 I was, excuse me, I was brave today, I only did one slide, which I know is like uncharacteristic. I'm actually gonna take us on quite a journey today. So I hope that you can bear with me on this journey that I wanna take you on. And I feel weird, because I usually have a podium that covers me, so I feel weird, I don't know what to do with my hands. I'm up here. So the title of my keynote today, the Reckoning in the Archives. I want to begin today in metaphor, and lay before you a vision of America's scrapbook. And before I go further, I would like to concede that this metaphor will ring true when we look at the totality of the aftermath of the African diaspora and the treatment of these communities across continents. Imagine being a sibling of a family that continually removes you from photos, tries its best to erase you. At times you make herculean efforts to support the goals, needs, and vision for your family. You stand together with your family in moments of pain, put your life on the line when called upon to prove your commitment to the family. Your roles as the caretaker, innovator, artist, confidant, dreammaker, listener, loving, truth teller, or leader are all questioned. You've been a part of every milestone. You've had fierce arguments, bitter feuds, but you try and hope that there will be this acceptance. As you go through the scrapbook, you see events where you know you were there, where you cried, worshipped together, laughed together, but you are still missing. You've been a good auntie, cousin, uncle, sister, brother, mother, and have led a life that is no less than those around you. And yet your existence is ignored, stifled, silenced, minimized, bastardized, dehumanized. And yet there you are still gesturing, angling, reinventing yourself for them, for this family. You go numb to the blatant disrespect, hatred, vitriol, and you still find yourself yearning to find yourself reflected somewhere, somehow, to make sure you're even really here. Am I alive? Am I a ghost? Or something that never was? But there is a reckoning coming. James Baldwin wrote in a letter to his nephew in the fire next time, quote, try to imagine how you would feel if you woke up one morning to find the sun shivering and the stars aflame. And you would be frightened because it is out of the order of nature. Any upheaval in the universe is terrifying because it is so profoundly attacks one's sense of one's own reality. I want to apply this intimate and prophetic prose to what is happening in the intimate spaces of the information fields in digital and analog areas. There is an upheaval in the universe. There is a reckoning taking place. And for some, it is terrifying. While on one hand, we must acknowledge the West, more specifically the United States is witnessing a crisis of disinformation, we are also seeing an emergence of a fierce and fantastic interrogation of a reality that has permitted and sanctioned the existence of anti-blackness, homophobic rhetoric, misogyny war, a cultivation of oppressive practices that have silenced communities that have been victims of erasure from the American scrapbook. We are undergoing a reckoning and it is the optimist, yes, the activist, the social justice warrior in me that believes everything as it relates to the acquisition, preservation, access, the archival praxis with its traditional colonial, racist, sexist classes, capitalistic approaches are not only faced but are and continue to change, going through an evolution. The archival profession is in the midst of its own appraisal process, an interrogation of its development and analysis of its utility and what is emerging out of this fierce discourse is a dismissal of neutrality. And the slow acknowledgement of racist ideas that have for far too long been allowed to serve as a bastion of truth and has consciously sanctioned the silencing of oppressed communities, serving as a safe haven for human rights violators where their actions are either glorified and reimagined as triumphs of democracy or completely missing, erased along with the voices of its victims. The profession is being asked to pay its debt. It's being asked to review its violations, asking for reparations, asking for repair. So how did I get here? I took two trains, a bus, but really how did I get here and engage in this work? I spent what I call my formative years and I'm going way back. In West Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and I would say it was fifth grade that laid the groundwork for the trajectory of my life. I was introduced to a fantastic fifth grade teacher that helped me feel seen, which gave me the beginning of a voice. I was introduced to the art of Wendell and Brooks by Angelo Langston Hughes and Paul Lawrence Dunbar. I specifically remember reading his poem, We Wear the Mask. I later understood that contorting and angling and bending that people of color and other under documented communities engage in to be a part of America's scrapbook. I didn't have the vocabulary at the time to express my bouts with billing and visible from the literature that never had characters that look like me or experiences that seemed vaguely reminiscent of my own. The overtly Eurocentric approach to my education for the majority of my primary and secondary schooling often presented a reality that synthesized the entirety of being black to a few pages on slavery, Harriet Tubman, Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks. Let alone any significant discussion on the African diaspora and what blackness was outside the United States. But I did hear of the travels of Pasadalyan Magellan and Christopher Columbus. It was not until I was working on my first graduate degree that I would have the sense of feeling seen again as I did in fifth grade, a reminder that I was not a ghost. I was working on my thesis where I decided to investigate the history of the black press. I was more particularly interested in the role of black women had played because if it were not for my fifth grade teacher and the book reports of my parents made me during the summers of my youth, I knew black women had always been a part of the revolution for change, of building nations, of working towards democracy. So I knew we were likely critical to the development of the black press as I had only tangential knowledge of Ida B. Wells and Gwen Iphone. It was an amalgamation of various keywords in a Google search that led me to Fay and Jackson. Google led me to a small write-up by Kent State alum, Dr. Darlene Clark-Hine, showing Fay to be a Renaissance woman born in Dallas, Texas in 1902. Her parents escaped Dallas after lynching in Waco in 1916, causing massive panic. Taking Fay and her siblings to become Angelenos hoping to leave behind the KKK and mob violence. Fay was the editor and founder of various California-based black publications reporting on people from Holly Salasi, Emperor of Ethiopia, to Coronation of King George VI, H.G. Wells, Josephine Baker. Fay frequented the nightclubs hoping to catch interviews with the glitterati of black Hollywood like Jenny Lagann. She was one of the earliest women of color to report the emergence of Technicolor in film which would finally show the beauty and hues of African-American performers. In those little graphs, I surmise that Fay was a revolutionary despite being in a time when strange fruits still hung from southern trees as an indomitable Billie Holiday used to sing. I learned from USC, UCLA, the Huntington Library, the Schomburg of New York, held records on Fay in their archives. Please note, in 2007, I had never heard of an archive or had been to one, but the anticipation of seeing what was available left me with heart palpitations. To my heartbreaking dismay, what I found in the archives were sparse at best. Unaware of the systemic failures of traditional archives and documenting historically underrepresented lives, I foolishly imagined I would have access to boxes filled with all of Fay's publications, photographs, letters, telegrams to newspaper publishers, and scrapbooks. Surely every measure had been taken to memorialize her life within these spaces, but what I saw instead were a few folders with a handful of photos, a couple of browning pages of correspondence. Yes, while each image, newspaper clipping, and notes got me closer to Fay's life, she was practically invisible, nearly non-existent with each institution I visited. Surely there had to be more concerning what she had done, but where was it? Delili Pearson, the granddaughter, lived on the south side of Los Angeles and she had boxes of records on Fay's stored in her basement, distributed throughout her home in various containers, plastic bags, and manila folders. Her granddaughter had a significant collection of flash magazine, a publication highlighting the Harlem Renaissance of the West Coast. Poems and letters from Langston Hughes that had been unpublished, materials from Wallace Thurman who wrote about colorism in the novel titled Black or the Berry. She had photographs of jazz legends like Alberta Hunter, correspondence from family members who had been slaves, promising to bring a loved one home. It was almost spiritual to have this connection to the past. I was personally beginning to feel grounded and anchor no longer free-floating. I began to find purpose. I was finding myself as I was finding Fay through archival research. Meeting with her loved ones and friends, I was putting together an image of one whose existence needed to be accounted for. As I got to know her granddaughter further, I found out she had a distrust of institutions. Questions of good stewardship, respect of her grandmother's story, issues of access made her suspicious of cultural heritage organizations in the academy. So I was honored, humbled, amazed. My soul swelled as I was able to see what Fay had accomplished, the path she took. Her life's work was a tribute to what is and was possible despite the complexities of a black woman's existence. Despite her story all but seeming ephemeral, I stayed in touch with the granddaughter as I worked to complete my thesis. She had become a distant family member. We had a bond. And at the same time, there was a sense of incompletion or unfinished business. I quickly realized I wanted to be what I thought Delili needed, what I needed, what those who had been disenfranchised, forgotten, made invisible, erased, undermined, under-documented, undervalued, unseen, needed, an advocate, a voice who would be their voice and demand reparation, elevation, memorialization, decolonization, eradication. Of traditions, of theories, of a practice that historically placed the experiences of those who are privileged over those who are not, where the narratives of the oppressor reign supreme over the silences of the oppressed, I wanted to play my role in making the academy a space where archives document the full breath of the human experience. I wanted to be a part of that reckoning to control the pages in the scrapbook. The full breath of the human existence, however, has now expanded beyond the analog spaces that I investigated with my work on faith. Yes, while there are countless narratives in personal archives, enlarged plastic bins, letters neatly folded in sandwich bags, accordion folders, 11 by 17 letter envelopes stuffed beyond capacity, or unprocessed materials in hollering boxes in Ivy League institutions forgotten in the stacks, gathering dust until someone cares to investigate. The lives of minoritized communities are also encapsulated in Facebook posts now, memes, blogs, tweets, hashtags, Instagram accounts, along with an explosion of digital humanities projects, work that's providing access and new gateways for how we unpack, reconcile, and advocate, investigate, critique, and celebrate the lives of these communities. And as I moved from the researcher to be in a position that decides what comes in the archive, I brought with me a hyper-awareness of the absences. The creation of the Repairative Archive framework set me on the path of finding a way to have a sense of belonging. A sentiment expressed by Jared M. Drake from his Libertory Archives Talk in 2016, who is now a PhD candidate in Harvard, along with his co-published piece with Stacey Williams, who is the Director of Digital Scholarship at Chicago State University, and a publication they did called Building a Community Archive, helped provide the language and vastness of what damage the traditional archives has created, but also motivated me to create a space for possible repair. In 2014, I've completed a year serving as the first African-American archivist at Kent State University, the home of the Kent State shootings of May 4th, 1970. They garnered national and international attention when four white students died during a flurry of gunfire by the Ohio National Guard, while wounding non-others during an anti-Vietnam War protest. Responding to acquiring materials on, to instruction and exhibitions on the pain experienced after the death of white students was critical to my daily workflow at Kent State. These histories of the anti-war movement are well documented within academia and non-academic organizations around the country and can be found in catalogs across the pond. And as a result, solidifies the humanity of these activists in a predominantly white movement. But I too sing America. And the words of one of the most significant literary artists in my opinion in the United States, Langston Hughes, despite efforts to suggest that the collective we, people of color, are not American. And that the descendants of the African diaspora should be returned to a nation from which our ancestors were stolen and forced to build the various structures and chambers that allow for the free flow of commerce and discourse on democracy when the US was still in its infancy. I became interested in the glaring absence of people of color in the narrative surrounding May 4. It became clear that this history was not interwoven or entrenched within the Kent State shooting narrative. As I pour through the archival records within our holdings, I began to reach out informally to black alumni. I learned of another movement that was taking place in parallel to the anti-war protests, the black campus movement. Dr. Ibram Kendi, New York Times bestselling author of Stamped from the Beginning, also published a book in 2012 about the black campus movement, the height of this revolution occurring 1965 to 1972, around the same time as the push began against the Vietnam War. The BCM demanded validation of the black experience through educational development, the creation of cultural centers, diverse student programming, and an increase in black students, faculty and staff. But these stories were not heavily documented. And I worked slowly to begin an effort to fill in those gaps, to bring that reckoning and reparative framework within our holdings. At the same time this work was taking place, a resurgence of activism was taking place on campuses around the nation. The Atlantic in 2015 even published a piece entitled The Renaissance of Student Activism, with 160 student protests in the U.S. alone taking place over 2014 semester. At Kent State University, black United students, or called bus, were responding to the death of Michael Brown in Ferguson. They were showing solidarity for black students and their allies at the University of Missouri, where students of color were being intimidated with images of swastikas and the use of the N word. And then as the U.S. was barreling towards the November elections, Kent State University's Spanish and Latino Student Association Salsa, while celebrating in the homecoming parade a chance of build the wall. Being yelled by a white fraternity as they walked in procession. So from 2014 to 2016 Kent State was a microcosm for me for how student organizers were emerging in digital spaces. Parts of their lives were unfolding in real time. Social media for many activists served as a tool for social justice by student organizers from vulnerable populations to post demands to the administration to show videos of being harassed to provide a platform for acts of resistance. Some historically, so since historically the American scrapbook has failed to tell the stories of black and brown people and other minoritized communities, archivists, memory workers, librarians and other information professionals who understand the urgency of ethically capturing and understanding these digital identities in minoritized communities must follow the lead of scholars such as Sophia Noble, Associate Professor at UCLA and author of Algorithms of Oppression. Meredith Clark, Assistant Professor Department of Media Studies at University of Virginia and Burgess Jules, Doc Now, Project Director who are giving us the pathways to do this work and tread this new terrain of ensuring these complex and diverse narratives are dealt with utilizing appropriate tools that we are asking the questions that we need to. In a report by Dean Freelon, Charlton McLillwin, I hope I said his last name correctly and Meredith Clark titled hashtags Ferguson Black Lives Matter and the online struggle for offline justice, they analyzed 40.8 million tweets 100,000 web links and 40 interviews. They surmised that protesters and their supporters were gently able to circulate their narratives on Twitter without relying on mainstream news outlets. What does this suggest for our labor in the information profession? It indicates that we will not be able to rely on previous modes of communication and documentation. Long gone are the days of relying primarily on print newspapers, photos, negatives and flyers to document the movements of often the change that changes the trajectory of a campus and leads to the creation of LGBT centers, new campus policies, presidential proclamations, task forces and conversations that are reflective of what is taking place in a broader society. As time moves forward, we are less likely to see these documents transferred in folders and boxes or even saved on drives. How do we work with students to capture weeks and months of conversations in a meetup app? In 2016, I found the project, Project Stand, along with co-founder Tamar Shoot, the university archivist at Ohio State University. I wondered and or thought I could not be the only person wondering if and how this resurgence of campus activism was being documented across geographical spaces, specifically activism around anti-blackness, anti-immigration, transphobia, sexual violence and police brutality in traditionally vulnerable communities. And how do we engage in documenting these lives, these contributions of advocacy towards a more democratic society, especially as labor is taking place in the digital sphere? The group of nearly 70 colleges and universities that are now part of Project Stand have completed close to 400 collection assessments, which tell us that within the repositories holding the repositories within the consortium, the top five decades documented include 2000 to the present. This suggests that academia, that academic repositories across the country in the US are working on trying to capture these fragments taking place in social media, but they are just fragments. Burgess Jules writes in quote, ethical considerations for archiving social media content generated by contemporary social movements, challenges, opportunities and recommendations, that the public's use of these social media platforms to document events of historical significance, engage in political conversations or share and explore personal and cultural experiences continues to grow even as the same public remains unaware of how their data is being used. The report by Freelon McLuland and Clark, even highlights that the primary goals of social media used among 40 people interviewed were education, amplification of marginalized voices along with it being viewed as a tool to democratize conversations that were previously owned and dominated by pro-corporate, pro-government spaces in the US. These communities are conscious of the agency they have in protecting their stories and how they are presented to the world. And as a result, they are expressing those concerns when given a platform such as documenting the now digital blackness in the archive event in 2017. A Ferguson activist, Alexis Templeton mentioned how social media does not provide a complete picture. She said quote, I think they miss people. They miss the interaction and I think that's super, super important because I'm not just a bunch of retweets and favorites. End quote. Project Stand during the last year has been providing a space at universities and colleges with student organizers asking similar questions around social media. And the sentiments are the same when dealing with vulnerable communities in these spaces. Tamara Rhodes, Ohio State University student mentioned that she thought it was unfair for a tweet to be utilized to define a person. Students should be allowed to explain their full ideas and to provide context and wish archivists would enable them to do so before archiving their records. We are still unpacking what it means to archive the now. Project Stand is a reparative archive tool. We are working to assess our gaps and actively working to engage with intentionality, looking at steps to look how do we move our work forward? The role archivist memory workers, information professionals are changing. We must finally and completely let go of ideas of neutrality. The concept that was questioned by Howard Zinn in the 1970s in Arturo Schomburg, the Black Bibliophile in the 1920s before that is simply a way to silence the voices of the oppressed. But I want to leave you with today by saying again, there is an upheaval taking place in the universe. It's challenging the very reality allowed for the erasure of black and brown people, the discrimination of trans communities, disabled communities, it's questioning what has long been depicted in America's scrapbook and yes, the world stage as well. With falsehoods and half truths, but as these communities place the stars ablaze, with speaking truth to power in analog and digital spaces, may we all move to be more honest with who we were, with who we have been and have hope for what we might become. Thank you. The whole issue about neutrality, I think is a fascinating one because we've been very proud to be neutral over all these years. It's been one of the fundamental, it's felt like a fundamental value that we have cherished and it's being challenged as you have challenged it today and we're hearing this increasingly. What? I mean, I assume there won't be one or two words that we can replace neutrality with but what would you say the fundamental values that we should be looking at to move away from that idea of neutrality? And I was telling your colleague earlier, Melody, we're definitely in the US having very tough intense conversations around neutrality. I think that topic which was previously in the margins is now moving towards the center. We're having conversations around social justice in the archives. As I was stating earlier with your colleague, the very nature of our work isn't neutral. I mean, we have to do collection development policies. We're dictating just the collection development policies. This is important. We wanna focus on this type of literature or these type of people. Just that in itself, you're deciding what's important and what's not important. That's not a neutral decision. So the very foundation of what we do just every day isn't neutral. And let alone when we start talking about who again, who's been absent from this documentation, there has been a conscious decision to do that. And now, if you're talking about having concerns about having everyone, making sure everyone has a seat at the table, you cannot do that and still use language around neutrality. Trying to think of the best way to express this, but activists are quite busy being activists. But in the past, groups like the Suffragettes got quite interested in how their movement was going to be remembered. I wonder what you think the best way for interested organizations to engage with groups who are interested in their own representation, I mean, specific organizations and what good practice in that area might look like. That's an excellent question. Thank you. That's definitely something we are working with via Project Stand. We're trying to have those conversations because one of the things that we're seeing with student organizers, for one thing, they don't even know what university archives is. So we're having to explain that and that, yeah, we're on the same campus where you go to school. But then so many times when we talk about records and the content creators, there's this very sanitized transfer or transactional relationship. But we're trying to realize that we're working with people. And so we're trying to be more thoughtful around those conversations and ask them, how do you want to be represented in your work? Make sure they're a part of the process for identifying photos or give us information around the historical notes that they want in the inventory. Just try to be more intentional around making sure their voice is a part of that processing and appraising that collection. I hope that answers your question. And I had a similar thought about, there may be things that student activists are doing today that in 20 or 30 years time, they may not want to have remembered. Don't want it sitting in an archive somewhere that they were doing certain things. And then how you might handle that sort of aspect of things. So someone might want to identify themselves in a photo today, but they may not want that information available. Yeah, it's very, I mean, definitely think about digitization. That's taking place, materials is becoming more discoverable than it was before. And so the picture of someone being a quote unquote radical in the 60s or 70s is easily popping up in all kinds of digital collections now, let alone what students are saying in social media. I had a student that I was working with at my previous institution at Kent State who was worrying about the type of article she wrote for the student newspaper which covered a lot of the activism that was taking place on campus. And she kind of went to go outside that box when she decided to work for a paper. And then, so she said, so I didn't want them to see all the type of activism I was covering. But she was very involved in campus herself. I said, well, how about your social media? Okay, your tweets, because I follow you. She said, the look on her face, the light bulb went on. Oh, and I'm like, yeah. I was like, probably your employer, potential employer is probably looking at your tweets before they're looking at whatever's in your newspaper portfolio. And just, you just saw bombs just going, oh, I said, oh, and I'm like too late. And so, we are trying to think about how do we minimize or mitigate that concern with the records that are coming in. Normally we think about these as gifts or that type of documentation for alumni or what have you, but perhaps we need to start looking at that kind of documentation when we're working with students so that they can put restrictions in for the content that they're bringing in. Because yeah, maybe we need to wait five or 10 years after they graduate and they're grounded in a position or have their kids or whatever before we start to make those records publicly accessible. As you know, in the UK, we're coming up to a general election next month. And we have the unedifying spectacle of a lot of candidates for election going through their Twitter feed, trying to delete things that they've said, five years ago, which may come back to hold them. Yes, yes. Do you have a? Thanks very much. There's a good, amazing talk. Also, I had one question about, you mentioned about Faye's granddaughter and her mistrust of the institution. And so, I had one very specific question, which was, were you able to get that material into an institution? And the second one is, what do you feel about how to approach that mistrust? Is there any advice that you have for us? That's such a loaded question, but a good question. To date, unless something has changed in the last year, so she has not given that material to anyone. And actually, when I first met her over 10 years ago now, she had me contact one of the museums in California and asked about the Fajax, it was an exhibit that had occurred at a museum there. And saying, oh, could I come and still see the exhibit? And when I got on the phone and talked to the person that was the curator for it, she yelled at me and said, I don't ever call here again asking about the Fajax. And I was like, what is going on? She was like, I knew she was still mad. She said that the curator who had did this exhibit had taken materials that she had loaned them for an exhibit. So that just added to it and the amount of anger that her granddaughter still had, apparently this curator still had, that just re, that just validated for her why she wouldn't, she wouldn't give anything. And I was even like, maybe she could give something to the community archive, which has a completely different model and approach to working with donors. But she just wouldn't. And when I first started at Kent State University, they really wanted me to focus on outreach and engagement and bring in those alumni who they hadn't been able to before. And I'll be honest with everyone here in the room, knowing that they were specifically talking about the alumni of color who they had had a challenging building relationships with, I thought I had it in. I'm a person of color. Of course, I'm going to build up to get these collections. And I remember the first community member I had to work with and she was like, no. She held records from this particular organization about the, it's called the MIC McElrath Improvement Community and it was an African-American community, a poor community that migrated from up south to work for the rubber companies, I think that, or rubber companies that were factories that were there in the area. And the Kent State University students, the black students have been working to help with tutoring and everything in that area that that area did not have water and sewage until like late 70s. And so I wanted to get the records that documented that relationship. And she saw me just as an extension of the university, not me as a woman of color who cares about these records. So I had to get street cred and just like, like I care, like what are you talking about? So that took almost a full five years that I was at Kent State to get those records almost. And that included me having to call her a couple times a month, hey, how you doing? I had to hear about her kids, which I started to be concerned about how so-and-so doing. I got asked to go to Sunday school and church service. I mean, it became rather involved. I was worried about how her snow, her driveway in the winter, she's gonna get, I mean, it was rather dramatic. And I do think that, I mean, I can laugh, but I do think we don't understand how much time and engagement has to go into building and mending and repairing those relationships that institutions have broken. Because traditionally, I'm not just talking about Kent State, but predominantly by institutions just have not done a really good job in building those relationships with marginalized identities. So then when you're trying to get a collection from someone, it's like, oh no. So I mean, and like I said, it took the full five years. And I think when we're doing that work, we have to get people the resources and understand how much time is going to take for that to happen. Hi there. I thought it was really interesting that you're working mainly with people who are within a university environment with students. And as a university archivist, I recognize the difficulties of even getting students within your own institution to engage with that. But I wonder whether it gave you any insight into perhaps a bigger challenge, which is reaching out to communities that are beyond formal education. And in our context, I'm thinking particularly about gypsy, Romani, and traveling communities who this very weak been demonized by our own government. And I just wonder whether your project gave you any insight into how we might reach to communities that generally don't have access or haven't been able to access higher education. Has your project helped you to reach those types of communities? Really good questions today. I do think one of the things that we have to do, and I feel like we still struggle to do, is to show that we're a welcoming space for those communities that may not have had that specific level of education or access or what have you. I mean, even students within our institutions see us as these gatekeepers and you have to come in with ID and you gotta put your bags up and you can't have a food. It's just a very different space, as students are used to being into let alone people that's outside of the tower or these academic spaces. And so I think it's important when you want to engage with those particular communities, you have to spend your time going to those communities and then also invite those communities into your spaces and give them tours and let them know about your work and have a more thoughtful conversations. I think too many times we think we're doing someone as a solid or something special when we have an event at our campus. I think it shows a lot when we go out to where they are. I hope that kind of answers your question. Thank you, good morning to the room. Good morning, Leil. I'm gonna jump on this particular question of legacy building. So one of the things, you know, you're the first black archivist at Kent. You build those relationships and then you leave. Are there any, and I know, you know, going, I don't do church, but going to church when I've been in African-American communities is where you get introduced. That's a really big one. So my question is, how has your organization, how has Kent helpful in their commitment to the kind of change that you brought to continue that legacy that you brought in that community build? Or what examples would you give to an organization about when that one change happens or, you know, something new, how to preserve that and continue that on? What did that look like for you? What was hopeful in that regard to keep that going, that open door going? That's complicated. I think one of the things that is a challenge when you do this work, so much of it gets wrapped up in the single person. And it is very hard to continue that. If you do not have the support or others around you don't understand the value of that work that you're doing. So I don't wanna say I left Kent State where the people I was working with don't have any relationships with the people that are there, but I don't know if it's the same. I did my best to leave a framework of what I did, what my intentions were, so that they could be continued if the institution so desired. But I do think it's important that when you do start that work that you try to bring in as many others as possible. But that's not always easy because you're trying to make the case for why this work has to happen. And sometimes it takes a really long time to make that case with others and get that support. So I know since, I know before I left Kent State all the people I worked with I made sure they had a contact and said this is the person you should talk to now if you have any other questions because it was my belief that the head of the department at that time was interested in the work that I was doing and my hope and belief is that those conversations are still going and still taking place. But I can't guarantee that that is the truth, but I do think that's something that is a challenge in the work because it is so much built up in that single person and we have to figure out how to create support so that it can continue whether I'm there, you're there, that that work goes on. And I feel like there's not that hasn't happened yet in general. So much thanks very much for a really humbling talk. It seems to me that you're on a trajectory or a journey and I was wondering where you thought that might take you and how long before you get there? Oh my God, not just everything. Just an easy one to finish off with. It's an amazing question to finish off but at the same time, like, whoa, that's like a life question for real. Oh wow, I'm definitely on a journey and I definitely feel, I'm still that kid from fifth grade and I so want that when I'm seeing other kids of color or other folks from marginalized communities, I want them to feel good, I want them to feel seen and I want to be a part of that process to make them have that same feeling I had in fifth grade. Like that's what I want and to me, archives is what allows me to do that work and probably being a part of project standing and being the founder of project stand and just seeing how that's blowing up in ways that I didn't expect to happen and seeing students feel comfortable coming to talk to me and talk about their legacy and their stories, like if I can continue with that and still have that sense of, and create that sense of belonging. Like that's what I want and I don't know how long it's gonna take for me to have a whole horde of people start to feel that way but that's what I want. It's not poetic but thank you for that question. I want to really, I want to keep pondering on that one.