What does it mean to tell a spatial story?
I want you to close your eyes and think about a place that means the world to you. Think about the smells, sights, sounds, and maybe even tastes, and connect them with your stories and inquiries about humanity. Give yourself a minute or two to think about this.
I remember my first pride event in September 2022, Tower Grove Pride. Never being to any pride events in my life, this was my first and arguably one of the most memorable spaces of my life. The ambiance and community felt like a warm embrace, accepting and loving you for your identity as you saw many people just like you walking around crowded areas and booths at Tower Grove Park in St. Louis. Yet, it felt like a calm space at the same time, knowing full well you could be your authentic self without worrying about any tension or fear.
I could smell all of the delicious foods and homemade fragrances from many booths selling foods or candles and donating their profits directly to the queer community. I even remember my moments discussing with legal consultants about changing my name. The voices around me encouraging me to brave through the complex legal process while supporting my decision felt like drinking hot, sweetened coffee in the morning.
Why did I ask you about this exercise? Thinking about spatial humanities involves some hands-on practice with cultural geography and geospatial memory, no matter the occasion you remembered. When thinking about or telling someone about a spatial story, it’s important to remember we attach ourselves to these spaces, places, and memories out of both a biological response and a social construction. We’re hard-wired to remember broad, remarkable spaces, but we must also remember these spatial stories form out of the creation of a culture.
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For instance, think about the meaning of place at a convention. Anime STL, a local anime and video game convention hosted in Saint Charles, is a cultural creation of some kind; social relationships form and strengthen (or maybe falter) at events like this, giving more inclination to associate oneself and their narratives with this specific place, and maybe even tell their story to countless friends, either locally or around the globe. Events and spaces like these allow for a globalized community especially through common interests.
There are many ways to tell these spatial stories, including highlighting how different spaces limited access to different populations, along with traditional studies of buildings. Thinking about queer history and Tower Grove Pride, the queer and transgender communities continually found themselves shuttered away from predominantly white, cisgender, and heterosexual spaces. While we* advocated for space in these places, we also fought for the preservation of our own spaces, allowing for our utmost authenticity and expression outside of traditional sexuality and gender binaries. Tower Grove Pride continually advocates for our own space. While allies are invited to Tower Grove Pride, the predominantly queer/trans populace (along with their families, blood or chosen), this space remains defended for the authentic identities of those living out their whole selves, whether it be through sexuality, gender identity, and/or gender expression of any kind. This is a powerful interpretation, especially for individuals like myself who never had that kind of memorable space growing up closeted.
What we should also remember, too, is mapping is less of a finished product and more of an ongoing process among digital humanists. Maps and spatial stories created by geographical technology and cultural geography allow us not simply to come up with an answer for an inquiry, but to also ask inviting, open-ended questions about the source material at hand. What’s more, as digital humanists, mapping projects involving geospatial stories with individuality and collective memories in mind gives us a more radical methodology towards digital mapping. When thinking about how much a spatial story not only means a lot to yourself, but also a dedicated community around you, the project takes on even more of an interpretative approach over a more “complete” invention.
The production of these places begin as soon as folks create or adapt to a landscape. Inherently, these locations, and the meanings of place constructed by those living or somehow within that space, have a rich history we as public historians can benefit from. These buildings and spaces can tell us the otherwise silenced stories within the primary narratives or archival materials. Not only do they tell us these stories, but they help us reclaim our identities that are being quashed by those in power.
When thinking about spatial stories, we as digital public historians must always remember that everyone attaches themselves biologically and culturally to a space or place, allowing for interpretation regardless of the challenges faced by digital humanities among digital mapping projects. These narratives always matter, including yours.
* — I use an asterisk at ‘we’ because I identify with the queer/trans communities, and we are continuing to advocate for our own spaces in an age where pinkwashing occurs (cis gay white men believe we’ve made it now that gay men can be in spaces among heterosexual, cisgender people, in turn distracting us from the ongoing conflicts within and outside of the community).
