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Matthew Spalding Tutors Congress on How the Smithsonian Has Attacked Our History
“When in the course of human events …”
With those words, Thomas Jefferson began the Declaration of Independence and gave voice to a proposition that would change the world. The phrase is not ornamental. It is the architecture of political history. Nations are born, tested, defended, and sometimes squandered by human events: decisions made by men and women in real time, under pressure, for good or ill. History, properly understood, is the disciplined account of those events over time. It is a chronology of human action, animated by moral consequences and grounded in fact.
That was the essential point made by Matthew Spalding, Kirby Professor in Constitutional Government and dean of the Van Andel Graduate School of Government at Hillsdale College’s Washington, D.C. campus, when he testified before the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform’s Subcommittee on Delivering on Government Efficiency.
The hearing, “Rewriting American History: Examining the Smithsonian’s Efforts to Reshape the Past,” examined the National Museum of American History and its recent effort to replace the story of America with an activist ideology aimed at transforming the future. Spalding’s testimony was measured, scholarly, and devastating.
“Historical knowledge is to a civilization what memory is to the individual person,” Spalding said. That sentence alone should be printed above the entrance to every museum in Washington.
A person without memory is disoriented, vulnerable, and easily manipulated. A people without historical memory is the same. It cannot understand who it is, where it came from, what it owes, or what it must preserve. To strip a nation of its story is civic sabotage—vandalism.
Spalding began where all serious accounts of history should begin: with events, with chronology, with individuals, with choices. “Great individuals—Winston Churchill called them the steppingstones of history—shape history by making decisions and taking actions intended to change its course,” he testified.
That is true of George Washington accepting command of the Continental Army, Jefferson drafting the Declaration, Abraham Lincoln preserving the Union, Frederick Douglass exposing the moral evil of slavery, and countless others who acted, sacrificed, erred, repented, persevered, and built. History tells us what they did, why they did it, and what followed. It does not begin with an ideological conclusion and then rummage through the past for exhibits that confirm that conclusion.
That is precisely why the Smithsonian Institution exists. Congress created it in 1846 to fulfill the will of James Smithson, who left his estate to the United States “to found at Washington, under the name of the Smithsonian Institution, an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men.” Those words are statutory and moral guideposts. The Smithsonian is not a pressure group, a faculty seminar, or a taxpayer-funded activist collective. It exists to increase and diffuse knowledge.
That mission was once understood clearly. Smithsonian leadership argued in 1953 that the museum that became the National Museum of American History should create “a stimulating permanent exposition that commemorates our heritage of freedom and highlights the basic elements of our way of life.”
The Smithsonian Secretary told Congress the museum would “instill in each citizen a deepened faith in our country’s destiny as champion of individual dignity and enterprise.” At its opening, the director said the museum would “awaken in citizen and foreigner alike a clear understanding of the inspiring story of the United States—its origins, struggles, development, traditions, strength.” President Lyndon B. Johnson said its artifacts should be used “to foster patriotism.”
That was not propaganda. It was common sense. A national museum of American history should tell the American national story. It should do so truthfully, seriously, and chronologically. It should not hide injustice or romanticize failure. It should not erase slavery, segregation, anti-Catholicism, nativism, wartime excesses, or the long struggle to vindicate the promise of the Declaration. But neither should it reduce the American experience to an indictment. The national story is not a sanitized pageant, but it is also not a prosecutorial brief.
Spalding’s charge is that the National Museum of American History has abandoned that mission. “The National Museum of American History is no longer the nation’s museum of American history,” he testified.
That is a grave accusation, but he did not make it casually. He pointed to the White House Domestic Policy Council report “Saving America’s Story,” which catalogues controversial and objectionable displays in more than 160 pages and 522 footnotes. Yet Spalding wisely insisted that the details, though important, are not the heart of the matter. The details are symptoms. The disease is deeper.
“The real crime here, premeditated and followed through,” Spalding testified, “is that America’s story—the well-established narrative of main characters and key events that has long been written about, researched, taught about, and been at the center of American self-understanding throughout much of our national existence—has been so reframed, jettisoned, decentered, deconstructed, and ‘problematized’ at the NMAH that it no longer exists in recognizable form.”
That sentence is the core of his written indictment. The issue is not whether one label should be rewritten or one exhibit rearranged. It is whether the museum still believes America has a coherent story worth telling.
The answer, on the evidence Spalding presented, is no. He described a museum that has replaced the national narrative with “an altogether new and controversial approach,” defined by “abstract post-modern theories that see history as nothing more than an oppressive power struggle” and use history “as a tool in that struggle to encourage social change.”
That may be fashionable in certain academic departments. It may even be defended in academic conferences littered with panels pregnant with unintelligible gibberish. But as Spalding rightly put it, “it shouldn’t be the rubric for a Smithsonian Museum.” No kidding.
The museum still possesses incomparable artifacts: the desk on which Jefferson wrote the Declaration, Washington’s uniform as commander in chief of the Continental Army, and the great flag that inspired the National Anthem. These objects are not relics of a dead regime. They are material witnesses to a living republic. Properly presented, they teach gratitude, humility, courage, and obligation. They do and should inspire.
Improperly framed, they become props in a therapeutic exercise in national self-loathing.
The ideological redesign Spalding described did not happen by accident. He quoted the current director’s stated objective: “At the National Museum of American History, we work to reframe the traditional celebratory narrative of U.S. history for visitors to our museum and digital spaces.”
Reframe?
That is not neutral curatorship but a declaration of purpose. The task is not to preserve and explain the American past, but to concoct an alternative narrative. The new narrative is not the Declaration, the Constitution, ordered liberty, republican self-government, sacrifice, invention, prosperity, and the repeated struggle to live up to first principles. The new frame is systemic oppression.
The institutional mechanism for this shift is revealing. Spalding cited the museum’s Center for Restorative History, whose own materials say restorative history draws “on the principles of restorative justice” and addresses the needs of “historically harmed communities” by examining “the root causes of historical harms.” The communities named include “black, indigenous, and other people of color,” as well as “lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer and more,” and the root cause is identified as “systemic oppression.”
The Center describes restorative history as a “systemic intervention” aimed at “transforming the national historical narrative, restructuring institutional priorities, and privileging knowledge production in the communities that have been silenced or overlooked by museums and other educational institutions.”
There is no mystery here. The museum has adopted a theory, a vocabulary, and a mission alien to its original purpose. Its new strategic plan replaces the previous mission—“explore the infinite richness and complexity of American history”—with a new charge: “Empowering people to create a more just and compassionate future by exploring, preserving, and sharing the complexity of our past.”
Notice the substitutions. “American history” becomes “our past.” “Infinite richness” disappears. Understanding gives way to empowerment. Knowledge becomes an instrument for political and social transformation.
Spalding is right to call this ideology. “This is not a history based on established facts and known reality,” he testified. “Indeed, it is not history at all. This is ideology, a systematic framework for interpreting society and instigating an agenda for change.”
That distinction matters. History asks what happened. Ideology asks how the past can be arranged to serve present political ends. History is disciplined by evidence. Ideology is disciplined by a preferred conclusion. History teaches. Ideology activates.
The two exhibits Spalding identified—“American Democracy: A Great Leap of Faith” and “Many Voices, One Nation”—illustrate the problem. According to his testimony, the first deconstructs and reinterprets the American idea as resistance to persistent racial hierarchies and systemic flaws through petition and protest. The second reframes “our past” as cross-cultural encounters of identity groups seeking restorative justice. In tandem, the exhibits do not merely add neglected voices to the American story. They displace the story itself.
That distinction is crucial. No serious person objects to telling the full story of America, including those who were excluded from the promise of liberty and those who fought to claim it. The American story includes the enslaved, the abolitionists, the soldiers, the suffragists, the immigrants, the inventors, the statesmen, the reformers, the pioneers, the entrepreneurs, the dissenters, and the martyrs. But inclusion should deepen the story, not dissolve it.
A museum can and should show the whole American family album. It should not tear the album apart and rearrange the fragments to prove that the family itself was illegitimate from the start.
Congress has a special obligation here because the Smithsonian is not a private foundation. It is a public trust supported by taxpayers. Americans have every right to expect that the National Museum of American History will present their history with accuracy, balance, gratitude, and candor. They have every right to object when the museum is turned into a vehicle for elite ideological propaganda. They have every right to insist that federal funding not subsidize national self-loathing.
Spalding’s remedy is not erasure. In fact, he explicitly rejected it. A national museum, he said, should tell the story “warts and all,” so visitors understand “the basic chronological narrative and see how the nation got to where it is today.” “Nothing should be erased or whitewashed.”
That is the conservative position rightly understood. Not nostalgia. Not denial. Not hagiography. Truth. Context. Chronology. Proportion. A serious account of a flawed but extraordinary nation.
So what should the museum teach? It should teach that America was founded on universal principles announced in the Declaration and institutionalized, imperfectly but powerfully, in the Constitution. It should teach that some of those principles were violated from the beginning and that Americans fought, argued, bled, legislated, amended, and sacrificed to bring practice closer to promise. It should teach that liberty requires virtue, self-government requires memory, and citizenship requires gratitude as well as judgment. It should teach the “origins, struggles, development, traditions, strength” of the United States.
Spalding’s most important passage came near the end of his testimony. “A healthy attachment to this country is neither blind to its flaws nor fanatical in believing that America is the source of all good,” he said. “Nevertheless, each generation should be equipped with a knowledge of America’s founding principles, a reverence for their liberties, and a profound love of their country.”
That is exactly right. Patriotism is not blindness. It is not a demand that citizens ignore injustice or silence dissent. It is love of country strong enough to bear criticism because it is rooted in truth, gratitude, and duty.
Such patriotism is indispensable to republican government. A free people will not preserve institutions they have been taught to despise. They will not defend liberties they do not understand. They will not transmit a constitutional inheritance if they are told that inheritance is only a mask for oppression.
Museums, schools, and civic institutions do not have to flatter the nation. But if they teach only contempt, they will produce citizens incapable of self-government.
That is why Spalding’s testimony matters. It is not a complaint about one museum exhibit. It is a warning about a broader collapse of civic confidence and institutional trust. When public institutions abandon their stated purpose, substitute activism for knowledge, and disguise ideology as scholarship, they betray both Congress and the people. The Smithsonian was founded for “the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men.” It was not created to diffuse grievance, resentment, or fashionable theories of systemic guilt.
The National Museum of American History should be worthy of the artifacts it holds. It should tell visitors why Jefferson’s desk matters, why Washington’s uniform matters, why the Star-Spangled Banner matters, why the Declaration and Constitution still command reverence, and why millions from across the world have seen in America a promise unavailable elsewhere. It should tell the truth about slavery and emancipation, segregation and civil rights, war and sacrifice, failure and redemption. But it should do so as part of a coherent national narrative, not as scattered evidence in a case against the country.
“A museum focused on claims of systemic oppression teaches national self-loathing,” Spalding concluded. “A museum that embraces America’s exceptional principles and teaches America’s powerful history—its ‘glory tale of liberating strife,’ as the patriotic hymn goes—is worthy of a great country, worthy of congressional funding, and worthy to shaping the minds and hearts of America’s citizens, now and in the future.”
Congress should take him seriously. So should the Smithsonian. So should every American who understands that a republic without memory is a republic in peril.