Hatuey, Texans, Kites, and other Memories from Guantanamo Bay

I had the opportunity to be part of something very special this summer.  Through the Department of Public History at the University of West Florida (holla, alma mater!) I was part of a team of volunteer historians who interviewed various naval veterans who did tours of duty at Naval Station Guantanamo Bay in Cuba.  These interviews were recorded and archived in their entirety for purposes of further research, as well as for incorporation into an upcoming nationwide exhibit. Growing up, I always enjoyed listening to older people tell stories from their lives.  Ironically, I know more about many people outside of my family than I do about my own grandparents' histories.  While many of my peers were bored by the storytelling of various "old ruins," I enjoyed hearing tales of days gone by.  Most recently, I have made it one of my personal goals to spend more time listening and documenting what my elders have to say.

History is much more than the headlines and the chapter titles.  When someone says "Guantanamo," a million images might spring to an audience's mind.  Castro, Soviet missiles, post-9/11 detainees; these things are common knowledge.  But what are the people like?  What do they do between the headlines, between shifts?  Those "core elements" are what this project seeks.  We want to understand the communities and their relationships.  In the brilliant conversations which I had recently, I heard stories of everyday life in GTMO that spanned from as far back as 1939 to as recently as 2003.  I met interesting men and women whom I never would have connected with otherwise, and I am incredibly grateful to have had these opportunities.

Here are some excerpts:

Thrill of the Chase

I hate writing research papers.  It's tedious, there's an unstated expectation for the verbiage to be high and lofty, I can't use the phrase "high and lofty," and my proclivity to use the Oxford comma is looked upon with suspicion and disdain.

However, I love research.  My inner journalist loves the thrill of finding new information and putting it to constructive use.  I love it when Google Books turns up an obscure gem from an hundred years ago.  I love it when reading source material which spawned plays and films yields a rich and diverse crop of expanded thoughts and ideas.  I love how the preliminary process of compiling a codex of bibliography is always a good excuse to turn on a few episodes of Frasier while I browse databases and mark down the resources to which I will return.

I have also become enamored with oral history projects.  Interviews.  Storytelling.  There is a certain magic that happens when someone lets down their guard and freely shares memories and stories with people who, wonder of wonders, actually give a damn about things they went through years ago.  A moment is shared and, for a brief moment, a group of individuals can experience the oral tradition of pure storytelling.  The raw power of the spoken word should make us tingle in the marrow; the ability to form and use words to pass on stories and experiences is hardwired into our DNA.  The cave paintings in Lascaux don't exist in a vacuum.  The absence of written words should not be equated with the absence of narrative and experience.

When one takes into account the innumerable events which every individual in the world experiences on a daily basis, then considers just how few of them are written down in their entirety, it is almost startling just how little will be remembered from individuals' lives if people don't talk to each other and share their recollections.  This is one reason I am striving to find my way to a career in documentary filmmaking.  I regret so much that I didn't spend more time with my grandparents before they passed.  There were always moments; like sudden flashes of lightening, when conversations following a family meal would finally veer away from the present, and stories (often hilarious vignettes from my family's Deep South heritage), would be shared.  I miss those people, and now that I am older and have enough perspective to fully appreciate what they were sharing, I miss those times more every year.

I often get the feeling that the rest of my life is going to be one long mea culpa for not spending more time listening to the departed.