Introduction 

“Slavery displays removed,”¹ read the headline. To correct “ideological indoctrination or divisive narratives,” read the executive order.² Make no mistake, the Trump administration is waging war on our past and executive order 14253 otherwise known as “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History” reeks of the smoke of past violences. It is an example of how white supremacy has blatantly injected itself into the ongoing struggle over how history is framed, interpreted, and publicly remembered. Efforts to narrow historical interpretation to conform to ideologies aims to produce a photoshoped version of the past – one that privileges mythic heroes and simplified tableaux over multiplicity and contradiction. Archivist Terry Cook observed, “...there is not one narrative in a series or collection of records, but many narratives, many stories, serving many purposes for many audiences across time and space...”³ When we apply those words broadly across the American experience, his insight reminds us that the historical record is inherently plural, containing many voices and layered meanings. 

The materials preserved within repositories have historically reflected the perspectives of those in positions of power, often producing narratives that privilege their viewpoints. These power structures have long been shaped by systems of exclusion – racism, sexism, colonialism, and homophobia to name a few – and those who do not align with the prevalent values are deemed unimportant and valueless, consequently leading to distortions or omissions altogether; their existence not even worth the shelf space. The scholarship on erasures, symbolic annihilation, hauntings, and archival silences continues to grow, yet meaningful changes in archival practice lag behind this theoretical growth. The challenge remains to not only acknowledge these silences, but to confront the conditions that produce them, and to ensure that archives work in favor of accountability and inclusion.  

So, while major institutions are catching up by rewriting and expanding their policies to include token collections, underrepresented communities have taken control over the preservation of their own records, to tell their stories in their own voices through community archives. By doing so, they aim to correct the distortions and to fill in the omissions by taking unconventional and bold steps to push the boundaries of archival practice to ensure that other perspectives are preserved.  

Finding and promoting erased narratives matter because of who and what they represent – a recognition of those who came before us and, in many cases, discovering ourselves in them. Encounters with these reflections from the past foster a sense of belonging and cultivate a deeper connection to a shared history and perhaps now having that deeper connection is more important than ever. Activating records, then, is not simply an interpretive exercise but a call to action, to advance meaningful change, not only within the archival profession but across the broader social landscape, beginning with a more accurate and inclusive telling of the past and reclaiming it for the present. 

Why Erased Narratives Matter 

“…she asked…’if you never had any attachment, then who taught you to kiss?’ – I laughed and said how nicely that was said, then answered that nature taught me. I could have replied – and who taught you?” – Anne Lister, October 8, 1832⁴ 

Fragmented Histories 

The narrative of one’s existence is never singular; it is shaped not only by individual experience but by the accumulated stories of ancestors and communities. I’m speaking not just about the physical neighborhoods in which we live but also about the people where we see a reflection of ourselves. But if records are evidence, what then does their absence signify? The most crucial activity archivists perform is selecting and appraising – a pivotal act that shapes social, historical, and political memory. Unfortunately, however, systemic biases in archival practices have kept these records from being collected. Like many underrepresented communities, existing documentation is fragmented. Limited access to such materials, combined with narratives that are often incomplete, distorted, or persistently negative, creates what might be understood as a contextual absence. The consequences of that absence are significant, shaping not only how histories are written, but how individuals and communities understand themselves within them. There is a power in discovering yourself, finding your existence and experiences documented – it’s validation through representation.⁵ 

The story of early 19^th century diarist Anne Lister (1791-1840) nearly became a casualty of this historical erasure. After deciphering a portion of her journals, her distant relative, John Lister, was urged to burn them after their explicit lesbian content was revealed. Instead, he concealed them behind an oak panel, an act that ultimately preserved Anne’s voice. Her diaries reveal a complex, pragmatic, and ambitious woman with a deep curiosity about the world. She also had a desire for what she referred to as “the fairer sex.”⁶ In the coded passages, she emerges as a woman navigating the world of lovers all the while trying to find a spouse. We don’t get a sense of guilt or shame regarding her relationships. Within the constraints of the early nineteenth century, she lived as authentically as she could while floating between worlds: as a landowner and businesswoman in spheres typically reserved for men, as a woman navigating prescribed gender expectations, and as a lesbian forging an identity in a world that had no vocabulary to describe her. 

The Anne Lister program coordinator, Rachel Lappin, a gay woman herself, remarked on the importance of Anne’s legacy in helping gay women find validation and, “a confidence that they never could have had imagined before…”⁷ Whatever John Lister’s motivation, he prevented Anne from becoming just another footnote in the long history of Shibden Hall. Yet how many other journals, letters and photographs ended up in the fireplace? This destruction, intentional or otherwise, has led to a fragmented historical record, leaving us to collect whatever evidence can be found, stitching the pieces together like a patch work quilt to create something to resemble history.  

Notions of Archive – Erasures Beyond Paper Materials 

Archives are not simply collections of records; they are sites where social memory is constructed but for those who have been pushed into the margins of history, this isn’t always the case. In Archival Silences, Michael Moss and David Thomas examine how archival absences might be addressed, suggesting that meaning can be found not only in what is preserved, but also in what is missing. To address these archival gaps, we need to think beyond the physical walls of formal institutions and rethink what an archive can be.⁸  

Drawing inspiration from Verne Harris, if archives collect and preserve evidence, then a cemetery may also be understood as an archive – existence recorded in stone, landscape, and community memory, something genealogists have known decades. Communities of color, however, have long been targeted for redevelopment initiatives – from highway construction to public housing projects – that displaced residents and, in some cases, erased burial grounds altogether. The recent confirmation of two African American cemeteries in Clearwater, Florida, brings this history into sharp focus. Segregationist policies and urban planning decisions allowed these sacred spaces to be covered by schools, homes, and parking lots. As community member Robert Young acutely stated, “Because we had no value, we could be moved.”⁹ 

What these examples demonstrate is that these communities have existed far longer than extant records often acknowledge. In many cases, the material evidence simply confirms what communities have long known. For Black communities, the bones of the ancestors provided tangible evidence of what the residents already knew and what official documents ignored or suppressed. For LGBTQ+ communities, the preserved writings of figures like Anne Lister affirm what many have always understood – that queer lives have a deep historical lineage and are not a recent cultural phenomenon. Preserving the records of underrepresented communities – whether on paper, oral history, or in stone – can be a lifesaving endeavor providing recognition and validation where silences once were.¹⁰  

The connection to the past and its effect on identity, self-esteem, and belonging can’t be stated enough. Through all the literature on community archives, these are recurrent themes. In our current political climate, where bigotry permeates speeches and policies that increasingly target women, people of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, and immigrants, these records offer more than documentation. Knowing that others have lived similar lives and fought these battles before provides the needed foundation to contextualize these records for the present and activate them for the now. 

How to Activate Records 

“…when I took my oath of office on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial Secretary (Deb) Haaland said, on behalf of the president of the United  States, myself and the American people, I’m charging you with these monuments, memorials and parks, but more importantly we’re charging you to find those stories that are less told or haven’t been told yet, and to tell them fiercely. So…working all across the park system, we’ve been able to tell stories to ensure that every American sees a reflection of themselves in the parks.” Chuck Sams, National Park Service Director (retired)¹¹  

The Why Behind the Action 

The evidence of the present past is all around – through tv, social media, and radio we see earlier struggles being actively replayed. The rollback of women’s rights, particularly bodily autonomy following the overturning of Roe v. Wade, signals a significant regression in long-fought legal and social gains. Likewise, the fearmongering of media outlets and political figures portraying immigrants as job-stealing, violent criminals is an echo of the racist rhetoric of the 19^th and early 20^th centuries directed at Chinese, Italian, Mexican, and Irish immigrants. These parallels are so striking that it is difficult to understand how such narratives continue to persuade. When Sams retired from the National Park Service in 2025, he had hopes that the institution would continue to tell the layered stories of each park but as we’ve seen this administration has moved to systematically censor cultural institutions and reshape how our national parks present the past. 

In her book Urgent Archives, Michelle Caswell challenges how we should view records in the context of time. When we stop treating them as something that happened, but rather is happening, we begin to see that time is cyclical – what happened “then” is happening “now” and will inevitably happen in the “future” – the past has always been present but we continue to fail to see it or ignore it altogether. We need to remove records as something of the past to activate them as something of the now. But what exactly does that mean? Having discussed the importance of giving voice to the voiceless and filling the archival gaps, we need to promote those narratives – we need to get those voices to sing. 

Forms of Activation 

Some archivists may be more comfortable with the term outreach, which is where, in many respects, the two terms overlap. Yet activation carries a greater sense of urgency – a call to action that positions outreach as a form of activism that institutions should prioritize. To activate records is to allow them to participate in fostering awareness and, ultimately, meaningful change. This is particularly important for groups that have been historically marginalized and erased from records – the discovery of the self is a form of resistance. This process can be both liberating and empowering. As we’ve seen from the previous examples, encountering oneself within the broader historical record cultivates a deeper sense of belonging among underrepresented communities – one that can serve as a powerful catalyst for social and political engagement. Activation may take many forms that resemble traditional outreach, but it’s our intent that separates the two. Examples include: 

• Community engagement initiatives 

• Exhibitions 

• Scholarly and public-facing writing 

• Social media and blog platforms 

• Collaborations with artists 

• Activating spaces as a place for gathering or protest 

If we understand history as cyclical, then systems of oppression often follow similar patterns across time. In that sense, archival records do more than document the past; they provide tools for understanding which strategies of resistance succeeded, which failed, and how earlier struggles can inform present action. As Michelle Caswell argues, this is not about some “vague potential uses,” but rather about “activating records for activists now.”¹² 

Final Thoughts 

“[These] were not stories that I could learn about in school, read in textbooks or see covered in the media. But it was through learning about these and the many others like them that finally helped me see myself reflected in the American experience. For me knowing there is a long, rich and diverse history of South Asians in the United States counteracts that feeling of displacement.”¹³ 

I’ve been motivated most of my life to find, collect, and preserve stories which started with collecting my own. As a budding archivist, I’m seeing the importance of finding and telling the stories of those who history hasn’t allowed, that society deemed unimportant and valueless based on race, gender, sexuality, or some other convoluted barrier.  

So how, as archivists can we address the gaps and give voice to archival silences? Outreach endeavors like engaging the community, creating exhibitions, writing articles and blogs, posting what we find through social media, and encouraging collaboration with artists are ways we can become records activators; helping to reframe narratives that otherwise would have sat lifeless in a Hollinger box – if they were there at all. We need to dismantle old ways of seeing and collecting so we can take bold steps to embrace expansive and inclusive methods of documentation that capture multiple perspectives. We need to document the now to counter the negative narratives that are often portrayed in mainstream outlets.  Archivist Verne Harris speaks of the ghosts of archive – ghosts of the dead, of the living, and of those yet born. We don’t necessarily need to build monuments to the dead, but we do need to listen to them so we can better prepare the present generation and the next to follow. Motivation will dictate the narrative.