1) A little while back, perhaps you heard, Anthony Clark reported that Allen Weinstein, head of NARA in the George W. Bush administration, serially sexually assaulted women employees of NARA. Maryellen Trautman, whose account makes up the bulk of the article, was certain Weinstein had harassed women at NARA other than her; he was “smooth, practiced.” Sam Anthony, who reported directly to Weinstein, later reported on his conversations with Trautman, “Four times she asked me to ‘find the other women.’” Ordinarily, reports of sexual harassment or assault are reported to the NARA Office of the Inspector General. In Trautman’s case, NARA general counsel first spent a week soliciting advice from the Office of Government Ethics, the White House Counsel, and the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, before finally passing the baton to NARA OIG, which promptly brought in the FBI. Weinstein ultimately resigned, and found a soft landing at the University of Maryland, where he would assault more women. He died in 2015. Our current AOTUS knew why Weinstein resigned, while publicly praising him:

His successor, David Ferriero—who, a National Archives source confirmed, knew the real reason Weinstein had resigned—warmly memorialized him on the Archives’ website, writing, “[We] will forever remember with gratitude his dedication to the mission and employees of the National Archives.”

2) Archivists spend a lot of time writing notes governing access to our holdings, and it’s largely a matter of self-involvement and involution. If a donor agreement stipulates restrictions on access, it’s a garbage agreement. If a contract demands an embargo of digitized content, it’s a garbage contract. If institutional policy creates a blanket time-based embargo on access, it’s a garbage policy. DACS 4.1, “Conditions governing access” becomes the chief bucket we store our garbage actions in, and it’s a required element of our description, which means we are required to be snitches for archives — to reveal aspects of the organizations we work for which are unflattering — with every recondite obstruction to access we create. We’re also required to be finks for archives — our restrictions notes, our rights notes, our security and registration practices, how we treat patrons, our preservation notes, how clean our hands are supposed to be and what we’re supposed to smell like — are all the hinges around which we fink on each other, and on our users.

3) A lot of heat on twitter was generated by the ALA panel on librarians’ neutrality, and there was a lot of good head-busting to be had. I’ve said here before, and nearly constantly since, that the professional compulsion to have archivists respond to social change qua archivists is moot. We’re much worse than neutral actors, neutrality for us would be a positive step toward revolution! We are the means by which our users are interpellated as subjects before our collections, before power. Howard Zinn’s 1970 SAA address is therefore good and forthright and also pitifully naive. We aren’t the lawyer boldly arguing for the Vietnam Moratorium and calling out the humanity shared by the judge, the defendants, and the people of Vietnam — we’re the stenographer, the clerk, and the bailiff. When the lawyer is done with his appeal, we open chambers, we flip to the next item on the docket, we reset our steno machine, and we move the gears.

I’m obviously reading Althusser and barely grasping him, but our real job — opposed to the unreal admonition to make archives liberatory spaces, or to preserve people’s lives using archives, or whatever is on the menu this year — given that any of us fortunate enough to work for an Archives Power always already supports and lends credence to the legitimacy of that Power, is something else. Here, here’s our large wife-murdering boy, also in 1970, from Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses:

Now it is this knowledge that we have to reach, if you will, while speaking in ideology, and from within ideology we have to outline a discourse which tries to break with ideology, in order to dare to be the beginning of a scientific (i.e. subjectless) discourse on ideology.

I think there are two roles or figures we could play in archives if we begin, while speaking in ideology to outline a discourse which gets at the “scientific mechanism” of ideology’s creation, and they are the Snitch and the Fink.

1) The FBI, when it began interviewing NARA staff about Weinstein, found a squealer, may Allah smile upon this person:

An Archives official would reveal to investigators a more disturbing truth: There were other women. Some within the agency had noticed Weinstein’s inappropriate behavior for at least 16 months before he assaulted Trautman.

The official, whose name was redacted, told investigators that she “first became aware of the possibility of inappropriate behavior” by Weinstein in August 2006.

The official told investigators that, while she had no direct knowledge, there were rumors that Weinstein was “hitting on” a National Archives employee and heard “through the grapevine” that he was “acting inappropriately during his trips.”

The employee then recounted an incident from a year earlier when she and Weinstein had dinner across the street from the Archives Building. While at the bar, Weinstein leaned in to talk to her and put his arm around her shoulders and the chair. “[She] thought it was a friendly gesture but also thought this was a ‘stupid’ action on the part of [her] supervisor. [She] broke away from Weinstein by physically moving [her] body around.”

She also told investigators that another woman told her Weinstein had read her poetry behind closed doors and once hugged her, but that “she did not want this information to go anywhere.”

The Snitch reports out content that Power wants held private. In the case of the FBI investigation into Allen Weinstein, all praise and honor goes to the career NARA archivists who reported out. What’s startling to me is that so few archivists reported on Weinstein — not that this stuff is easy, not that anyone talking didn’t see a world of future bureaucratic repercussions and career stumbling-blocks, or targeted harassment for fuck sake, headed their direction. No, I was surprised because functionally it’s our nature to report. We’re born snitches.

2) Think of the noble Ohioan who snitched, at a long distance, on Warren G. Harding. This guy found Warren’s “Mount Jerry” sexts, set up a clandestine microfilm kit way off in the stacks, filmed them alone after hours, and fed a copy of the film to a friend. (I’m not even re-reading this because it’s so good, correct me if it matters.) What happens next is the friend, a prof at Case Western, retires and deposits his papers with the University, which dutifully describes them, including the mystery roll of microfilm. Up goes the fuckin balloon. People write about the letters using the film, lawyers for the Harding family swoop in, nobody dies or anything, but things get, for our little clerkly profession, somewhat real.

What happened here is that our hero tried to snitch on a president. He made surrogates of records; in the hands of his friend, the surrogates were transmuted into records. Being accessible, the records finked on our hero. Our hero’s friend could easily have stopped this chain of events by destroying the film, or else not depositing his papers with his university. A lesson: records will fink on you. Beware the receipts.

4) A note about screenshots, and the desire to shout “Receipts, biccch” at people on twitter. First of all, it’s a thing I’ve enjoyed:

So what happened is a guy who doesn’t know anything (not me for once!) knee-jerk well-actuallied Safiya Noble online, many people rose up in anger, the dude apologized, and then deleted the offensive tweets and the apology. We then swooped in to point out the ignominious, craven deletion of tweets. I was elling my effing ass off because an archives dedicated to internet stuff didn’t know what to do about Google cache and screenshots.

It’s our nature to report out, to describe the content we encounter, to contextualize it for others. It’s in the nature of records to fink on us, to expose us at our worst.

4) Another, less-conflicted take on receipts. The state archives of Israel encompasses certain records of the British Mandate in Palestine. The blanket embargo on records related to national security in Israel is 75 years. The state archives of Israel has a really assiduous digitization program, and so we can see many administrative records, honestly a lot of receipts, scanned and OCRed and translated. Do a search for almost any Arabic surname, and see what you get. You will mostly get pre-1948 records of property sales and transfers, and extradition orders in the post-1948 period for people accused of “infiltration.” The net effect of paging through the newly-accessible — and make no mistake, Israel has undertaken serious labor on this score — is to read an account of the founding of the Jewish state that consisted of legal transfers of land, from Palestinians to Jewish settlers, for which money was paid, and legal transfers of human beings, from Palestine, where they once lived, to places as far afield as Egypt. For these transfers, Israel has all the receipts.

I keep coming back to Ariella Azoulay’s work on the figure of the infiltrator, and the work done in archives to construct this figure. Receipts in the state archives of Israel, viewed through Azoulay’s lens, do not necessarily prove a truth so much as they support an assertion, namely, that the establishment of the state of Israel proceeded entirely normally, via legal transfers and sales of land; the acquiescence of the people living in Palestine to Jewish settlers’ rule is established by receipts. And the presence of infiltrators — lest anyone forget, people who fled terrorist attacks, who were displaced by force, to return, occasionally, to retrieve furniture, or to attempt to harvest olives and oranges from their families’ groves — is likewise established by receipts.

The receipts do not capture the ordinary experiences of Palestinians dispossessed by the new Jewish state. Of Raja Shehadeh’s family — whose mother inherited a hotel, whose father and grandfather were highly regarded Palestinian lawyers — who fled for Ramallah after the King David Hotel bombing. Of Fawaz Turki’s family, or Ghassan Kanafani’s. Of anyone who was ever presented with the old mafioso pitch, “Lovely olive grove you got there, be a shame if anything happened to it.”

3, 4, 1, 2) The figures of the snitch and the fink are part of the same framework. Structurally, each reports content. One reports out: to lawyers, investigators, researchers, the curious, the seekers. One reports in: to lawyers, investigators, inspectors general, bosses, and spooks. But in archives, we are bound to report. You can serve the devil or you can serve the lord, but you better serve somebody.

Is it possible that our twitter-culture of caches and receipts is bad? Isn’t it worth examining the externalities of our discipline? Should we think carefully about how we reveal content? Should we, as we do all these things, struggle to make sure that we provide receipts to the palaces, and peace to the huts?



Thicc tweets in action

This began as a series of jokes about Clifford Geertz which I would now ask everyone here to take seriously as we consider what thiccness would mean for archival description.

In the interest of supplying you, reader, with sufficient context to understand a human interaction from which you’ve been alienated by distance, technology, or other means, here first is a link, and then screenshots follow.

In the post-MPLP age, we archivists spend a lot of time going back and forth about describing collections. We all agree — apart from a few heretics I’ve encountered who think that a biographical note for anyone is a form of hagiography and so we should therefore just not write them, etc. — that baseline contextualization of collections matters, and that the kind of description we’re most familiar with, which I’m going to call ripped description, is the way of the past. But I’m not sure we’ve theorized a good alternative. Something between description as an archivist’s performance of superior knowledge and mastery, and something utterly skimpy and skinflinty.

Geertz, as near as I understand, and I’m not terribly learnèd on this score, conceived of thick description as a narrative practice in anthropology, where close observation of human activity provides the reader with intimate understanding of the context of the activity. Here’s a parody of Geertz watching me ride my bicycle to work:

“The rider accouters himself in gloves, open at the second knuckle, of breathable fiber, with kevlar pads covering the entrance to the carpal tunnel designed to mitigate the shock of bearing his weight on his hands and to prevent breakage in case of planting the hands in an accident; with a rudimentary helmet which would be of no assistance in a dire crash but is required by law and custom, and the absence of which would open to rider to scorn from others in the community; and a backpack of weatherproof buckram, which shields the rider in a backborne skid, but does more to signal to other riders that the rider is expert and an elder in the urban bicyclists’ environment[…]”

And I haven’t gotten on the bicycle yet. You see how this can take a while.

Thickness, as overabundance or superfluity, or the dream of same, has been in style ever since our starving forebears had a crop failure and turned to sculpting stone female figures instead of umm I guess just starving. Thickness is the wish-fulfillment fantasy which overcompensates for mere satisfaction. In the Land of Cockaigne, everything is thick. A real encounter with this imaginary is of course baffling to think about — human appetites cannot contend with whatever thick spirit animates the Venus of Willendorf, with her innumerable beaded blind eye-busses; real appetites can’t handle pigs with knives ported in them, and so on. Thick description, in archives, would exceed simulacral description — even beyond the kind of moot description which replaces the archival item itself with an exact replica, thick description would demand contextualizing every line of the text, or commenting on the composition of every image, and situating those commentaries among other commentaries. Shit gets Biblical, fast.

I haven’t plotted these on an axial chart (YET, MY GOOD >BICHES< NOT YET) like the deranged Claude Levi-Strauss stan that I am, so let's just say elsewhere in our field there lies ripped description. As a reminder, here are the only two genders that there are:

The ripped, like the thick, is a form of excess, but rather than emerging from myth or the imaginary, it is the product of self-flagellating labor in the realm of the real. Getting ripped is a public performance of labor on the body, and ripped description is the same, on the archival corpus. The description that we lament, that which does more to demonstrate an archivist’s having leveled-up or attained mastery of his subject than it does to invite the archive’s reader into its secrets, is hella ripped.

Opposed to the ripped and the thick, I offer thicc description. Thiccness as we seem to be using it right now in the year of our lord 2017 is a diminution or imitation of the truly thick — Trina is not pulling over just any old thiccness — but let’s consider thicc description here as an intermediate practice, somewhere between skinflint description and fully living into the actual experiences of creator-entities. Thicc description should proceed from the idea that users do not profit from master-knowledge of the collections — Geertz-level stuff is automatically alienating, it prompts even from those of us who write this junk an instant “That’s great and no one will ever read it all.” Thicc description must however be about more than providing elementary nourishment to users — thiccness provides unanticipated thrills. Such description should relay the charged moments in a creator-entity’s life, the actions and beliefs that made the creator-entity valuable enough to land in an archives. Thicc description understands that research in archives is about jouissance, rather than need (I mean, okay, this is a claim that needs a citation, but apart from journalists poring over state records, who among our power users is doing research for fact-finding rather than sense-making? How often do our holdings spur more questions than they settle?) and it leads users, it goads them on, from kick to kick.

This is barely half an idea, so I’ll close with a short story. I was in the record store the other day, selling shit, and there was a tween lad who came to the counter after browsing and bravely — and yet, this is not the 1990s, and no one is shitty about scenes and culture anymore, right? — asked the shopkeep:

“Do you have any recommendations in punk?”
“Well, what sort of stuff are you into?”
“Oh, anything.”
“Well, we got the Ramones right there, can’t go wrong with the Ramones. Or wait, here–”

He hands the kid Buzzcocks first LP,

“Listening station is right there my dude.”

I told him he was doing God’s work right there — directing a user from the merely nutritive punk, to the radically enlightening. A thicc reference encounter. I only wish I’d stuck around for when they got to real teenage kicks.

Nixon in a hard hat

Nixon in a hard hat, NARA ID 16916291

This is a long divagation from @meau’s request for comments on the proposed new DACS guiding principles or more specifically, only to part one:

Archival description expresses professional ethics and values.

Professional ethics and values drive archival work, including descriptive practice. Archival description is an iterative, ethical practice that requires  continual engagement with core values. Rooting standards in values helps archivists enact these values consistently and makes them explicit to our user communities.

Ethical description:
produces trust in and between users, archivists, and repositories
encourages a diverse archival record
promotes responsible and responsive descriptive practices
holds archivists accountable to users and to each other
privileges equitable access and accessibility

So I recently moved house and now walk by my kid’s preschool every day. The school has four windows in front, and the teachers have put up four posters TEACH / LOVE / TEACH / RESPECT. My first question for the new principles was, Can virtue be taught? Because the principles clearly attempt what Socrates considered impossible — you will not educate the narcissism out of Donald Trump — kind of by the back door. That is, even if we can’t pour virtue in to systems that are innately unvirtuous, we can develop standards of behavior so vanilla and taken-for-granted that subsequent generations behave virtuously without meaning to. Establishing ethical description as a norm — placing it first in the list — is to elevate description to the level of pure ideology.

Do your Žižek voice if you need to. Okay.

It’s worth noting that TS-DACS has to model this for us because no other American archivists’ entity can or will. We don’t write ethics case studies inside SAA anymore because there’s no capacity among us to take risks for the historic record (in contrast to the learned people of Timbuktu who hid their texts from AQIM  or the Hoover institution’s preservation of Ba’ath Party records, yeah that’s right, don’t @ me )

I suspect TS-DACS is aware of its situation of influence. In the current ethics-power vacuum, of course, all any group need do is grasp power outright, but the power of technical language in our discipline is particularly overwhelming. The mass of professional archivists is exhausted by listening to the exhortations of woke LIS professor after woke LIS professor, but let one technical subcommittee issue rules or one expert lecture on codecs or something and we’re all just brought to orgasm. TS-DACS is leveraging our worship of rules and more significantly our worship of rulesmaking in order to get us to do good. It’s of course mind-bending that we have to resort to this kind of totem-and-taboo to get traction on decolonizing our description, but selah.

The principles therefore subject to bounding an ethical zone of exclusion — the heroic, extralegal, fireable offenses that got us Warren Harding’s love letters, for example, are instances of archivists claiming sovereign power. Under the principles, all description, if ethical, is heroism; and since heroism now comes as standard equipment, the notion dissolves of its own, it withers away…

And so the daring move “Ethical description produces trust,” read appropriately, is an extension of this act of including-exclusion. It’s absurd to think that a technical standard for writing finding aids could inculcate something like love among “users, archivists, and repositories,” but that’s precisely what the principles aim for: a common front of mutual aid and mutual reliability. People become subject to one another.

Insha’Allah they’ll succeed but it perplexes me that in order to get the mass of archivists to really engage with how our work affects the arc of history we have to embed a polemic on archival values inside a technical standard. It’s as if “What Is To Be Done?” or “Murderers Who Have Yet To Be Clubbed To Death” could only reach their audiences via railway schedules or actuarial tables.

And the fault of course lies not in TS-DACS but in ourselves. The ethic of servant-leadership, unstated and still plain as day, contained in the new principles is not typically archivists’ modus. More typically we empanel ourselves as Savvy Knowers Who Deliver The Archival Science — which boxes to buy, mostly — to the unwashed hordes. Our only calls to the barricades occur when NARA’s budget is threatened, as occurs ritually. I hope it turns out that standing on principle portends more effective advocacy than Save Our Jobs or May Day For Conserving Stuff ever could. Certainly it couldn’t be worse….

Imagine any other lobbying organization: AMA, APA, AARP, the National Rifle Association. Any appeal they make is couched in terms of ultimate values — health, life, self-defense — and aimed at a constituency of users — not doctors, psychs, investment bankers, and gun dealers, but their users. To center the principles on service to the user, is in addition to being plainly Christian in a primitive sense — though I have questions about this too; are we ready to lay down our DACS for a friend? — good politics.

I dream of an SAA which takes everyone who drafted the new DACS principles and empanels them as the board of overseers of our new 527, designed to raise funds and distribute them with the aim of gaining political power. I am totally sanguine about receiving dark money from Hollinger and Iron Mountain. We labor under conditions not of our own devising, and the tactics of our party should be as flexible as the end goal is immutable…

St. Valentine's Day Hop at the National Archives, 14 February 1975, NARA identifier 35810664

St. Valentine’s Day Hop at the National Archives, 14 February 1975, NARA identifier 35810664

I am here to dirty the clean room.

I have never fallen in love with archives per se, and this is probably at the root of why I prefer to think/spiel about archivists, what they like, do, and need, instead. I have, however, a couple/three times, fallen in love in archives, had erotic encounters in archives, and so on, so there’s a literal component to why I see archives through the lenses of desire, romantic love, compassion. Or, as we had it in the deeply abridged and mixed-up Catholic teaching on love we got as kids: eros, amor, and caritas.

(All philosophers of Christian love should abandon ship here, because any consideration of who thought what about love in what way in the first couple centuries of the Common Era and what words they used basically lands Christians at C. S. Lewis and he frustratingly counts up Four Loves, which is no good for me because I need three things for my Lacan, Freud, Marx, etc. Seek shelter elsewhere is all I’m saying.)

My work is reliably physical, so again, it’s only a hop and a skip to see the handling of sheaves of text, or skins, substrates, emulsions, as ways of enacting desire. To get any knowledge about what I touch, there’s a lot of opening, paging or thumbing through (thumbs are erotic, says the palm reader, but I understand ymmv), and so on. The initial contact and exploration, the first enticing hints of what might be deeply and sustainably important about the collection or corpus, the discovery of its quirks and kinks — accessioning is the kingdom of Eros for archives, and that’s where I live all day.

Work in accessioning is like bringing a thousand houseguests into your bedroom every year: establish names, addresses, relationships, remove outer enclosures, pile your puffy coats on the master bed, add new enclosures, triage, decide who gets to stay, put them to bed. The first thrills of desire are I can’t help but think likewise a kind of triage: how does this work, what works, does everything work, is this at all real, are we just blinded by newness? The first stages or opening gambits of a love affair are all about acquisition — I want you, I need you, I have you — and appraisal — You will be mine and I want to keep you close.

Amor, as the dads of CCD had it, is romantic love, eros for them denigrated into something more like cupiditas, a fleeting, wayward, unreliable, momentary bliss. You may bring things into your holdings which don’t deserve to stay. Amor is the business of naming what will stay, and doing the work to keep it whole. All of this blog is an overextended conceit, but this is the greatest overreach: processing is a series of acts of romantic love. We undertake to remove from the body we want anything that will harm it, we pull metal, we breathe rust, we scrub dust, we house the new beloved body in clean clothes. Having gotten a grasp on the corpus, we achieve physical control. More significantly, we ask the newcomer about himself, we do a deep dive, who really are you after all, what are your contents, what is your scope, help me to name it, help me to name it.

Certainly all of you have seen and thought about that slightly annoying article in The New Republic, o which one you say they’re all kind of okay well here:

Go read, there’s enough rage-inducing stuff there to fill a whole other blog, but I was struck over and over by the outsiders’ — we all know that humanities Ph.Ds’ experience of research in primary sources is, well, variable — focus on the bodily presence of the archives, of its mutability and permeability: narrow stacks, well-worn handles on drawers, jeans, the fugitive poisonous adhesive of post-it notes, self-destructive cellulose nitrate. And if the author promotes a kind of fetishization of ordinary care, well hell so do we right? Our author even gets a little monarchist, but I don’t know, man, Eros rules me like a sovereign does a serf, so even this dankness didn’t faze me:

This is the sort of thing that the New-York Historical Society saves: flotsam, jetsam, things left behind. The curators follow closely in the wake of the city’s human activity, collecting the materials left behind by protests and vigils and attacks. The museum treats these items with a reverence rarely seen in any part of our culture. The archive turns objects into art the same way that a devoted servant might turn everything the king has touched into treasure.

It’s fine to acknowledge that new users come to the archives by way of bodily connection. I guess the only difference between them and me, in Accessioning Which is the Kingdom of Eros, is that I lack reverence for the bodies becoming guests in my house. I do not wrap them in muslin or mylar. I do not shield my hands with nyplex from their pages. I do not breathe in their vapors. That way lies a neurosis your boy Nietzsche diagnosed in 1874, in Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der Historie fur das Leben:

Man envelops himself in an odour of decay; through his antiquarian habit he succeeds in degrading even a more significant talent and nobler need to an insatiable craving for novelty, or rather a craving for all things and old things; often he sinks so low as finally to be satisfied with any fare and devours with pleasure even the dust of bibliographical quisquilia.

Caritas, always presented last, is for the dads of CCD, the highest form of love, and I disagree. Caritas is the love that lays down its life for a friend (John 15:13), meant to be the semi-literate Catholic dad’s version of ἀγάπη, abiding, boundless, and unconditional love. Perhaps there exists a love without conditions or boundaries, preset terms, default entries, perhaps between people ἀγάπη exists, perhaps between people and their god, but I’m not sure we have this in archives. Nothing lasts, the future is the obsolete in reverse, in the very long run we’re all dead: as an archivist you have to bend your mind to the idea that your world is material and entropy is its governing force. For outsiders this is an ironic stance: the people most dedicated to making texts (broadest possible sense) persistent don’t really think any of their work will succeed. If there is agape anywhere in our discipline, it rests in exactly this kind of humility, it lies in offering our bodies daily to an insurmountable task, to the presence of failure and loss, and at the end there won’t even be dust left to devour.


I want to talk to you about your bodies, O archivists, not because I’m not interested in your minds, but because, as with all forms of labor, it’s your bodies that are at stake. (This is a long hat-tip/dérive from Allana’s work from last year.)

Enki, God of Waters, at peace in the pure land of Dilmun, heard the cries of its own god for water. Enki orders the sun to bring water from the Earth, and the land is awash. He and his consort Ninhursag let flow the “waters of the heart” — Sumerian ab is both water and semen — and in 9 days, Lady Greenery is born.

The other day at work I was helping someone understand OCR, and really reaching the limit of my knowledge swiftly, and this someone asked if manuscript text could be made CTRL+F-able, and I said “Oh heavens no,” and said that non-typescript character recognition was basically in research-and-development, and someone please correct me but it seems like the sheer variability of human handwriting would make any machine-learning exercise too expensive for the use to which it would be put, I mean if you need to build Skynet in order to do a “find” in Lenin’s Paris notebooks, I mean, and they said “Yeah but Ancestry does it” and I was able to explain that what you, Dear Someone, assumed to be the product of a machine because surely SURELY IN THIS MODERN AGE we would never consign human beings to maddening, gut-wrenching soul-killing piecework, was in fact a 21st century version of Maelzel’s Folly, which was that thing of where instead of a robot playing chess you have an actual midget under the table moving pieces with magnets, that is, Ancestry does it using swarms of poorly-paid humans in China and the Philippines, and the Smithsonian uses swarms of volunteers to tag images with their texts, and we let them, mostly because we want to use our bodies to sit in meetings, wherein we govern others’ bodies.

Ninhursag leaves Enki, and he, wandering by the waters, sees a woman resembling her, who accepts him. Neither knows this is incest, and Lady Greenery bears her father’s child, Ninkurra, Lady Fruitfulness. Somehow this happens a third time, and the offspring of the God of Waters and Lady Fruitfulness is Utta, the Weaver, the Spider Goddess, Who Makes The Web of Life. Utta’s grandmother gravely instructs her granddaughter to keep away from the riverbanks, the marshes, anywhere the water-lord travels.

When we think about the labor of archives, we mostly think of its gaps, lacunae, diminutions, and disappearances — we don’t have agency, autonomy, respect, solidarity, hands, heads, or feet. The body of the archivist is not, in the official account, present. So let’s sing for the traffic of bodies in the stacks, cry for their wounds, exult in their power, and by so doing remind the insensate crowd that we’ve been here, burrowing through the sources that make their memes.

The analogous presence of human beings among archival material in the stacks, that is our bodies working among our bodies of work, is the great disavowed other of our profession. (I realize like every other year I find another objet petit a for the archives, so maybe this is where you hop off the bus.) It’s evident from the literature that we replace care and concern for our own bodies and those of others with care and concern for the material bodies on the shelf. Search for “injury” in American Archivist and you will hit an ancient piece on restoration, another aged work on the bindery, a treatise on flattening paper, one on English manuscript repair, und so wieter. We write about the skins and flesh of motion pictures, the pellicules of photographic negatives, the broken spines of bound volumes, the baby goats encasing books who just want to return to being three-dimensional goats instead of goat-skins, the dismemberment of collections, and we couch our writing about this charnel-house in the arid language of the medical inquest, and we seem to have never written about injuries suffered by archivists’ own moving bodies.

Inevitably Enki lusts after Utta, and they have sex, and Utta’s attendant retrieves Enki’s semen from Utta’s womb, and plants it in eight parcels near the riverbank. The seeds become various plants, which fruit. Utta’s attendant shows Enki the sundry new fruits, and Enki eats one of each, which is his own semen. So doing, he falls ill with tumors or pregnancies “in his jaw, his teeth, his mouth, his hip, his throat, his limbs, his side and his rib.” Unable, as a male, to give birth to these swellings, he writhes in exquisite agony while the rest of the gods figure out whether they should do anything.

Instead our concern for bodies is subsumed into our writing about archival description; our bodies and our collections become bodies of work; our presences and their presences are packed into workflows and descriptive standards. Again, as a sample, go looking for “bodies” in AA. I got pieces on appraisal, “theory,” description, processing; in short, answers to the question of putting the whole bodies of collections into the hands of researchers. Habeas corpus. This control of bodies via descriptive regimes of course extends itself into the common prison metaphors for our work: stewards, caretakers, custodians, gatekeepers. And we panic at the idea that the alien bodies under our care are proliferating on their own, unchecked, unchecklisted. Search for “bulk” and you’ll find “reduction.” There is a cure for paper/cancer, and we’re working on it, in 1940, in 1967, in 1978, over and over again, sampling, selecting, appraising, reducing, liposuctioning, and stitching back together the terrifying obesity we’ve shoved into our steel catacombs. So instead of anthropomorphizing the collections and then, with academic fig-leaves, papering over their obscene bulk, I’d like to just think of how our bodies got their bodies onto the shelf.

Reed Group are some fuckers who help SSDI people figure out whether or not to pay out on your disability claim, and here is their comprehensive description of our work. Note here that the chief health risks for us are pregnancy and major depression, and that our work is classed as sedentary:

Exerting up to 10 pounds (4.5 kg) of force occasionally and/or a negligible amount of force frequently or constantly to lift, carry, push, pull, or otherwise move objects, including the human body.

Which is a bunch of hot bullshit, insofar as any archivist tasked with accessioning or processing has to lift 40 pounds by theyself. Which is why there’s a pretty strong correlation between entry-level work and manual labor, why, look at this job listing here, which requires independent lifting of 50 pounds, or this one, which my god I would fail just for the vision portion, or this one for 40 lbs. Lifting is the first task of bringing in a collection, and how we’re capable of moving objects around affects how we represent them to researchers. To in part and haptically answer @meau:

I feel like MPLP has been applied poorly or unevenly in part because our bodies naturally and inevitably limit the size and scope of depeche-mode processing.

For me, to do a quick initial sort and triage on a largish collection (again, for me), say 50 feet, I need a room with six three-by-eight tables. I need to be able to load 50 boxes ranging in weight from 20 to 35 pounds onto carts and then load these boxes onto the tables. I need to be able to open everything at once, stack like items with like, identify oversize stuff, identify media, pitch all the publications, find out what has worms, etc. This involves standing, mainly hunched — we don’t tend to make 3-1/2 foot high folding tables really — for, if I’m lucky and uninterrupted — four hours at a time for eight hours a day.

You’ll note that for a heterogeneous collection any larger than this, MPLP is not scalable. You can cut a giant collection into homogeneous chunks and box and label them 10 feet at a time, but for giant groups with no incoming order, forget it. You’ll also note that MPLP does and should emphasize description of the gestalt or the oeuvre or the corpus, that is work on the whole body, but again, unless you’re working with a collection which came to you already pretty assiduously cared-for by a phalanx of women in central filing (see main image), there is no such thing as work on the whole without a serious bodily commitment. This means repetitive stress injuries to the back, knees, neck, tendinitis in the elbow and wrist, and so on ad infinitum. A thousand tiny indignities welling up into chronic conditions.

The woman in my position before me developed arthritis in both knees, and routinely had hand surgery on her hands and forearms for carpal tunnel syndrome. (My job initially was basically to serve as her arms and legs.) I pulled the same old lower lumbar muscles I always do right in the middle of writing this blog, and have had to return to my old regimen of core exercises recommended for 70-year-olds just to maintain. The grande dame archivist of my region has a persistent cough which her pulmonologist attributes to forty years of work in basements, breathing dust and red rot. I have a colleague so sensitive to active mold that he’s our canary in the coal mine: if he’s sneezing, I’ve got to quarantine something.

The gods ask Ninhursag for help, and she relents, again taking ab from Enki, and giving birth to eight gods of healing for each of Enki’s afflicted regions. Waters ebb and flow across the land, bringing life to the parched, bearing fruit. The waters bring along with life, suffering. And for each form of suffering, there is a healing genius.

And here’s where I would pivot from the bodies to the intellectual corpus of work. The archival profession, like Enki floating in the river which is himself, has eaten dire fruits and has abscesses. We have a fetish for conservation science, where we need the god of triage. We prize visualizations of description over the grunt work of tilling the bulk of the 19th and 20th centuries to bear real fruit. We enshrine the rights of donors at the expense of the sovereign powers and rights of users, of society writ large. We have an absolute paranoia about copyright, which can really only be lanced by the goddess of not giving a shit and wishing a motherfucker would. We have work to do, and, unlike poor Enki, no external source of relief, and so we will heal ourselves by ourselves, or languish in our excruciating insufficiency to the given task.

A civilian employee of the air station's Personnel Support Detachment waits on a sailor at the customer service desk.

A naval customer service desk, 1987, NARA id 6455480

Let’s end reference. Let’s not do it again. Anymore. When someone comes along later and says, “You know what was fun? Finding answers to questions for people,” let’s silently shun that someone. Let’s end reference.

Let’s end reference, I should specify in archives, although everyone everywhere is free to continue to do reference, and great librarians do reference, and even the rudimentary “The bathrooms are down the stairs, around the bend, to the right” is when and where necessary a true and worthy public service. Let’s end it though for real. Because finding people with the real and active desire to help others and then to ask those people to spend 40 hours a week indoors under fluorescence is backwards. Let’s end reference because it is a silly thing to hire for, like trying to hire a spiny echidna, “I need eggs, but I want a mammal to lay them, please.”

Let’s end reference because it is for older whiter people a form of entertainment, like a Word Find, or a Scavengers’ Hunt. People cold-call us. They fucken wander in off the street because maybe this place has some things. Old white people don’t use the discovery tools we build. They don’t read our fucking newsletter. Old white people don’t read the descriptions we write. Old white people write emails with no subject line and no introduction and just jump into “Can you tell me what is the capitol of South Dakota thank you my phone number” end, end of email, sent from my iPhone by the unending Grace of God. Let’s end reference because Sergey Brin and Larry Page made a magic box that answers numbnut half-baked unfollowupable questions already. I am not your magic box. Go away. Let’s end reference.

Let’s not end reference for people with an actual thing. If I have the burial plot for your grandpappy’s grandpappy, and I have not put it up on the internet already, and goodness me you’ve done a shit-ton of fieldwork, gosh just look at that, please come on in, tell me your story. If there is an unprocessed collection in my dankest lair that might get you the footnotes you need for tenure, come to me, I am your huckleberry. If you need to prove that your tiny private school actually owns the land it’s on and you need to tell a developer to go screw, I am your Friday. If you need to prove that your government exposed you to Agent Orange, damn I should be your huckleberry but I probably am not, and that’s maybe another reason to end reference.

If you need me to scan a photo, or send you a PDF, or send motion pictures off to the telecine men, and by gosh look at that you used our catalog, despite its flaws by Jehovah you fucking did it, then please send me a note. But, if you have an abstract, what-if, I-thought-I-saw-a-thing-once, or Hey-do-you-remember, or What-was-it-like-in-the-olden-times-ass question, or Why-are-there-no-photographs-of-Jesus, then let’s end reference for you and turn that shit over to Quora. Or Ask Reddit Anything. Or your friends, or to strangers, or to a passing cloud. Pray for understanding to come to you. But let’s end reference.

Let’s end reference because it exacts an emotional toll to field randos’ queries and to actually conduct research, and should only be conducted for real. Let’s end the reference encounter for anyone who yells, or huffs, or gets off-topic or in any way out of pocket. Get your answers from the comment section of every Breitbart article.

Let’s not end reference for the poor, the desperate, the curious, the mind-blown, the wind-blown, the disheveled, the lost, the tired, and the broken. Reference is the literal least we can do. Let’s for them end capitalism.

Ku Klux Klan marching down Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C., 1928

Ku Klux Klan marching down Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C., 1928. NARA identifier 541885

In the giant universe of unforced errors and semi-comedic malpractice we archivists and our institutions engage in, partnership at any level with Ancestry Dot Com has to be the most bonechilling. Ancestry uses prison labor. Ancestry binds workers to intolerable quotas, leading some in desperation to weed superfluous paper just to catch up. Ancestry pitches its services to state and national governments as a replacement for state-funded reformatting and digital-archives work, and puts records of the state up behind a paywall. They send DMCA takedown notices to people who distribute United States government records. Naturally, Ancestry is a major sponsor of FNARA.

This is all evil and bad and it’s the means by which archivists become accomplices to our own ass-whipping, but even if none of the above were true, the business Ancestry is in is uncool and bad and we should no longer make it easy for the people who like this business, or who think of it as a harmless past-time. This business is genealogy.

“Genealogy” you say, “A fuckin snoot-ass archivist is going to write a blog post about how genealogy sucks OH YOU DON’T SAY /inserts that lame meme with the owl in it/.” Dear reader, this bears one clarification: typically, we snoot-ass archivists bitch to each other about genealogists which I mean yeah I’m HELL OF GUILTY of doing this, but I really want to stress that it’s not the people themselves (totally) but the practices, technologies, and the ideology of recreational ancestor-namin’ that are fucking up our shit.

Genealogists, for as long as my shop at least has been keeping metrics, are the solidest block of our users, from 20 to 25% every year. This, for me and my house, means two things: 1) They are a strong political bloc, and 2) They are not nearly the plurality of our users, much less the majority. Now why, just to blatantly extend my shop’s metrics to the industry as a whole, would entities like NARA, the New York State Archives, etc, all engage in deeeep strategic partnerships with a corporate entity which aims to serve maybe a quarter of our constituents? It is because, like fans of Silvio Berlusconi, Vladimir Putin, Narendra Modi, or Donald Trump, individual users have become aware of their status as a bloc. They know that the realm of the Rest of All Research Topics in History is gravely fragmented (footnote: And much of this fragmentation is intentional! You and I both know this story, but because archives have always served as the romper room for future Ph.D.s, and because future Ph.D.s are just intolerable twats we’ve always closely guarded the paths they take through the archives. My shop’s patron registration includes “May we share the topic of your research with other researchers” which my god kill me end this) AND SO they can present a united front. Directors and funders see us dropping all sorts of time and effort to help the names-gourmand and naturally see the Ancestry hook-up as a means to take knucklehead stuff off our plate, so I dunno, we can get back to making twitter bots or blogggggging or something–

You can see how this becomes a feedback loop. Presented as a cheap and fast solution, Ancestry swoops in myriad tonnages of content. Bringing new content on-line allows it to hook new subscribers and to keep old subscribers hooked. People get Ancestry subscriptions for Christmas, try the crack, like the crack, and then start banging down archives’ telephones to see “is there anything in there that haint been digitalized,” whereupon we start Phase X of what becomes less like a partnership and more like the relationship ants have with aphids, or Exxon has with the Gulf of Mexico.

This is all bad for archives, but LA DEE FRICKIN DAA how is this bad for society? I’m certainly not one of the goons who says that archives are necessarily Good For Everyone (Stalin: /raises hand/) and so damage to them is damage to us all, and so I’ll start with that story we all read in the fall, from this young woman’s tweet:

Genealogists think of themselves as a class because they share material conditions: records of their ancestors were kept accurately and transmitted unshorn to their children. (By the way, this is one of the chief differences between genealogy and family history: genies are basically playing Bingo with the census, with church records, with county clerks and probate courts etc. Family historians, out of historic and political necessity, have a steeper mountain to climb.) In this country only white people’s material conditions permit the existence of genealogy as a past-time. To expand the class of subscribers, Ancestry is counting on successive waves of white retirees needing something to do, and is planting the genie seed accordingly. So here’s the thing, simply by trying to become profitable, Ancestry is exporting into a broader audience of white people the pursuits, habits, and desires of a pretty small subset of those white people.

The first overt desire embedded in genealogical practice is to prove your whiteness. You could be the wacko white supremacist who will take DNA test after DNA test to refute allegations of his African lineage. I mean yeah if you subscribe to the ideology of racial purity genealogy suddenly becomes a big deal. If your Prophet says “any man having one drop of the seed of Cane in him Cannot hold the priesthood,” you’re going to break out meemaw’s old Bible tout de suite. Pace Robert Taylor, interest in genealogy spiked in the late nineteenth-century, as “native” white folks sought to distinguish themselves from the unwashed hordes from Eastern Europe landing at Ellis Island, congealing in the eugenics-and-Palmer-raids-infused 1920s: “The Wisconsin Magazine of History advised its readers in 1923 that ‘the only hope of improving the race is through “selective breeding” and that questions dealing with racial superiority and traits ‘may often be considered with the aid of data compiled and worked out in genealogical study.'” It’s not for nothing that the two versions of white supremacists’ Fourteen Words are about women and the family; it’s not for nothing that the baby photo becomes a universally cherished object during reconstruction. White supremacists fetishize the whiteness of white babies and the whiteness of white mothers to create “a future for white babies”; genealogists run the line backward to “secure” it.

In the 1920s the desire to prove whiteness using names in the past masks itself or repackages itself in the genealogical practices of whites outside the northeast and upper-class African-Americans as a desire to be related to power. Follow, for example, the Iowa Daughters of the American Revolution, as they slowly come to understand that Iowa didn’t have all that much bearing on the war of independence, and by 1925 shift from locating revolutionary soldiers’ gravesites to just straight red-baiting — disseminating spider-web charts, “yellow lists,” usw, all “to bring about a clean cut cleavage between un-American subversive forces and the constituents of Patriotic societies.” Genealogical practice informed the frankly eugenic aspects of African-American racial meliorist publications (!) — follow Daylanne English in Unnatural Selections as she acquaints us with (me certainly; I mean I’ve read Nella Larsen but I never heard of the) Crisis Children’s Number prize-baby contests.

To review: genealogical practice originates in and in turn sustains white supremacism; that white supremacist package is exported to new groups as they practice genealogy. Genealogy is supremacist and exports supremacism. So where are we headed?

The obscene, disavowed other of genealogy, and the natural wellspring of the acknowledged desires above, is incest. White power groups and royals are of course, famously ahem endogamous, but it’s not like genealogists are all trying to keep it in the family. It’s more like genealogical practice is incest by proxy. The structure of genealogical practice is to plug names into a giant root-and-branch diagram, starting with yourself. By this diagram you can envision yourself splitting mitotically into your own forebears, and, once you have All Teh Names, run the threads chronologically and think of all those dead bodies, fucking.

Juicing retired white people into passing enthusiasm for this junk in a time of rising nativisms and exclusion-based political movements around the world is, I submit to you Dear Reader, actively evil. Ancestry isn’t on the hook of course for Donald Trump and Golden Dawn, but even if it doesn’t know it, it’s riding the same wave, and it’s convincing archives and archivists to hop on, and because of that ancient stank, as if we needed another reason, it’s high time we hopped off.