When this is all over (Covid, 2020, this nightmare purgatory we’ve found ourselves stuck in) how will we remember it? The very human tendency is to focus either on the good or bad parts of a situation and let the rest fade. Which parts you focus on depends on your outlook, I suppose. But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I will look back on this situation. What will stick out? What will fade? Will I remember cozy evenings on the couch, going through a Netflix binge, and forget how the days bled together until whole weeks passed without my noticing? Will I remember feeling uneasy the first time I stepped into a grocery store with my mask pulled tightly around my face, but forget the kind smile of the person manning the checkout? I’m not sure.
A few months ago, I wrote about university archivists who are working to capture this moment in time. The archivist teams face some unusual challenges, including the absolute onslaught of information coming at them every second. Think of the billions of tweets referencing the pandemic, and how you might start to pare that down. How do you decide what’s worth saving?
In the article, I talked about how universities are figuring it out:
At the University of Saskatchewan, a team of historians overseeing the institution’s COVID-19 archive quickly realized the difficulty in limiting their scope to the university community.
“If you say ‘we’re only going to talk to the university people,’ does that include the hospital where many people train and work? Does it include spouses of people who were affected by the creation of a home office?” asks Erika Dyck, a history professor and Canada Research Chair in the history of medicine who sits on the project’s leadership team.
With those fluid community boundaries in mind, the team at U of S has focused on collecting oral histories and personal submissions, while relying on their counterparts in the provincial and municipal archives in the province to fill other gaps. “They’re going to capture what’s happening at the cabinet table, what’s happening at the upper levels of government,” says Jim Clifford, an associate professor of environmental history who also serves on the leadership team.
But there was another factor to this decision making that didn’t make it into the story. In speaking with a researcher on the west coast, he mentioned that while there is generally a good gender split in archive teams, most of the people in his line of work are white.
What does that mean for materials and artifacts that specifically impact Black and Indigenous people? Are those submissions given the same weight? Do researchers know what’s important in those communities, or what will become important in the future? And how do they address their own (possibly unconscious) biases?
Digital ephemera exists as it’s own archive. You can scroll through your social feed and see a curated selection of moments from your own life. However, displaying material in an official university archive says something about the importance of that artifact. It elevates its status. It’s no longer just an Instagram post - it’s an Instagram post worth reviewing and studying.
So how do we decide what’s worth remembering?
In March, right before our lives changed irrevocably, I attended a birthday party. One of my best friends turned 30 years old, and I travelled to New Brunswick to join a group of well-wishers from four provinces. We packed into a pub, we danced, we smushed our sweaty faces up against each other in joy.
Earlier that day, as a surprise to the birthday girl, a group of us met at a “Nordic” “spa” (the establishment was playing pretty fast and loose with the meaning of both of those words, but it was lovely nonetheless) for an afternoon of relaxation. Part of this spa experience was moving from hot to cold and back again. Something about circulation? I don’t know, we had mimosas.
And so, we found ourselves rushing into the icy water of the Bay of Fundy, snow crunching under our flip flops. We squealed and plunged up to our shoulders in the frigid water, then emerged shaking and laughing, running back to pick up our towels and robes.
The whole day was wonderful. It stands out in my mind not only as a fantastic memory, but also as one of the only parties I attended this year, and likely for several more months to come. For this reason, I remember the whole day with a slightly rosy glow. I remember laughing, and great food, and hugging, and a whirlwind dance session with my friend’s mother. My mind did me the kindness of discarding the less pleasant parts of the trip.
Maybe it’ll do that again for my memories of Covid. Maybe I’ll look back at this year with grace, one day.
Recommendations From the Slush Pile:
I’m pretty proud of this piece on CNN that I helped produce. I’m not in the story, but I did all the interviews and set up the story from Halifax, working with a team in Atlanta. It was a new experience for me, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I hope to do it again.
This look at temporary foreign workers in the agriculture sector was eye opening.
How are Olympic athletes dealing with the pandemic?
The Novel of the Week is actually a memoir. They Said This Would Be Fun by Eternity Martis explores the author’s time as a Black woman on the Western University campus. What Martis experienced is shocking but unfortunately not surprising.
One Last Thing:
In honour of our American friends celebrating Thanksgiving this week, I give you the one and only Jerry Stiller.