this is my story

I am a federal archivist — the only one for an agency of 60,000 employees. I also run the historian program and oversee a permanent exhibit. If there is a piece of institutional memory to be safeguarded, it falls to me.

My job is not flashy. It is not loud. There are no headlines for the records saved, no breaking news when history is protected. But when people need answers — when they need context, accountability — my work is the line between remembrance and erasure.

And that matters. The quiet, steady work of preserving the past always matters.

My fingers trace the edges of documents that prove what others wish to forget. Every day, I guard against disappearance. In my climate-controlled haven, where the sharp scent of old paper mingles with the metallic hum of preservation, I ensure that when policies change, when leadership shifts, when time marches forward as it must, the past stays put. I’m building a fortress of evidence so that no one can claim ignorance when it’s all written down — neatly, carefully, inconveniently preserved.

Sometimes I wonder if I should put that on my business cards: “Professional Inconvenience: Because ‘Selective Memory’ Won’t Hold Up in the Archive.” Though I suppose that might hurt my chances at the next budget review.

The work I do is archaeology of the present — carefully excavating each layer of institutional memory before it can be buried beneath the sediment of bureaucracy, convenience, and willful forgetfulness. Each document I handle is both artifact and evidence, each filing system a dig site where truth waits to be uncovered.

Most people walk past our archive without a second glance. They do not see me methodically sifting through the strata of institutional impressions, cataloging the fragments that will one day tell our story. They do not understand the patience required to sustain this delicate ecosystem, the precision needed to keep things accessible and alive. The shelves of acid-free boxes and carefully labeled files are invisible to them — until they’re not.

The moment something is needed — a piece of proof — suddenly the archive becomes everything. They act like I’m Google for guilt — type in a date, get your sins served up with helpful links. The questions come flooding in: Do you have the memo from 2002? The photographs from the operation? The email chain that proves I’m right and they’re wrong? And they expect a quick fix, like the truth just magically appears when you need it. If only they knew how many paper cuts I’ve accumulated building this cathedral of answerability.

That’s why I do this work. Because memory isn’t some passive thing. Because history doesn’t store itself in some digital cloud of convenience. Because truth, left unprotected, erodes under the constant rain of revision and denial. It’s lazy to think that history maintains itself, that it miraculously stays intact without people fighting to keep it that way.

I thought about this a lot last week when my boss was given three hours to justify my existence. Three hours to explain why my work matters. He wrote three pages. He was only allowed to submit three sentences.

Three sentences. I’ve written longer grocery lists. Hell, I’ve written longer explanations for why I was late to work. (The records would prove it, if anyone cared to look.) Three sentences to determine whether an entire agency’s historical program is worth keeping. Three sentences to argue that someone should be responsible for ensuring the past doesn’t vanish into negligence, obsolescence, or indifference. Three sentences to capture years of effort, to quantify the unquantifiable — the weight of knowing that if we don’t fight for history, others will fail to.

And then? Then I was expected to carry on as if nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just been reduced to a few lines on a page.

The uncertainty has settled into my bones. I feel it in my shoulders as I lift another box, in my stomach as I catalog yet another collection that might outlast my position here. The stress makes me physically ill. Some nights, I lie awake, imagining our records scattered, shredded, or left to rot in some forgotten basement storage room. People talk about “digital solutions” like scanning everything into the cloud will solve all our problems. Because nothing says “permanent record” quite like trusting your history to a system that needs updating every three months. At least paper doesn’t get ransomware.

But still, I continue. Because this work is bigger than any single person.

Because I’ve seen what happens when records disappear. Generations have watched as institutions conveniently forget their mistakes, their promises, their obligations. History is rewritten not through grand gestures, but through the whispering violence of neglect. Filing cabinets emptied in the name of “efficiency.” Digital records lost in system migrations. Institutional memory hemorrhaging through budget cuts and “restructuring.”

I do this work because memory is our compass in the dark. Because truth doesn’t defend itself. Because what happened happened, and I believe we are called to stand guard against forgetting.

So I remain here, in my cold, perfectly humid room, waging a silent war against time. My victories are measured in the moments when someone discovers exactly the document they need — confirmation that their story wasn’t imagined, that their memory wasn’t wrong.

Sure, it’s just a job. But often, it feels like standing next to history’s beating heart.

Because once the records vanish, our understanding can crumble to dust. And I refuse to let that happen — not here, not now.

So, I am holding the line. And there’s enough room for you to stand next to me….

If you made it this far, click that itty-bitty digital organ! ❤️