For many of you, this will be your first time executing an analysis of an oral history. The key to writing a strong analysis paper is to bring a rigorous, analytical perspective to the information that your interview subject shares. Your goal is not to re-tell your subject’s stories in your analysis paper, but rather, to analyze and interpret the information that has been shared by your ...[Show More]
For
many of you, this will be your first time executing an analysis of an oral
history. The key to writing a strong analysis paper is to bring a rigorous,
analytical perspective to the information that your interview subject
shares. Your goal is not to re-tell your subject’s stories in your analysis
paper, but rather, to analyze and interpret the information that has been
shared by your interview subject.
As
you know, you may utilize the concepts and theories discussed in the class to
strengthen your oral history analysis paper.
Race
as Social Construction vs. Race as
Biologically Essential
Four
Levels of Racism
Race/
Racism as Part of Nation Building
Impact
of Stereotypes
Forced
Assimilation
Gender
and Racial Identity
White
Supremacy and Aesthetics
Legal
and Social Remedies to Racial Inequality
Multiracial
Identities
Solidarity
and Anti-Racist Action
Color
Blind Ideology
Interpreting Oral History
The
following excerpts from Linda Shopes’ guide “Interpreting Oral History” gives
you some concepts to consider in your analysis.
Who Is Talking?
“For all their considerable value, oral history interviews
are not an unproblematic source. Although narrators speak for themselves, what
they have to say does not. Paradoxically, oral history's very concreteness, its
very immediacy, seduces us into taking it literally, an approach historian
Michael Frisch has criticized as "Anti-History," by which he means
viewing "oral historical evidence because of its immediacy and emotional
resonance, as something almost beyond interpretation or accountability, as a
direct window on the feelings and . . . on the meaning of past
experience."* As with any source, historians
must exercise critical judgment when using interviews--just because someone
says something is true, however colorfully or convincingly they say it, doesn't
mean it is true. Just because someone "was there" doesn't mean they
fully understand "what happened."
The first step in assessing an interview, then, is to
consider the reliability of the narrator and the verifiability of the account.
The narrator's relationship to the events under discussion, and the personal
stake in presenting a particular version of events, the physical and mental
state at the time of the events under discussion and at the moment of the
interview, as well as the overall attention and care the narrator brings to the
interview and the internal consistency of the account itself all figure into the
narrator's reliability as a source.”[1]
Social Identity
What a narrator says, as well as the way a narrator says
it, is related to that person's social identity (or identities). Who a narrator
is becomes a cognitive filter for their experiences. Recognizing the differing
social experiences of women and men, feminist historians have noted that women
more so than men articulate their life stories around major events in the
family life cycle, dating events in relation to when their children were born,
for example. Men, on the other hand, are more likely to connect their personal
chronologies to public events like wars, elections, and strikes. Women's
narratives also tend, as Gwen Etter-Lewis has put it, towards
"understatement, avoidance of the first person point of view, rare mention
of personal accomplishments, and disguised statements of personal power."* Racial identity, too, figures into oral historical
accounts. Writing about the 1921 race riot in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Scott Ellsworth
coined the phrase "segregation of memory" to describe the varying
ways blacks and whites remembered this gruesome event.*
It is a typical pattern, suggestive of the deep racial divides in the United
States. In interview after interview, whites recalled either "very little
at all" about members of minority groups or that "we all got
along," while members of minority groups tended toward both a more nuanced
and less sanguine view of white people. Interviews with politicians and other
notable public figures pose particular problems. While they are perhaps no more
egocentric or concerned about their reputations than many others, their
practiced delivery and ability to deflect difficult questions often leads to
accounts that are especially facile and glib. Indeed, the general rule of thumb
is the longer a public official has been out of the public eye, the more honest
and insightful the interview will be.
One can catalogue any number of ways different
"whos" inflect oral history narratives. Yet identities are neither
singular nor fixed. "Who" exactly is speaking is defined by both the
speaker's relationship to the specific events under discussion and temporal
distance from them. Hence while we would expect labor and management to record
differing accounts of a strike, union members too can differ among themselves,
depending upon their relative gains or losses in the strike's aftermath, their
differing political views and regard for authority, or their differing levels
of tolerance for the disorder a strike can create. And their views can change
over time, as perspectives broaden or narrow, as subsequent experiences force
one to reconsider earlier views, as current contexts shape one's understanding
of past events. All are part of who is speaking.
Who is the Interviewer?
There is no doubt that the single most important factor in
the constitution of an interview is the questions posed by the interviewer.
Inevitably derived from a set of assumptions about what is historically
important, the interviewer's questions provide the intellectual framework for
the interview and give it direction and shape. For especially articulate
narrators, the questions are a foil against which they define their experience.
Good interviewers listen carefully and attempt to more closely align their
questions with what the narrator thinks is important. Nonetheless, more than
one interviewer has had the experience described by Thomas Dublin as he
reflected upon his interviews with coal mining families: "Once, when
looking over photographs with Tom and Ella Strohl [whom he had previously
interviewed], I expressed surprise at seeing so many pictures taken on hunting trips
with his buddies. When I commented that I had not realized how important
hunting had been in Tommy's life, he responded good-naturedly, 'Well, you never
asked.'"*
Yet the questions asked are not the only influence an interviewer
has upon what is said in an interview. Like narrators, interviewers have social
identities that are played out in the dynamic of the interview. Narrators
assess interviewers, deciding what they can appropriately say to this person,
what they must say, and what they should not say. Thus a grandparent being
interviewed by a grandchild for a family history project may well suppress less
savory aspects of the past in an effort to shield the child, serve as a
responsible role model, and preserve family myths. I described above how my own social identity
as the upwardly mobile granddaughter of Polish immigrants created a particular
emotional subtext to interviews with Polish cannery workers.
The following two interviews with the same person, one
conducted by an African-American interviewer, one by a white interviewer,
present a stark example of the way the narrator's response to the social
identity of the interviewer shapes the interview. The narrator is Susan Hamlin
or Hamilton, a former slave in South Carolina. These interviews were conducted
with her under the auspices of the Federal Writers Project (FWP) in the 1930s.
Both interviewers worked from a common set of questions that included personal
history, work experiences, education, diet, and the master/slave relationship.
With instructions about how to render former slaves' dialects in writing, FWP
interviewers took notes and then summarized their interviews. Read the two
interviews, paying close attention to the interaction between Hamlin/Hamilton and
each interviewer and to the way she recounted her memories of slavery to each
of them.
|
Interview
One: Interview with Ex-Slave |
|
On July 6th, I interviewed Susan
Hamlin, ex-slave, at 17 Henrietta street, Charleston, S.C. She was sitting
just inside of the front door, on a step leading up to the porch, and upon
hearing me inquire for her she assumed that I was from the Welfare office,
from which she had received aid prior to its closing. I did not correct this
impression. and at no time did she suspect that the object of my visit was to
get the story of her experience as a slave. During our conversation she
mentioned her age. "Why that's very interesting, Susan," I told
her, "If you are that old you probably remember the Civil War and
slavery days." "Yes, Ma'am, I been a slave myself," she said,
and told me the following story: "I kin remember some things
like it was yesterday, but I is 104 years old now, and age is starting to get
me, I can't remember everything like I use to. I getting old, old. You know I
is old when I been a grown woman when the Civil War broke out. I was hired
out then, to a Mr. McDonald, who lived on Atlantic Street, and I remembers
when de first shot was fired, and the shells went right over the city. I got
seven dollars a month for looking after children, not taking them out, you
understand, just minding them. I did not got the money, Mausa got it."
"Don't you think that was fair?" I asked. "If you were fed and
clothed by him, shouldn't he be paid for your work?" "Course it
been fair," she answered, "I belong to him and he got to be get
something to take care of me." "My name before I was married
was Susan Calder, but I married a man name Hamlin. I belonged to Mr. Edward
Fuller, he was president of the First National Bank. He was a good man to his
people till de Lord took him. Mr. Fuller got his slaves by marriage. He
married Miss Mikell, a lady what lived on Edisto Island, who was a slave
owner, and we lived on Edisto on a plantation. I don't remember de name cause
when Mr. Fuller got to be president of de bank we come to Charleston to live.
He sell out the plantation and say them (the slaves) that want to come to
Charleston with him could come and them what wants to stay can stay on the
island with his wife's people. We had our choice. Some is come and some is
stay, but my ma and us children come with Mr. Fuller. We lived on St. Philip street. The
house still there, good as ever. I go 'round there to see it all de time the
cistern still there too, where we used to sit 'round and drink the cold
water, and eat, and talk and laugh. Mr. Fuller have lots of servants and the
ones he didn't need hisself he hired out. The slaves had rooms in the back,
the ones with children had two rooms and them that didn't have any children
had one room, not to cook in but to sleep in. They all cooked and ate
downstairs in the hall that they had for the colored people. I don't know
about slavery but I know all the slavery I know about, and the people was
good to me. Mr. Fuller was a good man and his wife's people been grand
people, all good to their slaves. Seem like Mr. Fuller just git his slaves so
he could be good to dem. He made all the little colored chillen love him. If
you don't believe they loved him what they all cry, and scream, and holler
for when dey hear he dead? 'Oh, Mausa dead my Mausa dead, what I going to do,
my Mausa dead.' Dey tell dem t'aint no use to cry, dat can't bring him back,
but de chillen keep on crying. We used to call him Mausa Eddie but he named
Mr. Edward Fuller, and he sure was a good man. "A man come here about a
month ago, say he from de Government, and dey send him to find out 'bout
slavery. I give him most a book, and what he give me? A dime. He ask me all
kind of questions. He ask me dis and he ask me dat, didn't de white people do
dis and did dey do dat but Mr. Fuller was a good man, he was sure good to me
and all his people, dey all like him, God bless him, he in de ground now but
I ain't going to let nobody lie on him. You know he good when even the little
chillen cry and holler when he dead. I tell you dey couldn't just fix us up
any kind of way when we going to Sunday School. We had to be dressed nice, if
you pass him and you ain't dress to suit him he send you right back and say
tell your ma to see dat you dress right. Dey couldn't send you out in de cold
barefoot neither. I 'member one day my ma want to send me wid some milk for
her sister-in-law what live 'round de corner. I fuss cause it cold and say
'how you going to send me out wid no shoe, and it cold?' Mausa hear how I
talkin and turn he back and laugh, den he call to my ma to gone in de house
and find shoe to put on my feet and don't let him see me barefoot again in
cold weather." When de war start going good and
de shell fly over Charleston he take all us up to Aiken for protection. Talk
'bout marching through Georgia, dey sure march through Aiken, soldiers was
everywhere. "My ma had six children,
three boys and three girls, but I de only one left, all my white people and
all de colored people gone, not a soul left but me. I ain't been sick in 25
years. I is near my church and I don't miss service any Sunday, night or
morning. I kin walk wherever I please, I kin walk to de battery if I want to.
The Welfare use to help me but dey shut down now, I can't find out if dey going
to open again or not. Miss (Mrs.) Buist and Miss Pringle, dey help me when I
can go there but all my own dead." "Were most of the masters
kind?" I asked. "Well you know," she answered, "times den
was just like dey is now, some was kind and some was mean; heaps of
wickedness went on just de same as now. All my people was good people. I see
some wickedness and I hear 'bout all kinds of t'ings but you don't know
whether it was lie or not. Mr. Fuller been a Christian man. "do you think it would have
been better if the negroes had never left africa?" Was the next question
I asked. "No Ma'am," (emphatically) dem heathen didn't have no
religion. I tell you how I t'ink it is. The Lord made t'ree nations, the
white, the red and the black, and put dem in different places on de earth
where dey was to stay. Dose black ignoramuses in Africa forgot God, and
didn't have no religion and God blessed and prospered the white people dat
did remember Him and sent dem to teach de black people even if dey have to
grab dem and bring dem into bondage till dey learned some sense. The Indians
forgot God and dey had to be taught better so dey land was taken away from
dem. God sure bless and prosper de white people and He put de red and de
black people under dem so dey could teach dem and bring dem into sense wid
God. Dey had to get dere brains right, and honor God, and learn uprightness
wid God cause ain't He make you, and ain't His Son redeem you and save you
wid His precious blood. You kin plan all de wickedness you want and pull hard
as you choose but when the Lord mek up His mind you is to change, He can
change you dat quick (snapping her fingers) and easy. You got to believe on
Him if it tek bondage to bring you to your knees." You know I is got converted. I
been in Big Bethel (church) on my knees praying under one of de preachers. I
see a great, big, dark pack on my back, and it had me all bent over and my
shoulders drawn down, all hunch up. I look up and I see de glory, I see a big
beautiful light, a great light, and in de middle is de Sabior, hanging so
(extending her arms) just like He died. Den I gone to praying good, and I can
feel de sheckles (shackles) loose up and moving and de pack fall off. I don't
know where it went to, I see de angels in de Heaven, and hear dem say 'Your
sins are forgiven.' I scream and fell off so. (Swoon.) When I come to dey has
laid me out straight an I know I is converted cause you can't see no such
sight and go on like you is before. I know I is still a sinner but I believe
in de power of God an I trust his Holy name. Den dey put me wid de seekers
but I know I is already saved." "Did they take good care of
the slaves when their babies were born?" she was asked. "If you
want chickens for fat (to fatten) you got to feed dem," she said with a
smile, "and if you want people to work dey got to be strong, you got to
feed dem and take care of dem too. If dey can't work it come out of your
pocket. Lots of wickedness gone on in dem days, just as it do now, some good,
some mean, black and white, it just dere nature, if dey good dey going to be
kind to everybody, if dey mean dey going to be mean to everybody. Sometimes
chillen was sold away from dey parents. De Mausa would come and say
"Where Jennie," tell um to put clothes on dat baby, I want um. He
sell de baby and de ma scream and holler, you know how dey carry on. Geneally
(generally) dey sold it when de ma wasn't dere. Mr. Fuller didn't sell none
of us, we stay wid our ma's till we grown. I stay wid my ma till she dead. "You know I is mix blood, my
grandfather bin a white man and my grandmother a mulatto. She been marry to a
black so dat how I get fix like I is. I got both blood, so how I going to
quarrel wid either side?" SOURCE: Interview with Susan
Hamlin, 17 Henrietta Street NOTE * Susan lives with a mulatto
family of the better type. The name is Hamlin not Hamilton, and her name prior
to her marriage was Calder not Collins. I paid particular attention to this
and had them spell the names for me. I would judge Susan to be in the late
nineties but she is wonderfully well preserved. She now claims to be 104
years old. |
|
Interview Two : Ex-Slave 101 Years
of Age |
|
I'm a hund'ed an' one years old
now, son. De only one livin' in my crowd frum de days I wuz a slave. Mr.
Fuller, my master, who was president of the Firs' National Bank, owned the
fambly of us except my father. There were eight men an' women with five girls
an' six boys workin' for him. Most o' them wus hired out. De house in which
we stayed is still dere with de sisterns an' slave quarters. I always go to
see de old home which is on St. Phillip Street. My ma had t'ree boys an' t'ree
girls who did well at their work. Hope Mikell, my eldest brodder, an' James
wus de shoemaker. William Fuller, son of our Master, wus de bricklayer.
Margurite an' Catharine wus de maids an' look as de children. My pa b'long to a man on Edisto
Island. Frum what he said, his master was very mean. Pa real name wus Adam
Collins but he took his master' name; he wus de coachman. Pa did supin one
day en his master whipped him. De next day which wus Monday, pa carry him
'bout four miles frum home in de woods an' give him de same 'mount of lickin'
he wus given on Sunday. He tied him to a tree an' unhitched de horse so it
couldn't git tie-up an' kill e self. Pa den gone to de landin' an' cetch a
boat dat wus comin' to Charleston wood fa'm products. He (was) permitted by
his master to go to town on errands, which helped him to go on de boat
without bein' question'. W'en he got here he gone on de water-front an' ax
for a job on a ship so he could git to de North. He got de job an' sail' wood
de ship. Dey search de island up an' down for him wood houndogs en w'en it
wus t'ought he wus drowned, 'cause dey track him to de river, did dey give
up. One of his master' friend gone to New York en went in a store w'ere pa
wus employed as a clerk. He recognize' pa is easy is pa recognize' him. He
gone back home an' tell pa master who know den dat pa wusn't comin' back an'
before he died he sign' papers dat pa wus free. Pa' ma wus dead an' he come
down to bury her by de permission of his master' son who had promised no ha'm
would come to him, but dey wus' fixin' plans to keep him, so he went to de
Work House an' ax to be sold 'cause any slave could see e self if e could git
to de Work House. But it wus on record down dere so dey couldn't sell 'im an'
told him his master' people couldn't hold him a slave. People den use to do de same
t'ings dey do now. Some marry an' some live together jus' like now. One
t'ing, no minister nebber say in readin' de matrimony "let no man put
asounder" 'cause a couple would be married tonight an' tomorrow one
would be taken away en be sold. All slaves wus married in dere master house,
in de livin' room where slaves an' dere missus an' mossa wus to witness de
ceremony. Brides use to wear some of de finest dress an' if dey could afford
it, have de best kind of furniture. Y our master nor your missus objected to
good t'ings. I'll always 'member Clory, de
washer. She wus very high-tempered. She was a mulatto with beautiful hair she
could sit on; Clory didn't take foolishness frum anybody. One day our missus
gone in de laundry an' find fault with de clothes. Clory didn't do a t'ing
but pick her up bodily an' throw 'er out de door. Dey had to sen' fur a
doctor 'cause she pregnant an' less than two hours de baby wus bo'n. Afta dat
she begged to be sold ur she didn't [want] to kill missus, but our master
ain't nebber want to sell his slaves. But dat didn't keep Clory frum gittin'
a brutal whippin'. Dey whip' 'er until dere wusn't a white spot on her body.
Dat wus de worst I ebber see a human bein' got sucha beatin'. I t'ought she
wus goin' to die, but she got well an' didn't get any better but meaner until
our master decide it wus bes' to rent her out. She willingly agree' since she
wusn't 'round missus. She hated an' detest' both of them an' all de fambly. W'en any slave wus whipped all de
other slaves wus made to watch. I see women hung frum de ceilin' of buildin's
an' whipped with only supin tied 'round her lower part of de body, until w'en
dey wus taken down, dere wusn't breath in de body. I had some terribly bad experiences.
Yankees use to come t'rough de
streets, especially de Big Market, huntin' those who want to go to de
"free country" as dey call' it. M en an' women wus always missin'
an' nobody could give 'count of dere disappearance. De men wus train' up North
fur sojus. De white race is so brazen. Dey
come here an' run de Indians frum dere own lan', but dey couldn't make dem
slaves 'cause dey wouldn't stan' for it. Indians use to git up in trees an'
shoot dem with poison arrow. W'en dey couldn't make dem slaves den dey gone
to Africa an' bring dere black brother and sister. Dey say 'mong themselves,
"we gwine mix dem up en make ourselves king. Dats de only way we'd git
even with de Indians." All time, night an' day, you could
hear men an' women screamin' to de tip of dere voices as either ma, pa,
sister, or brother wus take without any warnin' an' sell. Some time mother
who had only one chile wus separated fur life. People wus always dyin' frum a
broken heart. One night a couple married an' de
next mornin' de boss sell de wife. De gal ma got in in de street an' cursed
de white woman fur all she could find. She said: "dat damn white,
pale-face bastard sell my daughter who jus' married las' night," an'
other ti'ings. The white man tresten' her to call de police if she didn't
stop, but de collud woman said: "hit me or call de police. I redder die
dan to stan' dis any longer." De police took her to de Work House by de
white woman orders an' what became of 'er, I never hear. W'en de war began we wus taken to
Aiken, South Ca'lina w'ere we stay' until de Yankees come t'rough. We could
see balls sailin' t'rough de air w'en Sherman wus comin'. Bumbs h it trees in
our yard. W'en de freedom gun wus fired, I wus on my 'nees scrubbin'. Dey
tell me I wus free but I didn't b'lieve it. In de days of slavery woman wus
jus' given time 'nough to deliver dere babies. Dey deliver de baby 'bout
eight in de mornin' an' twelve had to be back to work. I wus a member of Emmanuel African
Methodist Episcopal Church for 67 years. Big Zion, across de street wus my
church before den an' before Old Bethel w'en I lived on de other end of town. Sence Lincoln shook hands with his
assasin who at de same time shoot him, frum dat day I stop shakin' hands,
even in de church, an' you know how long dat wus. I don't b'lieve in kissin'
neider fur all carry dere meannesses. De Master wus betrayed by one of his
bosom frien' with a kiss. |
What are they Talking About?
The topical range of oral history interviews is enormous,
including everything from the most public of historical events to the most
intimate details of private life. What is analytically important, however, is
the way narrators structure their accounts and the way they select and arrange
the elements of what they are saying. Interviews frequently are plotted
narratives, in which the narrator/hero overcomes obstacles, resolves
difficulties, and achieves either public success or private satisfaction. There
are exceptions, of course, but these conventions, typical of much of Western
literature, suggest something of the individualizing, goal-oriented, success
driven, morally righteous tendencies of the culture and hence the underlying
assumptions people use to understand their experiences. They also perhaps
reflect the egocentric and valorizing tendencies of an interview, in which one
person is asked, generally by a respectful, even admiring interviewer, to talk
about his life. Comparison with interviews conducted with narrators outside the
mainstream of western culture is instructive here. Interviewing Native American
women from Canada's Yukon Territory, anthropologist Julie Cruikshank found that
her questions about conventional historical topics like the impact of the
Klondike gold rush or the construction of the Alaska Highway were answered with
highly metaphoric, traditional stories that narrators insisted were part of
their own life stories. Negotiating cultural differences about what properly
constituted a life history thus became Cruikshank's challenge.*
Narrators also encapsulate experiences in what I have come
to term "iconic stories," that is concrete, specific accounts that
"stand for" or sum up something the narrator reckons of particular
importance. Often these are presented as unique or totemic events and are
communicated with considerable emotional force. So, for example, one woman
recounted the following incident from her childhood, illustrating the value she
places on charity and self-denial:
One thing I'd like to tell about my grandmother, she was
not a very expressive person, but one time she heard of a family with three
daughters about the same age as her own three daughters, who were in pretty
hard straits. And she had just finished making three elegant new costumes for
her daughters in the days when a dress . . . took a great deal of labor. And,
instead of giving the three girls the discarded ones of her daughters, she gave
them the three brand new ones, which I've always liked to remember.*
Folklorist Barbara Allen has argued that the storied
element of oral history reflects the social nature of an interview, for in
communicating something meaningful to others, stories attempt to create a
collective consciousness of what is important. Applying this notion to a body
of interviews from the intermountain West, Allen identifies certain categories
of stories--how people came to the West, their difficulties with the terrain
and the weather, the "grit" required to survive--and suggests that
these themes speak to a broad regional consciousness. Whether a given story is
factually true or not is not the point; rather, its truth is an interpretive
truth, what it stands for, or means.*
As important as what is said is what is not said, what a
narrator misconstrues, ignores, or avoids. Silences can signify simple
misunderstanding; discomfort with a difficult or taboo subject; mistrust of the
interviewer; or cognitive disconnect between interviewer and narrator.
Interviewing an immigrant daughter about her life in mid-twentieth century
Baltimore, I asked if she had worked outside the home after her marriage. She
replied that she had not and we went on to a discussion of her married life.
Later in the interview, however, she casually mentioned that for several years
during her marriage she had waited tables during the dinner hour at a local
restaurant. When I asked her about this apparent contradiction in her
testimony, she said that she had never really thought of her waitressing as
"work"; rather, she was "helping Helen out," Helen being
the restaurant's owner and a friend and neighbor.
Silences can also have broad cultural meaning. Italian
historian Luisa Passerini found that life histories she recorded of members of
Turin's working class frequently made no mention of Fascism, whose repressive
regime nonetheless inevitably impacted their lives. Even when questioned
directly, narrators tended to jump from Fascism's rise in the 1920s directly to
its demise in World War II, avoiding any discussion of the years of Fascism's
political dominance. Passerini interprets this as evidence on the one hand
"of a scar, a violent annihilation of many years in human lives, a
profound wound in daily experience" among a broad swath of the population
and, on the other, of people's preoccupation with the events of everyday
life--"jobs, marriage, children"--even in deeply disruptive
circumstances.*
1] Linda Shopes, “Making Sense of Oral History,” http://historymatters.gmu.edu/mse/oral/interpret.html
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