This is part of a roundtable on the COVID-19 pandemic and the work of history.
My experience in the museum world has been defined by barriers. I have struggled with money while volunteering and doing unpaid internships. Visitors have questioned my knowledge because of my race. I thought that if I worked hard enough, struggled hard enough, I could overcome these barriers. I could climb their jagged walls and find, if not success, at least a paying job. After finishing my MLitt in Scottish history, I was unable to get a job in that country because of my citizenship status. I was too new, too expensive, too politically inconvenient, too risky. So I returned home, only to learn that the risks ran even deeper than I imagined.
As a historical interpreter, my work relies on human connection and hands-on experiences. My body, molded by corsetry and cotton, has been a tool for storytelling and bringing the past to life. Now my body is a weapon. Do I have it? Am I spreading it? I walk lightly through public spaces, covering my face to protect others from my presence. My work is too risky. My stories are non-essential.
The next few months, and possibly my career, hinge on hopeful phone interviews for the few remaining summer internships, always punctuated with a warning: this internship may be canceled because of the virus. My stomach turns in knots while I try to present myself as a safe and qualified candidate. How can I convince a hiring manager to take a risk on a new graduate like me when all our lives have become so overwhelmed with risk? The structural barriers have grown higher, denser. I have already begun taking part-time roles outside the museum industry. My time is running out. And as I pull a mask over my dark skin and curly hair, I can’t help but think that I’m an awfully risky investment. Will anyone be willing to take a risk on me?
Mucsi Márton, “Fear and loathing everywhere” (Wikimedia Commons)
