This year, as summer has turned to fall and the anniversary of 9/11 approached, I have found myself thinking about several ways in which the public memory of these events has unfolded and evolved over the past decade. How have we come to understand what happened on [...]]]>

This year, as summer has turned to fall and the anniversary of 9/11 approached, I have found myself thinking about several ways in which the public memory of these events has unfolded and evolved over the past decade. How have we come to understand what happened on that sunny morning in September? How have we reconciled our personal recollections and experiences with those that we learned about from television, friends, or other media? As archivists, how do we understand the threads, and provide context for documentation of events such as this one? How do we approach our own understanding and experiences, and can (or should) we separate those from what we collect?

Like thousands of others, I lost a friend on that terrible day. She was two years older than me, with a quiet smile and a wry sense of humor. Christina taught me how to hold a mellophone on my very first day of marching band, and made me feel as welcome as a tiny, wide-eyed new freshman could have been. We were in the same squad (of four) through countless hours of rehearsals, games, and post-game hilarity. After high school, I lost track of her, though I’d occasionally hear various updates through other band friends. While I’m not sure that I could (or would) have articulated it as a teenager, Christina was someone that I looked up to, someone that was humble and strong and kind, all at the same time. The world has been more gloomy these past ten years without her smile and strength.

As I watched the Facebook updates of my schoolmates scroll by this week with links to the article in the Plain Dealer and the seemingly annual Cleveland NewsNet5 story, I am reminded that we were all touched on that day in 2001. We all remember and commemorate and grieve in different ways. Christina’s parents and friends have set up a memorial foundation and scholarship fund, and have discussed their memories in many places, including her undergraduate student newspaper, a dedication to the children’s room at the local public library, a Congressional memoriam, and a StoryCorps interview. While I’m not sure that quiet Christina would have liked all of this attention, as another schoolmate posted back in 2005, I now think of this as Happy Christina Day. Make this a day to hold close your loved ones, and to tell them how much they mean to you. Especially the quiet ones, the strong ones, the humble ones. Do it now, and as often as you can.

Ten years after 9/11, we have a different, broader understanding of what happened than we did on that sunny Tuesday morning. Don’t we? As we move further from the events, do we gain a greater understanding, or just a different one? There are lots of conversations out there today about the nature of collecting public memory. Today I urge you to put on your archivist thinking cap, and consider the ways in which public and personal narratives collide to shape the story of a contemporary event. Evaluate some of the collecting initiatives that came out of 9/11, and think critically about how they serve their intended purpose. Think about 9/11 or another tragedy, or even some other event for which you have a collection in your archives. Think about future events which you will collect: what is your appraisal strategy? What is your process for building understanding and documentation? Use this day, this week, to revisit how you collect and maintain a body of documentation that has many layers and streams of content, emotion, understanding, and representation.  Think about how we can do this better. Make that your contribution.

Library of Congress Web archive of September 11, 2001

The September 11 Web Archive