Note from Andrea: Today we have a very special guest post from Kassandra Luciuk! This post originated as remarks that she delivered at the Coptic Canadian History Project’s Third Annual Conference, “Who Am I? Who Are We? Family, History, and Immigrant Identities,” as a discussant for the “Familiar Dilemmas and Ethnic History” panel. The panel itself included presentations by Pamela Sugiman (“The Stranger in my Family’s History: Reflections on the Telling of Japanese-Canadian History”); Roberto Perin (“Perin Peregrenations”); and Gabriele Scardellato (“The Catelli Clan in Montreal, 1845-1895”.)
Kassandra Luciuk is a PhD Candidate in the Department of History at the University of Toronto.
It was my role as a discussant for the panel “Familiar Dilemmas and Ethnic Histories,” to reflect upon the panelists’s remarks, and the broader conference themes. In different ways, each of the panelists offered insight into the history of their families and communities. They told three interesting and distinct stories that illuminated the rich benefits of asking questions, and subsequently writing history, based on their own experiences. Relatedly, they discussed their intimate and subjective relationships to their research and the challenges of navigating this often-fraught road.
The presentations also revealed some of the perks and pitfalls of writing family and/or community history that I would like to touch on today. From my own work, it is clear that as “insiders” we often have better access to our sources and subjects. In darker terms: we know where the bodies are buried. And better access often precipitates better histories. Of course, this is not to suggest that it is impossible to study, for example, Italian Canadian history if one is not Italian. But it certainly helps, particularly when it comes to finding material beyond the traditional archive, working with other-language sources, or interviewing community members. This is especially true if the history one is writing is more traumatic or contentious and a certain level of trust or reportage is needed.
Further perks include a natural constituency with which to share our work. At a minimum, this ensures a curious base to fill seats at talks and book launches. The value of this type of emotional support and community buttressing goes a long way, especially for early career historians still building their confidence. An involved community may likewise facilitate access to scholarships and grants, an invaluable perk for graduate students and the growing ranks of the precariously employed.
As “insiders,” we are given consummate time and space to operate in, and think about, our communities. Sometimes we get to make meaningful change – recovering lost histories or working on redress are just two examples of this. In a more philosophical sense, being active in our community can be nostalgic, comforting, and even therapeutic. It can also nuance one’s identity and help productively confront the complex narratives that active, life-long community participation can embed.
There are also pitfalls. For me, this includes the various challenges of conducting oral history interviews within my own community. The way that historians are trained to ask questions is inherently critical (and by this I of course mean analytical and not condemnatory). I have encountered interviewees for whom this is quite difficult because they do not understand why, as a fellow community member, I would ask them certain questions. On their own, my queries are reasonable, and the interviewee would have no problem answering them for somebody else. But because somebody who “should know” asks them, they become loaded. This can be tough to navigate.
There are larger consequences for this beyond a potentially uncomfortable experience. I have noticed that interviewees sometimes employ what I call an “inside voice.” By this I mean that there are expectations made on the interviewee’s part about what an interviewer, as a community member in common, knows and, more significantly, how an interviewer thinks. This can severely hinder the quality and outcome of one’s research.
Knowledge, Authority, and Power
To be clear, this is different from a dynamic in which subjects feel intimidated by the imbalance of power or are trepidant about lecturing a professional historian. Rather, I am specifically referring to the way in which assumptions of a shared narrative can produce problematic silences that hinder efforts to get to the truth – or as close to the truth as we can ever get. When there is a belief that interviewers and interviewees are on the same page, interviewees tend to say less and communicate more through knowing glances, winks, smirks, or – my personal favourite – the “well,you know!” These prompts and cues are interesting to analyze, particularly as the practice of oral history becomes more self-reflexive and historians write more about doingoral history. In a practical sense, however, they can further mystify the communities that we study.
Returning to the question of power, it is a delicate dance between historical authority and authoritarian. On the one hand, we hold a level of knowledge procured through rigorous research, reading, observation, and analysis. We also train to become “unbiased observers” – or, again, as close as we can be. Yet on the other hand, historians are now recognizing that this is not always a good thing and that there are real limitations to formal academic frameworks. This is what Stacey Zembrzycki so aptly referred to as “academic baggage” in her study of “sharing authority” as interviewer while studying her own community.[1]
We are also more cognizant now of the way in which power operates and knowledge is produced. At a minimum, this awareness is present when we work and, in some cases, it even leads to a reconsideration of the way in which we engage interviewees. The relationship between interviewer and interviewee is changing indeed – perhaps even becoming more collaborative and equitable in the process.
Subjectivity, Self-Reflexivity, and The Cost of Scholarship
In a broader sense, historians – and not just those who study their own communities – are seemingly more open now to talking about the intimate and subjective challenges of doing historical work. This has largely been accomplished through trailblazing blogs such as this one. (Editor’s note: Aww!! ::blushes::) But we still have a long way to go in addressing the sometimes-significant personal costs of our scholarship.
Personally, while I remain sensitive to the value and ongoing relevancy of community narratives, I have sometimes felt that I am involuntarily participating in the reinforcement or entrenchment of verities that, in other contexts, I might engage more critically. For example, I study a deeply politicized and divided community. Every time that an interviewee repeats – without challenge – that there has only ever been one articulation of identity, and this version is practically biological and not the product of tremendous intervention, the veracity of this claim is reinforced.
Traditionally, historians understood that the time for analyzing these claims was in our written, finished product. This was our space to analyze these kinds of statements and perhaps even comment on how these narratives take shape and entrench themselves. Historians did not – and I am not suggesting we ever do – interfere in the interview. But I worry that while these narratives are growing bigger, the space to challenge them grows smaller. Again, the solution is not to inappropriately insert ourselves. To be honest, I am not even sure that there is a clear-cut fix. But a reasonable first step would be to have more open conversations about the vexing nature of participating in the solidification of a community hegemony that may do more damage to the study of our community in the long run. This worry is especially relevant given the dangerous rise of white supremacy and a particular breed of populism that has the power to transform traditional targets of racism and xenophobia into the perpetrators.
While I mentioned the benefits of having time and space to explore our identities, there are also adverse impacts to this that I would like to see us talk more about. Historians have done a vitally important job in detailing trauma in historical subjects, but it is time that, in conversations about our craft, we discuss what this means for ourselves too. In fact, I would argue that not enough attention is paid to the kinds of personal distress that sometimes comes along with poking at the difficult histories in our communities. Nor do we sufficiently deal with the toll of unlearning problematic narratives or of complicating our understandings of personal, familial, and community histories.
On starting graduate school, my research and findings sometimes butted up against notions deeply embedded in my community’s consciousness. Truths that that were supposedly self-evident fell apart when held up to scrutiny. Some were even dealt fatal blows. This was intensely difficult and isolating. Granted, I do not think that it is always as dramatic or as severe as I just laid out. There are undoubtedly cases where the balance between academic and community member is less combative and more organic. Nevertheless, there is an ongoing need to take seriously the personal pitfalls that impact not only how we participate in our communities, but in academia as well.
Notes
[1] Stacey Zembrzycki, According to Baba: A Collaborative Oral History of Sudbury’s Ukrainian Community (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2014), 13.
Special thanks to Kassandra for her fantastic blog post! I think she raises so many important points here, particularly with respect to the personal cost of doing research like this. Much to think about. I hope you enjoyed this week’s blog post! If you did, please consider sharing it on the social media platform of your choice. And don’t forget to check back on Sunday for a brand new Canadian history roundup. See you then!
