This morning on the photography site PetaPixel, I learned about a online collection called THTK (short for Too Hard to Keep), curated by Jason Lazarus, an adjunct professor at the School of the Art Institute, Chicago.
The story link is here, but a caution: Although most of it is not graphic, the material is definitely disturbing.
Lazarus collects images that people can’t bear to live with anymore. In some the pain is obvious — a building falling to the wrecking ball, a family at the bedside of a desperately ill relative. Others disturb by implication — scenes of cluttered, chaotic rooms hinting at some offstage crisis.
Why do we take photos, why do we keep them?
Maybe some images should never be made at all. (Personally I will never think it’s a good idea to photograph an open coffin at a wake. I don’t care if the Victorians did it. I bet some Victorians didn’t like it, either.)
Yet even as I write that, I realize that painful images can be an act of bearing witness, fulfilling important human and historical needs. And even ostensibly happy images hold potential pain as life unfolds.
But what do you think? Have you ever possessed a photo that harmed your peace of mind? And should it be kept, or destroyed, or passed on to someone else?
Kitty Genovese, rest her soul, would be 80 years old this July. Instead, she ran into a serial rapist-murderer on her way home from work on this day in 1964, and became a symbol. The influential New York Times coverage of her murder, spearheaded by then-metro editor A.M. Rosenthal, framed it indelibly as a crime of apathy as well as violence.
But the famous story of the 38 uncaring witnesses in Queens is not completely true. Yes, two in particular would qualify as villains in this piece. But of all the dozens of potential Good Samaritans, it transpired very few heard the struggles clearly enough to understand their seriousness. As it was, one neighbor shouted from his window at Genovese’s attacker, driving him temporarily away. Two others called the police. And Sophia Farrar, far from cowering behind a closed door, left her apartment to try to help Genovese, who was lying in Farrar’s arms when the ambulance came. A 2014 review of the case by Nicholas Lemann in The New Yorker is interesting reading, and recommended.
To me what bugs the most about the legend is its vision of city dwellers as a bunch of urban zombies jammed uncaringly together. Why, somebody could be murdered right in front of them and they wouldn’t lift a finger! The uncritical belief that every single one of Genovese’s neighbors turned over on their pillows and went back to sleep always seemed odd to me, given my mother’s account of her Greenpoint girlhood, where a night out meant risking the window thrown open, the nosy neighbor’s pointed query: “Coming in a bit late, aren’t ya?”
So in addition to noting the genuine advances that resulted — the birth of New York’s 911 system is the major example – I’d also like to remember the neighbors whose actions remained unsung for decades. They reflect the outer boroughs of today and of my parents’ day – places where people are simply people, for bad and, yes, for good too.
Not long ago, filmmaker Yael Reuveny recounted the emotional roller-coaster ride of directing her first full-length film, Farewell Herr Schwarz, a family-history documentary rooted in the Holocaust. In particular, she writes about handling a prickly interview subject – her own mother. And I think genealogists working on their own family histories may find her insights quite useful.
Early in the making of the film, Reuveny sweated out a two-hour session in her childhood home, interviewing her mother. The result felt like a disaster. “My mother is the worst interviewee imaginable,” was how Reuveny described it. “I’m beyond exhausted. This was obviously a very bad idea.” Her mother sounded forced and awkward; Reuveny was snappish and impatient. The footage was a mess, best ignored.
Except of course, Reuveny couldn’t. Four years later, with a painful family mystery retraced, it was time to review and assemble a wealth of material, and as Reuveny’s editors warned, her mother’s absence would “create a real hole in the film.” Reuveny had to face the music. She apologetically asked one of the editors to watch the old footage without her, “just in case … [although] it’s probably a waste of valuable editing time.”
Within two hours she had her feedback: “Pure gold.”
What had changed? Perspective, and passing time. As Reuveny observes, the tension and awkwardness between mother and daughter generated an energy that was peculiarly apt in a film about a mystery unsolved and even unspoken for decades. It just took a while for the interview to slip into its proper place. And it took another viewer, “a certain distance,” to see what Reuveny herself could not.
I think the lesson for those of us investigating our own family stories is that patience is key, both with our subjects and with ourselves. Questioning a relative, particularly a parent, is tricky even for those with professional training. It’s a rare family historian who sails through interviewing Mom and Dad without a chilly patch or two. The interviewer can feel as embattled as the subject.
Another important lesson: We can’t rest our reactions on our first impressions. The interview we feel doesn’t go deep enough or isn’t compelling enough might take on a different luster with the benefit of more research. Even more important is the benefit of an outside opinion. A third party might look at our allegedly frustrating material and see poignance, rather than pointlessness.
Note: Farewell Herr Schwarz, about a Polish-Jewish survivor of the Holocaust and his mysterious decision to make a new postwar life a stone’s throw from the site of the concentration camp where he was imprisoned, won the Best Documentary prize at the Haifa International Film Festival. I grind my teeth at the fact that I missed its recent run in Manhattan. In the meantime, here’s the trailer.
… That’s how long it’s been since this little blogging endeavor got off the ground.
What’s happened since 2009 in my personal genealogy hunting, you might ask? Well, I’ve had my share of discoveries, some satisfying and some simply bizarre.
Like finally confirming the identity of my Connors ancestors in Watervliet, N.Y., for example, along with their offshoots in Jersey City, which, in turn, solved a little mystery that was the subject of one of my very first posts.
I discovered that there is indeed such a thing as a “butt factory.”
There are ongoing, tantalizingly incomplete stories to unravel. For example, the great-aunt on our German side who had immigrated to New York City, unknown to anyone. How did my grandfather manage to forget to mention a sister? She was a real mystery for a few years there. I know more about her rather complicated story now, with still more to unravel (and write about, in due course).
Or the story of Patrick Hageney of Troy, N.Y.: Famine-era immigrant, tailor, question mark. There are many indications, but unfortunately no smoking-gun evidence, that he’s a brother of my great-great-grandfather Martin Haigney. Will I ever be satisfied on this point?
Or on any point? Are any of us ever completely satisfied with the state of our genealogy research?
Probably not. But stay tuned. And thanks for reading.
“They told me, ‘It must have been your grandfather or your great-grandfather.’ They thought I was lying and looked at me like I was crazy.” – Hazel Jeter, daughter (that’s right, daughter) of Civil War veteran Silas D. Mason, First Maine Cavalry
As a nice coda to Veterans Day observances, check out this National Geographic piece on a select segment of U.S. citizens: the living sons and daughters of Civil War veterans. It’s a very select group – the Geographic puts their number at less than 35 – but honestly, that’s pretty good even so, considering that Appomattox was nearly 150 years ago. The piece includes wonderful quotes from the “children,” all in their 90s and upward, along with the Geographic’s typically vivid photography.
Four years ago, I wrote about the fascination of extended genealogical timelines. The cornerstone of that post was the living grandchildren of John Tyler (1790-1862), 10th president of the U.S. from 1841-45 – as in “Tippecanoe and Tyler too,” for those of you who keep track of political slogans. They are still going about their business, as evidenced by the current genealogy at SherwoodForest.org, the website of the Tyler family plantation in Virginia. One of the grandsons, Harrison Ruffin Tyler, gave a delightful interview to New York Magazine in January 2012. (By the way, I wouldn’t mind paying a visit someday to Sherwood Forest, which is still in Tyler family hands. According to the website, it even has its own ghost.)
I always love these reminders that, useful as it is to include “typical” generational ranges in sorting out genealogical problems, humans can always throw you for a loop by reproducing when they darn well feel like it.
Two years ago I was in a road-cycling crash, which left me the proud possessor of an itty-bit of metal in place of a piece of my elbow bone. It also left me extremely wary of getting back on the bike, even though I could have broken far worse things than an elbow. Like, this summer is the first time I’ve started riding farther than the supermarket. To confess all.
So when I recently puffed my way through my local park on what I optimistically called a “cross-training walk,” I almost hid behind a bush when my Very Fit Friend (who has run marathons, including the Big One at Boston) entered the path just ahead of me. But she saw me, and suggested we walk together.
Turned out that my friend, although she could still walk me into the dust if she wasn’t feeling kind, was also coming back from an injury.
I told her I didn’t know what I was thinking when I kept going on longer and longer group rides with a crowd whose attachment to bike gadgetry made me increasingly uneasy – all that watching the RPMs and rearview mirrors and heart monitors instead of the road was bound to end in grief for somebody. She told me she couldn’t believe, in retrospect, how hard she pushed herself through one of the worst winters in recent memory, dodging traffic, skidding on ice patches. While neither of us regrets our fitness goals and accomplishments, we’re both re-evaluating what we were doing, and what we want to do next.
This made me thoughtful about those times in life when the forward momentum burns fiercely enough that the risk is not in falling behind, but losing track. For instance: genealogy (of course there is a tie-in).
My hard-charging cycling summer reminds me a bit of how it feels right after I’ve made a breakthrough – like the time I finally confirmed the identity of the family to which my Connors great-grandmother belonged. Oh, that was a time! What a huge family, how many offshoots and collaterals and half-thises and step-thats! I got a bit drunk with power and adrenaline, shoveling names onto the family tree program.
But at length I did slow down, as I always do, and asked myself: What next?
I mean, I could keep adding names. But how much did I actually care about the third great-grandparents of the spouse of a first cousin twice removed? What is the value added?
A long time ago I decided that I was more interested in stories than lists. Which means that every so often I stop collecting the names and start researching the facts behind them. Which means that at genealogy conferences, sooner or later I end up being made fun of by somebody whose database entries number in the thousands rather than my paltry hundreds. (And here I was thinking my paltry hundreds are overkill.)
This is not to say that either of us is wrong. But yes, it’s about the goals, and pulling yourself up by the side of the road every so often, and checking the map, and asking yourself: What I am I doing here?
Is it really where I want to be?
 It is merely to say that I am right.
Those are my feet on the left, in the beat-up loafers. I was very hard on shoes, my mother said. That was also the opinion of Manny, the guy who measured us at Martin’s Shoe Store in Plainfield, N.J. He and my mother would mourn the state of my current shoe, and shake their heads, and sigh.
“She’s really hard on shoes, isn’t she?” Manny would say.
“Let’s hope this pair lasts,” my mother would say.
In my defense, I would like to draw your attention to that ripped sole of the Keds sneakers on the right, which belonged to one of my younger sisters, proof that I was not the only kid who was hard on her shoes.
The shoes in the center belong to a littler kid who went easier on them, because he didn’t play as hard as we did. However, being a little kid, he was about to commit the equally heinous sin of Growing Like You Wouldn’t Believe, necessitating a pair of new shoes in an equally indecent amount of time.
Shoe shopping was a definite event back then, partly because shoe stores were fuller-service destinations, as opposed to today, when the only stores that make a big deal of fussing over you are the ones catering to marathoners or people with really bad bunions.
But the other reason was that when seven kids all needed shoes at the same time, it meant major shopping expeditions. These took place in August, when we bought school shoes, and late spring, when we bought summer play shoes. Easter shoes were also important, but because we wore dress shoes so infrequently, we handed them down a lot. This might cause responsible parents to clutch their throats in horror today, but my mother would have thought it irresponsible to waste a set of patent-leather Mary Janes that had only been to Mass once or twice. So every Easter, we’d root around the closets and line everyone up to see which dress shoes fitted whom.
Shoe shopping was always a mixed experience for me. I loved the look, smell and feel of new shoes, but I hated being called to account for the damage I wreaked on them. “You really banged these up, kid,” Manny would say, as Mom nodded in sad agreement.
How did I do it? I was never sure. As far as I knew I was just running and walking in them, not using them to pound fence posts. Every year, I would vow that my shoes would stay smooth and whole until they no longer fit. But every year, I wore out my shoes before I outgrew them. The pleasure of new shoes was always shadowed by my awareness of their fleeting glory.
I never did turn into a person who collects shoes. I still tend to buy a pair I really like and wear it into shreds, despite good-intentioned vows to buy that one great pair in several colors and rotate them. Maybe all that early training in shoe shopping has conditioned me to stick with the tried-and-true, and await its inevitable decline.
Or maybe I’m just really hard on shoes.