They carried him slowly up the concrete stairs, careful not to bump his feet as they struggled past each step. The humid air made our clothes stick, and bumble bees floated around the newly emerged peonies next to the porch. With their aged backs and makeshift straps, they carefully placed the man into a metal seat, arranging his feet away from the urostomy bag that was in use. One of the man’s daughters waved me past, ignoring the makeshift ballet and focusing on her task. She led me into a mid-century modern house, well-worn with the life of a scholar, that was half packed into moving boxes. We moved around chairs and a coffee table piled high with magazines and travel mementos to a small door that appeared suddenly within the wall. She unlocked the knob, and we descended into the darkness.
As the sharp light clicked on, water-stained boxes appeared directly before me. The light swayed slightly as I gathered my senses and surveyed my surroundings. The musty basement brimmed with makeshift bookshelves holding rows of scholarship, dissertations, and journals. The daughter stood silent, watching my reaction to the scene. After a moment, I replied, “Let’s take a look,” and began walking through the history of her father’s life.
The water-stained boxes were filled with the life of a teacher historian. Syllabi, lectures, old slides, and student papers were neatly organized by course and year and stuffed tight within their enclosures. Courses on the history of peace and peace-making permeated the boxes. Folders with the names of long-passed scholars containing mimeographed articles of their work brimmed in another box. I had to carefully pull the crumbling folder to see the historian’s handwritten notes scribbled in the margins. The daughter sighed as I moved through the maze, “He never finished that book. He divorced my Mom and sank into a deep depression.”
She directed my attention away from the boxes, intent to show me a shelf of journals. A departure from the organized research, the journals appeared chaotic. They were different shapes, sizes, and colors and starkly contrasted the carefully placed texts on neighboring shelves. The daughter backed away from them as if they were a snake. “I don’t want them,” she declared, “but I’m a historian’s daughter and understand they need to be saved.” Before I could ask what they were, she explained, “They are daily reflections. My Dad was a journaler and wrote down his thoughts and feelings each day. But they aren’t all writing. And they aren’t all nice.” The daughter paused. “There are some terrible things in there. But the journals are important in understanding why he researched what he researched. I just can’t keep them. It was difficult being his daughter. This is too painful for me to keep.” The daughter alluded to depictions of abuse and self-harm in the pages.
I asked if she was aware of the phrase ‘generational trauma.’ “If the journals portray your difficult childhood more than his scholarship, why keep them? Why perpetuate that trauma into future generations when the boxes behind me are more than enough to document his scholarship and work as an educator?”
She paused. “I’m a historian’s daughter. That’s what we’re supposed to do.”
We stood in the basement, the dim light steady and unmoving. We heard the peace scholar and his family upstairs, mutedly discussing the day’s packing plans.
She moved to another shelf of journals, pulling one down. Quietly, she flipped to a back page revealing a child’s drawing of a green field and people playing under a bright sun. Next to the drawing were words of encouragement and gratitude. “My children have a different understanding of who he is. He’s grandpa to them. They don’t know him like I do.” She observed the page for a moment, watching as if the smiling stick figures were dancing on the hilltop. Slowly, she closed the journal and placed it back on the shelf.
“In the future. But maybe you need to let the future decide that.”
“Maybe I need time,” she said.
“Maybe,” I replied. “But you know, these journals are alive.”
She looked at me curiously. “How do you mean?”
“These journals are him,” I explained. “These are a life – they are living. They are an extension of his mind and form for a reader a picture of the man you know that’s sitting outside. Who knows what an outsider might take away from these in the future. But maybe you need to let the future decide that.”
She looked away and back at the journals, contemplating our conversation. “Can I let you know?”
With my nod, she quickly shifted away from the journals and over to the boxes, sitting forgotten in our visit. We explored a few more boxes and made plans for my return visit to pick up materials. We then made our way back to the surface and the warm Spring air that crept into the house by the open front door. I made my way outside to the man, sitting quietly and alone, staring off into his former neighborhood. A lawnmower growled in the distance. A neighbor walked outside and tied balloons to her mailbox. I quietly sat down in a warm metal chair next to the man. We sat for a moment, watching the neighborhood. I heard the daughter back in the house searching for bottles of water. He slowly turned to me, and for a moment, I froze. I felt fear running through me, as if my own father and his demons, had found his way from death to the seat next to me. The man stared at me, the tube from his pants turning yellow again as it moved to the collection bag. I soothed the child in my head, assuring her we were safe. I asked, “Is there anything important you want to tell me while I’m here?” Slow surprise spread across his face as his daughter returned with bottles of water. In a loud voice, she repeated my question. After a few more beats, he carefully replied, “I was a teacher.”
I spent the next half hour, asking about his courses and his time in academia. Each time, he would consider my question and slowly answer with what memories he could muster. Two hours into our visit, my time was up.
I thanked the man and his daughter for letting me talk to them and review his materials. I assured them I would be back.
I hurried down the sidewalk, bumping my toe on the bottom step. I opened the door to my van, letting the hot air rush out as I stepped in. I took a moment, listening to the distant lawnmower and the buzz of late afternoon insects. My phone’s beep brought me back, reminding me I had another retiree visit before I could end my day. As I drove off, I could see them in the distance, sitting quietly and watching the peonies.
Keeping (and Telling) the Past 