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At Ewha today - well, at least part of the day. I got a late start.
On the way there I read this cool article about teaching young women about the Vietnam War. The author, a professor of history at a women’s college, talked a lot about how the current generation of young women have learned most of what they know about the war from the media, and how, of course, those images dehumanize the Vietnamese, promote war as a "male bonding" experience, and generally exclude women. She was candid and very knowledgeable. The most poignant part of the piece came when she described the oral history project she assigns to all of her students. Each student must interview someone from the Vietnam War generation and then write an analysis of that interview. For so many of her students, it was an opportunity for them to discuss with family members a secret that had been hidden for a generation. For some, it meant finally knowing their fathers; the pain that they endured, and the anger they carry still.
I’ve conducted quite a few oral histories, usually with married couples, and I have an appreciation for the connection such an interview fosters between interviewer and interviewee. I remember the few interviews I did for a domestic violence study. I asked violent guys about their family histories: their memories of interactions with their parents, what growing up was like, how they felt, etc. It was very personal and there is something about a person asking, listening, and asking for more that allows the other to open up and just talk. Basic counseling I suppose, but without the pressure to change. They were all very polite to me and after the interview they felt connected somehow to the person who had shown interest and let them share - even if that interest was contrived and sometimes false. Often, they felt a need to say goodbye to me, inquiring where I was if I wasn’t around, as if I were a new friend. It was strange for me, because I had seen the videotapes of the interactions with their wives, read the oral histories of the women, and I knew of the monsters these men sometimes were.
So reading this article today reminded me of the power of oral histories. The filling of a human need to be heard and understood from self-perspective. Most of the time, people are so busy trying to be heard that they are unable to stop and listen.
Stayed at the center until nearly 5pm and then rode home with the rush hour people. Transferring from the green line to the orange line, I was rounding the corner to the stairs going down to the orange line platform when the train pulled up. I flashed back to last week when I was in precisely the same situation. This week, my path downward was clear and I had no problem making the train. Last week, however, the stairs were crowded and I had to push my way down, which wasn’t so easy. I reached the platform, saw that the train doors were clear and heard the tone indicating imminent door closure. I bolted, and even as I saw the doors closing, I felt confident that the conductor would see me and push them open again. Happens all the time. But not this time. The doors closed hard on my shoulders, but the slick goretex I was wearing allowed me to slip through. The forward motion propelled me out of the straps of my backpack and the bag, sandwiched between the doors, hung suspended. All eyes were on me. I grabbed the straps and yanked hard. Scraaaaape….THUD! The doors slammed shut, and without even looking up I dashed through the door to the adjoining car where there were no witnesses.
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