I love my birthday. Summer birthdays- especially those in August!- were never that fun when I was a kid, because you didn’t get a classroom celebration (except for maybe a lamers one at the end of the school year) and a lot of your friends would be on vacation elsewhere when the actual day rolled around. I also had to contend with my brother’s birthday being two days after mine, but you get used to that. Continue reading “More little things. And irritating voices in one’s head.”→
Dad and I were always pretty different. Politics had something to do with it- I went hard left as I got holder and he would watch Fox News in front of me to get my goat. But we were also just different kinds of people. I’m chatty compared to him, I like to write, and I liked weird music, art and books. Okay, well he grew to like weird books, but it wasn’t a frequent topic of discussion. I digress.
When I turned 18, I moved 400 miles away pretty much for good. The thing is, when you move that far away from family and only make it home a couple of times a year, talking is what sustains the bond. Mom and I would talk all the time- Dad hardly ever wanted to come to the phone.
So when we did talk, I felt like I was always playing catch up. Hearing about his home improvement projects- things I didn’t get the chance to do since I was a mere apartment dweller. Or talking to him about my interest in cars- his surprise when i told him I was a fan of a particular British car repair show. Conversations always too short to get into the why and how- conversations that would’ve been different if we had days and weeks and months and years of hanging out to have them.
Anyways, this past weekend he loomed heavily in my mind. At the home we recently bought (but Dad never go the chance to visit), a leaky gutter was bugging me so I got up on a ladder to inspect it. And we went down to a classic car show in town that was chock a block with amazing sights- mostly American cars, muscle cars of every denomination, and beautiful land yachts that defied description. Dad would’ve loved to see it. And he would’ve loved dispensing advice on that stupid gutter (looks like someone cut a section out and replaced it- so of course it leaks!).
I’m going to have to get used to this, obviously. There will be no more new adventures to tell Dad about, no gentle ribbing back and forth. No nothing. It’s hard, and it’s dragged me down for a few days.
I want to have some uplifting conclusion here, but…
It’s been about three years since I first mentioned that I thought SAA’s approach to May Day was problematic. And most of those objections still stand. I started that post with some definitions that are probably worth restating:
1. May Day is an ancient spring holiday celebrated by a whole bunch of European cultures.
2. May Day, or International Workers’ Day, dates back to 1886 and the first socialist protests in the United States.
As a grad student and now a professional archivist, I find myself drawn to integration stories. This might be a function of being in Maryland, where describing the topic as fraught is a vast understatement. But lately I’ve been thinking there’s another reason.
I’ve written and thought a lot about school integration, first at the University of Maryland where I wrote a series for the archives blog called “Trailblazers,” which stemmed from a research project about Parren Mitchell, the first African-American student to take all of his classes at the College Park campus and receive his degree from there (a masters in Sociology, another subject near to my heart). Those qualifiers- took all of his classes on campus, received an actual UMD-College Park degree- are what I think has sparked my interest in these stories. Because while we use the word “first”, the story is so much more complicated than we want it to be.
At my current job at Gilman School in the heart of what was once whitest, WASPiest Baltimore, I wrote this piece for Women’s History Month to trouble the very notion of what we talk about when we say integration. After all, it’s not as though there weren’t African-Americans on campus from the school’s start in 1897, it’s just that there was no way they could have sent their sons here.
But it was another recent discovery/uncovering that threw my desire to tell these stories into sharp relief. Here, we tell the story of a group that called themselves “The Fantastic Four”- the first four African-American students to graduate from the school, in 1968. The first of these four came to the school in 1963, and has often been referred to (including by me) as “the first”.
Except that wasn’t the case.
I found when doing my work at the University of Maryland that the school and local papers only covered so much of integration stories. They were mostly bland or occasionally self-congratulatory, and always scant on detail. I learned quickly that for “the rest of the story”, I had to turn to the Baltimore Afro-American or “The AFRO”. While still imperfect, it was a treasure trove of names and events that slipped past the notice of larger papers like The Baltimore Sun (for reasons that belong in another post).
In peeking through the AFRO recently for items around the time Gilman integrated, I came across this story:
I found myself oddly furious. Darryl Dunmore wasn’t a name I had heard or come across- what was the deal? I checked our records and found that he did in fact attend the school, and so there were two African-Americans here in 1963- one in 7th and one in 8th grade. Dunmore didn’t graduate from here, he transferred out his sophomore year. And maybe that’s why I’d never heard his name pass through anyone’s lips.
But it still made me angry. Hiding in plain sight was this young man who should be celebrated as a “first” (whatever that really means), yet he was relegated to the background.
And that’s when it struck me. The stories we tell about integration are so glossy and short because we can’t wait to move past them. “We did this, and it went great, and now can we just move on please?” We gloss over African-American servants and students who didn’t want to stick around because that just complicates it. After all, we’re doing this great thing to serve a portion of the population we ignored for decades- isn’t that enough?
And (white) archivists have been the architects of this for a long time. We’ve collected the oral histories of those who had good experiences, because that’s easier and supports our institutions. We’ve hidden photos of maids and cooks far away because who wants to see that stuff, right? We helped do this- helped create short, sweet, lazy narratives that make us look good and make other well-meaning white folk feel good.
And so we must undo it. It’s not enough to wait for researchers to happen upon items and do the work for us. At an institutional level, we have to seek to tell the entire story, warts and all. Angry (possibly racist) missives from university presidents? You know where they are. The sub-par wages paid to African-American laborers? You’ve got the ledgers. Our oral history projects must include those who hated every minute of their time on campus. You’re a professional researcher- can find them. If we are to fulfill our mission to our institutions, we need to get uncomfortable and do it.
I know, we don’t do “uncomfortable” well, as a matter of course. But I have a great deal of hope that we can. My Twitter feed is filled with people talking frankly about these topics and lots of other complicated subjects in ways that might have been unimaginable a few decades ago. Folks like Jarrett Drake and Stacie Williams, to name just two, are constant inspirations to me in pushing myself to hack through my own privilege and position to examine the difficult topics right under my nose.
I want the whole story. I want to be part of undoing the benevolent blindness we’ve developed. Is that too much to ask?
The following was my submission to the Short Fiction Contest recently put on by the Society of American Archivists. I highly recommend checking out the winning entries– they’re fantastic and deserving. While this is not the finest piece of writing, I had a great deal of fun doing it. I leave it here to remind myself to do more of this sort of thing.
I’m the archivist at a boys’ day school. It’s a unique position, allowing me the chance to research more than a century’s worth of stories and tell them to boys whose families have been a part of the school since the beginning.Continue reading “Following Hamlet Stanley Philpot”→