Before this course, I don’t think I could have defined the field of digital humanities. And yet, the more I learn about what it means now, the more I realize I have been a practitioner of it far longer than I realized.

In our first class session, a question was posed that I thought was more of an ice-breaker than a formal marker of the start of the digital humanities journey. The professor asked what our favorite technology was. One of my favorite, unexpected answers was textile arts (I think she said weaving specifically, but I don’t remember fully now). It stood in contrast to more obvious (but no less valid) answers, and my classmate mentioned how weaving is the original technology that led to the earliest forms of modern computing. The more I think about her answer, the more clearly I see her point, but with a new twist. In weaving (or any type of textile art) one is finding a way to turn individual threads into a cohesive whole, and using the same colors or fabrics does not even guarantee a uniform product unless the fabric in question is being industrially produced by programmed machines. Skilled craftspeople who produce woven fabrics impart a unique aesthetic to each design they put together for a memorable item that can often carry a story and traditionally connects to a larger cultural story.

I think weaving or a similar craft-art is an apt metaphor for digital humanities. It fits somewhere between pure aesthetic and pure functionality. It has community-based origins, is strengthened through a community of practice, but can be performed solo. There are concerns and debates about appropriation, whether that be with turning sacred patterns into commercialized pieces that do not bring wealth back to the originating communities, or the debates over access (based on coding skills) as well as human biases that inevitably seep through into technology. As we discussed the importance of crowd-sourcing functions in digital humanities, it makes me think of the many threads woven together that might eventually reveal a pattern. A pattern itself invokes layers of classifications and categories – a design is the articulated sum of a category. While weaving is an ancient technology, the proper application of technology can scale it up for a level of functionality that clothes the world or even allows us to leave the planet. Thus, in many ways, digital humanities strikes me as a traditional craft simply grafted onto a new technological platform. It is about building something that will succumb to the digital death one day, but in the building of it, a last community can be born.

This focus on building something could appear to be the antithesis of “breaking things.” I don’t dispute that “breaking things” is a key component of how digital humanities functions. But, I think the way Mark Sample frames it when he writes “every fact is a fad and print is a prison. Instructors are insurgents and introductions are invasion,” it is a bit hyperbolic, which invites skepticism, which could discredit the importance of the digital humanities field as a whole. Perhaps he is banging the drum of revolution to get a general populace to pay attention to daily shifts that are truly exponential in comparison to the slower pace of technological innovation of a prior time and encompass more facets of our minds at once then we thought possible:

“Digital texts invite (or allow) us to do other things with our eyes, brains, and bodies while we experience them. As I write this, I have 9 windows open on my computer, each vying for my attention. Some of these windows have several frames in further competition. Advertisements. E-mail. Documents. Widgets. Social-networking tools. Chat interfaces. Each layer has an effect on how I engage the digital text. In spite of all these layers, I don’t think we experience a decreased attention; rather, the digital text demands a different sort of attention. Even as my direct engagement is challenged, my brain is offered more fuel for making connections and associative leaps.”

The above description from “Hybrid Pedagogy” is more tempered in delivery and more compelling in explaining the substance and effect of the digital humanities experience. But, rather than the obsession with breaking things, I would characterize digital humanities as the place where intersection is the norm. And, it is at the intersection of seemingly different things that true innovation happens. Why do immigrants generally have a track record of entrepreneurial success? Bringing from one culture something that is new to another culture but can fit in the space in between the two is one example of intersectionality. As a Californian, I celebrate the now ubiquitous sriracha sauce, which was created in California by a Vietnamese immigrant trying to recreate a fairly common type of seasoning back in Vietnam. It took off in a new way here and is now a quintessentially “American” condiment, even he gets some backlash for its lack of “authenticity.”

In playing with basic coding this week for the “Monkeys Writing Shakespeare” exercise, among other activities, I think one of the most important tools a successful digital humanist ultimately needs is the ability to be curious and have fun. When one really dwells on the volume of data in the world or the effort it takes to develop a prescribed skillset to near professional degrees (like coding to be able to fully build something from scratch) it is easy to get overwhelmed with feelings of inadequacy, which creates stress and hampers the desire to try things. And, nothing gets done if we simply stop trying. Failure is inherent in life. How one deals with that failure determines where one goes next. Digital humanities is made more vital and more innovative the more inclusive it can be – bringing in different kinds of people (not just coders) increases the chances of intersections of innovation. And, if melodramatically referring to the practice as “breaking things” gives people the cover they need to try things, priming their minds for “failure” as being part of the process, then I can start to get onboard with the “breaking things” terminology Or, as “Hybrid Pedagogy” phrases it:

“It doesn’t matter to me if my classroom is a little rectangle in a building or a little rectangle above my keyboard. Doors are rectangles; rectangles are portals. We walk through.” This is where learning happens, at the breaking point of its various containers.”