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What were Tampa’s top Twitter debates at #OHA2015?

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By Jessica Taylor

Some of you open a can of soup and tweet about it, others of us would never know about your tweet since we don’t use Twitter. Others at this year’s Oral History Association annual meeting put their phones away for a second to do what they do best: listen. Although the conversation continued in between sessions and into the evenings in quips of 140 characters, we worried that it was buried underneath the huge volume of tweets and retweets. Whether polite or Luddite, many oral historians missed debates to which they contribute offline with thought and authority. Here’s your chance to catch up and weigh in on the top five Tampa Twitter debates.

What are the implications of oral history in “real-time?” Are people with smart phones the new oral historians? 

This question has enormous implications for oral historians, radicals, activists, journalists, and public historians. In her Friday presentation on documenting Ferguson and new social movements, Nailah Summers asserted, “History isn’t just being written by historians. It’s everyone with a smartphone now.” The discussion began right then and there: do historians have a special place in this movement? Or do they and their privilege need to take a step back? Do activists reliant on technologies disempower those without it?

What do we do to make our work more accessible and organized?

Twitter master Doug Boyd, librarians from small communities and big universities, and many others led us through sessions about OHMS, metadata, old tapes, and new platforms. Every new solution produces a thousand more questions. Are we all— with varying resources, manpower, and skills—on the same page? If you check Twitter, you’ll find a bucketful of thoughts, retweets, and very few answers.

Is the recent IRB recommendation from the Department of Health and Human Services a sign of good things to come?

Most of you seem to think so, but there are some doubts out there about maintaining accountability. Read more in Donald Ritchie’s wonderful post.

Speaking of accountability, how do we address the race, class, and gender divisions inside our own field?

differences
Image courtesy of author.

This is an awkward dilemma oftentimes answered behind the scenes by academe. Oral history’s position as “the voice of the people” is fragile and dependent in part on mutual accountability and self-policing. Did you notice that the sessions you attended exposed you to new conversations, or rehashed old ones? Is the phenomenon of an all-female audience in a panel on women’s stories a healthy breakdown of scholars into subfields, or are we constructing a wall between scholars on the same side? With so many speakers who emphasize intersectionality and boundary-crossing alliances, we should know by now that these are issues that concern us all. What do you think?

Where’s the line between oral history and public history, and what’s their relationship to one another?

Phew, this is a big one. With goals of public accessibility at the center of many cutting edge projects, the line between public history and oral history seems fuzzy. How are their respective missions different from one another with concern for disseminating knowledge at the core of both? The hierarchy between “academic” and “nonacademic” historians complicates feelings and conversations further. Both public and oral historians seem far from consensus on which is a subfield of which or where these overlap, but the presence of public historians in an OHA discussion is encouraging.

A warm thanks to those who tweeted from their panels, planes, dinner tables and hotel bathrooms – and to those who listened to your comrades’ concerns. Social media may not be the answer to our academic and societal problems, but Twitter helps us reach others near and far who share our battles.

Image Credit: “We don’t realize” by Ed Yourdon. CC BY NC-SA 2.0 via Flickr.

Landscapes of meaning

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By Andrew Shaffer

This week, we’re bringing you another exciting edition of the Oral History Review podcast, in which Troy Reeves talks to OHR contributor Jessica Taylor. In addition to discussing her article, “We’re on Fire”: Oral History and the Preservation, Commemoration, and Rebirth of Mississippi’s Civil Rights Sites, the podcast touches on the importance of listening to the priorities of community members when launching an oral history project. She also discusses the way spaces are memorialized, and how the limits of historical preservation can make it easier to maintain some stories at the expense of others.

Image Credit: “Emmett Till Marker.” Image Courtesy of the Samuel Proctor Oral History Program at the University of Florida. Used with permission.

Archivist by day, audio enthusiast by night: an interview with Dana Gerber-Margie

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By Andrew Shaffer

This week, we’re pushing the boundaries a bit to bring you an interview with Dana Gerber-Margie, who publishes The Audio Signal, a “weekly digest about audio.” Troy and I are huge fans of the newsletter, as are Pop Up Archive and even the Wall Street Journal. The interview covers some of the nuts and bolts of sorting through massive amounts of audio, as well as Gerber-Margie’s philosophy on the importance of audio. If you’d like to discuss an innovative project you’re working on, consider submitting it for publication on this blog.

I suppose we should start with the most basic question: How do you regularly discover such great audio content?

I listen all day. It’s getting a little overwhelming, actually. Audio discoverability is a really hot topic in the radio world right now. Pop Up Archive is doing a lot, along with its child Audiosear.ch. They’re trying to go beyond what we call “word of mouth” discovery, which includes my newsletter and similar newsletters like The Timbre, podcast broadcast, and Adolescence is a marketing tool. I subscribe to all of the above, plus budding newsletters, to catch something new. I also often use recommendations from podcast hosts.

I use PocketCasts to listen to podcasts and Overdrive for the audiobooks I get from my library. PocketCasts offers a Discover page that features new and upcoming shows, like a recent fictional horror series called Limetown. I also use PocketCasts to follow Trending and Top podcasts, and every two weeks or so I poke around through the PocketCasts categories—Education, Science, Arts & Culture, etc.

Lastly, I made a little submission form for people to recommend things to me. As for discovering archival audio, I put out a call for audio clips a few months ago. I keep a spreadsheet of websites and catalogs to look through each week. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time to poke around and find something each week, so I love when archivists send me recommendations from their collections. (Hint, hint)

What is your process for choosing which stories to include in the newsletter?

It sounds complicated but it’s become pretty simple to me! As of early September, I’m subscribed to 253 podcasts. Every day, I go through the updates from new episodes, and choose whether I’m personally interested in the subject. If I’m not personally interested, then I consider whether it would still be of interest to my readers. For example, I don’t usually listen to Fresh Air because interviews with famous people don’t interest me as much as they do other people, but sometimes the subject matter covered really does interest me, like when Terry Gross interviewed Ta-Nehisi Coates. I don’t listen to many comedy podcasts or two-people-chatting-about-pop-culture ones, but sometimes particular episodes will make the rounds in the radio world as a “must listen.” I do this because I found myself listening to new, bad, and uninteresting-to-me content and listening was becoming a chore. I didn’t start the newsletter for it to be a chore; it’s supposed to be an outlet. That’s when I made the decision that I had to have a personal connection to it, and if people didn’t like what I was recommending, there are other options out there for them.

I listen while walking home, taking the bus to work, doing chores around the house, getting ready for work, before bed, at lunch, and at work during routine tasks like barcoding or burning CDs for patrons. I can’t focus well enough when I’m doing something that needs attention to detail. I write each episode title, show, and length down into Google Sheets as I listen. If I have time or energy to write some initial comments, or mark a particular point in the episode that meant a lot to me, I have a comments tab.

On Sunday, I pick and choose my favorites. I opt for the episodes that made me especially emotional, stimulated me intellectually, or tickled my curiosity. I also aim for some variety, so that it’s not all storytelling, or economics, or history. The hardest part has been history podcasts and serialized podcasts, because it can be odd to recommend episode 37 when you might want to listen to all of the podcasts before that.

I find audio to be deeply intimate; someone’s voice is right in your ear, speaking only to you.

Aside from your weekly favorites, do you have a short list of stories you think our readers should check out first?

Ah! What a difficult question. There are a few shows that I will always, always listen to first, but let me try to suggest some specific episodes.

As someone whose life is so immersed in audio, do you have any final thoughts to share with us?

I find audio to be deeply intimate; someone’s voice is right in your ear, speaking only to you. The podcast community is only now developing ways for listeners to share thoughts and feelings, so most of it has been consumed alone for me to ruminate over by myself. Sometimes producers expertly use sound and music to enhance the experience. In archival audio, there’s an element of time travel to it—that you are in the room listening to a conversation that never imagined it’d be overheard. And listening to oral history is so much more profound than reading transcripts, because you can hear the raw emotion coming through. Overall, oral history and audio always remind me that other people are living deeply, going through difficult times, and thinking strange or funny thoughts. I still love to read all the time, and love what my imagination conjures up. I also still really like movies, and getting the chance to see what other imaginations dream up. But audio bridges the two, and seeps into my brain in a way that I’m still imagining and feeling my own feelings but feel like I’m in the mind of the person speaking.

Image Credit: “The Audio Signal” by Dana Gerber-Margie. Used with permission. 

Bringing the Digital Humanities into the classroom

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By Troy Reeves

As a leader in oral history and digital humanities, Doug Boyd always gives his time to preach the gospel of the intersection of the two, particularly using OHMS as a conduit to bring the two of them together effectively. We at the OUPblog always appreciate the time he gives us to speak to or write about his work. Chime into the discussion in the comments below or on TwitterFacebookTumblr, or Google+. If you’d like to discuss an innovative project you’re working on, consider submitting it for publication on this blog. — Andrew Shaffer

I spent four days last month with my colleague and friend, Doug Boyd, as he and I (mainly he) gave oral history workshops in Milwaukee and Madison. While the idea to bring Boyd to Wisconsin for these trainings began with Ann Hanlon, Digital Humanities Lab head at UW-Milwaukee, I jumped at the chance to find groups to sponsor his time in Madison. I knew it would give attendees (and me) an opportunity to pick his brain about oral history, digital humanities, and his latest creation, the Oral History Metadata Synchronizer (OHMS).

It would also give Andrew and I a chance to promote Boyd’s new article, co-written with Janice W. Fernheimer, and Rachel Dixon, titled “Indexing as Engaging Oral History Research: Using OHMS to ‘Compose History’ in the Writing Classroom.” For those unfamiliar with OHMS, Boyd has talked about it in an OUPblog podcast, and also maintains a website and blog on the topic. Here are some excerpts of our chat.

Doug, why bring OHMS into the classroom?

It was not my original intention when I created OHMS to have students in the classroom working on the back-end. But once the Nunn Center began to increase our indexing efforts, we began to learn a great deal about indexing that shaped policies and workflow. Most of all, I saw the student workers really engaging with oral history in a new way. I originally tested the concept of using students in a classroom setting with a graduate Library Science course that I was teaching. OHMS provided the class with an engaging opportunity to learn something completely new about metadata, and incorporate a digital humanities element into the course. At the time we did not have very well developed tutorials for OHMS, so I was not expecting much in term of the outcome. That said, I was blown away when the interview indexes were turned in. The quality of the index was outstanding. I had the students write reflective papers on the process and got some really great feedback—they loved the opportunity to contribute to what the Nunn Center was doing and loved working with OHMS. The project provided a real opportunity to enhance the quality of pedagogy—to connect the classroom more directly to the archive. When UK Professor Jan Fernheimer and I connected, I was eager to put OHMS to the test in an undergraduate classroom. As the article suggests, the experiment was an incredible success. 

Why did you feel it important to co-write the piece?

From the beginning we felt like we were creating a collaborative model, so there was no doubt when we began looking back at the experience that we needed all three voices present in the article. I have written a great deal about OHMS, but never from this perspective. What really made this successful was Professor Fernheimer’s course design and energy. She was willing to experiment and was flexible enough to roll with variables that presented themselves during the semester. I think I can speak for Jan when I say that both of us were adamant that we needed student voices represented in this article—and not just in the form of quotations from their papers. Rachel Dixon’s perspective on being a student in that class is what makes this article so very powerful and the impact of OHMS as a pedagogical tool so real. I think there should be much more collaboration with regard to scholarship, especially integrating students into the process.

Have you brought OHMS into other classrooms? What were the results?

As a matter of fact, yes. Since the article was originally submitted, I used the experiences gleaned from working with Professor Fernheimer’s classes when presented with the opportunity to work with Charlie Hardy and Janneken Smucker at West Chester University this year. Charlie and Janneken were teaching a digital history course and wanted to utilize OHMS to present interviews Charlie conducted back in the 1980s that documented the First Great Migration North to Philadelphia (the interviews had been archived at the Nunn Center). By the end of the semester, the students had used OHMS and Omeka to produce the Goin’ North website that won the 2015 Oral History Association Award for Use of Oral History in a Non Print Format. I am so proud of this collaboration. It was largely built on the lessons learned from the original collaboration presented in our article and really takes the model of using OHMS as a pedagogical tool to the next level.

Image Credit: “Classroom” by Miki Yoshihita. CC BY 2.0 via Flickr.

 

Back to the “stove front”: an oral history project about Cuban housewives

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By Carmen Doncel and Henry Eric Hernández

We recently asked you to tell us to send us your reflections, stories, and the difficulties you’ve faced while doing oral history. This week, we bring you another post in this series, focusing on an oral history project from Carmen Doncel and Henry Eric Hernández. We encourage you to to chime into the discussion, comment below or on our TwitterFacebookTumblr, and G+ pages. If you’d like to submit your own work, check out the guidelines. Enjoy! – Andrew Shaffer

Every utopia contains dystopian spaces, places that must be destroyed and eliminated, for they represent values totally contrary to the ideals on which the new society must be built. In the particular case of the emancipatory project that the Cuban Revolution conceived for women, the kitchen—identified as the symbol of their exploitation and oppression in capitalist societies—became one of these spaces whose walls had to be demolished and, with them, the figure of the housewife. To that end, the Marxist theorists Larguía and Dumoulin proposed in 1971 from the pages of the Cuban cultural journal, Casa de las Américas, that housewives “must commit suicide as a class, through the struggle and through the merging with the proletariat” because, like other small-scale producers, they were a marginal and secondary class that lacked “the authority to lead a country” and “oppose the imperialism.” Leave the kitchen to get into the factory or the office, take the apron off to put the overalls on, drop the ladle to take the cane knife, or replace the mop with the rifle—these became some of the watchwords of this movement through which the housewife would be substituted by a model of female identity more in line with the new socialist state: the working and militant woman.

However, and despite the significant gains achieved during this process, the incitement to leave the domestic space was not always accompanied by a real attempt to challenge the cultural and ideological foundations underpinning women’s domesticity. It was quite the opposite: far from being questioned, the ideals, virtues, expectations, and values associated with traditional female roles were reinforced and transferred from the old to the new model. So, dressed in their new olive green fatigues, Cuban women were still expected to display the same spirit of sacrifice, total commitment, and absolute dedication to the party, the motherland, and the revolutionary cause that had been previously required of them within the household as devote mothers, and faithful and obedient wives. And then, when they were the first who had to give up their jobs due to the crisis of the 1990s that came with the collapse of the socialist block, they were also asked to resign themselves and go back to “the stove front,” to that kitchen where sometimes there were no children left waiting for them, either because they had abandoned the country, tired of these same causes, or because they had died fighting for them in some internationalist mission.

According to the anthropologist Isabel Holgado, during the so-called “Special Period in Time of Peace,” the State delegated its social functions to women, while at the same time certain social services were carried out again at home. Those housewives who had been forced to self-immolation had to rise from their ashes and make a great effort to solve the problems of daily life. In view of their importance in cushioning the impact of the crisisand so avoiding the collapse of the systemthese “domestic strategists” were revalued and even recognized as national heroines by the same government, which had despised them before for being economically unproductive and politically inactive.

Considering the above, the online project “It happened in the kitchen of my house” is conceived as an interdisciplinary and multimedia project. Combining the theoretical and methodological assumptions of oral history with the main concepts of art intervention, it aims to explore this difficult (and sometimes traumatic) process of “returning home” as it was lived by some Cuban woman from diverse parts of the island. Moreover, it strives to draw attention to the kitchen as a political forum for grievance and protestthat is, as a rhetorical space from and about which these women communicated their dissatisfaction, frustration, discontent, resentment, and disagreement with the ruling power. The first stage of the fieldwork was carried out between 2004 and 2008 in different places of Pinar del Río, Havana, and Camagüey provinces, where we interviewed several women of different ages and life paths, some of whom we lived with and accompanied in their quotidian chores. For this, we were granted financial support from the Spanish Agency for International Development Cooperation-Spanish Embassy in Havana in 2004, from which we would also receive the Visual Art Prize in 2006.

The material gathered during our fieldwork includes the audio and visual recording of the interviews, personal documents of the interviewees, and photographic documentation of their kitchens, all of which are now accessible on the website we created for that purpose earlier this year. Designed as chest of drawers, the website of “It happened in the kitchen of my house” offers people access to free audio files of the interviews, a series of short documentary films based on the audiovisual material collected, the fieldwork notes, and a set of postcards. Created as artistic objects using the aforementioned pictures of the kitchens, some fragments of the interview transcriptions, and personal documents, these postcards are part of an art book made from silkscreen printing, due to be published in 2016. Conceived as a work in progress and as a space for dialogue, the online project “It happened in the kitchen of my house” also includes a section for the articles that are currently being prepared by the authors of the project, as well as by others who are interested in analyzing the previously stated issues associated with the figure of the housewife within revolutionary Cuba.

This article originally appeared in the newsletter of the International Oral History Association.

Image Credit: “Documentation of a kitchen” by Hernández-Doncel. Used with permission.

Off the beaten path: An insider’s guide to Tampa history for #OHA2015

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By Jessica Taylor

There are less than two months left before we converge on Tampa for the Oral History Association’s annual meeting! This week, we asked Jessica Taylor of the University of Florida’s Samuel Proctor Oral History Program, who authored “We’re on Fire: Oral History and the Preservation, Commemoration, and Rebirth of Mississippi’s Civil Rights Sites” in the most recent Oral History Review, to give us the inside scoop on some local stories of interest to oral historians. Check it out below, and make sure to book your tickets while they’re still available.

“You, the favored inhabitants of the Sun God’s Golden Land—of the pearl-made beaches, conversing palms, persuasive breezes, of little giggling waves which, surprising you on the seashore seeking amusement, steal up and deposit gifts of tinted shells and pebbles at your feet, then dance away to gather more for you; you for whom the more than stately pleasure domes that far surpass the most extravagant dreams of Kubla Khan in Xanadu have been built—how aware are you of the subterranean force which flows beneath your fabulous mansions?”

—Zora Neale Hurston, “Florida’s Migrant Farm Labor

Unless we all boarded a plane for Sandals™, it’d be hard to plan a conference in an environment more expertly engineered for relaxation than Florida in the winter. A hundred million tourists agree; they’d like to spend their vacation time and cash (around $82 billion in 2014) on the coast, in restaurants with marvelous food. They’d like to drive very, very slowly down shady streets framed by Victorians houses and live oaks and Spanish moss. They’d like to take a long series of pictures in a new and exciting place. They’d like to escape.

Florida historians, including the ones with recorders, insist time and again that escape isn’t possible. Florida is a political and social reflection of both the South and the nation as a whole, and the movement of people and changes in landscapes represent, as Steve Noll writes in Ditch of Dreams, “visions of progress, economic growth, and preservation.” Online news sources might highlight Florida’s bizarre or terrifying daily occurrences, but visitors continue to pour into the Sunshine State in record-breaking numbers even after news of Trayvon Martin’s death, Jeb Bush’s run, manatee insanity, and the struggle for migrant farm worker rights reverberated beyond.

Florida is still unique, though, for the same reason that the field of oral history is special. Florida’s beaches are still beautiful, and its people still diverse, because historians, environmentalists, and working people struggled over the past century to preserve their communities. That’s why you’ll like it so much. Here’s what to look forward to:

“Canoeing on the Hillsboro (sic), Tampa, Fla. The Cigar City." Courtesy of the Matheson History Museum.
“Canoeing on the Hillsboro (sic), Tampa, Fla. The Cigar City.” Courtesy of the Matheson History Museum.

Dixie Crystal beaches and crystal-clear rivers…preserved by environmentalists

The “best beaches in America” and natural treasures like the Suwanee River and Silver Springs scoop up over $5 billion in tourism tax revenue for Florida. But here, even nature is hard-won. The tourist industry and the state are still benefitting from a movement initiated a century ago by Florida women. At the turn of the nineteenth century, they plucked the feathers off their hats and fundraised for the Audubon Society. In 1947, Marjory Stoneman Douglas introduced Everglades: River of Grass, with “There are no other Everglades in the world.” Marjorie Harris Carr saved the Ocklawaha River from the construction of the Cross Florida Barge Canal in 1971. In Tampa today, residents lead the restoration of seagrass marshes that clean the bay. For every sunset you watch while you’re here (hopefully all five!), know that the water literally reflects a long stand against environmental injustice and exploitation.

Historic neighborhoods and thriving business districts…built by immigrants

Tampa is also home to Ybor City, where you can stroll (or ride a Segway) past dozens of restaurants and art galleries housed in the Historic Landmark District. But a century ago, Ybor housed tens of thousands of Cuban, Spanish, and Italian cigar factory workers at the turn of the twentieth century. Historically significant domestic and industrial architecture, cooperative mutual aid societies, and radical Cuban revolutionary ideas propelled Ybor City forward as a centerpiece for Latin social movements. With the onset of mechanization and the new found popularity of cigarettes, Ybor slowly lost its industrial base, and with that, its unique working class Latino/a culture. The major blow occurred in 1931 when cigar manufacturers hired lower-paid white residents to replace striking Latino/a workers.

The bittersweet truth: Ybor City is just one of hundreds of historic communities in Florida and thousands in the United States where working people built lives and fought exploitation with creativity. Heydays and radical politics long since gone, their homes and workplaces, oftentimes reflective of those radical politics, add texture along the edges of twenty-first century prefab communities. Ybor City and others like it are worth the walk.

“West Tampa, Fla. Spanish and Cuban Tenement Houses.” Courtesy of the Matheson History Museum.
“West Tampa, Fla. Spanish and Cuban Tenement Houses.” Courtesy of the Matheson History Museum.

Floridians who love song and storytelling…made famous by Hurston, Kennedy, and Lomax

Mama Duck: “I wanta tell you all I can about slave days and I wanta tell it right. I done prayed and got all the malice out of my heart, and I ain’t gonna tell no lies for em or on em.”

—Stetson Kennedy, Palmetto Country

The Federal Writers Project blossomed in Florida with unrivaled enthusiasm, starting in 1935 when Alan Lomax and Zora Neale Hurston teamed up to gather songs from workers in turpentine camps. Stetson Kennedy tagged along on a fieldwork excursion to Ybor City with the Works Progress Administration in 1939; it was their second trip that year alone to the Tampa area. These folklorists and writers, inspired at least in part by the struggles and stories of Florida’s diverse communities, inaugurated the American oral history tradition. Kennedy and Hurston, among others, advocated not only the archiving, but the wider retelling of racial exploitation in words stemming from experience.

The oral history tradition in Florida is so rich because it is so diverse, full of people who reaffirm their identities as Floridians and Americans. Tampa is only the front door; open it and you will hear the cacophony, a rich archive. I hope you find power in retracing the footprints of both the folklorist and her narrator.

Image Credit: “Tampa’s Skyline” by David Basanta. CC BY NC-SA 2.0 via Flickr.

 

On spatial strategies of narration

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By Time Cole

Tim Cole’s article “(Re)Placing the Past: Spatial Strategies of Retelling Difficult Stories” in the most recent Oral History Review raises some really intriguing questions about the function of space and distance in oral history interviews. Cole graciously agreed to answer some of our questions over email, which we’ve reproduced here for your enjoyment.

How did you get turned on to the topic of space in oral history?

My graduate training was in geography, so although I teach in a history department, I think like a geographer. Whatever source I am working with, questions of space and place are always in the back of my mind. Originally I worked primarily with textual sources on a series of books and articles on the spatiality of the Holocaust. More recently, I have turned to oral history, as my focus has shifted from those “doctors of space” (following Henri Lefebvre) who reshaped cities and the European continent through so-called “bystanders” or neighbors, to Jews and their own place-making practices. Working on a new book that focused on Jewish experiences, I started to notice what I call “spatial strategies of narration” in the oral histories that I was working with.

In your article, you discuss these “spatial strategies of narration” that narrators use to “literally [replace] the past.” Can you talk about the process of locating and analyzing these spatial changes?

I had been attuned to the idea of changing narratives through earlier work I had done around one family’s disparate endings in diary, memoir, and letter accounts in Traces of the Holocaust (2011), as well as the important work of Mark Roseman, who discusses examples of changed narratives in A Past in Hiding(2000). Looking back, what surprises me now is that I did not make more of the ways that these changes were spatial given my geographical training! As I started to work with a larger number of oral histories, I found that there were some similar patterns of changing narratives that became apparent, and that these—like my own earlier work and Roseman’s—involved literally putting “self” somewhere else. Earl Greif’s reflections in his memoir triggered my thinking here and I revisited his oral history in the light of this. I suppose that once I’d begun to pay more attention to where survivors put themselves and others in the narrative, I started to see some suggestive patterns emerging elsewhere. It is striking that geographers have largely remained absent from the interdisciplinary community that works with oral history. My sense is that there may be work for geographers to do in alerting oral historians to the ways that space and place operate in oral history narration. My hope is that this article might be part of that broader conversation.

A little while ago, Hank Greenspan wrote a piece about examining changes in interviews with Holocaust survivors to glean deeper meanings and complexities. What differences do you see in your approaches or methodologies?

I admire Hank and his work, especially given his emphasis on multiple interviews over a long period of time, rather than a single interview. As he suggests, this allows for more complex and multiple narratives to emerge. That sense of change over time is something that I see in both Earl Greif and Regina Laks Gelb, who are largely featured in my article. I suppose what I would want to add to the historian’s concern regarding change over time is to add a geographer’s concern with place. Hannah Pollin-Galay is doing some interesting work here, thinking about the differences between interviews undertaken with survivors living close to—and distant from—the site of persecution. Like Hank, she uncovers more complex stories of the past in the process.  I’m interested in the stories that people tell in different places, but I’m also interested in the ways in which people place themselves within different places in the story So I want to think about narrative strategies as well as the time and place of the interview.

Retelling is difficult because many stories are not only hard to retell, but also hard to listen to.

In your article, you suggest some of the narrations “reposition themselves and others within them in order to negotiate difficult stories.” Jennifer Helgren recently discussed the fact that many of her interviews told her very little about the past she was investigating, but much more about the present anxieties of her interviewees. Do you find similar changes reflected in the interviews you discuss?

As Jennifer suggests, histories do move between past and present, and—I’d add—between here (the place of retelling) and there (the place of past experience), which in many cases are not the same. However, with Holocaust survivors, I think there is oftentimes a such a chasm between now and then, and here and there. This means that—and this is something Hank has written about—retelling is difficult because many stories are not only hard to retell, but also hard to listen to. That is where spatial strategies emerge, of repositioning self and others to make a story not only easier to retell, but also easier for others to hear in a very different time and place. Spatial strategies enable individuals to navigate their relationships with past participants and present listeners as well as themselves.

Towards the end of your article, you cite Anzac Memories and “strategies of containment.” Since Al has a piece in 42.1 where he revisits Anzac, I wonder if you have any comments on it, particularly as it pertains to your piece and/or your scholarship.

Al’s reflections chime with some of my own work in this article as well as Mark Roseman’s work—who Al footnotes—and Hank’s own reflections on multiple interviews. There is, of course, a place for working with a single interview, which remains a normal practice in oral history, but there is much to be gained from the comparative lens allowed by multiple interviews (as Hank has done) or examining textual sources (as Al, Mark and I have done). Working with these additional sources provides a way of looking at the interview with a new set of questions, while also being attentive to dissonance and its meaning. In his article, Al writes that, “Our opportunity in oral history is to study both the unchanging past and the changing uses and meanings of the past in the present.” One way to access those changing uses and meanings is through adopting an intentionally comparative approach.

Is there anything you couldn’t address in the article that you’d like to share here?

The article feels like very much a beginning of exploration and a work in progress. I would have liked to have drawn in more examples from more interviews, but decided to focus in on a few to enable me to say something about spatial strategies of retelling. I think that there is, as I hope I show, evidence of spatial strategies being adopted, but I don’t want to suggest that is all that is happening! There is so much more going on in oral histories than simply this. I hope the book that I am completing at the moment, Holocaust Landscapes, will show the value of paying attention to how survivors narrate the past in a variety of ways, helping us to better understand—to borrow Al’s words again—“the unchanging past and the changing uses and meanings of the past in the present.”

Image Credit: “Berlin Holocaust Memorial” by Patrick Down. CC BY NC 2.0 via Flickr.

What’s your story? Calling all oral history bloggers

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By Andrew Shaffer 

Over the last few months, we’ve had the pleasure of publishing thoughtful reflections, compelling narratives, and deep engagements with what it means to do oral history. Each post was written by a member of the oral history community who was willing to share his or her thoughts and experiences with all of us. We received an incredible response from our last call for submissions, so we’re coming back again to ask for more. But first, let’s talk about how amazing the posts we’ve published in the last few months have been.

In February, Mark Larson shared some of his multimedia oral histories and explained how his process aims to see the world through the eyes of his interviewee.

Students at Columbia University’s Oral History Master’s Program took to the OHA blog in March to give us a taste of the groundbreaking work they’re doing, both in their research and on their own blog.

Melissa Ziobro opened up in April about some of the difficulties she has had starting a veteran’s oral history project, and asked for input from the community to help it grow.

In May, Hank Greenspan gave a moving account of what can happen as relationships grow and develop between interviewers and interviewees over time.

Two weeks ago, we featured a powerful narrative from Eliza Lambert asking how oral historians can preserve the beauty and value of stories that need to be shared, even when they fall outside of our project’s scope.

So now it’s your turn. Whether you have reflections on fieldwork, thoughts on the field of oral history as a whole, or a compelling narrative that is crying out for an audience, we want to hear from you. We want to use our social media platforms to encourage discussion within the broad community of oral historians, from professional historians to hobbyists. Part of encouraging that discussion is asking you all to contribute your thoughts and experiences.

We are looking for posts between 500-800 words or 15-20 minutes of audio or video. These are rough guidelines, however, so we are open to negotiation in terms of media and format. We should also stress that while we welcome posts that showcase a particular project, we can’t serve as landing page for kickstarter or similar funding sites.

Please direct any questions, pitches, or submissions to the social media coordinator, Andrew Shaffer, at ohreview[at]gmail[dot]com. You can also message us on Twitter or Facebook.

We look forward to hearing from you!

Image Credit: “Mailboxes” by tanakawho. CC BY NC 2.0 via Flickr.

Uniqueness lost

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By Eliza Lambert

A few months ago, we asked you to tell us about the work you’re doing. Many of you responded, so for the last few months, we’ve been publishing reflections, stories, and difficulties faced by fellow oral historians. This week, we bring you another post in this series, focusing on the difficult question of what to do with powerful stories that fall outside of an oral history project’s mission. We encourage you to engage with these posts by leaving comments, reaching out directly to the authors, or chiming in on TwitterFacebookTumblr, and Google Plus . If you’d like to submit your own work, check out the guidelines. Enjoy! – Andrew Shaffer, Oral History Review

“When I went to the Iv’ry Coast, about thirty years ago, I remember coming off the plane and just being assaulted with not only the heat but the color.” These were the first words of the most moving story I have ever heard—but it wasn’t the story I was there to collect. For me, the best oral histories are the ones that sound a human chord, stories that blur the spaces between historically significant narrative and personal development. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve been there. You become involved, attached, and sometimes, devastated. Why? Because every once in a while, a story is outside of the scope of historical inquiry. It can’t be included in whatever project you’re working on, and may never see the light of day. This was the unknown fate of Sandi Howell’s particularly moving story, who I was interviewing for By The Work Of Her Hands, a State Department-funded exhibit that was fostering cross-cultural exchange between Moroccan embroiderers and African American quilters. Sandi was very open about what she calls ‘her uniqueness.’ Little did we know how unique our interview would be.

I was aware of African fabric before, but never had I seen it [makes whooshing noise] like that. I find that if African Americans and Latinos have a different sensibility where colors are concerned, as opposed to European. Everything went together. It was just chaotic, but it was gorgeous, and it was comfortable. It felt right.

Sandi and I sat down in a noisy diner across from her apartment, and her many bracelets jangled, just as loud as the fabric she was describing. I was there to discuss the craft of her quilting, but when her trip to the Ivory Coast came up, a new thread began to emerge.

It was very emotional because even having people from Africa [in the United States], it’s nothing like bein’ there live. It’s also a matter of things you’ve been told all your life or that you’ve heard. ‘Black is not beautiful, black is this, black is that.’ Even being proud of who I was, I never had to go through the black power thing. I’m a kid of the ’60s. We always knew who we were. But now you’re getting it reinforced in this light. To go to the country and see these people. All of a sudden, the connection to the Middle Passage made sense. It was very, very, very emotional.

What do we lose when we call powerful stories irrelevant?

What was even more traumatic was to see faces that looked familiar to me that I knew were not. I had one day [where] I stayed in tears for almost twenty-four hours. Because we were goin’ to the villages. We were talking to the elders. It went from English to French to whatever the language, but it always had to be that three-way translation. There was a group of us that was African American. One day, the chief of the village wanted to know from the interpreter, ‘Why would these black people dress like the white people?’ Oh boy.

An intensity descended upon the table, settling amidst our steaming lunch. A certain awe, a holiness, crept into Sandi’s voice. Everyone has experienced being stopped dead by the workings of the world—but it is rare to discuss these experiences with a stranger. Realizing we were about to embark, Sandi took a breath and continued:

They were tryin’ to get the concept. We were all lookin’ at each other, tryin’ to get the concept, to understand, ‘Don’t they know about slavery?’ No, they didn’t. They said, in terms for them, they thought that the ancestors had gone away to learn a new technology. Oh boy.

Now came the explanation about slavery, and they were aghast. Here comes that explanation of what happened. All of a sudden we were getting hugs. We were welcomed home. I was gone again. I stayed in tears.

Sandi and I were also in tears, abuzz in the intensity of our sharing space. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, and laughed tentatively. Sandi laughed too, “Don’t tell me anything. It was wonderful.” We slowly gathered ourselves and continued talking for two hours, in a way much smoother than before, almost as if we’d left being strangers behind.

When I got home and reviewed the tape, I realized I couldn’t use it in the exhibition. Her story—so vibrant and heart-wrenching—did not comment upon her quilting craft. I was devastated. A part of me felt certain that its exclusion meant an essence of ‘uniqueness’ was lost, and that this was also true on a larger scale. Didn’t Sandi’s story provide something vital, not just to any narrative understanding of her character, but also to our understanding of the world? Did our project gain value through editing for historical relevance, even when so much was clearly lost?

I am engaged by oral history because of the way it demonstrates the dramatic phenomenon of the human experience within academia, art, and politics. But where our lives involve this spectrum of disciplines without discrimination, these disciplines heavily categorize, thus losing the universal quality of the human voice. Editing for content is a vital process all oral historians experience, but it calls into question the way we dissect our society and history. What do we lose when we call powerful stories irrelevant?

Image Credit: Photo taken by Eliza Lambert as part of By The Work Of Her Hands, a State Department-funded exhibit fostering cross-cultural exchange between Moroccan embroiderers and African American quilters. Used with permission.

Elspeth Brown on digital collaboration in LGBTQ oral history

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By Elspeth Brown

This week on the Oral History Review blog, we’re continuing our recognition of LGBTQ Pride month with a special podcast featuring Elspeth Brown. In the podcast, Brown discusses the LGBTQ Oral History Digital Collaboratory, as well as her work as a member of the community and a historian. Check out the links below for more information, and send us your proposals if you’d like to share your work with the OHR blog.

The LGBTQ Oral History Digital Collaboratory is a five-year digital history and oral history research collaboration that connects archives across Canada and the United States to produce a collaborative digital history hub for the research and study of gay, lesbian, queer, and trans* oral histories.  The Collaboratory is the largest LGBTQ oral history project in North American history, connecting over 200 life stories with new methodologies in digital history, collaborative research, and archival practice. The Collaboratory is supported by a research grant from the Social Science & Humanities Research Council of Canada.

The project explores the histories of trans* people, queer women, gay men, and lesbians in the United States and Canada through the creation of a virtual research meeting place, the completion of four distinct oral history projects, a digital LGBTQ “oral history hub,” and a digital trans archival collections pathfinder.

The TransPartners Project is devoted to exploring (and historicizing) the experience of partners for trans* men. More specifically, it focuses on partners who were with their partner before and during at least six months of the transition, however defined (the couple does not have to be together now). The project also functions as a site to gather resources that might be of interest to partners of trans men, since there is currently so little information available for partners.

The Canadian Lesbian and Gay Archives is the largest independent LGBTQ+ archives in the world. With a focus on Canadian content, the CLGA acquires, preserves and provides public access to information and archival materials in any medium. By collecting and caring for important historical records, personal papers, unpublished documents, publications, audio-visual material, works of art, photographs, posters, and other artifacts, the CLGA is a trusted guardian of LGBTQ+ histories now and for generations to come.

Image Credit: “Gay Pride Paris 2013” by Guitguit. CC BY NC-SA 2.0 via Flickr.

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