Archives, Sight, and How the Past Gains Meaning Within Context

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     The week before spring break had officially set on campus, we were tasked with reading a hearty mix of sociological explorations of just how memory is used during important moments in history, specifically how it's used during policy-making and political movements, which affects not only how the event itself is remembered and argues but also how effective it is in its messaging. One particular piece that felt the most striking to me was Lyn Spillman and Brian Conway’s “Texts, Bodies, and the Memory of Bloody Sunday.” Spillman explicitly leads the readers by arguing that belief must be suspended and that memory is part of the body. Although the argument does not seem farfetched, Spillman clarifies that one singular memory is not rooted in the bodily experience, even before an assigned symbolic meaning is given. Spillman systematically differentiates embodied and textual memory by stating that the intentional action (similar to how Paul Connerton may have described it) placed within its context makes a memory symbolic and collective (Spillman, 90, 92). For example, Sandra Lee initially uses the act of Korean immigrants in Japan eating kimchi as an example of an embodied memory (Spillman, 81-82). The act is realistically varied and standard; it means that anyone can eat any variety of kimchi made in various ways. However, textual memory is observing the historical context in which Korean immigrants in Japan’s specific experience of consuming and interacting with a part of their heritage and typical food from a home where they are no longer geographically tied, strengthening their pride in it (Spillman, 91, 96). 

    This past week, we finally met in the Archives for the first time in three weeks. This time, we were presented with “person files,” collections of notable people in the college’s history, attendance, etc. I was tasked with viewing Mary Rucker, an Associate English professor from 1978-1981 and the first-ever black woman to join the Kenyon faculty. The folder had a reference page that noted where she was mentioned in other works or pieces relating to Kenyon. What first caught my eye was that Rucker was mentioned in a collegian article that initially detailed an “inaccurate and misleading” story about a lawsuit against the school. Many of the details from the suit remain murky, as it is made clear that the only way for us to get the whole story would be for the college and Rucker to consent to the details being made public.

It struck me as I flipped through the personal file with images of Mary E. Rucker smiling at me, and I had to pause and reflect. Here I was, a little under 44 years after Rucker's last semester at Kenyon, casually reading through her file. My eyes scan over the page, and my ears can hear the quiet hum of the AC in L1 of Chalmers. I found it profound in the moment, a woman of color reading about a professor who had set a precedent not as far back in history as we may be once led to believe. However, it is not simply because my body can sense its surroundings, and my brain inscribes its meaning, merely deeming it essential for the sake of importance. Instead, it is the many years of history that were passed onto me, explained, given meaning, and had occurred for two individuals in institutions designed originally in a time where space was not made with a woman and one of color, making them a priority. Although the specific details of Mary E. Rucker's case from Kenyon's 1980-81 school year aren't precise, it is still a memorable moment in our history as an institution and as a female student of color 44 years later.

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