Archival Acts of Communion - In Progress
This week I will be sharing drafts of a couple of key sections of my project. This is all in-progress still, so please read them as such.
To start, I also want to share the video of my grandfather telling the story that I'm examining:
I'll have commentary further down, so for the moment I'll leave it be.
One item I am still working through is procedural--I want to be able to mark/differentiate Open Access sources versus the others; however, I'm running into some questions about whether or not sources are OA that might bear further discussion. My litmus test for accessibility has been trying to access a source while using InPrivate browsing windows; however, some questions are still arising. For example: are articles from CCC considered OA? Delayed OA? I was actually able to access them without signing into any of my accounts, so I wondered.
Finally, the main idea I'm still puzzling through here is something I, in the tradition of academics everywhere, have given a name. I'm calling it "communion," drawing parallels from the religious rite to the act of collaborative family archiving and storytelling. The sections I'm including below discuss my experience doing the actual searching as well as my analysis of the video itself. I've also included my full References list in all its rough glory.
In the spirit of recent archival work focusing on more personal archives (Shipka, 2012; Berry, Hawisher, and Selfe, 2016; Hidalgo, 2018), I undertake to look at how the canons of memory and delivery are at work in my own family archives. In particular, I am interested in the way these canons play out in a video of one of stories my grandfather told. In the story, my grandfather, Wayne, tells of a time when he and his friends drove a Model T up Mount Graham in southeastern Arizona. As they were driving down the mountain, they took a shortcut, heading directly down the hill rather than sticking to the switchbacks on the road, and the car lost control. My grandfather’s friends bailed out of the car, but he thought that if he jumped out the car might roll over him, so he rode it out until the car came to a stop at the bottom of a hill. The part of the story we all remember, the way it is most frequently retold, is that his friends run up to the wreck afterwards and one of his friends yells, “Beans, Wayne! Are you all right?”
For obvious reasons, my siblings and I call this the “Beans, Wayne!” story, and it is one my family has told many times. It has been important enough, in fact, that for our 2009 family reunion, the family made matching t-shirts for everyone with the words “Beans, Wayne!” on the front and “Are you all right?” on the back, with a clipart image of a Model T. Beyond just the unusual exclamation—“beans” is, I think, a nontraditional substitute for other, more colorful expletives, and as such is memorable in its own right—there is something at work in the story and the way it matters to my family that I wanted to try to understand. What makes it so important? Why do we remember it?
I decided that the best place to examine the story was to acquire a video of my grandfather telling it. This was difficult, since my grandfather passed away in 2010 from cancer. In 2008 and 2009, knowing that there may not be many more opportunities to do so, my father visited southeastern Arizona multiple times to videotape my grandfather telling his stories. I knew the videos existed—I had seen a handful of them. I didn’t know if they included the “Beans, Wayne!” story, or if my parents knew where the videos were. And so, while I was on an hour-and-a-half drive through Indiana, I called my father to ask him if he remembered taping that story and if he could get it to me.
What resulted was a collaborative search through family archives, with 1,500 miles separating collaborators. It was not an easy search. The videos were recorded before my grandfather passed away in 2010. Between then and 2019, due to circumstances of work and family, my parents ended up moving five times—three times in Southern California, then on to Oregon and finally settling in Utah. The videos were boxed and reboxed, shuffled around with other family videos, VHS tapes, picture albums, and generally kept in storage in garages and storage facilities across the Western United States. When I asked my father if he knew where the video was, I imagined him saying that he would look for it and then waiting a day or two for him to get back to me. What I did not expect was my father immediately seizing on the opportunity and starting to dig through the videos while I was still driving. He opened boxes, checked labels on videotapes, read them off to me, both to see if it was something I was interested in for this project, or—much more commonly—just to share something exciting or interesting he had found.
About a half-hour into the search, my mother also joined in, and while my parents searched and I drove, the three of us reviewed the contents of these videos. Some of it wasn’t surprising, of course—I remember all too well the videos of my fifth-grade band stumbling through barely recognizable Christmas Carols—but some were genuine surprises, videos of years-gone grandparents that we’d forgotten we’d taken, videos of me and my siblings as children. Some of the items they found weren’t even videotapes. There were pictures, albums, artifacts, some whose relationship to the family was not immediately evident. For example, my parents found 35mm film cannisters—the kind Kodak used to include film rolls in—with stuffed cotton balls wadded at the bottom. My father had no idea what the cannisters represented, but when he sent me a picture , I immediately knew that these came from my time spent in Argentina during a two-year mission for my Church—we used to put our loose change in the cannisters to minimize the jingling as we walked. It took another couple of days for my parents to find the videotape of my grandfather’s stories. It was in a stack of unlabeled tapes, and my father mailed me a DVD copy.
I share the details of the search itself because the act of searching through archives is, in itself, rhetorical. It requires the researcher to directly confront questions of what is and is not in the archive, strategies for how to approach the material there, what to extract and what to leave, and what to share with others. My own purpose in the archive was narrow—I was looking for this one, specific story of my grandfather’s because it directly related to my research question. I didn’t even know if the video existed before reaching out to my family, though I had my suspicions that it did. While I was interested in the other videos and artifacts that might be found there, my tunnel-vision-research-gaze (which, let’s face it, can be both a strength and a detriment to research) was inclined to put everything else to the side. My parents, however, had a wider vision. They began the search themselves at first as a way to help me, but they saw benefits beyond just my one project. Almost immediately, they began sharing video clips and pictures they found with other family members through social media . For them, the search itself was valuable because these were not simply artifacts; they were representative of family memories.
In this way, the search through an archive—family or otherwise—is related to the canon of memory. My parents and I were digging through these items and remembering ourselves how we related to them. More, because this archive was a family one, every item contributed to a common memory. The act of searching through the archive in collaboration with other members of the family acted as a form of communion—and I use this term with awareness of the religious connotations. In Catholicism, one takes Communion to become more at one with God. In this collaborative, familial archival research, the communion served to create a oneness of memory. Sharing (or delivering) that memory with others—as my parents did immediately via Facebook, and as I am doing now with this project—are ways to branch that sense of unity out. We reestablished a sense of family identity with our united review of the archive, and then we each went forward sharing something (or things) we found in the archive.
Entering this project, I wanted to understand how it was that family stories—and in particular archived versions of family stories—work to create a sense of family identity. Elsewhere in this work, I examine the communal act of searching family archives and the ways in which that search can create a common identity based on the drawing forth from memory and delivering of archival materials to family members and beyond. In this section, I delve deeper into my grandfather’s story itself. I examine the way my grandfather tells his story in the public setting, and I look at the ways that the video recording itself both complements and complicates the delivery of the story. I divide this section into the two canons—memory and delivery—and I return again to the ways in which the remembering and delivering of family stories create a sense of communion among family members, building a common identity among them.
To begin, I examine the ways in which my grandfather visibly engages with his own memory as he tells the story. When the story is requested (more on this soon), he pauses to recall it, looks in the air. It is clearly an act of remembering, which he invokes by saying “Well” and then fixing on one detail of the story to help him recall the rest: “That’d be Harry’s car.” This slow start to the story serves to engage my grandfather’s memory. He pauses frequently early on, looking in the air, remembering. As the story progresses, his pauses become more deliberate, are due less to remembering and more to dramatic effect. He becomes visibly more comfortable with the story, and is able to enjoy it more himself, laughing along with his audience. The mention of “Harry’s car” also acts as a link between my grandfather’s memory and that of his audience. He is speaking to his children here, and when he says his friend’s name, my aunt immediately responds, “Poor Harry, he was quite a character.” This reference lays the groundwork, not only engaging the memory of my grandfather, but that of the others involved in the gathering. Even two generations removed, I know that Harry is a recurring figure in my grandfather’s stories.
The fact that those who hear the story already have some idea of who the characters are speaks to the way that the story as a whole is a familiar one to the family. My aunt specifically requests that my grandfather tell it; “the story about riding the car down the hill,” she calls it. She comments on the people involved in the story. The audience knows that jokes are coming, and at times the video captures them laughing before my grandfather’s jokes land. Even the fact that my father is videotaping the story at all shows that he knew these stories existed and was prepared to capture them. These circumstances go to show that the story is no longer just my grandfather’s. It is collectively experienced by everyone. They all know it, they all remember it. They even remember it differently at times. Toward the end of the story, my aunt has to ask my grandfather to go back and include the most memorable exclamation: “Beans!” This has become a collective story. It may have originated with one person, but it has reached a point where everyone has internalized it and can retell it. In other words, the story has become part of their memories, and in so doing has become part of them. The act of telling it becomes a communal act where individuals in the family grow closer together by engaging with this shared memory.
The moves my grandfather makes as he delivers the story all serve to bring him closer to his audience. His delivery is laid back. Occasionally, a knowing grin crosses his face as he talks; he knows where the story is going, and he knows his audience knows as well. This familiar delivery gives the story a sense of being more than just a personal story. It is almost mythical to the family, and that smile indicates that he knows it. He also refers to common places that everyone in the family knows. “The mountain” is Mount Graham, an almost-11,000-foot-tall mountain in southeastern Arizona. It has been the site of countless family gatherings, reunions, vacations, day-trips, hikes. My grandfather refers to places on the mountain (Wet Creek, Webb Tower, Columbine) without explanation because the audience is already familiar with it. The video itself is being recorded on the mountain. Like many community gathering places, it is one that has gained meaning and significance to the family simply through repeat visits and the accumulation of family experiences. It is a special place to us. At one point, on a visit to Arizona a few years ago, I took a picture of Mount Graham and posted it to Facebook with the caption “The mountain. For us Weeches, there is only one. And it is ours.” Within a few minutes, one of my aunts posted: “True!” My grandfather knows that the place is special, and in referring to it, he draws his family-audience in closer in a sense of communion at that place, making the story bigger than just his experience.
The digitization of his story does the same. Prior (2007) has noted the way that digital technologies have transformed classical delivery into questions of “mediation and distribution” (p. 7). My grandfather, gone nearly a decade as of this writing, can no longer tell his stories. While folklore is by its very nature passed on via word of mouth, from individual to individual, a digitized version of the original story allows it to be remediated into new contexts, provided that the story is available to be remediated and distributed. Now that my family has found the video and I have turned it into a convenient six-minute Youtube clip, it can be shared with my family and beyond. The mythmaking that happens when a family shares stories in a folkloric sense may not be present to the same degree when there exists video of the original storyteller, but this digitization allows for the original story to be revisited, much in the same way that the mountain itself can be revisited and memories be rekindled. Video allows for remote communion, a sort of long-distance identity formation. The story has gone beyond just belonging to Grandpa Weech and now belongs to everyone, who connects to the story and to a stronger sense of a shared family identity.
Berry, P. W., Hawisher, G. E., & Selfe, C. L. (Eds.). (2016). Provocations: Reconstructing the archive. Retrieved from https://ccdigitalpress.org/book/reconstructingthearchive/
Cushman, E. (1996). The rhetorician as an agent of social change. College Composition and Communication, 47(1), 7–28. https://doi.org/10.2307/358271
d’Arlach, L., Sanchez, B., & Feuer, R. (2009). Voices from the community: A case for reciprocity in service-learning. Michigan Journal of Community Service Learning, 16(1), 5–16.
Gaillet, L. L. (2009). Archival survival: Navigating historical research. In A. E. Ramsey, W. B. Sharer, B. L’Eplattenier, & L. Mastrangelo (Eds.), Working in the archives: Practical research methods for Rhetoric and Composition (pp. 28–39). Retrieved from http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/purdue/detail.action?docID=1354654
Gaillet, L. L. (2012). (Per)forming archival research methodologies. College Composition and Communication, 64(1), 35–58.
Hidalgo, A. (2018). Pixelating the self: Digital feminist memoirs. Lexington, KY: Intermezzo.
Kirsch, G., & Rohan, L. (2008). Beyond the archives: Research as a lived process. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Retrieved from http://site.ebrary.com/id/10695253
Kittle Autry, M., & Kelly, A. R. (2012). Introduction to the special issue: Computers & Writing 2012, ArchiTEXTure. Enculturation, 14. Retrieved from http://enculturation.net/architexture-introduction#1
Lauer, J. M. (2004). Invention in Rhetoric and Composition. West Lafayette, Ind. : [Fort Collins, Colo.]: Parlor Press ; WAC Clearinghouse.
Porter, J. E. (2009). Recovering delivery for digital rhetoric. Computers and Composition, 26(4), 207–224. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.compcom.2009.09.004
Prior, P., Solberg, J., Berry, P., Bellwoar, H., Chewning, B., Lunsford, K. J., … Walker, J. (2007). Remediating the canons. Kairos, 11(3). Retrieved from http://technorhetoric.net/11.3/binder.html?topoi/prior-et-al/index.html
Ratcliffe, K. (1999). Rhetorical listening: A trope for interpretive invention and a “code of cross-cultural conduct.” College Composition and Communication, 51(2), 195–224. https://doi.org/10.2307/359039
Rawson, K. J. (2012). Archive this! Queering the archive. In K. M. Powell & P. Takayoshi (Eds.), Practicing research in writing studies: reflexive and ethically responsible research (pp. 237–250). New York: Hampton Press.
Ray, B. (2015). Style: An introduction to history, theory, research, and pedagogy. Anderson, South Carolina: Parlor Press.
Schmertz, J. (2019). Archiving and re-narrating selves in an online writing course. In K. Comer, M. Harker, & B. McCorkle (Eds.), The Archive as Classroom. Retrieved from https://ccdigitalpress.org/book/archive-as-classroom/archive2.html
Sharer, W. B. (2008). Traces of the familiar: Family archives as primary source material. In G. Kirsch & L. Rohan (Eds.), Beyond the archives: Research as a lived process (pp. 47–55). Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Retrieved from http://site.ebrary.com/id/10695253
Shipka, J. (2012). To preserve, digitize, and project: On the process of composing other people’s lives. Enculturation, 14. Retrieved from http://enculturation.net/preserve-digitize-project
Smith, C. (2012, June). Review of keynote ~ Anne Frances Wysocki, “Grounding spaces for recollecting.” Retrieved March 12, 2019, from http://www.digitalrhetoriccollaborative.org/2012/06/11/keynote-anne-frances-wysocki-grounding-spaces-for-recollecting/
Suber, P. (2012). Open access. Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press.
Willinsky, J. (2009). The access principle: The case for open access to research and scholarship. Cambridge, Mass.; London: The MIT Press.
I'll have commentary further down, so for the moment I'll leave it be.
One item I am still working through is procedural--I want to be able to mark/differentiate Open Access sources versus the others; however, I'm running into some questions about whether or not sources are OA that might bear further discussion. My litmus test for accessibility has been trying to access a source while using InPrivate browsing windows; however, some questions are still arising. For example: are articles from CCC considered OA? Delayed OA? I was actually able to access them without signing into any of my accounts, so I wondered.
Finally, the main idea I'm still puzzling through here is something I, in the tradition of academics everywhere, have given a name. I'm calling it "communion," drawing parallels from the religious rite to the act of collaborative family archiving and storytelling. The sections I'm including below discuss my experience doing the actual searching as well as my analysis of the video itself. I've also included my full References list in all its rough glory.
Archival Adventure: The Search for the Story
The Story
In the spirit of recent archival work focusing on more personal archives (Shipka, 2012; Berry, Hawisher, and Selfe, 2016; Hidalgo, 2018), I undertake to look at how the canons of memory and delivery are at work in my own family archives. In particular, I am interested in the way these canons play out in a video of one of stories my grandfather told. In the story, my grandfather, Wayne, tells of a time when he and his friends drove a Model T up Mount Graham in southeastern Arizona. As they were driving down the mountain, they took a shortcut, heading directly down the hill rather than sticking to the switchbacks on the road, and the car lost control. My grandfather’s friends bailed out of the car, but he thought that if he jumped out the car might roll over him, so he rode it out until the car came to a stop at the bottom of a hill. The part of the story we all remember, the way it is most frequently retold, is that his friends run up to the wreck afterwards and one of his friends yells, “Beans, Wayne! Are you all right?”
For obvious reasons, my siblings and I call this the “Beans, Wayne!” story, and it is one my family has told many times. It has been important enough, in fact, that for our 2009 family reunion, the family made matching t-shirts for everyone with the words “Beans, Wayne!” on the front and “Are you all right?” on the back, with a clipart image of a Model T. Beyond just the unusual exclamation—“beans” is, I think, a nontraditional substitute for other, more colorful expletives, and as such is memorable in its own right—there is something at work in the story and the way it matters to my family that I wanted to try to understand. What makes it so important? Why do we remember it?
The Search
I decided that the best place to examine the story was to acquire a video of my grandfather telling it. This was difficult, since my grandfather passed away in 2010 from cancer. In 2008 and 2009, knowing that there may not be many more opportunities to do so, my father visited southeastern Arizona multiple times to videotape my grandfather telling his stories. I knew the videos existed—I had seen a handful of them. I didn’t know if they included the “Beans, Wayne!” story, or if my parents knew where the videos were. And so, while I was on an hour-and-a-half drive through Indiana, I called my father to ask him if he remembered taping that story and if he could get it to me.
What resulted was a collaborative search through family archives, with 1,500 miles separating collaborators. It was not an easy search. The videos were recorded before my grandfather passed away in 2010. Between then and 2019, due to circumstances of work and family, my parents ended up moving five times—three times in Southern California, then on to Oregon and finally settling in Utah. The videos were boxed and reboxed, shuffled around with other family videos, VHS tapes, picture albums, and generally kept in storage in garages and storage facilities across the Western United States. When I asked my father if he knew where the video was, I imagined him saying that he would look for it and then waiting a day or two for him to get back to me. What I did not expect was my father immediately seizing on the opportunity and starting to dig through the videos while I was still driving. He opened boxes, checked labels on videotapes, read them off to me, both to see if it was something I was interested in for this project, or—much more commonly—just to share something exciting or interesting he had found.
About a half-hour into the search, my mother also joined in, and while my parents searched and I drove, the three of us reviewed the contents of these videos. Some of it wasn’t surprising, of course—I remember all too well the videos of my fifth-grade band stumbling through barely recognizable Christmas Carols—but some were genuine surprises, videos of years-gone grandparents that we’d forgotten we’d taken, videos of me and my siblings as children. Some of the items they found weren’t even videotapes. There were pictures, albums, artifacts, some whose relationship to the family was not immediately evident. For example, my parents found 35mm film cannisters—the kind Kodak used to include film rolls in—with stuffed cotton balls wadded at the bottom. My father had no idea what the cannisters represented, but when he sent me a picture , I immediately knew that these came from my time spent in Argentina during a two-year mission for my Church—we used to put our loose change in the cannisters to minimize the jingling as we walked. It took another couple of days for my parents to find the videotape of my grandfather’s stories. It was in a stack of unlabeled tapes, and my father mailed me a DVD copy.
I share the details of the search itself because the act of searching through archives is, in itself, rhetorical. It requires the researcher to directly confront questions of what is and is not in the archive, strategies for how to approach the material there, what to extract and what to leave, and what to share with others. My own purpose in the archive was narrow—I was looking for this one, specific story of my grandfather’s because it directly related to my research question. I didn’t even know if the video existed before reaching out to my family, though I had my suspicions that it did. While I was interested in the other videos and artifacts that might be found there, my tunnel-vision-research-gaze (which, let’s face it, can be both a strength and a detriment to research) was inclined to put everything else to the side. My parents, however, had a wider vision. They began the search themselves at first as a way to help me, but they saw benefits beyond just my one project. Almost immediately, they began sharing video clips and pictures they found with other family members through social media . For them, the search itself was valuable because these were not simply artifacts; they were representative of family memories.
In this way, the search through an archive—family or otherwise—is related to the canon of memory. My parents and I were digging through these items and remembering ourselves how we related to them. More, because this archive was a family one, every item contributed to a common memory. The act of searching through the archive in collaboration with other members of the family acted as a form of communion—and I use this term with awareness of the religious connotations. In Catholicism, one takes Communion to become more at one with God. In this collaborative, familial archival research, the communion served to create a oneness of memory. Sharing (or delivering) that memory with others—as my parents did immediately via Facebook, and as I am doing now with this project—are ways to branch that sense of unity out. We reestablished a sense of family identity with our united review of the archive, and then we each went forward sharing something (or things) we found in the archive.
Remembering and Delivering a Family Identity
Entering this project, I wanted to understand how it was that family stories—and in particular archived versions of family stories—work to create a sense of family identity. Elsewhere in this work, I examine the communal act of searching family archives and the ways in which that search can create a common identity based on the drawing forth from memory and delivering of archival materials to family members and beyond. In this section, I delve deeper into my grandfather’s story itself. I examine the way my grandfather tells his story in the public setting, and I look at the ways that the video recording itself both complements and complicates the delivery of the story. I divide this section into the two canons—memory and delivery—and I return again to the ways in which the remembering and delivering of family stories create a sense of communion among family members, building a common identity among them.
Memory
To begin, I examine the ways in which my grandfather visibly engages with his own memory as he tells the story. When the story is requested (more on this soon), he pauses to recall it, looks in the air. It is clearly an act of remembering, which he invokes by saying “Well” and then fixing on one detail of the story to help him recall the rest: “That’d be Harry’s car.” This slow start to the story serves to engage my grandfather’s memory. He pauses frequently early on, looking in the air, remembering. As the story progresses, his pauses become more deliberate, are due less to remembering and more to dramatic effect. He becomes visibly more comfortable with the story, and is able to enjoy it more himself, laughing along with his audience. The mention of “Harry’s car” also acts as a link between my grandfather’s memory and that of his audience. He is speaking to his children here, and when he says his friend’s name, my aunt immediately responds, “Poor Harry, he was quite a character.” This reference lays the groundwork, not only engaging the memory of my grandfather, but that of the others involved in the gathering. Even two generations removed, I know that Harry is a recurring figure in my grandfather’s stories.
The fact that those who hear the story already have some idea of who the characters are speaks to the way that the story as a whole is a familiar one to the family. My aunt specifically requests that my grandfather tell it; “the story about riding the car down the hill,” she calls it. She comments on the people involved in the story. The audience knows that jokes are coming, and at times the video captures them laughing before my grandfather’s jokes land. Even the fact that my father is videotaping the story at all shows that he knew these stories existed and was prepared to capture them. These circumstances go to show that the story is no longer just my grandfather’s. It is collectively experienced by everyone. They all know it, they all remember it. They even remember it differently at times. Toward the end of the story, my aunt has to ask my grandfather to go back and include the most memorable exclamation: “Beans!” This has become a collective story. It may have originated with one person, but it has reached a point where everyone has internalized it and can retell it. In other words, the story has become part of their memories, and in so doing has become part of them. The act of telling it becomes a communal act where individuals in the family grow closer together by engaging with this shared memory.
Delivery
The moves my grandfather makes as he delivers the story all serve to bring him closer to his audience. His delivery is laid back. Occasionally, a knowing grin crosses his face as he talks; he knows where the story is going, and he knows his audience knows as well. This familiar delivery gives the story a sense of being more than just a personal story. It is almost mythical to the family, and that smile indicates that he knows it. He also refers to common places that everyone in the family knows. “The mountain” is Mount Graham, an almost-11,000-foot-tall mountain in southeastern Arizona. It has been the site of countless family gatherings, reunions, vacations, day-trips, hikes. My grandfather refers to places on the mountain (Wet Creek, Webb Tower, Columbine) without explanation because the audience is already familiar with it. The video itself is being recorded on the mountain. Like many community gathering places, it is one that has gained meaning and significance to the family simply through repeat visits and the accumulation of family experiences. It is a special place to us. At one point, on a visit to Arizona a few years ago, I took a picture of Mount Graham and posted it to Facebook with the caption “The mountain. For us Weeches, there is only one. And it is ours.” Within a few minutes, one of my aunts posted: “True!” My grandfather knows that the place is special, and in referring to it, he draws his family-audience in closer in a sense of communion at that place, making the story bigger than just his experience.
The digitization of his story does the same. Prior (2007) has noted the way that digital technologies have transformed classical delivery into questions of “mediation and distribution” (p. 7). My grandfather, gone nearly a decade as of this writing, can no longer tell his stories. While folklore is by its very nature passed on via word of mouth, from individual to individual, a digitized version of the original story allows it to be remediated into new contexts, provided that the story is available to be remediated and distributed. Now that my family has found the video and I have turned it into a convenient six-minute Youtube clip, it can be shared with my family and beyond. The mythmaking that happens when a family shares stories in a folkloric sense may not be present to the same degree when there exists video of the original storyteller, but this digitization allows for the original story to be revisited, much in the same way that the mountain itself can be revisited and memories be rekindled. Video allows for remote communion, a sort of long-distance identity formation. The story has gone beyond just belonging to Grandpa Weech and now belongs to everyone, who connects to the story and to a stronger sense of a shared family identity.
References
Berry, P. W., Hawisher, G. E., & Selfe, C. L. (Eds.). (2016). Provocations: Reconstructing the archive. Retrieved from https://ccdigitalpress.org/book/reconstructingthearchive/
Cushman, E. (1996). The rhetorician as an agent of social change. College Composition and Communication, 47(1), 7–28. https://doi.org/10.2307/358271
d’Arlach, L., Sanchez, B., & Feuer, R. (2009). Voices from the community: A case for reciprocity in service-learning. Michigan Journal of Community Service Learning, 16(1), 5–16.
Gaillet, L. L. (2009). Archival survival: Navigating historical research. In A. E. Ramsey, W. B. Sharer, B. L’Eplattenier, & L. Mastrangelo (Eds.), Working in the archives: Practical research methods for Rhetoric and Composition (pp. 28–39). Retrieved from http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/purdue/detail.action?docID=1354654
Gaillet, L. L. (2012). (Per)forming archival research methodologies. College Composition and Communication, 64(1), 35–58.
Hidalgo, A. (2018). Pixelating the self: Digital feminist memoirs. Lexington, KY: Intermezzo.
Kirsch, G., & Rohan, L. (2008). Beyond the archives: Research as a lived process. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Retrieved from http://site.ebrary.com/id/10695253
Kittle Autry, M., & Kelly, A. R. (2012). Introduction to the special issue: Computers & Writing 2012, ArchiTEXTure. Enculturation, 14. Retrieved from http://enculturation.net/architexture-introduction#1
Lauer, J. M. (2004). Invention in Rhetoric and Composition. West Lafayette, Ind. : [Fort Collins, Colo.]: Parlor Press ; WAC Clearinghouse.
Porter, J. E. (2009). Recovering delivery for digital rhetoric. Computers and Composition, 26(4), 207–224. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.compcom.2009.09.004
Prior, P., Solberg, J., Berry, P., Bellwoar, H., Chewning, B., Lunsford, K. J., … Walker, J. (2007). Remediating the canons. Kairos, 11(3). Retrieved from http://technorhetoric.net/11.3/binder.html?topoi/prior-et-al/index.html
Ratcliffe, K. (1999). Rhetorical listening: A trope for interpretive invention and a “code of cross-cultural conduct.” College Composition and Communication, 51(2), 195–224. https://doi.org/10.2307/359039
Rawson, K. J. (2012). Archive this! Queering the archive. In K. M. Powell & P. Takayoshi (Eds.), Practicing research in writing studies: reflexive and ethically responsible research (pp. 237–250). New York: Hampton Press.
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