FROM THE PRESIDENT
Embracing Complexity in the Stories We Tell
Pronoun pins, paired here on buttons with the colors of pride flags for transgender, questioning, and other gender identities, offer a colorful way to spark awareness and help ensure all people are respected and affirmed.
We live in a world that loves binaries. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Us versus them. But reality—and especially history—is rarely that simple. As interpreters, educators, and storytellers, we’re often asked to present complex information in digestible ways. Yet in doing so, we sometimes flatten the rich, layered stories of the past and present into overly simplified narratives. When we frame history through binary lenses, we risk missing the truth. We lose the nuance, the tension, the in-between spaces where real growth, resistance, and transformation happen.
At its core, interpretation is about meaning-making. We take what we know, we observe, we learn, and we translate it into something that others can understand and connect with. But meaning is never created in a vacuum. It’s shaped by culture, identity, memory, and perspective. When we default to binary interpretations, we do more than simplify; we erase. We erase the stories of those who don’t fit neatly into one side or the other. We erase the messy middle, the contradictions, the humanity.
Consider how we often interpret the westward expansion of the United States. It's frequently presented as a story of brave pioneers heading into untamed wilderness, a march of progress toward manifest destiny. On the other side, it might be framed purely as a story of violent conquest and displacement. But the truth is far more layered. Yes, settler colonialism brought devastation to Indigenous peoples and ecosystems. But within that story are Indigenous communities who negotiated, resisted, adapted, and survived in diverse ways. There were also Black pioneers escaping enslavement who hoped the West would offer freedom, and immigrants from Asia and Europe who were both exploited and instrumental in shaping the land. The narrative isn’t a simple tale of good and evil, oppressor and oppressed. It’s a braided story of survival, complicity, resistance, and redefinition—each strand deserving its own attention.
Indigenous women and relatives, and allies, march during the Tucson Women’s March at Jácome Plaza on January 20, 2019.
The same holds true when we look at the gender binary. Our society, particularly in the West, has long promoted the idea of two rigidly defined genders: male and female. But this binary is not a biological truth; it's a cultural construct. Many cultures across the globe have long recognized and respected genders outside the male/female divide. Indigenous communities throughout North America have honored Two-Spirit people—a term that encompasses a variety of gender identities specific to each nation. In South Asia, Hijra communities have existed for centuries. These examples aren’t outliers; they are reminders that binary thinking around gender is neither universal nor inevitable.
Understanding and respecting gender identities that fall outside traditional binaries is essential for inclusive interpretation. When we acknowledge that gender is expansive, we open the door to telling fuller, richer stories about human experience. Interpretation should not reinforce outdated norms; it should reflect the diversity of the people we serve and the histories we tell. It should help audiences see that gender, like culture and identity, is fluid and multifaceted.
Unfortunately, our current political climate thrives on binaries. Left or right. Red or blue. Pro or anti. These simplistic categories reduce people to caricatures and discourage empathy. They feed outrage and shut down dialogue. In such an environment, the role of the interpreter becomes even more critical. We are uniquely positioned to challenge oversimplification and invite deeper understanding. By modeling complexity, we can help audiences see beyond polarization and into the humanity that exists on all sides.
For example, when interpreting the history of public lands in the United States, we might be tempted to frame the story as conservationists versus developers. But that misses the broader context—of how these lands were taken from Indigenous peoples, how conservation movements have often excluded people of color, how economic need, ecological health, and cultural values intersect in complicated ways. By holding space for these overlapping truths, we create opportunities for more honest and healing conversations.
As Shahrazad Hand writes for the Brown History newsletter, "The Hijra community are the oldest gender non-conforming community in South Asia. Gender non-conformity in the Indian subcontinent can be dated back over 2800 years." Photo courtesy of Shahrazad Hand.
Interpreting beyond the binary means honoring ambiguity, discomfort, and contradiction. It means telling stories that reflect the truth that most of us live in the gray areas.
Interpretation is not about delivering answers; it’s about sparking curiosity. It’s about asking better questions, ones that reveal complexity rather than obscure it. Who benefits from this version of the story? Whose voice is missing? What contradictions exist within this narrative? When we encourage our audiences to think critically and empathetically, we help them become more than passive receivers of information. We invite them to be participants in meaning-making.
To interpret beyond the binary means resisting the urge to tie every story up in a neat little bow. It means honoring ambiguity, discomfort, and contradiction. It means telling stories that reflect the truth that most of us live in the gray areas—caught between identities, beliefs, and experiences that don’t fit cleanly into one side or the other. It means recognizing that our personal and collective histories are layered, unfinished, and constantly evolving.
This kind of interpretation also demands that we reflect on our own positionality. What assumptions are we bringing into our work? What binaries have we internalized? Who taught us to see the world in "either/or" terms? The more we examine our own perspectives, the better we can model that critical reflection for others. Interpretation becomes not just a tool for educating, but for liberating—for helping people see themselves and each other more clearly.
One of the most powerful things we can do as interpreters is hold space for contradiction. We can tell the story of a historical figure who made both revolutionary and deeply problematic choices. We can talk about systems that offered both opportunity and oppression. We can show how people fought for justice while navigating their own limitations and biases. These stories are not broken or confusing; they are real. And they are deeply human.
Interpreting beyond the binary doesn’t mean being vague or indecisive. It means making space for complexity, for contradiction, for humanity.
Interpreting the In-Between: How We Guide Audiences Beyond the Binary
So what does it look like to interpret beyond the binary in practice? How do we, as interpreters, lead audiences into that space of complexity without overwhelming or alienating them?
It starts with asking better questions. Rather than leading with, “Who was right?” or “Which side were they on?” try opening with questions like, “What might have motivated someone to make this choice?” or “Whose story haven’t we heard yet?” These types of inquiries invite audiences to consider multiple angles and resist the urge to neatly categorize every character as hero or villain. When you guide someone to sit in the discomfort of uncertainty—to hold competing truths—that's where real transformation begins.
In a program about westward expansion, for example, rather than simply contrasting settlers and Native peoples, you might ask: “What did ‘freedom’ mean to different groups of people during this time? Who gained it, and who lost it?” You could share the story of an Indigenous woman who adapted settler technologies while resisting displacement, or a Black cowboy navigating racial barriers in newly claimed territories. These narratives complicate the clean lines of frontier mythology and reveal the messy, rich tapestry of real life.
Another powerful technique is sharing primary sources and inviting interpretation. Instead of presenting a singular narrative, offer multiple voices—letters, songs, oral histories, even contrasting newspaper accounts. Let visitors compare a Native oral tradition with a colonial settler’s diary entry, or a suffragist’s pamphlet with the writings of Black women who were excluded from the movement. This allows the audience to wrestle with the idea that even people within the same “side” didn’t always agree, and that history is shaped by whose voices we choose to amplify.
Naming the limits of dominant narratives is also key. As interpreters, we often inherit scripts that have been streamlined over time—tales polished to appeal to wide audiences. But gently pulling back the curtain on that process is part of our work. Try saying, “This is the story that’s been most often told. But it’s not the only one.” That simple sentence can open a floodgate of curiosity and possibility.
Remembering the language we use carries weight. Take the labels “patriot” and “traitor”—deeply embedded in American revolutionary lore. Instead of repeating those terms uncritically, an interpreter might say, “Depending on where you stood, the same person could be seen as both a freedom fighter and a rebel.” This opens the door for reflection on how words shape perception, and how history often depends on who’s doing the telling.
We can also use contemporary analogies to help people connect past complexities to present-day realities. If you’re interpreting labor history, for example, you might invite visitors to think about modern-day gig workers, or the ways in which different communities define fairness in the workplace. What values are in tension? Who benefits under which systems? This moves interpretation from a museum of the past to a mirror for the present.
Try saying, “This is the story that’s been most often told. But it’s not the only one.” That simple sentence can open a floodgate of curiosity and possibility.
Interpreting beyond the binary doesn’t mean being vague or indecisive. It means making space for complexity, for contradiction, for humanity. It means trusting that audiences can handle nuance if we trust them enough to offer it. It means letting stories breathe, even when they don’t wrap up with a tidy bow.
Our audiences are capable of handling complexity. In fact, they crave it. People want to see themselves reflected in stories, not just as heroes or villains, but as full, complicated beings. They want to know that history is not just something that happened to other people, but something that lives within and around them. When we interpret beyond the binary, we offer a mirror that is more honest, more inclusive, and more transformative.
So let us resist the easy path of simplification. Let us be bold enough to tell the whole story, even when it’s messy. Let us embrace the richness of multiple perspectives, the power of unanswered questions, and the beauty of complexity. Because the world is not binary. And our interpretation shouldn’t be either.
