Two Case Studies
I was introduced to the History Harvest concept at Macalester College when Rebecca Wingo and I co-taught a public/oral history course that centered around the first Remembering Rondo History Harvest.1 In the two years following, student research assistants and I hosted two more: one with people who worked in harm reduction programs for drug users in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and one with baby boom-era Girl Scouts in Tulsa, Oklahoma, whose summer camp closed after a tragedy. Despite the obvious differences between the two groups, they had some powerful things in common. Their histories had not been acknowledged, even among themselves. During both events, I witnessed how the very act of coming together made meaning of their stories and allowed them to see their place in a bigger narrative.
The gathering itself was as important as the final digital archive. For these participants, being seen and heard by historians and each other helped them articulate important experiences that had been silenced by more dominant narratives. Before the History Harvest, the 1980s and 1990s-era harm reduction advocates felt the history of their hard-earned and difficult work was rendered invisible and unacknowledged in the midst of the current opioid crisis. After a horrible tragedy that forced their camp to close suddenly in 1977, the Girl Scouts’ deep love of the place and its traditions was silenced; for decades, their history at the camp was overshadowed by sadness, and it too went unacknowledged. The process of digitizing personal artifacts and stories together in one room validated their histories and reconnected them with each other, some after decades had passed. The emotional content and complexity of their stories and related artifacts was a win for history pedagogy as well. The students gained interpersonal skills and were profoundly touched by the experience; they learned to be good listeners in the oral history tradition and engaged in higher levels of intellectual and emotional empathy, well beyond the bounds of classrooms and academic texts.
At first glance, harm reduction providers and lifelong Girl Scouts may seem as different as any two groups could be, but both of their stories involved trauma, loss, and invisibility. I wondered, how might we make their histories not just visible but valuable? And how can we best embody empathy and understanding when the communities we are engaging have experienced trauma, loss, and marginalization? When interacting with traumatic events, the methods and theory of oral history are particularly useful in projects such as these.2 By placing empathy and listening at the center—as essential aspects of history-gathering—the History Harvest model has the ability to preserve even emotionally complex histories that are often lost, fraught, and contested. For these two communities, the History Harvest was a powerful way to validate and preserve their histories.
May 6, 2017
Equal parts nervous and excited accurately described the emotions of my three students on the day of our History Harvest in May 2017, broadly shared and advertised as “Chronicling Our Origins: Harm Reduction in Minnesota.” Aside from one community contact person I met by phone, we had no idea who might show up to our quickly planned History Harvest on that sunny Saturday afternoon in Minneapolis. I was nervous, too, especially since our team of five could have been easily overwhelmed if even half of the 140-odd people who said they were “interested” on our Facebook Event page showed up. In one afternoon, we hoped to gather artifacts and oral histories from a loose cohort of people who worked in the field of harm reduction in Minnesota: current and former outreach workers, harm reduction advocates, and social service professionals who worked with injection drug users and others at risk for contracting HIV or hepatitis since the 1980s. What kind of history would come from this gathering? What new evidence would we discover? Would active drug users show up, too? How might that go?
By phone a month earlier, I had connected with Sue Purchase, a well-known harm reduction service provider who lived in Colorado but who would soon be visiting Minneapolis. In 1996, she founded what was likely the first women-centered needle exchange in the U.S., Women with a Point. Later renamed Access Works and serving any gender identity, the storefront nonprofit thrived in Minneapolis for nearly a decade.3 The organization’s roots began in the midst of the AIDS/HIV epidemic some years after researchers discovered that injection drug users were also among those at high risk for contracting the disease. Although needle exchanges (also called syringe access) and condom distribution continue to be important public health interventions, the history and principles of harm reduction have remained mostly hidden from the public. Since Sue Purchase knew many people in the Twin Cities area with experience and knowledge about its early history, both locally and nationally, she offered to connect us with her former colleagues. We hoped some of them would show up to our impromptu History Harvest.
In a few hours that day, Rebecca Wingo and I, along with my students Samantha Aamot, Sara Ludewig, and Zachary Malett, interviewed, photographed, and scanned over eighty objects from eighteen participants. Several of these included short-form interviews with individuals and groups. Through the course of the afternoon, we learned that many of the attendees had provided life-saving health services to drug users more than twenty years before the current opioid epidemic refocused attention on harm reduction.4 For some, many years had passed since they last saw each other. Any nervousness we felt as outsiders to this community dissipated quickly—the event had the relaxed feeling of a reunion, and they were eager to have their contributions documented and acknowledged. And yes, some active injection drug users arrived and participated enthusiastically. Everyone shared powerful stories about their work in the early days of harm reduction, when they took risks and worked creatively to help keep some of the most marginalized people in society safer and healthier.
The contributions of these participants added an entirely new component to The Minnesota Opioid Project, an oral history collection and digital archive that I am creating to document the social, cultural, and treatment-related changes occurring as a result of the opioid epidemic in Minnesota, a state world-renowned for its drug treatment model.5 The “Minnesota Model” centers on total abstinence from drugs and alcohol, and the Twelve Step program is the core of its treatment protocol.6 The staggering death rate from opioid overdoses, combined with a new demographic of users (suburban, rural, white), has slowly begun to change entrenched drug treatment protocols and shifted public discourse and policy a bit more toward the harm reduction model, one that focuses on reducing harm and meeting each person “where they are at,” a common harm reduction slogan. Prior to the recent dramatic uptick of opioid misuse, early proponents of harm reduction led the way in overdose prevention at the height of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Most who attended the event represented an earlier and lesser-known history of the people who cared for injection drug users who were at great risk for contracting HIV and other bloodborne pathogens. Although history scholarship about the early HIV/AIDS epidemic is robust and growing more so, the plight of injection drug users has remained as marginalized as drug users themselves. We intervened in this absence.
We discovered new tangents and histories regarding what the larger philosophy of “harm reduction” means to the people who have devoted their careers to it, in contrast to how the media and others have most recently deployed the term as a catch-all for saving people from opioid overdoses with the opioid antidote naloxone (brand name Narcan). Participant Lee Hertel expressed the sentiment of being left out of the history and unappreciated by the movement eloquently and powerfully in this audio file. Rather than sit down with an interviewer, Hertel took the list of interview prompts we had provided, borrowed a recording device, and answered them all in a monologue. Listening to it together a few weeks later, my students and I were deeply moved.
Julie Hooker was another History Harvest participant who addressed the layers of stigma drug users experience, even long after they have quit using. Now the CEO of her own harm reduction, trauma-informed, outpatient treatment center in St. Paul, she wanted us to document a 1998 newspaper story that she thought was intended to share her successful recovery from drug use and the work she had done to help others in recovery access stable housing. Instead, the story misquoted and marginalized both her and her housemate at the time, Nancy Ham. More than twenty years later, and even as accustomed to the ubiquitous judgmental language about drug users as she is, it still stung.
In her interview, Hooker shared with Purchase stories about the stigma she faced in early recovery and afterwards, despite the important work she was doing to help other people improve their lives. Next to a small picture of Julie is the caption: “Julie Hooker, a former alcoholic, drug abuser, and prostitute, has opened several homes in the area to support single women who were substance abusers.” Instead of focusing on the great work she and others were doing to create housing for people seeking to rebuild their lives after chronic drug use, the reporter focused on the women’s pasts. Holding the newspaper article, she explained,
The second house that we opened took front-page news. This woman—it’s a terrible picture of her—her name is Nancy. She was also a working girl. . . . This article started off saying we had lost the only detox center, they had run out of money. . . . Then I think on this next page, I love this one [quoting the story]: “Julie Hooker ignored laws, defied probation rules, and generally bucked authority during her ‘insane’ existence.” Insane is in quotes which means I said it. I never said that. It wasn’t insane. It was a little chaotic but it wasn’t insane. Then, [quoting]: “even now she resents the notion of anyone telling her what to do.” It got really a little odd. . . . “It’s the inmates running the asylum.” All these weird things that I never did say.7
Hooker’s story about surviving chaotic drug use and her tenacity despite stigma added emotional content to the public health measures of harm reduction. Her story also reflected how the shared lived experiences of people who came to work in and promote harm reduction have shaped important protocol and policy changes.
Another group of participants at the event revealed a previously hidden history of collaboration between several youth-centered street outreach programs in the 1990s. Since 1994, several Minneapolis-based nonprofits combined forces for street outreach that coordinated their respective staff and resources in order to provide a near-constant presence on the streets for homeless youth. Donning backpacks with a special patch that the youth could easily recognize, StreetWorks provided housing and health information, personal hygiene supplies, bus passes, socks, and other useful items.8 Thus, the history of homeless youth in the 1990s emerged as yet another new path to pursue in the history of harm reduction. It dovetailed with the history of HIV/AIDS, with coordinated social work outreach models, and with social justice organizations—including IV drug users. From this experience we learned that keeping our event’s focus welcoming to all resulted in previously unknown and undocumented histories.
The open nature of the event also attracted people new to the field but who had little opportunity to meet the people who worked in education and outreach long before they had. For Stephanie Devich, full-time counselor and harm reduction trainer for Valhalla Place, a methadone clinic, the event provided her with an opportunity to finally meet some of the harm reduction pioneers whom she had long admired, while at the same time having her current artifacts documented for the collection.9
Reflecting on the History Harvest, Purchase said she was “in awe of and grateful for this project, because it not only recognizes and highlights our work, but it will serve to educate and guide future harm reduction efforts for others.” She credits the experience of being interviewed for the oral history collection with “reconnecting her to former friends and colleagues,” and more important, “it led me back to my early work with women, who were the reason I started working in harm reduction. There was a need to serve women who weren’t being served back then, and there still is great need today. Moving forward, I want to be part of claiming our stories as our own, in our own words.”10 The digital archive connects harm reduction staff and activists with their shared history; it validates their groundbreaking human rights and social justice work, a fact often overlooked even in the midst of the current opioid epidemic.
I Remember Camp Scott: A History Harvest and Songfest
March 25, 2018
Broken Arrow, Oklahoma
Nearly a year after the harm reduction event, I had the opportunity to organize, with the help of my former students turned research assistants, Samantha Aamot and Sara Ludewig, a History Harvest with self-described “old Girl Scouts.” The women of Camp Scott had experienced a significant loss and a trauma that required years for recovery. Organized for Girl Scouts in eastern Oklahoma who had been active during the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, this event was also shared online in a closed Facebook group with fewer than one hundred members. Established in 2008, the page enabled the group members to reconnect with each other, post photos, and reminisce about a place that no longer existed. The forty-nine-year-old, 400-acre Camp Scott closed on June 13, 1977 after the devastating sexual assaults and murders of three young campers by a male intruder on the first night of the camp’s summer season. A months-long manhunt and criminal trial ensued without a conviction, and the case remains unsolved to this day. The dozens of women and girls present that night dispersed into their own lives to deal with the trauma however they could. The story’s notoriety among true-crime buffs and the media created a protective culture of silence among the Girl Scout council and Camp Scott survivors.11 With the camp property forever lost and the tragedy overshadowing their best memories, at least four generations of young women were disconnected from the place and from each other as the decades passed.
Although a few small gatherings had occurred in the ten years prior to this one, the History Harvest in 2018—forty-one years after the camp closed—functioned as a long-overdue reunion. Many of the attendees had not seen or spoken to each other about the tragedy and its impact on their lives. Despite the camp’s tragic ending, they gathered that day to celebrate the delightful and positive force Girl Scouting provided them.
The Camp Scott History Harvest and Songfest was one part of my ongoing multimedia collaboration with Michelle Hoffman, the goodwill ambassador for Girl Scouts’ healing from “Camp Scott,” now shorthand for a very specific tragedy in Oklahoma. Hoffman and I met for the first time in 2008. Both of us are lifelong Girl Scouts, active mostly in the 1970s and 1980s. While we did not know each other then (she was 15; I was 10), we were both present at Camp Scott on the night of the murders. When Hoffman was in her mid-forties, after years of personal work processing the impact the trauma had on her life, she decided she wanted to help her Girl Scout sisters, many of whom had fallen out of contact. She considers herself a facilitator for those in the Girl Scout community who might want to talk about the impact the tragedy had on their lives, such as the closing of the camp, the criminal and subsequent civil trial, and especially the mental health issues and undiagnosed cases of PTSD among her Girl Scout sisters. She feels she “has a responsibility to facilitate as much healing about the tragedy as possible.”12 She has done this with great success. Hoffman not only rekindled old friendships and crossed painful emotional barriers between the victims’ families and Girl Scout staff and survivors, but also reconstituted a dispersed and broken community of women, almost single-handedly. While she understands that the silence in the Girl Scout council about the murders afterwards became ingrained as a protective measure to preserve Girl Scouting—as well as their understandable fear of sensationalist media attention—that history of keeping silent was also a big part of the reason that it took more than a decade of cajoling to assemble the women who loved Camp Scott into a private home for singing, reminiscing, and documenting their good memories of camp.
Hoffman performed a role similar to Sue Purchase’s role in the harm reduction community; Hoffman was the community networker for the “I Remember Camp Scott” History Harvest. She had previously hosted several informal get-togethers, mostly centered around singing together, but due to the increasing numbers of women on the private Facebook page, we hoped this one would be the largest. We were not disappointed. More than thirty women attended over the course of the afternoon. My undergraduate student research assistants, Samantha Aamot and Sara Ludewig, helped set up the digitization stations in a private home made available to us by a Girl Scout and Camp Scott alumna. We used the office area to set up the scanners and laptops, the entryway for participants to display and share their artifacts, and a sunny spot for photographing objects. The family room served as the main gathering space and singing area, and the house soon filled with nonstop songs and laughter.
The preciousness of their camp memories was evident in the ways they had preserved them: scrapbooks, special boxes, photo albums, and tins packed with various mementos filled the entryway. It quickly became clear that we were going to have to hustle to get everything the Girl Scouts brought documented. At the end of the day, we counted more than 350 individual items from a dozen women. Fortunately, we had two librarians from Oklahoma State University helping the three of us that day, and a few other volunteers jumped in when we realized we might not get to everything.
We had hoped for group interviews in the same kind of format that happened easily at the harm reduction event, but the pull to sing camp songs together overrode our plan. At one point, we had to cajole them one by one to come describe their artifacts and photos for the digitization process. Being flexible and nimble with our plan and time constraints versus the personality of the group (think: herding singing cats) turned out to be an asset for us, though we did leave with a pile of papers and objects to digitize at a later date. Again, Aamot and Ludewig had to simultaneously practice patience and empathy while also efficiently documenting, listening, and organizing. The collections were rich indeed, and worth the scramble to collect them all.
Joni Kinsey, an art history professor from Iowa, brought ashes from a campfire that she had held on to, despite their degradation with the piece of foil they had been wrapped in (Figure 5.1). An Oklahoma Girl Scout tradition was that on the last night of a camp session ashes would be collected and saved until the next time Girl Scouts gathered around a campfire. These ashes represented the ongoing continuity of Girl Scout friendships over time, symbolized by putting the old ashes into the next one. Kinsey attended Camp Scott for eight summers and for the first four wrote in a handmade diary about her time at camp. She later transcribed the diaries into a Word document and brought both the diaries and the transcript along. Besides the punctual reporting of young Joni, reading about these two consecutive days at camp reveals so much about the history and culture of Camp Scott:
Mon., June 15, 1970
Woke up at 6:45. Breakfast and kapers. Rested until after lunch (after swimming). Lunch. Rest period. Got no letters. After rest period we hiked to Sycamore Valley. We canoed and cooked Cowboy Stew and French bread. Delicious! Hiked back and stopped at the graveyard. Read some of the tombstones. Carolyn is very mean. Bed.
Woke up at 6:30 because Arapaho gave us a surprise breakfast. Good but not filling. Kapers. All Camp Kapers. We swept the craft hut. I have heat rash all over my back. Lunch. Rest period. We had an extra long rest because we are going on a bird hike with Smitty tomorrow morning. We did archery. I hit the target! Wupper. We had a Chocolate Dip, alone. Told ghost stories and had Somemores [sic].
Linda Henderson, a social worker from Oregon, brought a generous collection of personal artifacts to share. She also brought along her teenage daughter, a Girl Scout herself, who jumped in and helped us scan photographs. After they returned home, Henderson shared what the event meant to her after decades of very limited contact with her Girl Scout sisters.
It felt like no time had gone by and that the feelings of love and friendship were just as strong. These friends understand what wonderful experiences we shared for years. They also understand the great loss, pain, and trauma of the tragedy whose force separated and isolated us. I felt satisfied in a way I have not felt since the tragedy. It was so healing to feel the strong connections of our bonds and our love of our shared positive and happy experiences.
I loved that we shared items and memories that documented our community before the tragedy. I loved our community beforehand. It was like we reclaimed the happiness and hope we knew. I like remembering what a wonderful community and place we shared and how positive it was for young girls, for my friends, for me. It was amazing to touch and see items that we all understood, that brought back such loving, fun, and happy memories. Pictures, letters, clothing, songbooks, notebooks brought back wonderful memories. I like knowing that not only did we remind ourselves together, but the collection will be open and preserved for the public.
And just to be together again. It’s hard to convey how the tragedy created such isolation and pain and how healing it is to be together again.13
Jeanne Barrett was another participant who had a lifelong connection to Camp Scott. She had been a camper, a counselor-in-training, a camp counselor, a Girl Scout leader, and an assistant camp director from 1968–1976. She was deeply dedicated to Girl Scouting, as her sentiments about the event conveyed:
It is a challenge to express the depths of my soul that were touched by this gathering. This was a harvest, a human harvest of rich friendships, memories, the melding of voices in song, and the shared appreciation for a place loved—more than loved—a place and an experience that is a part of our DNA. The many formative years I spent in scouting were blessed with Camp Scott’s natural beauty and guided by the lofty goals of those in leadership positions that came before me to teach responsibility (“ability to respond”). We have learned so much together, accomplished so much together, and grieved over the loss of shared loved ones over the years.
A sense of our strength and connection as a community was evident after all these years in this example: during certain songs, conversations came to a halt, and all of us spontaneously joined in the song, in the shared voice. Then as quickly as conversations paused, they began again at the end of the song.
Digitizing the breadth of activities and the goals for the campers allows Camp Scott to be represented by its loved ones—not the media. It allows the beauty of the experience to live on, though the property itself has and continues to return to nature. It gives us the opportunity to share this rich experience with the future.14
Barrett voicing the importance of the camp being represented by “its loved ones—not the media” put the whole History Harvest effort into one poignant phrase for me. The camp itself was a geographic victim of the murders that has yet to be memorialized. This digital archive project may well be the only way it can be remembered by the Girl Scouts who loved it and by others interested in the history of Girl Scouts at Camp Scott. Over several years, under Hoffman’s leadership, interactions on the private Facebook page drew this group of women together and made the development of their virtual collection possible. The process of sharing their artifacts with each other and a few strangers was cathartic; they spoke of their childhood and teen camp experiences, reconnected joy to the place they lost, and sang their hearts out. Their gratitude to us for organizing the event and creating the archive was constant throughout the day and into the evening hour when we wrapped up and went out to dinner. Again, as with the harm reduction community, my students were incredibly moved by the stories and the participants’ affable generosity with us.
The digital archive, I Remember Camp Scott, is hosted by the Oklahoma State University Library in Stillwater, Oklahoma. The archive is currently being created by Sara Ludewig, now a graduate student in history and library science at the University of Maryland. We hope that the archive will reestablish the nurturing, empowering, and positive history of the camp before the tragedy and reconnect a community of women and girls estranged by a trauma and decades of silence. Before going their separate ways that evening, the remaining group of about ten women stood in a circle and sang the three songs that ended each day at camp. They left that event with their connections to each other revived and redeemed.
A DiCE Pedagogy of Emotions
The History Harvest model is an effective tool for engaging students in the process of history research, interviews, and archive creation. The entire process might be the closest that history teaching comes to having a “lab” environment for students. Learning how to use digital technology tools seems imperative for any job students pursue in the future. Because my two former students had some classroom experience with the History Harvest, which was followed by work on the Minnesota Opioid Project, they were quickly able to bridge skills from their undergraduate years with scholarly work just after graduation—an opportunity that connected them with local history beyond the classroom, with living people, and outside of the archives.
While my eyes were still somewhat fresh to the History Harvest experience, their eyes were fresh to the entire process of history-making, oral history, and artifact gathering. As a result of these experiences, they learned first-hand that history can be a collective process, one that empowers communities to document their own place in historical moments. I also delighted in reading Aamot’s reflection on History Harvests in which she referred to herself as a historian. I have a hunch that being involved in digital community engagement projects sped up the process of claiming her vocation. She also described how it made history-making an active experience:
One of the things the History Harvest model uniquely presents a historian with is the opportunity to interact with individuals who relate their lived experience in their own words as you assist in the recording and digitizing process. It allowed me to actively practice empathy as a historian. While in the past I had participated in this passively by engaging with text, I now understood it actively through interacting with people.15
Not only that, Aamot realized and articulated the profoundly different experiences involved when doing archival research and oral history in community-based projects. Her comment that she learned “how to practice empathy as a historian,” suggests that emotional intelligence was yet another aspect of the History Harvest model that could be highlighted and explored. How much empathy should a historian have, and under what circumstances is it best employed? Although empathy is central to my own scholarly pursuits in history and teaching, I had not imagined it was possible to “teach” empathy as part of history research until Aamot shared this.
The other student, Sara Ludewig, participated in three History Harvests. Ludewig articulated the immediate rewards of interacting with community members and the power of collecting artifacts and stories based on what the participants deemed important.
The History Harvests I have worked on changed my perspective on how historians experience and archive the past. I got to be an active participant in the preservation of history by listening to people’s experiences and documenting the artifacts they wanted to represent them. There’s something really striking and tangible about hearing the story behind an artifact directly from the person whose life it impacted.16
In an increasingly siloed and polarized world, her surprise at the way these two communities opened themselves to our projects makes an even stronger case for how a History Harvest can bridge all kinds of communities. Ludewig concluded, “I was also amazed by how readily and warmly each community welcomed our engagement with their history.”17 In this context, documenting people’s stories and objects with their participation is a kind of intellectual service work for the past, the present, and the future.
The impact that digital community engagement projects have on the next generation of historians and humanities scholars has a lot to do with how faculty mentors model best practices with the communities we research. By empowering students to be sensitive, responsive co-creators in the event preparation and final archive creation, they have the opportunity to stretch themselves, to engage more fully with the often complicated and emotional process of making meaning from stories and artifacts that might not fit into a more well-known or well-documented history. The act of listening to a person’s story while interacting with tangible pieces of their lives and memories profoundly deepens students’ connections to history, place, and community.
The success of History Harvest projects like these also depends on the ability of all parties involved—history practitioners, archivists, and participants—to foster and maintain trust throughout the process. Does the community remember the event with sentimental regard? Do they respect and admire the way the event unfolded and how it looks in its final digital form? In these two cases, they did. The events themselves engendered feelings of fondness and pride, and the resulting archive, if successful, should do the same. While it may seem scary or even awkward to consider approaching communities that may appear fragile, marginalized, and invisible, everyone learned something valuable during these two events. The participants were seen and heard. Students felt a larger sense of purpose and meaning through their contribution to the project. By the way they conducted themselves, with kindness and genuine interest, they learned how to make a technical and rather boring digital process into something meaningful for the participants. Although shared histories of trauma, isolation, and geographic disruption were common to these two community engagement projects, we observed that what people shared at the events did not focus solely on upsetting, disruptive, or alienating times in their lives. The overriding emotion in the collective sharing of artifacts, stories, and comradery? Joy.
1. See Chapter 3, and Wingo and Sullivan, “,” Perspectives (March 1, 2017).
2. Mark Cave and Stephen M. Sloan, Listening on the Edge: Oral History in the Aftermath of Crisis (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014).
3. I am currently writing a chapter about the history of Women with a Point in my forthcoming monograph about the history of the opioid crisis in Minnesota. When ‘Rock Bottom’ is Death: Reckoning with Opioids in the Rehab State is under contract with the University of Minnesota Press (Fall 2021).
4. Don C. Des Jarlais, “,” Harm Reduction Journal (2017): 14-51.
5. Sullivan, When ‘Rock Bottom’ is Death: Reckoning with Opioids in the Rehab State (University of Minnesota Press, forthcoming, 2021).
6. For more on the Minnesota Model, see William L. White, Slaying the Dragon: The History of Addiction Treatment and Recovery in America (Bloomington: Chestnut Health Systems, 2014), 261–278.
7. Julie Hooker, “Interview with Sue Purchase.” Women with A Point & AccessWorks, accessed May 6, 2018.
8. Susan Phillips and Sarah Gordon, “,” Women with A Point & AccessWorks, accessed May 6, 2018.
9. Stephanie Devich, correspondence with Amy Sullivan, May 7, 2018.
10. Sue Purchase, correspondence with Amy Sullivan, May 6, 2018.
11. Amy C. Sullivan, “What Fear Is Like: The Legacy of Trauma, Safety and Security After the 1977 Girl Scout Murders” (PhD diss., University of Illinois at Chicago, 2013).
12. Michelle Hoffman, email correspondence with Amy Sullivan, May 2, 2018.
13. Linda Henderson, email correspondence with Amy Sullivan, May 2018.
14. Jeanne Barrett, email correspondence with Amy Sullivan, May 2018.
15. Samantha Aamot, email correspondence with Amy Sullivan, May 2018.
16. Sara Ludewig, email correspondence with Amy Sullivan, May 2018.
Wingo, Rebecca S. and Amy C. Sullivan. “Remembering Rondo: An Inside View of the History Harvest.” Perspectives (March 1, 2017).
Cave, Mark and Stephen M. Sloan. Listening on the Edge: Oral History in the Aftermath of Crisis. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014.
Des Jarlais, Don C. “Harm Reduction in the USA: The Research Perspective and an Archive to David Purchase.” Harm Reduction Journal (2017): 14-51.
Sullivan, Amy. When ‘Rock Bottom’ Means Death. University of Minnesota Press, forthcoming, 2020.
White, William L. Slaying the Dragon: The History of Addiction Treatment and Recovery in America. Bloomington: Chestnut Health Systems, 2014.