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History, Poetry, and Public History Practice

This essay was originally presented by Marla Miller as part of a panel discussion at the Symposium and Celebration in Honor of Jacquelyn Dowd Hall on September 20th, 2014.

09202014_JaquelynDowdHall_retirement007Those of you whose work engages the world of public history may know that a conversation has unfolded in recent years over the nature of that enterprise. Is public history a field? A discipline?  A subfield?  A methodology?   For a long time, my answer to that question has been that public history is essentially a demeanor, a way of orienting oneself and one’s scholarship to the world at large.  And as I contemplated ways that my work as a public historian today intersects with the training I received from Jacquelyn, I realized how fundamentally my own scholarly demeanor was shaped by my studies here.

I could talk about what it meant to witness a history practice that seamlessly combined activism and analysis.  I could talk about the public debate on the “relevance” of the humanities, and what I learned here about putting history into action to make sense of—and change—the world.  But in the end, like many of the contributors to this conversation today, I found myself coming back again and again to the craft of writing.  So I want to talk about writing itself as constitutive of the best public history practice, and a fundamental part of what I have learned from Jacquelyn.

In many ways these remarks circle back to points made at the start of the day by Jennifer Donnelly, and Anna Krome-Lukens’ comments about Jacquelyn’s prose as models of storytelling and narrative arc.  That so many of us today have wanted to underscore the importance for us of Jacquelyn’s inspiring prose is really moving to me; she sets the bar high—and just think of the multiplier effect here, all of this quality literature launched into the world as a result.  But good writing isn’t just effective communication; our best writing helps us think the big thoughts.  In her 1998 article “You must remember this,” which others have quoted from today, Jacquelyn quoted the poet and novelist Robert Penn Warren, who said that “historical sense and poetic sense should not, in the end, be contradictory, for if poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living constantly remake.”  As she encouraged her readers to see the poetry in and of history, Jacquelyn urged us to embrace “writing that emphasizes not our expertise but our common condition, writing that troubles the boundaries between poetics and politics, memory and history, witnessing and writing, acting and research.”

For me, this isn’t advice only for history-writing. Instead, it resonates with the specific values that infuse public history practice.  In the Feminist Studies article from which this panel’s title is drawn, her essay “Second Thoughts,” and other places too, Jacquelyn writes about writing itself: how we craft beginnings and endings; how we piece stories together, leaping across evidentiary islands to build what looks like a coherent picture, if only in retrospect; how we learn, re-learn and unlearn.  That’s exactly the sort of “reflective practice” that public historians have been talking about lately in the pages of our own blogs and journals—the need to foreground the processes by which we work, throwing open doors and drawing back curtains so that that our audiences can’t help but see inside the practice of our craft.   This is new to conversations among public historians, but it occurs to me that Jacquelyn has been modeling this sort of scholarly transparency for a long time (another way she’s been “pioneering,” a word we’ve heard again and again today), and I’ve come to see it as part of the way she has trained generations of public historians.

I can hardly articulate what a revelation her essay on “second thoughts” was to me. We’ve talked a good deal today about the many ways Jacquelyn’s deeply humane approach to the men and women of the past has inspired us, but I’m grateful for how she helped me think about our own humanity as scholars.  Scholars, it turns out, are people, too—people who think and evolve, circle back to old questions with fresh perspective, continue to grapple with ideas after the seeming finality of publication, even change their minds.  This is to second Jen Ritterhouse’s observation earlier today about the ways Jacquelyn has modeled the “scholar in process;” that transparency is a quality that has meant a lot to me, at Chapel Hill and in the years since, and has become a fundamental part of my own scholarly practice.

“Writing that emphasizes not our expertise but our common condition” also says something about genre.  It means traditional scholarship, yes, but other forms as well.  Getting historians to publish in a range of venues is critically important to maintaining the activist stance we need to confront the ongoing challenge to the value of the humanities.  We must think much more broadly about the genres in which we write, and embrace ALL of them, not just the strangely narrow range that defines much of academic practice.  At dinner last night, Jacquelyn was simply beaming as she told me about Katy Simpson Smith’s historical novel Story of Land and Sea.  Not all advisors, I think, would be as elated to see a student translate their expertise into fiction, but I’m not at all surprised that Jacquelyn is.  I didn’t think twice about pursuing a trade biography of Betsy Ross when that felt like the right thing to do, and others of Jacquelyn’s students—and Jacquelyn herself—have made important contributions and interventions in the form of op-eds, grey literature, and fiction.  The pride that was evident on Jacquelyn’s face as she described Katy’s work is a testimony to how she has made her students feel like all these forms of expression are not only legitimate, but essential for historians to pursue.   I’ve been thinking about a course on the history of the historical novel as public history practice for a while and now feel re-energized about that—so already this event is catalyzing new relationships and new enterprises.

I also remember (Anna talked about this this morning, and Bryant Simon a bit too) that Jacquelyn taught me to notice words, recommending that I keep a notebook of words I encounter that resonate for me.  I still do that today: flip to the back of any book I’m reading and in the endpapers you’ll find lists of verbs, nouns and adjectives that struck me as useful. In recent years I’ve begun reading a lot of poetry, which is especially productive for word-hunters.  It seems telling to me that both Kathy Nasstrom and I would see poetry as relevant to our conversation today, because I believe there’s a fairly direct relationship between my training here and my interest in poetry now.   There is another little course I’ve been contemplating for some time now—and maybe someday a little book, too—called “Poetry for Historians.”  When it happens, I now realize that its roots, too, will be found here in Chapel Hill.

Toward that end, over a recent vacation I was reading Jay Parini’s Why Poetry Matters. On poetry, historians & metaphor, and the importance of the reading of poetry to the craft of history, he points out the deep need to understand the strengths and limits of metaphor & analogy. (We “might, for example examine the phrase ‘war on terror’ as an implicit metaphor in need of serious deconstruction.”)  One of my favorite passages in Jacquelyn’s writing, and one that offers its own powerful metaphor, comes from the essay “Open Secrets,” which reflects on the nature of the biographical enterprise, an interest Jacquelyn and I share.  Her grappling with her responsibility to the Lumpkins of the past and of the present certainly helped prepare me to engage both the historical figure of Betsy Ross and her many modern-day descendants. As I struggled to balance my desire to set Ross’s record straight with my deep respect for those who steward her memory, and wrestled with my own relationship to a woman who was necessarily to some extent a product of my own historical imagination, I found myself thinking about similar strains in Jacquelyn’s work.  As she writes, “What is so tantalizing and poignant about biography…are the feelings of love and responsibility it generates, the intimacy it simultaneously frustrates and invites, the tension it produces between respect for privacy and lust for knowledge, and the way it can position even the most respectful author as an intruder, a thief in the houses of the living and the dead.”

“A thief in the houses of the living and the dead.” That’s as close as prose gets to poetry.  And those emotions and tensions—it’s hard to think of a more eloquent expression of the demeanor that underpins core public history concepts like “shared authority” than that.  And so I’d like to suggest that thinking about Jacquelyn as a writer helps explain all the public historians in the room today, and among Jacquelyn’s students.  Anna’s remarks about becoming less cynical and more empathetic, Bryant’s remarks about the deep humanity of her work—I too recognize that this has all been part of my training as a public historian.  When I was a student here in the 1990s, I might have said that my training in public history was coming from places off campus:  a summer at the Southern Historical Collection, or the internship at the Museum of Early Southern Decorative Arts.  But I’d have been wrong.   At the foundation of my practice as a public historian—the most important part—are the values, priorities and scholarly demeanor that Jacquelyn modeled for me, and for other public historians who took their first steps into the field here.

 

Understanding My Place at UNC through Feminist Oral History

This blog post was written by Fall 2014 SOHP Intern Rachel Worsham

When I began my internship at the Southern Oral History Program, I was excited to hear that we would be researching and gathering oral histories related to feminist activism at UNC. Sure, I expected this project to be interesting and relevant, as I am a woman and consider myself a feminist.  However, I did not expect what I was learning to challenge how I perceive myself as a student at this university.

Before my time as an intern, I simply did not consider my gender as something that made me unique. Why would I? For the most part, I have been treated exactly the same as my male counterparts in classes, organizations and residential communities. If anything, I considered myself the epitome of ordinary, as almost 60% of students at UNC are women. Yet, upon exploring the oral histories of women at UNC, I have come to discover that being a woman makes me anything but ordinary. I am the product of the efforts of many brave women who have fought tirelessly to be treated as equals in place historically dominated my men.

Listening to the interviews of Mary Turner Lane, Sharon Rose Powell and Maggie O’Connor has shown me that women have not always had it easy at UNC. Female students, for many years, were not even admitted to UNC. Once they were granted this right, women were oppressed the university’s in loco parentis policy, which allowed administrators to act as the student’s parents. This meant women faced rules and regulations on many subjects, including restrictions on dress, chosen course of study and living arrangements. Gender limitations were not only applied to students, as female faculty members often had trouble securing jobs, promotions and equal pay at UNC.  It is very difficult, based upon my experience at this university, to imagine such policies being embraced and encouraged by students and faculty as recently as forty years ago. Yet, this new understanding of women’s history at UNC has led me to think differently about my place at this university.

I have come to understand myself as a fortunate product of the feminist struggle at UNC. Rather than consider my status as a female student something that allows me to blend in, I now understand it as a testament to the change the women have produced at UNC in the last century. Although women certainly have a long way to go, the interviews in our database are a comforting sign that further change is entirely possible, as history shows that Carolina women rock!

Johanna Schoen: “Twenty Things I Learned from Jackie Hall”

This essay was originally presented by Johanna Schoen as part of a panel discussion at the Symposium and Celebration in Honor of Jacquelyn Dowd Hall on September 20th, 2014.

  1. Study history because you like to read other people’s personal mail.
  2. Choose a research topic that is simultaneously politically engaging and complex enough to keep your attention.
  3. Go for the gray areas, the ambiguities, the places where clear answers seem nonexistent.  Go where others fear to tread.  Write about the things that others won’t address.
  4. Do understand your actors in their full complexity.  Even those who are poor and victimized by state policies – unwanted sterilizations, a denial of reproductive control, a lack of access to abortion – might act in ways that are less than admirable.  When I first began to write about eugenic sterilization, I wanted those sterilized to be without blemish.  It was hard for me to accept that some victims of state sterilization programs might lack mental competency, drink too much, be poor parents, abuse their children, or recommend their own daughters for eugenic sterilization.  I puzzled over Jackie’s repeated comments on the margins of my papers in which she challenged me when I ignored evidence of intellectual disabilities in my subjects or dismissed their culpability.  It took me a while to understand that poverty neither breeds virtue nor absolves the poor from all agency and responsibility.  Only much later, did I learn not to ignore their shortcomings, but to describe the circumstances in which they acted, to account for the choices they had and didn’t have, and to depict the full complexities of their decisions.
  5. Don’t vilify your historical actors – even those you don’t like.  Do try to understand why they acted the way they did – what it is they set out to do, why they thought their actions honorable – or at least defensible.  Indeed, it is only in our refusal to vilify others – eugenic board members, sexist and patronizing physicians, bullying pro-life activists – that we can understand both the intentions of our historical actors and the structural context in which their actions victimize others.  After you have described your historical actors in all of their complexities, still call them out for their misdeeds as structural context does not excuse the abuse of power.
  6. IMG_4626Value local history: many of us came of intellectual age in the era of Like a Family.  And all of us understand that it is the details of human interaction – between mill worker and supervisor, pregnant teenager and eugenic board member, patient and abortion provider – that allow us to understand the lived experience of our historical subjects and to analyze the meaning which public policy holds for them.  Susan Wicklund, who spent much of her life providing abortion care to women in the Midwest and in Montana, was for years harassed by the militant anti-abortion group Lambs of Christ.  Anti-abortion harassment against her culminated in the 1990s during the so-called partial birth abortion debate when anti-abortion propaganda depicted all abortions as taking place at term, “inches before birth.” Wicklund, caught up in worries over her daughter’s safety and fears for her own life, had no time to follow the debate.  She did not even connect her own experience with the procedure – after all, she provided only first trimester abortions.  Nevertheless, the debate and propaganda profoundly affected her.   Trying to live with the Lambs of Christ, she became politicized, went public with her work and about the harassment she endured, and forged her political beliefs and medical practice out of this experience.   Wicklund’s personal story – and her local history – give meaning to the lived experience of abortion care – a story that we usually trace in big politics: legal changes, legislative decisions, federal and state policies concerning women’s reproductive rights.
  7. Pay attention to category shifts: I am currently moving and ran across three file folders with Jackie’s comments on my work.   Things that are seen as class issues at one time, she suggests in one comment on my struggles with the meaning of eugenics, will be seen as race issues at another time.  And, I conclude years later, they will never be seen as gender issues – even though that is what they really are – because we still live in a deeply patriarchal society in which women are not recognized as legitimate moral agents with decision making power over their sexuality and reproduction.  There is political power in categories – it is more expedient to fight against race genocide than on behalf of women welfare recipients.
  8. Reproductive rights are part of the larger civil rights struggle
  9. Don’t expect more than one gold nugget in any given oral history interview you conduct.
  10. In order to do all of this work, hide – from students, from colleagues, at day and at night, or you will never get anything done
  11. Don’t hide from journalists – but don’t think that you can influence what they say.  Or that they will be able to quote you correctly.
  12. Collaborate – with graduate students and colleagues, across disciplines and schools.  With journalists, film makers, theater people.  Reach out to archivists, professional organizations that have nothing to do with history, public historians, lawyers.  They will stretch your mind and make your work rewarding.
  13. Intertwine your personal and political commitments with your scholarship.  Be courageous, committed to your work and the political implications of it.  Don’t hide behind historical objectivity when you really should speak out.  Take risks.  It will enrich your life.
  14. Learn not to take work books to the beach, on Christmas vacation, on a trip to Italy, or anywhere else where you are supposed to relax.
  15. Don’t get yourself sucked into an adviser-advisee relationship with your own graduate students — once you have them — in which your advisees spill all the beans about their personal lives, lest you become their therapist or mother – or both — and can never escape the angsting.  Do remember that it is up to your students to succeed.  It’s not up to you to make your students succeed.
  16. Do impart the details of your sex life to your adviser if she asks for it.  This is best done over a glass of wine.
  17. Be clear, yet gentle in your comments to graduate students.  On a seminar paper of mine, which I gave the fetching title “’I’ll never get this done!’ The Incomplete from Hell, Sept. 1989-Nov. 1990,” Jackie notes politely on the margins of p. 23 “I’m not sure, but I think this is getting a little repetitive.”  While discouraging repetition in your students, do realize that you will have to repeat the same comments over and over again.  I will never forget the moment when I had that feeling of creeping exasperation as I repeated the same question or critique on a graduate student paper yet again — and suddenly had a flash back to comments Jackie made over and over again – comments which I did not figure out how to address until the book.
  18. When driving with your advisor to cultural or arts events, tell your advisor upon departing – you are driving her – that of course you know where you are going.  When you get lost – repeatedly – and she calls you on it – feign surprise. Call Bob for directions.
  19. Choose a partner who likes to cook – and who does so really well.
  20. Remember that your ability to live a life that successfully balances home and work will serve as a role model for your graduate students.  I called Lisa a couple days ago to ask her what I learned from Jackie Hall.  And her first comment noted the importance of having Jackie and Bob as role models of an egalitarian academic couple.   They showed us that it could be done as we tried to figure out how to do it.

Symposium and Celebration in Honor of Jacquelyn Dowd Hall

On September 20, 2014 SOHP hosted the Symposium and Celebration in Honor of Jacquelyn Dowd Hall, and now you can share in that experience by donating to the newly-announced Jacquelyn Dowd Hall Summer Research Fellowship and viewing photos from the panel discussions and reception.

Oral History and Queer Activism in the Triangle Area

Written by: Aaron Lovett

As a sophomore student at UNC, I have only recently experienced oral history. Before coming to college, I didn’t have a strong understanding of what oral history meant. To me, the academic study of history was about learning of the past through texts – books, records, correspondence, and so on. It wasn’t until I became interested in learning about LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer) history that I also discovered oral history. I wanted to research Southern queer history, which has only a limited, albeit growing, amount of literature devoted to it. It would only make sense that in a region that has traditionally been hostile toward anything other than the norm, queer history would not be thoroughly documented. But through the Southern Oral History Program, I learned that oral history could make up for what texts lacked: oppressed peoples’ histories. To me, the intersection of LGBTQ history and the field of oral history seemed natural. I decided that the best way to research Southern LGBTQ history was to learn about it from the people who devoted their lives to shaping it.

This past summer, I completed an oral history research project documenting LGBTQ activism in the Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill area since 1969. For me, what stood out most about this experience was how rewarding historical research is when one can learn about history from other people. Getting to know the people I interviewed, learning from them, and recognizing shared experiences and passions made the process deeply personal and enriching.

Among the seven activists I interviewed were Carlton Rutherford, Alexis Gumbs, and Carolyn McAllaster. Carlton Rutherford has been a pastor for several years at St. John’s Metropolitan Community Church in Raleigh, which offers an all-inclusive space for religious members of the LGBTQ community. His experiences as a gay man of color and clergy member bring light to the many intersecting identities of LGBTQ people. He offered important commentary on race and gender power dynamics in the LGBTQ community: how white gay men often retain privileged social positions, while queer women and people of color struggle against greater oppression.

Younger than most of the activists I interviewed, Alexis Gumbs is a widely published black queer feminist writer on LGBTQ topics, whose work records the histories of queer black elders. She gave me a queer woman of color’s perspective on the intersection between feminism, LGBTQ activism, and racial activism. As a member of Southerners on New Ground (SONG), an organization which strives to unite Southern LGBTQ people of various races, classes, abilities, cultures, and genders, Gumbs informed me of the vibrant history of black lesbian activism in Durham.

Carolyn McAllaster, a clinical professor of law at Duke University, has devoted the better part of her career to helping people diagnosed with HIV/AIDS. She founded the Duke AIDS Legal Project, providing free legal representation and assistance to people living with HIV/AIDS, and the Southern HIV/AIDS Strategy Initiative (SASI) which advocates for federal funding to combat HIV/AIDS in the South. From her, I learned that the South has the highest rate of new HIV/AIDS diagnoses in the country, as well as the highest death rate due to HIV/AIDS. She emphasized that much needs to be done to minimize the social stigma associated with being HIV positive in order to increase testing and fight the spread of the disease.

Each of the people I had the opportunity to interview added a unique perspective on LGBTQ history, life, and activism. Bradley R. Batch, a UNC alumnus active in the college’s LGBTQ community in the early ‘70s, said in our interview that a single oral history is “like looking at a small slice of a photograph.” But with several oral histories, “at some point, even if you don’t have the whole photograph, you can fill in the gaps.” With my introduction to oral history now behind me, I’m content with how I’ve come to understand it as discipline, as a process, and as an experience – searching for slices of a photograph, stitching them together, and shaping a picture of the past.

Personal Narratives, Collective Memory

Written by: Michael Grathwohl

When I read or watch the news (on both sides of the political aisle) I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time lamenting that one person’s story told in minute detail can be spun in such a way as to overwrite the experiences of others to serve overtly political ends. These observations had made me cynical about the uses of personal narratives. But twice now I have observed, up close, the power of oral history, and it has begun to reshape my attitude toward the importance of stories.

My first experience with oral history as a pedagogical tool came in high school during my participation in the band for The Parchman Hour, a play written and directed by Chapel Hill playwright Mike Wiley that chronicles the experiences and struggles of the 1961 Freedom Riders during their integrated journey into the heart of the deep South. The play is named both for Mississippi’s most notorious penitentiary and for the make-believe variety show that the riders cooked up to keep themselves sane while imprisoned there.

Part of Parchman’s power is that its dialogue featured direct quotations of icons such as John Lewis and Stokely Carmichael right alongside those of folks who Cornel West might call “everyday people.”As a result, Parchman presents a refreshingly grassroots image of the movement, and that image is more dirty, more intricate, and, I would argue, more fruitful. The inclusion of testimonies from often-unheard participants adds important texture to the play’s portrayal of the movement; it has a gritty, truthful quality and doesn’t shy away from ambiguity. We see the Freedom Riders not as a monolithic group but rather as a collection of real people with real baggage and, sometimes, real disagreements with one another. The play is teeming with complexity: there is struggle within struggle, and the result is beautiful.

This summer I had another, perhaps more intimate encounter with oral history as a volunteer for UNC-Chapel Hill’s Southern Oral History Program. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the program helped carry out a large series of interviews on the industrialization of textile factories in North Carolina’s Piedmont region. The interviewees were predominantly former mill workers who had experienced these technological changes firsthand, and my first project at the SOHP was to prepare a research dossier for a new interview with Helen Lyerly, the daughter of one couple who had been interviewed thirty years earlier.

I was asked to come along for the interview for which I had compiled the dossier. I spent a good deal of time thinking about how the interview would go, what questions to ask, and how I should present myself. As it turned out, everything fell into place and I wound up thinking that the term ‘interview’is a misnomer: it was organic, fun, and moving in ways that I hadn’t anticipated. Mrs. Lyerly had also invited her sister and daughter-in-law to come, and the most glaring thought in my mind as I left was that oral history has important implications far beyond the confines of academia. We had all laughed, philosophized, and gotten choked up together for an hour and a half that went by in what felt like fifteen minutes. The interview conducted in the 1980s is the only recording of Mrs. Lyerly’s parents, and she said repeatedly how much she appreciated listening to their voices, hearing them tell stories she had never heard of how they met and fell in love. It was clear that oral history can be important on a human level even more than an academic one.

Not unlike The Parchman Hour, both parts of my project with the SOHP had the insistent feeling of something that is important in its particularity—the stories of the women and men portrayed in Parchman are engaging at least partially because they tell stories that few can truly relate to; part of their value is their novelty. Yet as I read through interviews with mill workers from Greensboro, Concord, and Burlington and participated in the interview, it also struck me that one of the sources of the power of the interviews was precisely their pertinence to a great many people’s own experiences. In their own ways, both the stories from Parchman and the Piedmont industry series form repositories of narratives that simultaneously reflect and help form the collective memory of a time. The kind of history work that resulted in The Parchman Hour and the Piedmont interview series is refreshingly democratic, and my volunteer work this summer with the SOHP helped me begin to rehabilitate the notion that narratives can be used positively in practice and not just in theory.

Michael Grathwohl is a 2014 SOHP Summer Intern. He is a rising senior at Earlham College in Richmond, IN.

Chapel Hill, Gay Rights, and the Spring Interns’ Oral History Performance

At three in the afternoon on Wednesday, April 30th, our undergraduate interns from this past semester performed the oral histories of their interviewees. Aaron Hayworth, Katie Crook, Coco Wilder, and Turner Henderson had each conducted two interviews with people who had been a part of Chapel Hill’s gay community during the seventies, eighties, and nineties.

I explore some key excerpts from the script below. The excerpts are indented and italicized, and my thoughts will stay in the regular format. You can find short bios for each interviewee at the end of this post.

Beginning of Excerpts

Dawkins: I knew that I was attracted to men sexually, but I didn’t know exactly what it was.

Carden: Well we weren’t into ‘out, o-u-t’ at that time….you’d get the hell beat out of you.

There’s nothing more refreshing sometimes than to hear something like the above statements to bring us to attention.

Carden: Chapel Hill was pretty liberal.

Kenan: But it was still kind of hush-hush.

E. Patrick Johnson: When I was here at UNC, there was no “coming-out process”.

Nakell: I think people were a little cautious in those days about being identified as members of the CGA [Carolina Gay Association].

What would it have been like to be gay at UNC during this time? What would it have been like to be straight?

 Nakell: I remember when I first became a faculty advisor to the Carolina Gay Association. I asked somebody…if he thought I’d lose any friends as a result of it. He said, “oh, you’ll probably get new ones!” Which turned out to be true!

Carmichael: I just didn’t feel at home [at the CGA].

Kenan: Most of the gay black men I knew, I knew through the Black Student Movement choir.

Phoenix: I didn’t feel like I fit in that crowd in the same way. So that’s what led me to create a network of gay people [at ECU].

Kenan: The CGA was more of a social function than a political one.

The mood shifted.

 Dawkins: Then people started getting sick….It was terrifying.

Carmichael: Nobody knew what it was. Finally they came out and said the word “AIDS” out loud but AIDS wasn’t in the news yet. Of course President Reagan didn’t say anything for six years.

Phoenix: I went to a lot of funerals.

Kenan: Everything changed with AIDS and ACT UP and Queer Nation and all those people…There was a  lag between Stonewall and that period…..Reagan was president, conservatism was on the rise. So, just speaking out…was a pretty radical thing.

Phoenix: Buncomb had found the AZT medication which was the first medication that gave you a shot at not having a death sentence from AIDS, but it was priced so high…trying to make a profit rather than addressing the epidemic.

Carden: You want something done you do it yourself.

Phoenix: [we laid] down across the road where the service delivery trucks [for the pharmaceutical company] came in…like you’re going to have to run over us if you want to go in and out.

 But ultimately, these interviewees were not defined first by their sexuality, like many outsiders view them. People are people are people.

Dawkins: In a lot of ways, I don’t think of myself as being a gay man anymore. I mean, I definitely am, but it’s not a major part of my life at this point…

Gates: It’s just one aspect of my personality…

And where are we today?

 Nakell: The law generally moves slowly and incrementally. And generally you want to take it step by step to establish…gay rights….I’m really astonished…with the speed at which it’s happened. It’s happening at lightning speed.

Kenan: For gay people, I think we are in for a much longer slog than we realize, because, as Lyndon Johnson said about the Vietnam War, it has to also be about winning hearts and minds. And I think that the window dressing is cool, but a lot of hearts and minds are far from being changed. And a lot of political correctness is masking that. I worry. As fast as things are happening, I don’t know how real that is.

Phoenix: We still have a tremendous amount of unemployment in the community, we still have…employment discrimination, we still have…discrimination in banking…and healthcare.

John Dawkins sums it up best.

 Dawkins: The biggest problem that gay people have is just being able to live their lives without harassment and without being judged for being gay. That’s getting better and better, but it’s still got a long way to go.

 Applause broke out. Aaron, Katie, Turner, and Coco had done an excellent job of unifying the interviews while paying attention to their differences and they did it with empathy. For me, it clicked.

For any marginalized group, visibility is power. There’s a movement currently going on in the South for gays and lesbians to talk with families and neighbors about their experiences because, as Randall Kenan quoted from Lyndon Johnson, it really is about “hearts and minds.”

Iris Murdoch wrote, “Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.” It is important to connect the dots between the national (or state, or local) discourse on gay rights and the individuals themselves. When it’s someone you care for, the struggles of these people become more real.

So it’s onward for the undergraduate interns, but speaking for the SOHP and the audience, we’re all grateful for the performance.

-Katie Womble

 

The Interviewees:

E. Patrick Johnson attended UNC in the 1980s. Now a professor at Northwestern University, his most recent project is Gathering Honey, a performance based on oral histories with African American lesbians in the South. He is also the author of Sweet Tea: Black Gay Men in the South.

Gary Carden has been a hair stylist in Chapel Hill since moving here in 1970. Carden was a pioneer in opening unisex salons and the gay bar, the Electric Company.

Dr. Phelps Gates was a classics professor at UNC in the 1970s. His recollections of gay “hotspots” on campus are of particular import.

Dr. Randall Kenan attended UNC as a student in the 1980s and is now a well-respected author and professor of English at UNC.

Dr. James Carmichael attended UNC in the 1980s for his doctorate in library sciences.

John Dawkins attended UNC in the 1970s and is now retired and living in Chapel Hill.

Dr. Terri Phoenix is now the director of the UNC-LGBTQ Center. Dr. Phoenix holds degrees from three universities and has worked and lived all over the South. The LGBTQ Center recently celebrated its 10th anniversary. Phoenix was recently interviewed by Frank Stasio of WUNC.

Barry Nakell is currently a layer in Chapel Hill. He was formerly a professor at the UNC School of Law and long-term advisor to the Carolina Gay Association.

Attached are some pictures from the performance, the interior of the program, a snapshot of a page from the script, and a really neat visual that reflects the contents of the script (courtesy of wordle.com).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts on the SOHP Internship, 2013-2014

The academic year 2013-2014 has come and gone, and at the SOHP, we are sixteen interviews all-the-richer after two semesters of highly productive work from our interns. I had the privilege of closely working with each semester’s four interns as the SOHP’s Internship Coordinator. In the fall, Layla Quran, Ashley Templeton, Corinne White, and Grace Tatter served as SOHP interns, followed by Coco Wilder, Aaron Hayworth, Turner Henderson, and Katie Crook in the spring. Morgan Jones, a SILS graduate student, and SOHP associate director Rachel Seidman were instrumental as well, along with all other SOHP staff. These individuals made the internship a success, and it is only fair that I acknowledge each of them before diving into what promises to be an all-too-brief summary of their tremendous contribution.

Last August, we came up with a list of potential oral history projects for the incoming interns to choose from, all revolving around the history of student activism at UNC. Possibilities included anti-apartheid during the 1980s, the black student movement, and many others, but one stood out: the Carolina Gay Association (CGA) and the history of sexuality at UNC since the 1970s. The interns latched onto this idea, and we spent the next eight months exploring LGBTQ activism and social life at UNC and around Chapel Hill. In the University Archives, they found all kinds of documentation about the CGA in the records of the Chancellor, the Student Union, and in the Daily Tar Heel. They went through the CGA’s own newsletter Lambda and began to trace the history of its members as they confronted intolerance and isolation. They identified names, and they began reaching out to people hoping for a chance to interview them about their relationship with the CGA.

As with any oral history project, the interns made scores of phone calls and sent out countless emails to potential interviewees who might have something to say about the CGA or about gay life at UNC. Many were willing, and their stories will soon enrich our archive in important ways. Dan Leonard, one of the earliest leaders of the CGA, spoke with Corinne White about the CGA’s years of activism. Donald Boulton, a former dean of Student Affairs, shared with Layla Quran how the UNC administration supported the formation of the CGA, and how he continually rebuffed those who sent letters demanding that the university defund the CGA. Randall Kenan discussed with Turner Henderson the unfair choice presented to students who were both gay and African American, forced to identify as one or the other. Gary Carden, a long-time hair stylist in Chapel Hill, bluntly told Aaron Hayworth that he had done more than anyone else in the state for gay rights through his business. Together, these and the twelve other interviews shed light on myriad themes, including the contestations of “political” activism; the implications of being “out” or not; the devastation rendered by AIDS; the importance of gay social spaces; cross currents of race, gender, and class fitting into gay and lesbian lives; and the simple act of remembering, framing their pasts in lieu of today’s ongoing discussions about gay rights, identity, marriage, and freedom of expression.

At the end of each semester, the interns “performed” their interviews in front of an audience at the Love House and Hutchins Forum. In front of a packed room, they gave voice to those whom they had connected with during their interviews. Sharing their stories of joy, hardship, and possibility moved the audiences, and hopefully provided some closure to the interns as they encapsulated a long semester of rigorous and emotional work.

After the performance on April 30, everyone lingered for close to an hour discussing the interviews, the SOHP, the interviewees, and the overall project. Two semesters of work had come to a close, but it did not necessarily feel that way. Oral histories of LGBTQ voices are still too few, and the potential for future work is vast. Documenting their histories is a crucial piece of the southern past, and we hope this marks a beginning for increased scholarship.

-Evan Faulkenbury

Oral History and Chapel Hill’s Gay Community in the 1980s

Written by: Turner Henderson

As you would probably expect, gay history in the US has followed a sporadic and turbulent course. In fact, to approach gay history in a traditional way by studying its documents, events, figures, and contexts pre-mid twentieth century, you would feel severely bereft of much that is substantial. In the words of one gay studies scholar who began his work in the 1970s, gay history is “an area of research for which there was no context, no literature, no definition of issues, and no sources that had ever been tapped.”[1] That description succinctly communicates why gay history is such a difficult field to get a grasp on. Even so, it’s not alone in this regard: as long as there has been history, there have been histories that have been subjugated, smothered, hidden, and hated. So, how do we as students of the past mitigate this problem?

To answer that question, I’d like to take a step back. If there is one thing that I have learned this semester as an intern at the SOHP, it is that oral history is especially valuable in certain situations where traditional historical sources are inadequate. There are countless examples of oral history documenting narratives that remain elusive in mainstream history textbooks. For evidence, just click here and browse through the SOHP’s projects. All people have historical perspectives to share, and collecting the stories from those who have never had the opportunity for their voices to be heard is an unbelievably valuable exercise, and one that seems tailor-made to address issues such as constructing gay histories.

With this in mind, I want to talk about my very first oral history interview. Last month, I sat down with Professor Randall Kenan, a local author and English professor at UNC-Chapel Hill. Professor Kenan, an openly gay African American, attended UNC from 1981 to 1985. Before meeting with him, I had a very loose timeline of gay history in my mind: the sodomy statutes of the 1940s and 1950s, Stonewall in 1969, the Sexual Revolution of the 1970s, the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s. Like I said, it was a pretty loose timeline; there were obvious holes in my understanding, not to mention the fact that I knew little about individual experiences during any of these periods.

Right off the bat, Professor Kenan began to fill in my ignorance with ground-level information about pre-AIDS gay life at UNC. During his time as a student, gay activism was, as he noted pensively, “nascent.” It seems that the Carolina Gay Association was at a low point, with Kenan describing it as having a small membership and an even smaller political influence. In fact, helping me to bridge the period between Stonewall and the outbreak of AIDS, he painted a picture of an era of conservatism, when the Religious Right ran rampant and speaking out about being gay was unquestionably taboo. From listening to Kenan, it seemed clear that the heyday of free love and the Sexual Revolution of the 1960s and 1970s had ground to a halt, with students such as himself knowing little about the activists and achievements that had come before them.

This idea manifested itself in the gay social scene that Kenan illustrated. In contrast to other interviewee’s description of a somewhat vibrant gay community in Chapel Hill in the 1970s, with gay bars and tea rooms occupying a place in town and on campus, Kenan depicted the lack of a formal social scene, with the bars having migrated to Durham. Striving to fill this void, the gay community met at bookstores and other places scattered around Chapel Hill and Carrboro, including the “Castle” on Friendly Lane, an all-gay male residence that threw parties once or twice a semester. Beyond this, however, Kenan portrayed a rather disjointed gay community, segregated by race and gender.

While living with his white group of gay friends on North Campus, he had to make a concerted effort to head to South Campus to socialize with his black friends. He doesn’t even remember knowing any lesbians. In fact, his characterization of the partitions in his social life led to his espousal of a stark reflection on the nature of being both black and gay in the early 1980s: he, and every other gay black man he knew at the time, had to choose one of their identities over the other. He couldn’t be both black and gay; he had to be either black or gay. This moment struck me as the most powerful of the interview.

For me as a student of history, this predicament faced by gay black men communicated a great deal about the state of gay rights and racial stigma in Chapel Hill: by the 1980s, neither community had been able to advance far enough for someone to be accepted within both simultaneously. There was a clear layering of marginalization. For me as a fellow human being, the fact that this was how things were spoke volumes about what Professor Kenan had gone through on a personal and emotional level. He kept repeating in a disillusioned murmur, “I just thought that was unfair…”

After I had digested the rich complexities that made up the interview, and listened to the whole thing a few times, I was left feeling somewhat frustrated. While I had naively set out to neatly compartmentalize history and bring, as best I could, the story of Randall Kenan and gay black life in the 1980s at UNC to some kind of order, I felt dissatisfaction with my ability to organize a coherent and comprehensive narrative. There wasn’t much gay political activism; gay social life was segregated; and the identities of gay and black could not coexist, at least in the eyes of society. Reality had poked holes in many of the things I thought I knew. I felt like I was lost in what all of this meant, and I was disturbed by a lot of what I had heard.

It took me a while, but eventually I thought to myself, isn’t that the point? After hearing the story of a man who has been doubly marginalized his entire life, whose identities have been repeatedly shoved to the fringes of society and history, shouldn’t I be unsettled? Shouldn’t I be asking questions and criticizing and reflecting? Sure, I knew some things about oral history prior to this interview, but the actual experience of sitting down and documenting someone’s life through their narratives and anecdotes does not allow itself to be composed into a clean and tidy product; how could it? Memory and life and stories get in the way of such a pipedream. But again, that’s the point: Professor Kenan’s memory and his storytelling had done a lot of the historical work for me, stressing what was important to him. And what was important to him is important to history. Listening to him narrate his own life illuminated aspects of gay history that textbooks would have been hard-pressed to reveal.


[1] D’Emilio, John. “Not a Simple Matter: Gay History and Gay Historians.” The Journal of American History 76.2 (1989): 435-442. Print.

“My Talent in Life is Being a Friend”

Written by: Katie Crook

I was a little apprehensive, to say the least. On a Friday afternoon at rush hour, I found myself driving away from the happy little bubble of Blue Heaven to a city with which I had absolutely no familiarity. I was nervous about finding parking, arriving on time, finding the right building. Mostly, I was nervous about my first interview for the Southern Oral History Program. I had no idea what to expect, hoping fervently that my recorder—and backup iPhone—would capture the interview I had anticipated for weeks. I was nervous about how the interview would proceed, what I would say, what he would say. In short, as I waited for Dr. Jim Carmichael to return to his fourth floor office at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, I wished I were back home in the familiar folds of Chapel Hill, with friends on this wintry Friday evening.

What happened next caught me completely off-guard. As I anxiously walked to my interviewee’s office, I caught my first glimpse of him. A small man, he was dressed in a fashionable leather jacket reminiscent of a cowboy, a resemblance echoed by his handlebar moustache. Dr. James Carmichael, an esteemed professor of library history, literally welcomed me into his cozy office with open arms, opting not for a handshake but a full hug. He graciously thanked me for coming to interview him and invited me to take a seat. Instantly, I felt my nerves disappear as we began discussing familiar topics, like the notoriously hellish parking in Chapel Hill. I found myself easing up, even smiling, as I plugged in my recorder and began asking my questions.

As it were, my nerves for this interview proved to be completely unfounded. Dr. Carmichael had me laughing and reminiscing right along with him as he detailed his life’s story, full of colorful characters like himself. Again and again, I was struck by the sincerity of his words and his complete vulnerability. We talked about his substance abuse, his “bizarre” wedding to ex-wife Bunny, the antebellum house he called home, and his road to sobriety. We talked about his lovers, his emotional turmoil, and his subsequent recovery and victory over alcoholism and mental illness. Clearly, my apprehension about interviewing a stranger was not shared by my interviewee, as he seemed to relish this opportunity to express himself.

Dr. Carmichael refused to shy away from sensitive topics, willing to discuss anything from his original rejection from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill to the sexual favors he granted to a guard so he could place a phone call from jail. He talked about his lowest point, in the throes of mental illness and at odds with himself and his own sexuality. He discussed his recovery, his discovery of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and the many eccentric friends who helped him along his path to sobriety. In the end, this unassuming professor gave a profoundly honest and touching account of the incredible life he had led.

Dr. Carmichael’s life—as far as I could tell from the two hours I spent interviewing him that February Friday night—is not defined by failures or defeat. His story is one of marked triumph, over illness, abuse, and insecurity. Though he described himself as a “troubled” person as a young man, any trace of that trouble seems to have been replaced by his exuberance and love of life. His love of his family, friends, and cats (yes, his cats) was absolutely infectious, and I left his office wanting only to someday be able to spend more time talking to him about his life. During his interview, Dr. Carmichael said to me, “I think my talent in life is being a friend,” and after listening to two hours of his life story, I can certainly agree. Dr. Carmichael is one of those rare people that we only meet occasionally in our lives—full of life, humility, and a contagious love of all people. I felt truly honored to have met him.

As I was leaving his Greensboro office, I felt honestly disappointed that our interview was complete. As anxious as I had been just hours earlier, my interview with Dr. Carmichael was not only fascinating, but helped put my own life in perspective. I suggested that we should share coffee and more stories the next time Dr. Carmichael finds himself in Chapel Hill, as he often does for research. I sincerely hope he takes me up on my offer.