Archives and first hand accounts (AKA: The power of old documents)
Jan. 18th, 2010 | 09:27 pm
mood: 
thoughtful
One of the reasons I adore what I do is the way that history is right there. The proof of what was said and done is on paper in front of you, and no matter how many years have passed, by reading and touching documents are a way to connect to others that you have nothing in common with, who you know nothing about, except that the information they knew was transferred to paper.
Needless to say, not everyone's information is that interesting. I really don't need to know about the issues with a military base, specifically ones that relate to plumbing. I don't really care that much and when you're reading pages of budgets, it isn't really information that really strikes you.
But sometimes, you read stories of such impact that it changes the way that you perceive the power of documentation.
Today, I worked on a file that contained first hand accounts from survivors of the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890. First hand accounts of people who had lost family and friends, and watched them be gunned down in front of them. It's horrific, and sad, and horrible. When the accounts were written, many of the survivors were in their 70s or 80s. These were some of their last accounts of what happened there.
Documents tell stories. Some of them are just more obvious than others. The issue of plumbing at a Military base has a story behind it. Documents breath life into history and point to other stories that are waiting to be told.
Sometimes I forget that.
~~
I haven't even made it to reading the testimony in front of the sub-committee on Indian Affairs yet, so tomorrow could be a tad gory.
Needless to say, not everyone's information is that interesting. I really don't need to know about the issues with a military base, specifically ones that relate to plumbing. I don't really care that much and when you're reading pages of budgets, it isn't really information that really strikes you.
But sometimes, you read stories of such impact that it changes the way that you perceive the power of documentation.
Today, I worked on a file that contained first hand accounts from survivors of the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890. First hand accounts of people who had lost family and friends, and watched them be gunned down in front of them. It's horrific, and sad, and horrible. When the accounts were written, many of the survivors were in their 70s or 80s. These were some of their last accounts of what happened there.
Documents tell stories. Some of them are just more obvious than others. The issue of plumbing at a Military base has a story behind it. Documents breath life into history and point to other stories that are waiting to be told.
Sometimes I forget that.
~~
I haven't even made it to reading the testimony in front of the sub-committee on Indian Affairs yet, so tomorrow could be a tad gory.
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you have all the power and I’m petrified of you
Nov. 30th, 2009 | 06:53 pm
music: Petrified - Xuk
Why is it so hard to call things what they are?
I'm having a time of it trying to reconstitute after the week. It sounds weird, but seems accurate. Like I'm trying to reform into myself after a week of fitting into other people's molds to avoid all out conflict.
Part of it is the lingering depressive episode I had before I went home, that I kinda squashed with a run on Thursday before surgery, and the other part is self-esteem stuff which means in part that you recognize that you are being or were treated badly. This, while I've been trying to practice it, hurts a lot. Because not only do you have to realize that you've been treated badly, those actions come with names like abuse and neglect.
Recognizing stuff means unpacking everything that I've taken for normal and placing it into these neater little boxes that say, "This is what I was told about my worth" and then mentally exploding it. It also means second guessing some of my decisions in the past, and that hurts even more. Did I do something because I thought I wasn't worthy to do something else? Did I make that choice to hide or did I really want to do it? Did I make those choices for a specific reason or because I was told it was the wiser thing to do?
Part of this is recognizing what I thought was a support system had huge gaping holes in it, in which my opinions were not valued and my activities were seen as worthless unless they fell within certain parameters. And that this was wrong. My dad always tells me not to take things personally, but when your major support system is your parents, ignoring what they think becomes problematic.
I'm not saying I'm an angel, I could have done things differently. I could not melt into the little mold they want of me next time I go home, or I can do what I want without telling them. But at times it seems like they have such a hold over who I am as an individual that I'm not sure I can stand up to them.
I would be lying if I said part of this wasn't motivated by a tiny* bit of jealousy. I want to be just like everyone else so badly. Someone who has interests and fuck the haters, who doesn't have to dissect everything to see if they're honestly responding to stuff or if they're just doing what people expect them to. I'm sick of having to work on this shit that seems to come so easily to everyone else. And I'm scared about what will happen if I finally am like everyone else and don't have to do this constant battle anymore, to shelve it for use on rare occasion of exceptional bad days. I'm scared about what will happen if I don't do this.
I just want this remembering to stop.
*Understatement of the century.
I'm having a time of it trying to reconstitute after the week. It sounds weird, but seems accurate. Like I'm trying to reform into myself after a week of fitting into other people's molds to avoid all out conflict.
Part of it is the lingering depressive episode I had before I went home, that I kinda squashed with a run on Thursday before surgery, and the other part is self-esteem stuff which means in part that you recognize that you are being or were treated badly. This, while I've been trying to practice it, hurts a lot. Because not only do you have to realize that you've been treated badly, those actions come with names like abuse and neglect.
Recognizing stuff means unpacking everything that I've taken for normal and placing it into these neater little boxes that say, "This is what I was told about my worth" and then mentally exploding it. It also means second guessing some of my decisions in the past, and that hurts even more. Did I do something because I thought I wasn't worthy to do something else? Did I make that choice to hide or did I really want to do it? Did I make those choices for a specific reason or because I was told it was the wiser thing to do?
Part of this is recognizing what I thought was a support system had huge gaping holes in it, in which my opinions were not valued and my activities were seen as worthless unless they fell within certain parameters. And that this was wrong. My dad always tells me not to take things personally, but when your major support system is your parents, ignoring what they think becomes problematic.
I'm not saying I'm an angel, I could have done things differently. I could not melt into the little mold they want of me next time I go home, or I can do what I want without telling them. But at times it seems like they have such a hold over who I am as an individual that I'm not sure I can stand up to them.
I would be lying if I said part of this wasn't motivated by a tiny* bit of jealousy. I want to be just like everyone else so badly. Someone who has interests and fuck the haters, who doesn't have to dissect everything to see if they're honestly responding to stuff or if they're just doing what people expect them to. I'm sick of having to work on this shit that seems to come so easily to everyone else. And I'm scared about what will happen if I finally am like everyone else and don't have to do this constant battle anymore, to shelve it for use on rare occasion of exceptional bad days. I'm scared about what will happen if I don't do this.
I just want this remembering to stop.
*Understatement of the century.