This essay demonstrates the impact of careful, intentional event design on public humanities programming. In particular, it records the practical and pedagogical methodologies we have developed through a decade of sustained collaboration between a humanities scholar and an arts administrator. We outline the ways that arts administration practices have informed our approach to public humanities, and we suggest that these practices can help us to address skills gaps in graduate training in the humanities. In the essay, we walk through our framework for the intentional design of a public humanities event (the Life Cycle of an Event worksheet) and offer practical advice on further collaboration between humanities practitioners and arts administrators. We have found that when humanities practitioners and arts administrators collaborate, accessibility and inclusivity become central to public humanities program design – an achievable expectation and not just an aspiration. Above all, our collaboration has deepened our commitment to curating relevant public humanities programming that welcomes community members and provides mentorship opportunities for students.

The public history movement in North America that was born amid the academic job crisis of the late 1970s aspired to a radical reformation of professional history’s audience from an inward focused conversation among professionals to one working with government and corporate institutions and in dialogue with the public. This essay focuses on the institutional evolution of the National Council on Public History (NCPH) to illustrate the unexpected, but not entirely unpropitious outcome that flowed from the failure of the organization’s original goals. How that movement failed and what it succeeded in creating may hold useful lessons for the contemporary public humanities campaign. In the late twentieth century, the public history movement failed to bring about a major reorientation of professional and academic history. In the attempt, however, it created an off shot of public history as one of a number of new but distinctly separate fields of academic historical practice. Unexpectedly, public history became a new academic specialty alongside other new fields from that era: native American history, environmental history, and gender history.

Mothers of Sierra Leone leverages the power of filmic storytelling to improve maternal health outcomes in Sierra Leone, a country with one of the planet’s highest maternal mortality rates. Since 2019, we have operated as part of Lehigh University’s Global Social Impact program, working with a team of interdisciplinary students to amplify the voices of Sierra Leonean women rather than transmit Western medical expertise. Our project is based on two premises: (1) we will not solve the healthcare crisis in Sierra Leone through technology and (2) women experience better healthcare outcomes when they are confident and comfortable to advocate for themselves. Our focus group and survey data indicate that our filmic storytelling improves women’s confidence to advocate for themselves and increases their knowledge of available health services. Maternal mortality may be one of the most expansive health challenges facing our planet today because we struggle to comprehend or delimit its parameters, including structural and systemic racism, networks of capitalism, insufficient infrastructure, disparate access to medicine, and patriarchal violence. Our failures to tell public, accessible, and equitable stories about maternal mortality exacerbates and often exoticizes this crisis.

This article argues that a public education in method—specifically, close reading—is the only viable role for literary studies within the public humanities. Drawing on recent discussions about the uses of the public humanities—and setting itself against recent interventions that have proclaimed a different public role for public literary studies—this article takes the form of an overt but minimalist manifesto: it tries to make the minimal case for public literary studies that is sufficient to give it a public usefulness. In so doing, it breaks down previous efforts of understanding the utility of literary studies as related to literature’s utility, but also to large-scale interventionist ideals such as climate-change activism. It proposes close reading as training in public debate, as an exercise towards better public meaning-making, and thus as a signal contribution to the making of better democratic citizens in a deliberative public sphere.

This article presents a short selective history of contemporary collecting at the Smithsonian Institution. I explain what contemporary collecting is and show how contemporary collecting in the 1960s and 1970s produced histories of political reform movements and participatory democracy. I argue that many material records would not exist today if it had not been for a small group of committed curators who pioneered this practice in the absence of policy guardrails—and often despite a lack of institutional support. I present a brief overview of contemporary collecting methods and outcomes to argue that it is more important than ever for us to collect evidence of diverse political activity in our current moment—a moment in which cultural institutions, including the Smithsonian, are being attacked by executive orders issued by President Donald Trump, despite their long-standing reputation for maintaining truth and public trust in times of political change and contestation. The article concludes by suggesting how people can approach this work today.

Antimicrobial resistance (AMR) is among the most urgent global health challenges of our time. However, it is also a human rights and environmental crisis deeply entwined with climate change, biodiversity loss, and pollution. Historically, AMR was framed as a public health challenge, with little consideration given to its environmental factors and human rights implications. In this article, we examine AMR through the lens of the right to a healthy environment, exploring whether a normative human rights framework could open up new avenues to seek justice and accountability for the environmental drivers of AMR. Drawing on recent developments in international law, we suggest that this newly recognized right widens the narrative of AMR, drawing attention to the role of microbial environments in the global ecosystem and compelling more holistic responses that extend beyond public health interventions to address the underlying structural inequalities and environmental drivers of AMR.

As technology continues to shape how we engage with the world, museums are increasingly encouraged to adapt in order to appeal to younger audiences. Promoting exhibits through platforms such as Instagram and TikTok can be an effective way to attract visitors, but that doesn’t mean museum spaces themselves need to become more digitally driven. For a generation already saturated with screens, adding more technology to exhibitions may actually detract from the experience. In this essay, I explore the effects that excessive screen use has on us and argue that museums can offer something more meaningful by providing a break from the digital overload. To support my argument, I conducted a straw poll survey to better understand how other young people feel about technology in museum settings.

The city of Indore in Madhya Pradesh, India, is home to over 1 million individuals with disabilities. Despite this significant population, the public schools serving these communities often lack visibility and a dependable online presence. Information about these institutions is usually dispersed through unreliable channels, leaving the pedagogies and amenities primarily misunderstood. This article discusses the ideation, development, and completion of a public humanities initiative, “‘Only Connect!’ Empowering Public Schools for the Disabled in Indore to engage in a participatory and inclusive online public sphere,” a U.S. Alumni micro-grants project initiated and finalized in 2022. Only Connect! is a pioneering online platform that offers verified contact details for all public schools in Indore, catering to children who are Deaf, Blind, and those who suffer from speech difficulties between the ages of 6 and 18. The project’s central mission is to dispel the myths and inaccuracies surrounding disability education. Based on the narratives sourced from comprehensive fieldwork, surveys, and extensive interviews with key stakeholders, including school principals and parents, Only Connect! aims to foster a better-informed and supportive community. The goal of this project is to facilitate dialogue about the challenges and opportunities in educating disabled students in Indore, promoting greater understanding and inclusivity.

This essay delves into a pivotal incident where Edward Said’s Palestinian identity collided with entrenched conservative American values, revealing the dichotomy of his dual role as a Columbia University professor and outspoken advocate for Palestinian statehood. The catalyst was a provocative article, “Edward Said Accused of Stoning in South Lebanon,” from the Columbia Daily Spectator. Said, renowned for his incisive critique of Western depictions of the East and the global dissemination of “orientalism,” brazenly condemned American foreign policy, particularly its support for Israel’s colonial expansion. I examine the episode’s portrayal in the New York Times and Columbia Daily Spectator, highlighting Edward Said’s seemingly conflicting intellectual legacy. Drawing from his essays like “On Nelson Mandela, and Others” (1994), “Homage to a Belly Dancer” (1990), and the memoir “Out of Place” (1999), I explore Said’s views on the public intellectual’s role in America. This investigation probes whether Said’s public identity aligns with his academic persona, and how visibility shapes his concept of the “public.” It questions if public intellectuals can maintain autonomy within academia or if they inevitably conform to university norms.

What counts as a human and as a proper human life has been a lifelong preoccupation of our species. Today it is digitalism, technology, and AI triggering renewed nightmares and hopeful dreams around being human. Through an examination of Samanta Schweblin’s novel “Little Eyes” (Kentukis in the original), I show how humanities are crucial to (i) keep track of what is new and old in these shifts and (ii) maintain a vigorous public sphere that is qualitatively different from gamified individual and social relations. The result is the defense of an idea of public life that stands beyond our individual private desires, marking a stark contrast with a vision of society in which we relate to others and the public as we would to toys we play with.

This manifesto is a case study of a new method of configuring Humanities wisdom. Following the 2008 financial crisis, students and parents questioned the value of Humanities disciplines in relation to debt and future employment prospects. The experiment described here is an attempt at Arizona State University to reinvigorate humanistic pedagogy by means of an entirely new transdisciplinary Bachelor of Arts degree that abandons the disciplinary nomenclature that goes back to Aristotle and was instantiated, then ossified, in the twentieth-century university. The problem, it is argued, is not in the content, but in the naming: History, Literature, Philosophy, Language, and Religion. The experiment is to begin not with these discrete and seemingly moribund bodies of knowledge, but with the most pressing concerns of present and future publics. We name these, and so we name the new degree, Culture–Technology–Environment. The manifesto describes the design and content of the degree and raises the hope that curricular innovations of this kind will create Humanities-wise citizens for the future.

In his novel Life and Fate, Vasily Grossman imagines that we will one day engineer an artificial intelligence that will mimic humans in every way. In order to reproduce “the peculiarities of mind and soul of an average, inconspicuous human being,” however, the computer that houses it will have to be bigger than the Earth. This essay takes Grossman’s novel as the start and endpoint for a discussion about the role of the public humanities in the age of artificial intelligence (AI). The response of the humanities to the pervasive fatalism about an AI-driven future should be twofold. First, they can serve as an antidote to a credulous, amnesiac present which sees the future as already decided, with inexorable effects that we can only adapt to. Second, they can challenge the now pervasive view of intelligence as computational and algorithmic. The humanities refuse to see humans as codable, or as just part of the data stream. We should certainly study the ways in which AI is changing what it means to be human, but we should never lose sight of what is most astonishing, and uncopiable, about us.

Political philosophy is often said to stand at an uneasy distance from everyday politics. On one side lie the often-abstract normative arguments of philosophers; on the other, the messy, power-saturated realities of political life; and in between, what seems to be a sizable gulf in aims, topics, and practices that limits their mutual relevance. Taking that gap as both a diagnosis and a provocation, this issue draws together a diverse group of political philosophers to explore why it persists, why it matters, and how it might be reduced. This introduction sets the stage for that discussion in three ways. First, it advances a principled argument for the inescapability of public political philosophising. Beyond familiar pragmatic pressures to demonstrate relevance or impact, it argues that political philosophy is intrinsically bound to public life, and that both philosophers and public actors have good principled reasons to engage with one another. Second, it offers a conceptual map of the contributions organised around three themes: the varied ways political philosophers have engaged with the public, the growing integration of public voices and empirical methods into philosophical reasoning, and the experimental and innovative practices through which public political philosophy is reshaping the boundaries of the discipline itself. Third, it reflects on our own experience guest editing the collection, highlighting how the somewhat serendipitous discovery of a hugely varied and inventive field of contemporary public political philosophising—far exceeding anything we had anticipated—pushed us to rethink some of our own assumptions and preconceptions.

In the late 1950s, the Minnesota Department of Transportation used eminent domain to clear the path for I-94, displacing over 700 families and 300 businesses in Rondo, a predominantly African-American neighborhood. In the 2010s, Rondo residents and faculty at Macalester College teamed up to create Remembering Rondo, a digital public history project that included (among other things) a community-based archive and map of the neighborhood’s historic businesses from 1920 to 1960. Rondo Avenue, Inc., the neighborhood’s community council, asked to host the project themselves. Then in 2020, they forgot to renew the domain. The site went dark. This essay explores where we went wrong and what we can do about it, and raises questions about how we can reimagine digital sustainability through the lens of a shared authority.

I was the inaugural Director of the Institute of Arts and Humanities (IAH) at UC San Diego from 2016 to 2019. The job entailed running 16 undergraduate programs, but that was only half of the gig. I was also charged with creating a hub for public arts and humanities. It was exciting, but daunting. It was a chance to cultivate meaningful exchange between the University and greater San Diego, but I was not well-versed in engaging public audiences or collaborating beyond academic circles. Against the backdrop of Trump’s rise to power, my first move was to announce two public forums: Challenging Conversations, and Community Arts and Resistance. Despite my steep learning curve in doing public events, IAH came to prioritize empathy, togetherness, and social justice storytelling. Our success was measured not simply in the number of events or audience members (those mattered, to be sure!), but in community building that grew from such work. It was less about one-off events than sustained conversation with our campus and surrounding communities. The work was collaborative and political. It rested on bringing communities and institutions together, pushing beyond the University’s gates, blending arts with humanities, being adaptable, and embracing the possible.

How can staging local stories sustain local relationships and community programs? How can community storytelling projects reshape understandings of what research is, does, and for whom? In considering these questions, I draw on my experience facilitating 10+ Voices projects. These community storytelling collaborations collect, weave together, and perform true stories. Focusing on Solidarity Garden Voices (2023), I trace motivating and guiding principles, including 1) centering community knowledges and choices, 2) celebrating programs beyond my (or any individual) control, and 3) presenting insights inside stories of the lives they come from. I ground these principles in lived moments, as this article is both a portrait of what community-centered research can look like and a song about how such research can feel: disorienting, overwhelming, freeing, inspiring, necessary. Shared.

This article explores three projects that responded to community needs using a variety of tools and strategies for community empowerment. The first project grew out of a course that explored how Yonkers’ local history intertwined with the metanarrative of American history and policy decisions. The students created a podcast series with oral history interviews from community members, focusing on a range of topics, including climate justice, politics, gentrification, education, and shopping malls. The second project emerged as a result of a public lecture series hosted by the library. Highlighting the work of local artists, I curated an art exhibition that explored uniting the community through quilting, narratives of immigration, and the growing impact of gentrification in the downtown area. The final project sought to tell and archive stories from the community, resulting in a digital oral history archive focusing on the African American experience.

What would an approach to public humanities that centers the principles of LANDBACK, a movement that locates liberation for Indigenous people in “putting Indigenous Lands back into Indigenous hands,” look like? In this conversation with Megan Red Shirt-Shaw, Meredith McCoy, and Elizabeth Rule—facilitated by Jennifer Guiliano and Roopika Risam—the team behind the Landback Universities project explores the possibilities and urgency of public humanities informed by Indigenous ways of knowing, cultural protocols, and the responsibility of universities to undertake repair work to be in right relation with Indigenous communities they have dispossessed. Topics addressed in this conversation include the limits of “decolonization” as a university discourse and buzzword that, at best, results in land acknowledgments—brief statements about the Native nations whose lands universities occupy, typically without any commitment to address the university’s ongoing participation in dispossession; the tensions between diversity, equity, and inclusion and “decolonization,” which undercut very real, decolonial calls for land restoration and the remaking of systems of power on campuses; the ethics of collaborations on humanities-related initiatives with Indigenous communities; and negotiating right-wing politics that curtail opportunities for this work.