A Journey Through Nostalgia: Rediscovering Boston’s Past
It all began with a grainy video that autoplayed in my Facebook feed, an unexpected flashback that immediately seized my attention. The footage felt vaguely familiar — like an old home movie from my childhood days in suburban Boston, yet it lacked the presence of any recognizable characters, leaving behind a warm and generic 1980s atmosphere. In this brief clip, children donned wide-collared shirts as they ambled through a bustling school cafeteria filled with burgers, tater tots, and small boxes of chocolate milk. Lunch ladies, sporting those oversized, bug-like eyeglasses reminiscent of my grandmother’s, served the meals with a smile. After a fleeting two minutes, the video came to an end.
Next, I found myself watching a street scene unfold from the window of a moving vehicle: Kenmore Square, Boston, January 1977. The camera smoothly panned across storefronts — Strawberries, Paperback Booksmith, College Donuts — but it wasn’t until the lens zoomed out to reveal the iconic Citgo sign, still perched atop its building today, that a spark of recognition ignited.
Discovering these videos felt akin to time-traveling back to moments when nothing remarkable occurred. They are mere snippets of old B-roll, the background footage often sliced into broadcasts to break up the main action, sourced from the archives of WGBH, a venerable 69-year-old Boston public-television station. In 2018, James Auclair, a dedicated station employee, embarked on a mission to regularly share these videos on social media. By the fall of 2023, their nostalgic allure infiltrated my Facebook algorithm just as I was grappling with an undercurrent of anxiety about my future. That August, I had eagerly applied for a dream faculty position at a university, fully aware that I was in for months of nagging uncertainty regarding my professional trajectory.
When I stumbled across Auclair’s posts under the handle GBH Archives (the station had dropped the “W” a few years prior), I found myself captivated: here was finally a soothing distraction from the relentless swirl of negative thoughts clouding my mind.
Since then, I have immersed myself in countless hours of B-roll footage. I’ve witnessed shoppers browsing CDs at the long-defunct Tower Records on Newbury Street during the ’90s, instantly transported back to those carefree Saturdays in high school, where my friends and I would lose ourselves in the rap and hip-hop sections for hours. I’ve seen cars as large as boats — station wagons, sedans, and vans reminiscent of my parents’ vehicles — gracefully traversing the Tobin Bridge in 1979, drivers extending their arms to pass cash and coins to the toll attendants. Ice skaters gliding across the frozen Charles River in the late ’70s filled me with a sense of wonder, as did the sight of hairsprayed teenagers in leather jackets and oversized sweaters, casually smoking cigarettes outside their high school in the ’80s.
I am far from alone in my fascination with these B-roll clips. YouTube is teeming with “retro B-roll” content, while GBH Archives boasts over 200,000 combined followers across Facebook, X, and Instagram. For many viewers, the allure lies in pure nostalgia; comments often reflect a wistful longing for the days devoid of cellphones, or a playful recognition of the fashion trends of yesteryear, marked by suits, ties, and elegant dresses. Occasionally, someone even spots their younger self in the footage, adding a personal touch to the shared experience.
What I cherish most about these videos is their lack of narrative; they evoke a sense of ambient music — hypnotic and meditative. Rather than dictating thoughts or instilling fear, they simply present scenes for contemplation. There’s an intriguing intellectual twist here: television is typically an entertainment medium, designed primarily to keep viewers visually engaged and prevent boredom during monotonous news segments. However, watching this remediated B-roll flips that purpose on its head. These clips lack quick cuts and flashy edits, breaking news alerts, or sensational chyrons. Instead, they offer slow, unembellished slices of life. Where the format of television news often crowds out independent thought, these videos instead cultivate an environment ripe for reflection.
