The St. Lawrence River Valley sits between the Adirondack Mountains and the St. Lawrence River that flows out to the Atlantic Ocean. Land once inhabited by the Mohawk is now populated with dwindling farms, trailer parks, and four small universities. The locals call this land the North Country.
The North Country as I knew it was white. The 1990 census data shows that of the 111, 974 people living in New York’s largest county, 108, 270 were white. Potsdam, where I was born and raised, listed 81 Black people on the 1990 census. 81 people out of 10,251 residents.
I recently read African-Americans of St. Lawrence County with gratitude for Bryan Thompson's labor to dispel the myth that Black folks have no place in my home county’s history. And it truly is labor. As an archivist, I know just how challenging it is to search for traces of historically unrepresented communities. I assist researchers in finding creative ways to uncover documentation and it’s a grueling task.
In the archives world, we talk about the concept of symbolic annihilation. Symbolic annihilation is the idea that without representation in the media, archives, historical narratives, etc., certain identities, topics, and experiences seem not to exist. In her powerful article, “Seeing Yourself in History: Community Archives and the Fight Against Symbolic Annihilation,” Michelle Caswell asks:
What does it mean to be omitted from history textbooks?
What are the implications of not being able to find any (or very few) traces of the past left by people who look like you, share your cultural background, or speak the same native tongue?
What impact do these archival absences have on how you might understand your place in society?
For years, St. Lawrence County told a story that erased Black residents from its history. History is the story we tell about the past. There are many versions of St. Lawrence County’s history; the one I knew as a child left out a lot of unsavory episodes. After all, it’s easy to downplay the malicious impact of groups like the KKK when white folks are the ones telling the story.
Who gets to tell your story? Who gets to tell the story of your community? If you’re curious, look up your hometown on Wikipedia. Click on “View history” at the top of the page. How many people are contributing to the collective history? What other pages are they contributing to?
I don’t have time to edit the Wikipedia page for every town I’ve ever lived in, but I can tell my own story. Growing up in a Quiverfull family meant my parents had the authority to craft our family narrative. They edited our college applications and graduation speeches until our voices were almost entirely erased. I choked when I saw a video of a younger brother’s graduation speech and recognized that my parents had scripted their own adulation.
This Substack is my modest resistance to the symbolic annihilation of children raised in extremist Quiverfull communities. While some voices are starting to come forth—
’s Rift and Amazon’s Shiny Happy People come to mind—many people are unaware of the exploitative practices and intense indoctrination that children experience in these contexts.I want to see that change.
I’m curious: who is telling your story?
Abbi- Symbolic annihilation is such an important topic. I spoke with a black Everest climber once and his point still rings true: “if you’ve never seen anyone like you doing what you want to do, how could you ever believe you could do it?” Thanks for this reminder, Abbi.
Hi Abbi
Your thoughts on who has been “erased from the North Country are interesting. There were no Black students in my graduating class at PCS. I had several friends of Indian and Pakistani decent; their parents were often on the faculty of SUNY or Clarkson.
Two of my childhood memories involve my parent’s attempt to widen our circle. They participated in giving international college students a local connection. I remember my mom trying to figure out how to feed Mehta ( our assigned student) within his cultural guidelines. She found a plant based bacon replacement that we could all eat. She and dad stayed in touch with Mehta for many years after graduated.
Th e other memory is a Black man that moved in with us for a while. He was from NYC, and trying to establish a home in the area for his family (which he eventually did). My child’s understanding of the situation was fascinated with the fact that his name was Gene and my mom’s name was Jean.
I know this isn’t the intent of your post, but I appreciate the memories that it brought up for me. Learning to live in a diverse society takes some extra effort when you've grown up in a closed system.
Thanks for the memories.
Cousin Cindy