The Intersubjectivities of Interviewing and Pregnancy

All oral history interviews result from the interaction between interviewee and interviewer, and the intersubjectivities within that relationship. Oral historian Liz Strong experienced many variations of this dynamic over the nine months of her pregnancy, which she shares in this post.

By Liz Strong

On the day that I went into labor, I conducted two back-to-back oral history interviews in Manhattan and in Brooklyn. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t recommend doing oral history fieldwork at that pace. Even the simplest, most joyful and life-affirming oral history interviews require all my focus, and leave me exhausted to spend the rest of the day in a cloud. At eight-and-a-half months pregnant, two oral histories in one day was especially ill-advised. 

I did it because I needed the work, because I loved the projects, and because there was no other time to get the interviews done. I did it because this was my first pregnancy, and I hadn’t learned my limits. And I was able to accomplish it because I have a supportive partner who was ready and available to help. He rode with me both ways on the subway, holding my hand through waves of nausea that came with every bump and jolt. He met me with snacks and bubbly water between interviews, to help settle my stomach and keep my energy up. After the long day was done, I climbed the four flights of stairs to our apartment, I flopped down by the air conditioner to finally relax, and my water broke. He then packed our bags and calmly called an ambulance.

Five hours later, we had a healthy baby boy.

I’m writing about this experience because I know I’m not the only oral historian to work this hard while pregnant. In the nine months of my pregnancy I recorded twenty-two oral history interviews. Over the course of that time, pregnancy influenced every part of my practice as an oral historian: how I communicated with narrators, hosted interview sessions, structured interviews, absorbed and responded to what narrators told me, and even the equipment I used. 

I’d like to encourage more women to talk about these experiences. Doing so is more than just an opportunity to begin sharing resources and supporting each other. Pregnancy affords us a unique opportunity to examine our oral history practice because it is such an extreme, and ephemeral, physical and emotional transition. We have a chance to experience, first hand, how people interact with us differently and how those intersubjective exchanges of the interview can change and then change again after pregnancy. 

Beginning in my first trimester—and continuing well into my third—I had horrible morning sickness that lasted all day long. Riding the train to Queens for an interview, I clung to the pole of the crowded subway car with my eyes closed, breathing slowly through my nose. No one was giving up their seat. I could only look forward to the small privileges of being visibly pregnant. Slung in my backpack I had two lapel mics, a recorder, backup batteries, a portfolio of release forms, and two apples (currently the only food I could comfortably keep down). 

The oral history interview was in an old synagogue near Flushing Meadows Corona Park, and the walk from the subway helped soothe the nausea. By the time I reached my destination, I felt myself again and my narrator was none the wiser. The interview was like many others; I made an effort to host the interview in a way that would engage her and make her most comfortable. She interacted with me professionally, warmly and genuinely, but without much curiosity about who I am as a person. 

By the second trimester, the interview dynamic started to change. I was beginning to show. Narrators who I had met during my first trimester had a whole new response to me: “I didn’t realize you were pregnant! What are you having? When are you due?” We would launch into celebratory conversations about my future as I set up equipment and got settled. By the time the interview started a few minutes later we were chatting like old friends. 

The second trimester also had new challenges for me. I had to adapt to always feeling just a little bit exhausted and out of breath. I quit my weekend job, added thirty minutes to all my estimated travel times to interviews, and embraced my new place on the right side of New York subway escalators as everyone else raced passed. My morning sickness hadn’t subsided, but I had medication to help. Even so, I was still dealing with extra internal noises experienced by many pregnant women, that could be picked up with the extreme sensitivity of lapel microphones. I experimented with new microphone set-ups, eventually settling on a kit I continue to prefer post-pregnancy.

I found that my favorite microphone was a dynamic supercardioid one, built for close-micing and rejecting room noise, similar to those used in radio studios. This gave me lots of control over my levels, to lean away a little when I didn’t want to be heard so clearly, and to speak directly into the mic when I did. While that was great for me, I didn’t want narrators to have to be as mic-conscious. So, for them, I used a small diaphragm cardioid condenser microphone, which has a broad cone of sensitivity allowing them to lean forward and back or side to side as they got comfortable over the course of an interview. I often carried a second narrator microphone with me as well. In the event of a surprise group interview, I could set up both cardioid condenser microphones in an XY configuration in order to capture the whole group together without phase cancellation. 

In my third trimester, I was undeniably showing. No one was too shy to ask about my pregnancy. What most distinctively marked this period for me was how the dynamics of hospitality shifted. I was used to playing host during interviews, regardless of whether we were in my office or a narrator’s home. I made sure the narrator was comfortable, offered them water, checked in with them about taking breaks, and generally centered their needs during our visit. As a pregnant interviewer I had to quickly accept a complete reversal of this dynamic. Just about everyone I interviewed made sure I was sitting in the most comfortable chair available. Glasses of water were frequently offered, and one woman cooked me a whole meal. While all of this attention was very generous, I struggled with feeling like I had transformed into a distracting physical presence. 

I soon came to accept that I did appreciate an extra cushion on my chair, food always helped my energy and focus, and making it through two-hour conversations without bathroom breaks was probably asking too much of myself. It wasn’t easy for me to embrace my new physical needs as a normal part of my process as an interviewer. In spite of that, everyone I met was eager to help. All of my narrators were either close to someone who had been pregnant, or had been through it themselves. This gave us instant camaraderie.

After my son was born, I went back to work after my eight weeks of recently state-mandated maternity leave. I dove into fieldwork at my old pace, with an interview already scheduled for my first day back. My biggest hurdle at this point was the logistics of pumping breast milk. In an eight-hour work day, I usually had to pump three times for twenty minutes to stay comfortable. I was very lucky that my employer provided a lactation room. I had access to a clean private space, and stored my electric pump there. It was centrally located in Brooklyn, so in most cases I could easily plan my trips around the city with a layover or two as needed. If I had to go much farther afield, I would throw a hand pump and cooler bag in with my recording equipment, and hope to find a Starbucks bathroom along the way. 

Relationships with my narrators continued to have a subtle sweetness to them. The idea of a new baby in the world is magical, and people were absolutely radiant towards me. I was especially drawn in by the way that fellow parents treated me as if we were all in on the same story. As an interviewer, I began to see narrators’ motivations as parents in clearer focus. My line of inquiry often followed their passions and creativity in raising children. They recognized in me a new kind of genuine interest and were eager to share experiences. In an interview with Nailah Lymus in 2018, when my son was three months and hers was ten years, we had the following exchange:

STRONG: So, an important aspect of your career that we haven’t really touched on yet is, you have a son… He was born just a couple of years after you started your own line, right?  

LYMUS: Yes. This guy… I really feel like God just blessed me with him, because, I’ve been in the industry from when he was in my stomach. I remember sewing, and sometimes I’d have to take a break because he’d be like kicking the crap out of my stomach, like, “Mom, that’s enough, I don’t want the vibration anymore.” …But he just adjusts to my lifestyle so well.  I mean part of it is he grew up in it, like fashion shows and going to photo shoots…

An important premise of oral history research is that we have to acknowledge the emotional and embodied contexts in which we live our lives and remember our pasts. Lymus’s career and motherhood were inexorably linked, and so were mine. Knowing that about myself, and recognizing it in others, became part of my strength and style as an interviewer.  

For me, pregnancy was an opportunity to build awareness about my physicality in an interview. The challenges of being pregnant ultimately improved the way that I record, and the way that I communicate with narrators about what we each need. I think I’ve gained a powerful intentionality and presence in my work. I definitely pushed myself too far at times, but I was lucky to have people I could rely on for help. I’m grateful for all of these experiences, and for the way I’ve grown as an interviewer.

I hope that those of you reading this will take the time to share experiences of your own in the comments. What did you learn about yourself? What changed about oral history interviewing for you over the course of your experience? What advice would you share for other women in the midst of fieldwork and pregnancy? I believe that the more we talk about this, the more we all stand to gain.

Liz Strong is Project Coordinator for the Obama Presidency Oral History. She previously served as the Project Coordinator for “Muslims in Brooklyn” at the Brooklyn Historical Society (BHS) from 2017 to 2019. From 2015 to 2019, Liz was the Oral History Program Manager for the New York Preservation Archive Project (NYPAP), where she lead several oral history initiatives on the history of the preservation movement in New York City. Previously, she worked with the Columbia Center for Oral History Research to write their Oral History Transcription Style Guide. She was also a member of the Oral History Association task force to author their 2018 Principles & Best Practices. As a freelance oral historian and personal historian, beginning in 2010, she worked with a variety of clients, including the Washington Department of Commerce in 2013, and the University of Arizona Steward Observatory in 2012. She received her MA in Oral History from Columbia Graduate School of Arts & Sciences in 2015, and her BA in Narrative Arts from Oberlin College in 2009.

Featured image courtesy of author