As a graduate student, I am constantly asked about what I study. I have to admit that I am always a bit hesitant to provide any details. Perhaps I have seen too many polite nods and glassy eyes to be able to convince myself that what I do is sexy or provocative in any way. Saying that I do historical research seems to have a distinct sedative effect. But, given that I can’t see your eyes or your nodding head, I have decided now is the perfect time to talk about what it is exactly that I do.
As a historical researcher, I spend a lot of time pouring over old newspapers and other minutiae of the ‘everyday.’ And I have to say that there is something hauntingly beautiful about the archive. To the outside observer, I imagine I am simply a middle aged woman squinting at the screen as microfiche whirs by in an almost nauseating start and stop fashion. But in my world, I am a time traveller, watching time flash by on the screen. At a push of a button, I can freeze time, and step into another world. A world where the latest fashion from
Usually I step in slowly, letting myself become accustomed to this new (old) world. First, I read the advertisements because even in 1900, my shopping addiction reigns. Then I’ll let my eyes wander carelessly across headlines until something catches my eye. Sometimes it is an old wedding picture. Other times, it is a hauntingly told half-story of murder and intrigue. My mind fills in the blanks in creative ways, turning the murder of a 17 year old girl by her 20 year old boyfriend into a tragic version of Romeo and Juliet. He says that she and he had a suicide pact, but he couldn’t bring himself to end his life after he had ended hers. He confesses to murder, but refuses to ever tell the reason. It is a story that deserves to be told, but one that remains hidden in the archive. It is not my story to tell. But, I am saddened that it is only half-told and by now totally forgotten.
The ghosts of the archive refuse to be silent. They wait for me and those like me to bring them to life. I am always aware of their presence and feel humbled to be the one who gets to tell their stories. But the archive is not all romance, tragic or heroic. It, like all worlds past and present holds the stories that are sometimes too painful to bear. The ugliness I see in this world tears at my heart. You see, it is also a world where the ‘little brown men’ are seen as fraudulent citizens, where immigrants of colour are referred to as ‘cargo.’ It is a world where the right to vote was dependent on the colour of one’s skin. In this world where a man could buy trousers for $2.00, a $100 fine was imposed to any ‘Collector of Votes’ who added the “names of Japanese, Chinese or Indians” to the voter’s list.
I walk in this world carefully. Sometimes the landmines that I uncover spring up with no warning in this world of cricket, lawn tennis and English Sailor hats. Other times, the danger is abundantly clear and although it always saddens me, it does not take my breath away in the same way. Good and bad, this is the world I work in. My commute spans not miles, but decades or centuries. My research participants are apparitions of forgotten memories and misplaced recollections. Out of the chaos, they rise. It is a world of beauty, intrigue and mystery. Welcome to my world.
2 comments:
shells - there is nothing sexier than history - seriously. nor is their anything sexier than being a voyeur into the everyday - that is what sociologists are, no? (and if you ever refer to yourself as a squinting middle-aged woman again, heads will roll;).
Thanks, Jacks! And thanks for the inspiration as always. :)
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