The Draw of Oral History

So, first off, just what is oral history, and what is its draw?

Oral history can be characterized as a first-hand account of past events. But unlike other forms of history, such as archives or published texts, the stories originate in verbal form, and are quite often passed down through generations before ever being recorded. This form of history is not without its detractors, however, and such information has been judged as biased, fragmented and even unreliable — tarnished by subjectivity and infused with errors made in the retelling.

But is this a fair assessment?

Maybe, but I’ve discovered such stories can offer great insight into the human condition, and to judge them as unreliable portals into the past is an opportunity lost to experience the world as it once was.

To discover a particular event through the eyes of one who had lived it is, in itself, a profound experience. Unlike seeing things at the aggregate level, where many historical texts tend to hover, we dive straight in and experience the risks and hardships in a way no broad perspective can provide. These are the stories of daily life with all its pain and warts. Pretty profound stuff, one could argue, even when allowing for some degree of embellishment. It is, in a sense, an opportunity to eavesdrop on an interesting conversation; to listen in on the sharing of experiences by those who had neither the means nor the opportunity to put pen to paper.

One such example, particularly relevant in my case, pertains to that of early Irish immigrants whose trials and hardships would otherwise be lost. Such tales are fascinating, if not heartbreaking. Some describe life during the potato famine of 1840s Ireland, or the experience of escaping it, and being crammed into the dark stench of a coffin ship’s hold for weeks on end.

I was introduced, rather unexpectedly, to this source. As fate would have it, I was chatting with a friend and fellow writer at a local pub. At the time I was doing research for my latest historical fiction, Grande, and lamenting my failure to lay hands on the right sort of material.

Finding anything resembling a first-hand account, I had said, was an impossible task. There are no seminal works which captured real life experiences of the everyday person. There are no Anne Franke - like memoirs offering any first-hand accounts of their lives lived. But, I was informed, we do retain some record of the quiet words spoken, descriptions of the oft-times traumatic experiences passed on, perhaps around the dinner table, or whilst sharing a fire’s warmth.

I was directed to an exceptional article, written by Mike McBane and entitled “Irish Famine Stories In The Ottawa Valley.” It was rich with accounts of struggle and loss — incredible stories of the early immigrant experience. Tales of a neighbour, who in later years, although reasonably well off, was never without a piece of bread safely tucked into a trouser pocket, ‘just in case.’ And of Grandma Draper, who always kept her milk under lock and key. Old habits that betrayed the trauma of scarcity that cannot be imagined.

But by far the most heart-wrenching story of all came from Ruth Dunnigan of Mayo, Quebec. Dunnigan’s great grandmother, Catherine Roger, was a young mother when she left Ireland aboard a coffin ship with her child — a boy less than a year old. The six-week voyage was horrific, and she described in plain language how all were taken with the boat sickness. The most heart-wrenching paragraphs are captured in the same raw, matter-of-fact tone:

“… And her younger son was a year old.

“And she took it with her, naturally. And it died within a few days of arriving at Quebec City. So she held it a secret. You know how they used to turn their skirts up over their shoulders. The old ladies had long skirts and long underskirt.

”If they’d get cold they turned the skirt over the shoulder. She kept the baby there — the dead baby there — a while. Because she didn’t want it to be buried at sea. It was buried in Quebec someplace. Maybe at Grosse Ile, for all I know.”

This motivated me to do my own research. I began seeking people out, asking questions, learning about life in those early days. Not all stories were tragic, of course. Many had a mirthful element, and some even touched on the supernatural. A few stories stand out, like the one shared by a woman growing up in rural Ontario, who as a young girl, was told to check on horses in the barn whose manes were mysteriously braided overnight. Faeries no doubt the culprit.

Such stories are typically not easy to find. Like any hidden treasure, you have to dig for them. But, in the same way, they are often worth the effort.

Most have, or will, invariably find their way into my own writing. Partly because they are interesting, and hold to the old saw that truth is stranger (and ofttimes better) than fiction. But, if I’m being completely honest with myself, I feel a certain compulsion to play a small part in passing them on.