Archives of Disaster: Do We Really Want to Remember?

Words by Jana Gowan

The people who live here now, the ones who never left, are still trying to make sense of why the earth turned on them. Much as they love this place, their doubts run deep. Was it a mistake to hang on? Will they be the last generation to inhabit the southern plains? And some feel deep shame - for the land’s failure, and their part in it. Outside Inavale not long ago, an old woman was found burning a Dust Bowl diary written by her husband. Her neighbor was astonished: why destroy such an intimate family record? The horror, the woman explained, was not worth sharing. She wanted it gone forever.

- Timothy Egan, The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl, pp. 2-3.

I open with this quotation to explain the source of my doubts and questions as I begin to work on a thesis focused on source communities accessing memories of the Dust Bowl. To offer some background, I entered the Masters in Library and Information Sciences program at UCLA in the fall of 2015 with a very specific goal. I wanted to learn how archives can better represent the histories of rural communities. One of the deepest and darkest moments in the history of my beloved home state, Oklahoma, is the disaster known as the Dust Bowl.  

Manmade and natural causes—a severe drought, over-plowing and over-grazing the land—combined to create phenomenal dust storms, called “black blizzards” with dust rising up to 8,000 feet in the air. These storms began in 1932 without sustained relief until 1938. Approximately 75% of the population affected remained in the Great Plains, and roughly over three million people migrated west. Almost 80 years later, I think back to characteristics of my elders, their lifestyles, and how they must have been influenced by growing up during this disaster. They didn’t waste food or materials, they ate everything put in front of them at mealtimes, and they had a healthy fear mixed with deep respect for the land.

I thought if I could focus on this moment in history, I could glean larger truths about how rural communities engage and feel about access to archival records of their history. The more I learn about the Dust Bowl, though, the more I question my intentions and the real-life impacts of digging up old dirt. While inquiring about the Institutional Review Board process, I was told that I shouldn’t have a problem because the Dust Bowl was not as traumatic as other historical events such as the Holocaust. Although I understand the point—a natural disaster is very different from a genocide—I blanch at the suggestion that the Dust Bowl was not that traumatic. After watching a video of a man describing how he helped bury his newborn siblings in shoeboxes during a dust storm (they died moments after birth due to dust inhalation), I couldn’t help thinking that this was too sad, and surely people don’t need or want to be reminded of such a terrible time.

Apparently, there are others who agree with me. In a 488-page textbook of Oklahoma history, the section on the Dust Bowl is one paragraph that doesn’t even take up the whole page. It covers cursory details of the decade and focuses on John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, a controversial depiction of Okies from an outsider’s perspective. This raises my hackles a bit, (pardon the colloquial expression). Although the history and the stories of this disaster are intimate and painful, I can’t shake the feeling that they matter, even (maybe especially?) for those of us who will never truly know what living during that time was like.

While looking through an online commentary for Ken Burns’s The Dust Bowl documentary (2012), I found this quote that resonated strongly:

I find a lot of pride in how my family persevered, and I am proud to call myself a California Okie. It is my heritage, and they did what they had to like many others to survive and keep their legacy intact. Without those decisions, I wouldn't be here today. I really wish I knew more about their plight to California and stops on the way, but it's a dark chapter no one in the family discusses.

I drew from this strength when after living in New Orleans for 6 years, being married there, and having a child, Katrina relocated us. My surviving grandmother from the Dust Bowl Era was hugely influential and motivational when I went through this period of my life. Thanks to PBS and others for bringing this to the mainstream's attention, as it directly impacted so many of our lives. Even the younger generations (I am 30).  

- Jason, http://www.pbs.org/kenburns/dustbowl/share-your-story/

Currently, I’m left with the feeling that maybe we don’t want to remember, but some of us need to remember. Accessing these memories of a past disaster can help us face the disasters of our present. As I design my research project, a new question emerges. How do I respect the rights of those who don’t want to remember while arguing for increased access to memories from “the worst hard time”?

In Process highlights the activities, experiences, and insights of current archival studies students as they develop their own perspectives on issues, trends, and events in the field.

Dustbowl Collections Worth Exploring

Migrant Life, California Odyssey: Dust Bowl Migration Archives. CSU Bakersfield.

• Dust Bowl Migration Archives, CSU Bakersfield
• Dust, Drought, and Dreams Gone Dry: Oklahoma Women in the Dust Bowl Oral History Project, Oklahoma State University
• The Charles L. Todd and Robert Sonkin Migrant Worker Collection, Library of Congress

Jana Gowan is an MLIS student at UCLA, specializing in archival studies. In her previous life, she worked as an educator and a fundraiser at a school in Washington, D.C. After graduating from UCLA in the Spring of 2017, she plans to return to her home state of Oklahoma to live and work in the pursuit of building stronger relationships between rural communities and local cultural heritage institutions.