History for the Public: How Imagination Shapes the Past We Know and Drives Modern Public History Practice

In the grand theater of public history, the spotlight often falls on what the experts say, what the archives reveal, or what the textbooks dictate. But let's be real—most people aren't spending their Saturdays pouring over academic monographs or debating historiography at the dinner table. No, their understanding of history—of events, individuals, and ideas—comes from somewhere much more familiar, much more vivid: the world of the "historical imaginative." This concept, championed by Jerome de Groot (see his outstanding Consuming History: Historians and Heritage in Contemporary Popular Cuture), isn't just some academic jargon. It’s the messy, vibrant intersection of fact and feeling, memory and myth, personal and political.

Here's the kicker: The "historical imaginative" is where most of us truly encounter history. It’s the TV dramas, the movies, the novels, the reenactments, the memes that flood your social feeds. It’s the statue in the town square, the plaques that tell half a story, the heritage sites that sanitize the horrors of the past. It’s where history gets personal, emotional, and sometimes, flat-out wrong. And that’s where the work of public historians like us comes in—not to gatekeep, but to engage, to interrogate, and yes, sometimes to correct.

But there’s another layer we need to acknowledge if we’re going to understand this landscape fully: the "historiographical imaginative." This is the often invisible scaffolding that shapes the "historical imaginative"—the sources, the narratives, the omissions, and the biases that build our understanding of history in the first place. It’s about who gets to tell the story and how that story gets told. It’s the history of the history, if you will. The "historiographical imaginative" encompasses the scholars, the documentarians, the curators, the archivists—the whole crew behind the scenes who decide which stories get told, whose voices get heard, and what details are left on the cutting room floor.

And let’s be clear: the "historiographical imaginative" is no neutral player. It’s driven by choices—some intentional, some unconscious—that reflect the priorities, the prejudices, and the power dynamics of its time. It’s why the sanitized version of Pocahontas persists while the violent realities of her story get brushed aside. It’s why the enslaved people who built America remain footnotes rather than central characters in the narrative of American history. It’s why statues and monuments often glorify a past that, for many, was defined by exploitation, oppression, and exclusion.

The "historical imaginative" thrives because it’s accessible. It doesn’t demand footnotes or a deep dive into primary sources. It asks only that you bring your imagination, your empathy, and maybe a few preconceived notions to the table. It tells stories that feel real, that resonate with lived experience, even if they bend or break the facts along the way. But these stories are still rooted in the groundwork laid by the "historiographical imaginative." So when we talk about how people understand the past, we have to grapple with both these components—the vivid reimaginings of history and the often hidden processes that shape those imaginings.

Now, here’s the challenge—and the opportunity—for public historians. If we ignore the "historical imaginative," we’re ceding the field to those who will twist, oversimplify, or commodify the past for a quick buck or an easy narrative. But if we engage with it, we can start to reshape it. We can broaden it, bring in voices that have been silenced or sidelined, and tell fuller, more honest stories. And if we dig deeper, into the "historiographical imaginative," we can start to challenge the structures that have kept those voices out in the first place. We can question why certain sources are privileged over others, why some narratives are elevated while others are erased, and what we can do to shift the balance.

We have to recognize that the "historical imaginative" is not a lesser form of understanding history; it’s just a different one. It’s how most people connect to the past, and in many ways, it’s how history lives and breathes in the public consciousness. But it’s shaped by the "historiographical imaginative," and that means our job isn’t just to present history but to participate in a conversation about it—a conversation that’s already happening in living rooms, in movie theaters, on Instagram feeds, and, yes, on TikTok.

So, let’s get in there. Let’s ask the tough questions about why certain narratives persist and others don’t. Let’s shine a light on the stories that the "historical imaginative" so often overlooks—those of enslaved people, of Indigenous communities, of women, of anyone whose experiences complicate the clean lines of the patriot myths and hero worship. Let’s hold heritage sites accountable not just to the past but to the present communities who engage with them. And let’s dig into the "historiographical imaginative" to ensure that we’re not just retelling the same old stories with a fresh coat of paint but reimagining the scaffolding that holds those stories up.

Because at the end of the day, the past isn’t just a story—it’s a conversation. It’s time we started speaking up, and listening in, at every level.