What Is Digital Humanities and What’s It Doing in the Classroom?

What Is Digital Humanities?

It might not be fair, but we would like to blame Matt. In 2010, Matthew G. Kirschenbaum published a short piece in the journal of the Association of Departments of English, ADE Bulletin, titled “What Is Digital Humanities and What’s It Doing in English Departments?” In it, he provided a history of the field as well as the term digital humanities (DH) itself. And while he made it clear in his third sentence that “‘What is digital humanities?’ essays like this one are already genre pieces,” we think it would be difficult to overstate the effect that Kirschenbaum’s essay had on the awareness within academe of a thing called DH.1 And despite Kirschenbaum’s clear answer about what DH is, where it came from, and where it is going, it could never reach everyone who encountered the term digital humanities, which rose in prominence precipitously. The result of this is that for more than ten years, those who align themselves with DH have been repeatedly asked, “What is it?”2

But those doing the asking were not just those who were new to DH. Instead, digital humanists took great pleasure in asking one another what we thought we were all so busy doing. You could see this in the conference talks, blog posts, and tweets of the day. But perhaps the best example of this is Day of DH, an event that invites DH practitioners to post on social media and blogs about what they did on that specific day as a way of defining DH. Many participants wrote definitions, and, in an even more self-aware gesture, Jason Heppler remixed them to produce the website What Is Digital Humanities?3 If you visit the site, it will randomly load 1 of 817 different definitions that were written between 2009 and 2014, providing an endlessly self-contradictory explanation of what DH is.4

Rather than reloading Heppler’s site and looking at individual examples, we opted to examine them collectively using frequency analysis. We downloaded his data from GitHub, cleaned it with Python, and then used Voyant Tools, created by Stéfan Sinclair and Geoffrey Rockwell. Once we had done so, it quickly became apparent that, apart from stop words, the most common terms in the corpus are humanities (1, n = 1,033) and digital (2, n = 951).5 If this is not terribly surprising, many of the other words in the top ten will also seem logical:

• research (3, n = 262)
• new (4, n = 238)
• tools (5, n = 230)
• dh (6, n = 224)
• technology (7, n = 182)
• technologies (8, n = 155)
• use (9, n = 143)
• methods (10, n = 136)

From this list of words, one could perhaps intuit that DH was a new method of research that involved the use of technologies. If you looked further—to the top twenty words—you might also conclude that the technology of choice was computing (11, n = 129) that helped produce scholarship (17, n = 93) to assist in the study (12, n = 128) and answering of questions (14, n = 112) about what it means to be human (20, n = 76). And while taking this approach to defining DH would mean that you would miss a lot of the details of what DH was between 2009 and 2014—to say nothing of more recent trends—you would nevertheless have the gist of the subject.

The terms we are interested in, however, are not quite so frequent. Given the volume in which this essay appears, you can perhaps guess what they are: teaching (24, n = 69) and learning (121, n = 18), as well as their variants teach (443, n = 6) and learn (221, n = 11). There could be any number of reasons why words related to pedagogy (222, n = 11) are used less often than words related to research. Whatever the reason, however, these data suggest that when we—meaning the community as a whole—define DH, we are far more likely to talk about research than we are about pedagogy.6

Yet part of what we, the authors, would like to argue here is that the best possible way to answer the question, “What is DH?” is to look at what people do when they teach it. The clearest signal of what any individual believes DH to be appears in their syllabi. There you can see how the person has chosen to define DH via reading and, perhaps more tellingly, assignments. Syllabi are categorical statements from teachers that these are the things that matter most in their version of DH. While a syllabus is a document intended for those who take the class, the tendency among some DH practitioners to publish their syllabi—whether on a personal site, an institutional or disciplinary repository, or at the very least Google Docs—means that they also become objects for signaling one’s definition of DH to the wider world.7

At this point in our rhetoric, the two of us feel that we should ideally offer evidence that demonstrates the claim that DH is defined in its teaching. But the difficulty we have discovered while writing this essay is that for us this concept is axiomatic: a self-evident premise on which we build rather than a point that can be proved. We suspect this belief comes from how our developmental pedagogical experiences have coincided with our evolution as digital humanists. In many cases, we first learned different aspects of DH so we could teach them and only thereafter, on occasion, applied them to our research. These first forays into DH pedagogy led us to decide what things did and did not belong in our DH classroom, which is to say that, for us, they did not belong to DH itself. Teaching helped us define DH, and our different conceptions of DH are made manifest in what we do in the classroom.

What’s DH Doing in the Classroom?

If the opening of this essay is an attempt to return to Kirschenbaum’s first question and say what we think DH is, we want to now turn our attention to the second part of our title: “What’s it doing in the classroom?” This clause deviates from Kirschenbaum’s; where his focus was the locale of a department, ours is that of a pedagogical space—in particular, that of the credit-bearing course.8 But along with the location of the classroom, we want to consider the verb: doing. When we teach DH, we think there is more happening than us teaching our students how to read and argue distantly, algorithmically, or with maps and networks. Instead, the act of teaching DH transforms the pedagogical experience for both us and our students. DH does . . . something in the classroom. What is it? And why has it felt so radical in our praxis? In what follows, we suggest three ways in which DH pedagogy transforms our classrooms: first, by shifting the way we approach humanities objects; second, by reforming the interpersonal dynamics between teachers and students and among the students themselves; and third, by changing the outcomes of the learning process writ large.

The typical approach to teaching in the humanities is as follows: before class, students engage with primary source materials—they read a text, view a film, or examine material culture; during class, students and the instructor discuss the artifact, drawing attention to particular details that lead to a better sense of its meaning or positionality in the broader universe of cultural objects; and, after class, students write about it, using rhetoric to demonstrate how the details they have observed affect the interpretation of the whole. What is taught and assessed could be neatly (and imperfectly) summarized as “close reading.” Many of us who are professional humanities scholars love this method of working; it rewards both careful attention and inspiration from fired synapses, resulting in new insights into the objets d’art that speak to us for one reason or another. Close reading becomes a method to explain these reasons, and what we do in the classroom tends to model this method.

In contrast with this focus on close reading, DH offers approaches that can be radically new to students. When they map a novel, distant-read a director’s filmography, or create a marked-up edition of a graphic novel, they suddenly find themselves interacting with their chosen text differently from how they have in the past.9 Some of these methods operate at a different scale from that of close reading: quantitative approaches frequently consider far more texts than students could encounter in their ordinary coursework, and digital editions require, in the words of one of Brian’s students, “closer-than-close reading” as one makes explicit aspects of the text that are normally taken as given. Mapping may focus on a single text, but it turns the readers’ attention elsewhere, asking them to consider the oft-ignored specifics of setting and the explicit embodiment of characters therein. Students who, thanks to their time in K–12, have had years of training in close reading are suddenly handed new ways to interpret humanistic objects. They discover that they can stop using a one-size-fits-all approach. Asking questions differently—with a map, a TEI document, or a word-embedding model—leads to finding things that a person could not previously see in the text.

What is more, DH approaches often feel very different to students when compared with the close reading they have done in the past. During their aforementioned secondary school training, many students feel that interpreting literature—to pick the field in which we both trained—is beyond them. They can spot a repeated metaphor in a novel, a symbolic object in a short story, or alliteration in a poem. (God bless them, they love finding alliteration.) But it is often difficult for them to see how to connect this literary device to a broader argument about what the text means. They know that there are a lot of m sounds in a line, but they are less sure how those m’s point to a feminist reading of “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Many students end up suspecting that humanities interpretation is, at best, something they simply cannot do or, at worst, a solipsistic exercise where they can only find the answer if they already know it. They may feel like Harry Potter in the Divination classroom: compelled to read unremarkable tea leaves and to pretend that they have seen something—anything—in order to please the teacher. And if the teacher responds positively to what they finally, at last, claim to have seen, they feel a keen sense of disappointment as they discover that the teacher believes their prevarication, portending that the “expert” is also grasping at straws. These concerns can be summarized by the plaintive cry of a student who asks, “Aren’t we reading too much into this?” In contrast to the seemingly esoteric approach of close reading, many DH approaches seem almost painfully straightforward and concrete: counting words, finding locations, seeing which characters talk to each other, or tagging named entities. But since these tasks are, in fact, straightforward and concrete (if also mind-numbingly dull to do without a computer), they seem manageable to students. Rather than a rarefied approach that requires them to see things that might not be there, they get to pay attention to details that are clearly present in the text. After finding these concrete patterns, they still need to perform an interpretation, articulating what their presence means for the meaning of the text. While computers can count words, it takes a human to say what they mean. But since students know they are working with features that are demonstrably there, they do not have to overcome the inertial fear that they are “reading too much into the text.” By enabling students to perform humanities interpretation that feels more grounded than they had thought possible, DH pedagogy changes how they approach their texts. It is not that DH methods are somehow better than close reading; instead, it is that they are different methods, and that alone is enough.

The second thing that DH does in the classroom is to allow us to establish new dynamics between teacher and students and among the students themselves. In our experience, the intersection of new methods and new materials provides for new forms of pedagogical honesty, transparency, and generosity. It is a truth universally acknowledged among humanists that we must be subject experts in order to teach, and it is that expertise that distinguishes us from our students. Digital humanists are often specialists in a field (early modern drama) and a digital method (text analysis), but just as we cannot claim to have equivalent expertise in all literary periods and genres, neither can we claim to have a commensurate command of all digital methods.10 And yet, when we teach an Intro to DH course, for example, we as the instructor may feel pressure to demonstrate to students a high level of proficiency across methods—text analysis, en/coding, data visualization, mapping, augmented reality—rather than focus solely on where our real competence lies. And yet, if an instructor is (as many of us are) the sole DH scholar-teacher at their institution, then they will likely be expected to teach all of DH. But what if we were to reframe what feels like a predicament and instead foreground our imperfect experience to our students, revealing to them that the methodological expansiveness and technological complexities of DH can be as challenging to us as to them? Do we not teach them better when we acknowledge that we are less skilled at, say, force-directed graphing than text encoding? Or that while we teach them the value of mapping, we are not geographic information system specialists? But, some sages might hand-wring, is it wise to cede one’s authority to a group of undergraduates who should respect us for our pedagogical brilliance? Does the classroom not risk a descent into egalitarian chaos? Teachers who practice such transparency about their limitations create spaces in which their students feel more confident experimenting with seemingly alien approaches to analysis. The students can also apply skills they have learned from another course in another discipline and actively contribute to the DH course material and the learning environment because they have seen their instructor do the same. Our being honest and vulnerable with them establishes an environment of trust that strengthens rather than weakens the DH learning experience.

Just as the interpersonal relationship between the instructor and the students is different in DH classrooms, so the interpersonal relationships among the students are changed as well. They can turn to the struggling student next to them and show them how to adjust the weight between those two nodes and generate a Gephi graph that reveals . . . something. And almost certainly, in the next module that second student will turn back and show the first how to write a valid transformation scenario that produces a web page or extracts named entities from their encoded text. Such shifts in relationships play out in particular in the group work that is so often central to DH classes. As a DH practitioner, the instructor will almost certainly have experienced the need to work closely with collaborators. There is simply no way around working with a group of researchers with different skills and perspectives in order to bring our often large-scale projects to fruition. But students do not innately understand that knowledge production is necessarily collaborative and, frankly, equate group work with a miserable experience they had to muddle through in high school (claiming that they were the only one in their group to actually do any work). Here is where DH pedagogy can change their perception about collaboration. When the instructor creates multicompartmental assignments that require students to weave their work together, we give them the opportunity to engage and produce knowledge in ways that we as digital authors and editors are expected to do.

For example, the culminating assignment that Diane includes in her Intro to DH course is the creation of a collaborative digital edition produced by all the members of the class. In a semester when the course materials focused on a sixteenth-century clown actor named Richard Tarlton and an obscure biographical piece printed in 1600 called “Tarlton’s Jests,” she and her students looked at the other published scholarly digital editions, considering how they presented the text as well as introductory contextual essays, footnotes, and glosses. Once the class had looked at the selection of scholarly DH projects that resembled the kind of edition Diane wanted them to create, they collectively broke those projects down into tasks. They discussed who the audiences were for each of the projects, in order to get a sense of what editorial and presentation decisions might have been made. Then, they identified the types of people who would need to be engaged in each phase of the work and at what points in the production process their different talents would be needed. Diane then asked them to decide which of these possible components should be produced. They chose to create an encoded text of “Tarlton’s Jests”; glosses of the text for their imagined audience (a group of Bucknell students who had not taken this course but might be interested in sixteenth-century London culture); and materials and artifacts (maps, timelines, network visualizations) that would provide a historical and cultural context for this bizarre comic actor whom very few people now know of. And they agreed to coauthor a document that reflected their editorial process to explain how they had come to decisions that might otherwise be opaque to a reader. After a semester of learning the basic competencies of text and data analysis, encoding, and time-enabled mapping, the students had developed an understanding of where their digital strengths lay and which tools and methods they felt drawn to and confident in using. Using this self-knowledge, the students selected the roles they wanted to play, the work they wanted to focus on, and how they envisioned putting the pieces together. All of this work was done in class, in conversation, using whiteboards and Google Docs. Some students thought of themselves as possessing the talents required for meticulous editing of the encoded and annotated texts; others enjoyed writing XSLTs that would turn their encoded texts into web pages; others expressed their love for cleaning data, which helped others who wanted to use those data to create maps or network graphs. Still others saw themselves as being particularly good with time management and shepherding others to complete tasks. And so, the group shaped the final project and how they would make it work.

To suggest that the assignment came off so easily is slightly untruthful. It took a lot of energy to get the students to articulate their own strengths, interests, and weaknesses. And some made commitments that, for whatever reason, they could not keep, and so the students who had stepped into those organizational roles had to restructure individual expectations and timelines. But overwhelmingly the students began to recognize in themselves a talent that they had not thought they possessed, and their classmates developed a new appreciation for their classmates’ abilities. By working together in complementary ways, the students learned how to support and encourage one another to complete an edition that showcased the impact Tarlton had on different elements of British society: whom he came in contact with, how he related to different socioeconomic groups, how he moved around London and the country as he performed on his own and as part of an acting troupe—and how he got involved in a manslaughter case, a piece of the puzzle that fascinated the students in particular.

But they were not done. After they had produced all of the pieces and published or embedded them in a WordPress site, they wrote reflections on their own experiences (as posts on the same site). Then they read and commented on one another’s reflections, tying their work together in one more way, observing how their classmates’ contributions produced a project that was in some places stronger than expected and in other places could have used more attention to detail. Since these reflections were visible to the whole class (not just submitted for the professor’s attention), students discovered what Diane had assured them was the case: if they found something challenging or exciting or frustrating, chances were many of their classmates did as well. While she was very much a part of the production process and attuned to both where the tensions appeared and the eureka moments, it was remarkable to watch how the students took what could have been seen as dry subject matter (not everyone is in thrall to Elizabethan performance history) and turned it into an unexpectedly compelling group experience that was the highlight of the semester. It is this sort of public-facing collaborative group work that is a hallmark of DH pedagogy.

Thus far, we have discussed what DH is doing in the classroom in terms of how it changes what we do with humanities objects and how it affects the relationships among instructors and students. Now we would like to consider the third thing DH does in the classroom: it teaches students to think differently. As other essays in this volume bear witness, one of the reasons DH pedagogy has been sponsored at different institutions is that it seems to confer on students the much-desired “hard skills” that the humanities are believed to lack.11 Skills such as web development, coding, or XML markup can be a value-added proposition for the humanities student who wants to get a position at an advertising agency, a publisher, or, frankly, anywhere. For this reason, one might think that the best and most important thing that can be done in DH classes is to teach students to use particular technologies. Google Maps and ArcGIS, JavaScript and JSON, Python and R, GitHub and the command line: each of these has practical uses outside scholarship and could increase the marketability of that Spanish BA. But we believe that DH pedagogy done right focuses not on teaching students to use particular technologies but instead to apply them.

For example, the first unit of Brian’s Introduction to DH class asks the students to read and map a novel, often Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway.12 To this end, he teaches the students how to use either Google Earth or Google My Maps, asking them to plot the pathways that characters take throughout the novel’s single day. The students work in groups to identify specific locations mentioned in the text and plot them on their map. In these plots, they include quotations from the book, pictures of the locations, and information they have learned about the locations through some rudimentary (a.k.a. Wikipedia and Google) research. They also create paths that link their various locations, showing how the characters travel around London. Both Google Earth and Google My Maps are GUI-driven tools that make mapping relatively simple. But there are countless features—base maps, layers, and image overlays, to name a few—within each of these products that Brian does not teach his students to use. If his goal was to have them become experts in the tools, he would have a very different approach, one that taught how to use all of their features. Such instruction might resemble certification in a particular technology, which would be the best way for a student to signify to a potential employer that, yes, they do know Google Earth inside and out.

But the goal is different; instead, it is to have the students find something new to say about Mrs. Dalloway. And time and again, the students succeed at this. One group of students discovered that Clarissa Dalloway’s pathway to the florist takes her through St. James’s Park and past its water features at the precise moment that she remembers the dissolution of her youthful romance with Peter Walsh, which took place next to a fountain. Another group postulated that the range of historical sites and museums World War I veteran Septimus Smith visits with his Italian-immigrant wife, Rezia, is a desperate measure on his part to reintegrate his shattered psyche through touchstones of Britishness. And by comparing the work of multiple groups, Brian’s students could see that Clarissa and Elizabeth Dalloway, who, as mother and daughter, move in very different spheres and with different priorities, literally move in different directions and spheres, with Clarissa traveling north–south toward Bond Street, site of conspicuous consumption, and Elizabeth traveling east–west toward the Strand, site of professional ambition.

While none of these discoveries will likely be new to the dedicated scholar of Woolf, it is another thing entirely for undergraduates to make such finds on their own, without being led there explicitly by the professor. And it is all made possible by the mapping—not the particular tool (Google Earth or Google My Maps) so much as the doing, the act of engaging with and building a map.13 Mapping the novel allows Brian’s students to ground its stream-of-consciousness narration in the physical London that Woolf knew very well and that she expected her reader to know. It leads students to find and see the patterns that Woolf created—whether consciously or not—in the text and to then interpret these patterns. Along the way, do his students learn how to use Google Earth or My Maps? Of course, but it is about so much more than the tool, which is simply a means to an end.

But stepping back, the two of us believe the end is not the specific things the students learn about Mrs. Dalloway. If our class was about Woolf or modernist fiction or narratives set in twenty-four-hour periods, then new findings about the novel would be the goal. This is, after all, the win condition of humanities research: creating new knowledge or readings of our texts. But since Brian’s class is an introduction to DH, the goal is different. Here, it is to teach the students to think in a DH manner. Mapping a novel is one of the ways to do this, and it is demonstrated to the students by moving from a close-reading experience to a map-reading experience. They learn something from close reading, and they learn something else entirely from map reading. And it is this learning—that there are different ways to learn about humanities texts—that is central to what digital humanities pedagogy is about. It is the playful and sideways encounter with a text—seeing it from a perspective that is not traditional or expected—that is the real advantage of DH and what we would argue is the central experience of DH pedagogy, not the skills or the enhanced knowledge of a particular text. Put more simply, a skills-based education privileges learning the tool; a research-based education privileges applying a tool to learn new things about a text (see chapter 2 in this volume); and a pedagogy-driven education privileges learning new ways to learn new things. While we believe DH teaching can incorporate all three perspectives, the best undergraduate DH teaching focuses on the pedagogy-centric praxis.

We began this essay by suggesting that DH might best be defined by looking at what people do when they teach it. We then pivoted to show you three things that DH does: it breaks teachers and students away from how humanities have traditionally been taught; it renegotiates the relationships, first, between teachers and students and, second, among the students themselves; and it deflects a skills- or research-based education in favor of a pedagogy of the pedagogical. These three effects of teaching DH are, in our opinion, far more valuable than getting students to be able to recite one definition or another of DH. After all, as Ryan Cordell has argued, students “do not care about DH qua DH”; what we have found, however, is that they care very deeply about the experience of doing DH, that they and we are changed through the encounter.14

In the end, we cannot claim to have exhausted all the things that DH can do in the classroom. Nor do we have any interest in trying to convince you that you should teach DH like we do. We believe that your lived definitions are (or will be!) just as salutary for you and your students as ours have been.

Notes

1. 1. Kirschenbaum, “What Is Digital Humanities?,” 3.

2. 2. Kirschenbaum’s piece was reprinted as the opening essay of the 2012 volume Debates in the Digital Humanities. Given this pride of place, Kirschenbaum’s questions set the tone for the initial debate of the book, which was titled in such a way as to suggest that many of the questions in the field—including what the field actually was—were unsettled. So perhaps we can blame another Matt, this time editor Matthew K. Gold, for the persistence of the trope of “What is DH?”

3. 3. Heppler, What Is Digital Humanities?

4. 4. The full list is available on Heppler’s GitHub code repository; see Heppler, “whatisdigitalhumanities.”

5. 5. For our analysis, we used Voyant’s default English stop-word list. Counts are given in the form of rank and raw counts of a term as presented by Voyant’s Terms Tool—for example, (1, n = 1,033) is the first ranked word and appears 1,033 times in the corpus. It is important to note that Voyant does not support ties in rankings. Put differently, if two terms (arts and set) appear the same number of times in the corpus (25 times each), Voyant does not assign them the same rank, as one might expect a tie to be handled. Instead, the word that appears first alphabetically is given the higher rank, with the result being that arts is ranked eighty-fourth and set eighty-fifth.

6. 6. It should be reiterated that these definitions are only from 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and 2014. We can only speculate about what we might see if we had had a similar set of definitions from the last half of the decade. That said, the Wikipedia article for digital humanities, a source Kirschenbaum calls “a working definition [that] serves as well as any I’ve seen,” is frequently updated (“What Is Digital Humanities?,” 4). At the time of our writing, it mentions “research, teaching, and publishing” in its third sentence (“Digital Humanities”). Yet the definition Kirschenbaum quotes in 2010 mentions teaching in its first sentence, pointing perhaps to a potential falling off of pedagogy—at least from pride of place in definitions (4).

7. 7. Publishing syllabi is also an important way to signal one’s membership in the community of DH practitioners; see Croxall and Jakacki, “Invisible Labor.”

8. 8. As this volume demonstrates, digital humanities pedagogy takes many forms and is performed by many people in different positionalities. While we write here of formal, credit-bearing teaching, the reader will find other forms of teaching described in chapters 18, 19, and 22 in this volume, among other chapters.

9. 9. While “distant reading” is a phrase that is often associated with Franco Moretti’s work, Ted Underwood uncovers many forerunners in “Genealogy of Distant Reading.” And of course, quantitative approaches in history were well established by the 1960s.

10. 10. In Radical Hope, Kevin M. Gannon discusses how impostor syndrome is the product of the desire of academics to be experts and those same academics’ knowledge that “legitimate expertise” is incredibly difficult to acquire (68).

11. 11. See, for instance, chapters 3, 5, 8, and 9 in this volume.

12. 12. Brian owes a debt of gratitude to Erin Sells, who shared her mapping assignment for Mrs. Dalloway with him even before she wrote about it on the blog ProfHacker; see Sells, “Mapping Novels.”

13. 13. As Stephen Ramsay has written, building is for digital humanists a “new kind of hermeneutic”; Ramsay, “On Building,” 244. Tellingly, Ramsay’s default example of building is making a map.

14. 14. Cordell, “How Not,” 460.

Bibliography

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2. Croxall, Brian, and Diane K. Jakacki. “The Invisible Labor of DH Pedagogy.” In The Bloomsbury Handbook to the Digital Humanities, edited by James O’Sullivan, 295–304. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2023.
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