photo by Orin Zebest
I wrote the post below one week ago, but the delay in publishing is due to limited internet and a laptop that refuses to turn on…
I am sprawled across a bed inside a bungalow, with rain pummeling the roof until about 12 seconds ago. It is now silent, though the blue-black sky still flashes here and there.
Like the rain patterns, I have ebbed and flowed continuously over the past two months — between calm content, floods of exhilaration, and the crush of overwhelm. I am immersed in working on an oral history book project, focused on people’s life stories in the context of a regional social justice issue. This involves extensive interviews, the sort that last three to five hours. I have fallen in love with the interview process, as I’ve described in a previous post — the unfolding of a narrative, the challenging questions it raises for both the interviewee and me. It is intense, and I feel my body filling up — not only with these stories of hardship and persecution, but also with the delicate dynamics remembered and recounted in the interviews. I wish I could say my mind is only engaged in the stories, but there are decidedly less exciting aspects of the project, such as budgeting and logistics, which create a perpetual stream of to-dos. Hence, the risk of overwhelm.
I feel caught in an awkward position; one in which I feel that these stories have become part of my reality, yet I am also well aware that I have the luxury of slipping back into my privileged lifestyle (mobility, education, relative economic security) at will. This highlights a question that is always lingering somewhere in my mind (and on this blog): what defines our realities?
Oral history raises this question in my mind in a broad sense, as it focuses so deeply on individual experience and memory. I believe this is what makes oral history most powerful, and most vulnerable — it is, after all, our subjectivity that makes us most human. Oral history is an accessible medium for sharing our humanness, because once we are telling stories, it is what is evoked that becomes most important — not facts and dates.
Although I sometimes fear that I idealize the power of stories, I can comfort myself in remembering that I’m not pushing anything new here; rather, I’m adding my voice to centuries of belief in the art of storytelling. Although hearing the life story of an ex-child soldier in Sudan would undoubtedly give life to the vast differences in your experiences, I believe that the space created by storytelling also allows a unique connection to arise. It is not only our differences that define this space, but also the shared inherent subjectivity that defines us all.
But to what extent are we capable of setting aside our own contexts in order to fully absorb that of another person? While doing these oral history interviews, my colleagues and I are supposedly approaching the interviewees with no agenda, allowing them to dictate the direction of the story completely. And though that is what happens to a certain degree, there is the ever-present bottom line, which is that everyone is aware that we are doing these interviews for a book centered on human rights issues. We are doing these interviews for a book whose chapters will eventually have to fit the Western style of linear narrative.
No matter how hard we try in any interaction, there will always be invisible — or not so invisible — barriers to complete comprehension. Not only culture to culture, but person to person. Will you ever understand exactly how your brother felt after losing his job? Do you even fully understand why the ocean makes you feel overwhelmed? But again, isn’t this not-knowing simply the beauty and the difficulty of subjectivity — of the diversity of humanity? If I’ll never ever fully comprehend myself, and if my own realities will always be entwined with those of others, I believe in remaining constantly open to the beautiful tangle of humanness…
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this stream of thoughts I’ve laid out for you…
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Yes, the power and beauty of digging out and exposing personal stories to the world outweighs any chance of filtering or not being able to ever fully comprehend them oneself. Our cultures have remained consistent in relying on their power, even in this technological age; their role endures.
and who better to mine the stories than a sensitive, thoughtul person who respects and undertands their value? You must continue on this road.
Hi Zoe,
I think that there is a lot to say for that certain innocence one holds when they are unaware of the terrible nature of some experiences. In these instances, ignorance can be bliss, as long as the crucial human ingredient – empathy – is not absent from the equation. If the experience is too terrible or terrifying, the trauma of knowing can be an anchor of sorts, fixing one to that moment in time, isolating them from the present. That can be very sad to witness.
The other beauty I note is from the imagination that comes with not knowing. The mystery. The fantasy. All of this is lost, even though discovery can be the more desirable option. I wrote a poem about the loss of mystery as an undergrad. Here’s a snippet:
“With knowledge dies the sweet ideal
Of all the dreams there’s yet to live,
In the sacred realms of fantasy.
I know you now, and you know me,
Stripped naked to our very souls,
And knowledge says: there’s much to lose,
In knowing.”
A great post, Zoe – you did it again!
The beauty of ignorance. Definitely, it is beautiful beyond measure. This is Rousseau. The first essay that launched him into writing was a eulogy for ignorance, a tirade on education and knowledge. It was for the noble savage. I think to crusade for anything like this takes courage and knack.
This is Ambrose Bierce, though in a twisted way. According to him love owes its existence for not knowing. The aura you see your beloved engulfed in is a product of your not knowing. Her mother is still seeing only a suckling.
George Steiner has also seen the demerit of knowing. He takes God to task not for commanding his faithful servant Abraham to sacrifice and immolate his son Isaac. But for burdening him with this knowledge for three days on the long trek to the venue of the sacrifice. He says no! God should not do that. Carrying this knowledge for three days is fatal. He also does not think he relieved Abraham by sparing Isaac, but made it look like school yard prank.
What I mean is you have a point.
Keep on writing.
Thanks.
Wonderful post! As I therapist I too know the power of collecting life histories. I agree that we can never truely “know” what motivates another person, in part because we never know for sure what motivates us. A relationship is a mirro through which we will both learn. I look forward to following your posting. Have a great Thanksgiving!
@ Mama Lisa – you catch my drift so well, and you’re the best support I could ask for.
@ Jé – yes, it can be tricky — but so important — to infuse knowledge with more questions… and therefore, more imagination. I don’t ever want to think that I understand it all…
@ Paul – thanks for those references… keeps me reading and learning more!
@ stationarypilgrim – thank you for coming by here! I agree, relationships create a certain space that allows things to unfold in a different way…