Historians have long believed that their work speaks for itself—that careful scholarship, grounded in primary sources and thoughtful analysis, would naturally command respect. But history is not self-sustaining. It requires advocates, voices that sing above the din of popular culture to remind us that the past is not a static relic but a living conversation. And yet, in recent years, that conversation has been dominated not by historians but by entertainers, influencers, and media giants.
Consider Bryan Suits, a radio host with a master’s degree in history from the University of Washington, who laments Hollywood’s indifference to historical accuracy. Suits, who had joked on air that he needed a wheel barrel for all the money he would make when he graduated with his M.A. in history before his work at the radio station KROQ (also a dead relic of the past), knows the deal.
On his show Dark Secret Place, Suits recounted his attempts to offer free consulting to correct military uniform inaccuracies in films—a generous offer met with resounding silence. The indifference speaks volumes. In an industry where platform reigns supreme over storytelling, fidelity to historical fact is often an afterthought, sacrificed on the altar of dramatic effect.
Films like 12 Years a Slave and Hidden Figures have illuminated forgotten chapters of history, sparking vital conversations. Yet, countless others take liberties with facts for every meticulously crafted film, dressing fiction in the garb of authenticity—films where everything is factual but the history. An excellent example is the film One Night in Miami, which epitomizes this trend. It brings together historical figures—Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, Malcolm X, and Sam Cooke—in a fictionalized meeting that never occurred. Yet the film earned three Academy Award nominations, its narrative embraced by audiences as if it were gospel.
A reviewer captured the essence of this phenomenon: “Usually, with these kinds of films, people get caught up in the historical accuracy … here, they move and shift events around, but really, it embraces the spirit of the time and the characters.” Historical inaccuracy is not merely tolerated in this new paradigm—it is celebrated as creativity, provided it serves a compelling narrative or reinforces contemporary values.
This is not a new phenomenon. As Sam Wineburg observed in his critique of Howard Zinn, there is a seductive power in reading the present into the past, especially when it validates our deepest convictions. Hollywood, emboldened by public indifference to factual precision, has little incentive to change. And when history is reduced to entertainment or ideological narrative, the consequences ripple far beyond the silver screen. Even well-meaning celebrities can unwittingly muddle the waters of historical understanding.
Beloved for his roles in Saving Private Ryan and Apollo 13, Tom Hanks penned an op-ed expressing astonishment that he was never taught about the Tulsa Race Massacre. Even Tom Hanks is not immune to the pitfalls of historical oversimplification. In a New York Times op-ed, Hanks expressed dismay that he was never taught the “truth about Tulsa” during his school years. Historian Martha S. Jones noted that his sentiment struck a chord among younger generations who often ask, “ Why didn’t I learn this in school?” But Hanks’ well-meaning reflections reveal a deeper issue: a superficial understanding of history’s complexity.
The distinguished Yale historian David Blight offered a pointed critique of Hanks’s article, noting its “superficial approach to history generally.” And rightly so. Hanks’s self-identification as a “lay historian” who pontificates at dinner parties, armed with trivia like, “Do you know that the Erie Canal is the reason Manhattan became the economic center of America?” is emblematic of a broader cultural phenomenon.
The claim is factually shaky. Manhattan’s rise as an economic hub predates the Erie Canal by nearly two centuries, rooted in its mercantile ambitions, the fur trade, and early colonial infrastructure. A more accurate narrative would recognize that the Erie Canal was built because Manhattan was already an established economic powerhouse. Hanks misses a crucial thread in the fabric of American history: the building of the Erie Canal began in 1817.
By that time, the foundations of New York’s economic dominance had already been laid. The Dutch had established Manhattan as the center of the fur trade as early as 1626, and by the 1680s, a literal wall—giving Wall Street its name—stood as both boundary and symbol of colonial ambition. It was no accident that George Washington took the oath of office on the steps of Federal Hall in 1789, nor that the New York Stock Exchange was founded just a few years later, in 1792.
These events weren’t isolated milestones; they were part of a deliberate, unfolding story of commerce, power, and geography—one that shaped not just New York but the very trajectory of the nation. The desire to capitalize on and expand New York City's existing economic might by linking the port to the western territories motivated its construction.
While seemingly minor, such missteps underscore why historians must engage more vigorously with the public. Blight reminds us that we must “support and enhance history teaching everywhere.” The role of the historian is not merely to correct errors but to foster a deeper appreciation for the nuances and complexities of the past. It is a civic responsibility as much as an academic one. It is not to say Hanks was wrong about everything in his reply, as he noted, “Like other historical documents that map our cultural DNA, [new media] will reflect who we really are and help determine what is our full history, what we must remember.” So, what is it that we must remember?
When Hanks writes that “the entertainment industry, which helps shape what is history and what is forgotten, did the same” by failing to teach critical lessons of American history, he inadvertently highlights the crux of the problem. The issue is not just what is taught but how it is taught. Facts alone are insufficient. Without the analytical tools to discern bias, context, and perspective, students (and people like Hanks) are left vulnerable to narratives that comfort rather than challenge them. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Hanks, I still love That Thing You Do! (call me Wolfman 🐺).
Hanks says, “Should our schools now teach the truth about Tulsa? Yes, and they should also stop the battle to whitewash curriculums to avoid discomfort for students.” It’s a clarion call, earnest and necessary to the uninformed, but that is not quite what history is. History does not tell you what to think, how, or what to feel. No. That is for you to interpret—that is what makes history important. Dates and events are just numbers and data; data tied to those numbers evoke something (or should) from within; that is what history is and why it is crucial to humanity and no other species on earth (that we know of 👽🛸).
Yet, for all his conviction, Hanks never touches on the skills that would genuinely empower students—not just to absorb history, but to question it and recognize the subtle fingerprints of bias embedded in the very stories we tell, especially on screen. Because history in movies isn’t just what’s included—it’s what’s left out, and knowing the difference is its own kind of education.
As much as the mainstream cries that "true history is not being taught," historians have long documented the diverse tapestry of American history. From Mexican Americans, heroic Jews, and African American women and their contribution to the Civil Rights Movement to escaped slaves turned-social-influencer. Even African Americans who patriotically fought for a country that did not see them as equals.
For the above, please read: Leonard Pitt’s Decline of the Californios (1968), Paul Bryan Gray’s A Clamor for Equity (2012), Steve Ross’s Hitler in Los Angeles (2017), Tiffany Gill’s Beauty Shop Politics (2010), David Blight's Frederick Douglass: Prophet of Freedom (2018), Max Brooks’The Harlem Hellfighters. Shall we continue?
How, then, do we bridge this divide? Part of the answer lies within the very heart of Academia. The traditional mantra of “publish or perish” often stifles public engagement, favoring the insular world of peer-reviewed journals over the expansive reach of op-eds, podcasts, or documentaries.
For all his good intentions, Tom Hanks could benefit from the wisdom of David Blight’s open course on the Civil War and Reconstruction, freely available through Yale—I took that course and read the books, all of it so free that even a millionaire like Tom Hanks could take the course. Have we left anyone out of the mainstream?
Films like Black Panther (2018) subtly explore W.E.B. Du Bois’s concept of double consciousness, while series like Hell on Wheels (2011–2016) probe into the complexities of the Transcontinental Railroad. Marshall (2017), Ray (2004), and 42 (2018) offer glimpses into untold chapters of American history. Yet Hanks’s awakening to historical gaps feels belated as if he has only now discovered a landscape that scholars have long traversed. It is almost like... 🤔
Breaking: Christopher Columbus
discoversthe Americas!1492... Oh, wait, nevermind. People found the Americas10,000 years ago... I mean12,0000 years ago... I mean21,000 years ago... I mean ... forget it!
The question is not whether these stories exist but why they remain in the shadows while celebrity voices, often uninformed, dominate the conversation. The answer lies partly in the allure of simplicity. Complex history requires effort, humility, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. But more than that, it requires advocates—historians who step beyond the academy to engage with the public, challenging not just what we know but how we know it.
SOURCES | BIBLIOGRAPHY
Suits, Bryan. Host of "Dark Secret Place" on Los Angeles' KFI AM 640.
Suits holds an M.A. in History from the University of Washington.
Stern-Enzi, TT. "TT Stern-Enzi Reviews 'One Night in Miami' on Amazon Prime." Fox 19 Now, January 15, 2021.
Wineburg, Sam. Why Learn History (When It’s Already on Your Phone). p. 78.
Hanks, Tom. "You Should Learn the Truth About the Tulsa Race Massacre." New York Times, June 4, 2021.
Jones, Martha S. Twitter post, June 4, 2021, 8:06 p.m.
“Why didn’t I learn this in school?” is one of the most compelling questions I get, especially coming from young people.
Blight, David. Twitter post, June 6, 2021, 5:08 a.m.
Strong article by Tom Hanks about teaching of history in today's Times. In his high school and community college education the issue is not merely Tulsa, but superficial approach to history generally. Need to support and enhance history teaching everywhere. Teach the "paradox."
https://twitter.com/marthasjones_/status/1400624623178205185
Hanks, Tom. “You Should Learn the Truth About the Tulsa Race Massacre." New York Times, June 4, 2021.
Blight, David. Twitter post, June 6, 2021, 5:08 a.m.
Strong article by Tom Hanks about teaching of history in today's Times. In his high school and community college education the issue is not merely Tulsa, but superficial approach to history generally. Need to support and enhance history teaching everywhere. Teach the "paradox."
https://twitter.com/marthasjones_/status/1400624623178205185
Hanks, Tom. "You Should Learn the Truth About the Tulsa Race Massacre." New York Times, June 4, 2021.
Blight, David. "History 119: The Civil War and Reconstruction Era, 1845–1877." Yale Open Courses, 2008.