Anticipation
I’ve been surreptitiously clicking on this particular archive’s dating profile (collection description) for a few weeks now, but I’ve finally mustered the courage to meet them in person. Unlike some other archival dates I’ve been on, I’m not going into this totally blind. Here’s what I know:
Dimensions – 1 box (definitely on the smaller side)
Age – anywhere from 1860-1990
The morning of, I dress up in what I hope will be an appropriately academic outfit, amenable to this archive’s particular tastes: button down, nice jeans, glasses. I add my great-great-grandmother’s engagement ring in hopes that the archive might appreciate it if I wear something antique myself. But then I remember that this archive is into women’s health pamphlets from the early 20th century and would probably hate my pink hair and the fact that I’m wearing pants. So much for a good first impression.
The First Date
When I arrive, the archive isn’t ready. I sit awkwardly at a table for a few minutes waiting for them to arrive. When they do, I’m surprised. This is no neat and tidy Hollinger box with numbered folders. It’s a brown cardboard box. Specifically, a “miracle box, no. 15,” only half full of manilla folders, not sorted into any apparent order.
Our conversation begins. It starts slowly—they’re quite compartmentalized, closed off, and sometimes hard to read. But soon we settle into a rhythm. I laugh at their jokes (“What’s the largest surgical operation? Lansing, Michigan”) and cringe at their red flags (“there is absolutely no excuse for a woman to allow herself to remain thin, sickly and ugly…physical power and beauty is within the reach of every woman—[and] every woman who does not possess this physical perfection has no one to blame but the ignorance of herself or her advisors”). But those red flags are one of the main reasons I’m here. This is going to be a toxic relationship.
An hour or so passes by and my stomach grumbles loudly. But I only have two hours and this date is important so I ignore it. Finally, my time is up. I’ve only barely gotten to know them. I have to come back for more.
The Next Few Weeks
My schedule gets busy, and we still haven’t gone on a second date. But I can’t stop thinking about them. I begin writing prose about them, paragraphs and paragraphs delving into their intricacies. The list of questions I have about them balloons. What is their background? What secrets do they hold? Who else has seen them? Touched them? Run fingers through their pages?
A Committed Relationship
Yes, we’ve only had one date so far, but I’m sure about this.
I nervously sit in a Zoom call, waiting to announce my intentions to pursue a relationship with this archive to the academic powers that be (my master’s thesis committee). They seem generally positive. I list all the pros and cons. This archive is unique, I promise. Yes, they’re small and niche, but they hold so much potential. I can draw out the best in them. I can fix them.
The committee approves our relationship.
A Long-Anticipated Second Date
My classmates and I pile into the Special Collections Reading Room for our tour. A table away is my collection. Mine. When did I get so possessive? I want to turn our conversation towards them. All my archival questions are about them, their histories, their quirks, their intricacies. The archivist walks us through the mechanics of finding aids and collection requests, and my heart begins to race. Just a few minutes from now I’ll get to see them again, open new folders, uncover new information.
Finally we’re set free to peruse the materials.
If I wasn’t bound by the societal and institutional conventions that permeate this archival space, I’d probably sprint over to see them. Despite my best efforts to seem calm and collected, I do bounce slightly as I make my way to their table.
And we’re reunited. Our conversation begins anew. This time, rather than tentative queries, we exchange electric excitement. We connect cross-theoretical dots. I delve into their depths. There’s so much more here than I could have even imagined.
Afterwards, I can’t get my mind off them. I’m distracted, daydreaming about how our relationship will grow and all the beautiful connections I can make with them. I think about how much they’ve taught me and where we’ll go from here. I’m giddy with archival joy, and even my friends notice me glowing.
The Future
I know relationships (and master’s theses) have their challenges. But right now I shall revel in the joys of young love. I shall embrace this honeymoon phase.
Elisabeth Stevens (‘25) graduated from Calvin with majors in Spanish and strategic communication and now is a graduate student in rhetoric at Penn State. She spends her free time running, swing dancing, baking, and finding new coffee shops at which to write.
