbled he understood. When I felt overwhelmed he calmed me down. And when I got close to finishing he pushed with the ideal combination of pressure and empathy. It’s tempting to say that the book wouldn’t be the same without him. The truth is it wouldn’t exist at all. Thank you for everything, Steve, though thanks alone hardly seem sufficient. I’m also grateful to Nancy Palmquist for her exemplary copyediting and to W. W. Norton’s outstanding production team for its great work.
Then there’s my enduring debt to friends and family. I’m not sure I could explain how much I owe Jon Crosthwaite, Brad Cwycyshyn, Dave Giovannucci, Terry and Cindy Hopman, Kevin Hurst, Rudy Mui, John Reswow, Joe and Nancy Tolkacz, and Joe and Paula Zehetmair, who have been a part of my life for almost half a century. I don’t see Rich Bodek, Steve Conn, Marty Hershock, Janet and Jed Kuhn, Mike Smith, Suzy Smith, and Chuck Trierweiler as much as I’d like. But when we do get together it’s such a joy to be in their company again. The same is true of our extended Columbus family: Bill and Sandy Cohn, Alice Conklin, Susan Hartmann, Terry and Denece Kemp, Mark and Pam Lytle, Angie Mally, Geoffrey Parker, and Birgitte Soland. And it’s been far too long since we’ve been back to see the Harkins, the Kenneys, the Parsonages, the O’Heas, and the Walshes, who together make up my Irish family. I miss you all.
I also look forward to the day when I can finally sit down with Art Getis again to talk about history, geography, politics, academics, and a fair share of baseball. What I really want, though, is just to spend some time with a man I’ve long admired. To the rest of the clan—Hilary, Jamal, and Christina Tarazi, Sophie Tarazi and Anuj Patel, and Annie, Tony, Darby, Trevor, and Matthew Tibbetts—everyone should be lucky enough to be in a family like yours.
My parents are gone now, my dad nine years, my mom not quite two. The end was hard. Maybe that’s why I can’t yet see their lives with the clarity I hope to have one day. But I’m absolutely sure of the fundamentals. Kevin and Anne Boyle were good and decent people who gave their sons security, stability, opportunity, and unconditional love. Gifts that great can’t be repaid. They can be honored, though, which is why The Shattering is dedicated to my parents’ memory.
There’s another dedication alongside theirs, as there should be. Late last year Abby and Nan came home for a month of decompression and relaxation. They certainly deserved the down time: Abby had just finished working as the digital media director on a tough senatorial campaign, and Nan was nearing the end of the first semester in her masters of education program, barely half a year past her return from her tour with the Peace Corps in Malawi. So naturally I asked them to spend their break tracking down the photos that would appear in the book. They could have begged off. Instead they took on the job—slogging through the manuscript, digging through websites, piling up potential images—with the graciousness, generosity, sensitivity, and great humor that have made them the spectacular young women they are. I’m thankful for their help. And I am so very proud to be their father.
As for Vicky—there words start to fail me. I can talk about all that she’s done on behalf of the book: the many drafts she read, the insightful revisions she suggested, the countless problems she talked me through, the repeated doubts she assuaged, the gorgeous photo section she organized, and the endless Eddy Street monologues she endured. I can talk about her taking on those burdens while managing her own massive workload as director of Northwestern IT’s Office of Teaching and Learning Technologies. I can talk about the remarkable job she and her staff did in moving our faculty online in the first frenzied days of pandemic; without their brilliant performance the university would have tumbled into crisis. I can talk about her commitment to our daughters, her dad, her sisters and brothers-in-law, our nieces and nephews. No matter what I say, though, I’m not going to capture the depth of her devotion, the breadth of her love, or everything she means to me. The best I can do is offer The Shattering’s dedication. For Vicky, Abby, and Nan with all my love and admiration.