eTHMURRAPCIS] Ree it (nalALTAMIRA PRESS A Division of Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. 1630 North Main Street, #367 Walnut Creek, CA 94596 wovwaltamirapress.com Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. A Member of the Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group 4501 Forbes Blvd, Suite 200 Lanham, MD 20706 PO Box 317, Osford OX2 9RU, United Kingdom Cover illustration, Karen Scott-Hoy, Auroethnagraphy, oil on canvas. Copyright © 2004 by AlcaMira Press All rights reserved, No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or cransmicted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ellis, Carolyn, 1950— ‘The ethnographic I : a methodological novel about autoethnography / Carolyn Ellis. pcm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 0-7591-0050-0 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-7591-0051-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Ethnology—Authorship. 2. Echnology—Methodology. 3. Aurobiography— Authorship. 4. Interviewing in ethnology. 5. Communication in anthropology. L Title. GN307.7.E435 2003 305.8—de22 2003017986 Prineed in the United States of America ©” The paper used in this publication meets che minimum requirements of American Narional Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992, For Art, my other IContents Casi of Characters Preface CLASS ONE: Introductions and Interruptions Getting over the Syllabus Introductions A Personal History: From Sociology to Communication, from Ethnography to Autoethnography Interlude: Living and Writing Final Negotiations Reflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: Cross-Status Relationships Revisited GLASS TWO: The Gall of Autoethnographic Stories Contextualizing Autoethnography within Ethnography Autoethnography: An Introduction ‘Autocthnography: Definition and History Autoethnography: The Term of Choice ‘Autoethnographic Approaches Interlude: Mentoring Autoethnographic ProjectsReflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: Performing Relationships How We Mer (by Archur Bochner and Carolyn Ellis) GLASS THREE: Autoethnography in Interview Research Issues in Autoethnogsaphic Interviewing Reflexive Dyadic Interviews Interactive Interviewing Interlude: Connecting with Autoethnography Co-constructed Narrative Reflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: Responding to Abortion Interlude: Abortion Revisited GLASS FOUR: Autoethnographic Projects: Putting the Sell into Research Empathy in Researching Illness, Dying, and Medical Teams Cross-Racial Relationships Discovering Messianic Judaism and Experiencing the Spiritual Interlude: Not Everyone Can Write Evocative Autoethnography Losing a Father and Constructing a Story Performing Domestic Abuse Bifurcated Identity: Becoming Latino Retreating to Silence Interlude: Revealing Is Painful Reflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: The Pain of Revealing CLASS FIVE: Writing Field Notes, Interviews, and Stories: Issues of Memory and Truth “Getting It Off My Chest” and Living with Breast Cancer Survival Taking Autoethnographic Field Notes, “Capturing” Experience, Memory, and Emotional Recall Interlude: Teaching Autoethnography Interlude: Emotions, Politics, and Social Change Conducting and Writing Up Interviews: Fram Accuracy to Memory to Truth 112 113 113 119 120 122 Reflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: Life Seeps into Work CLASS SIX: Writing Therageutically, Vulnerably, Evocatively, and Ethically Interlude: “Maternal Connections” Writing Therapeutically Rewriting Aucoethnographic Stories: Making Ourselves Vulnerable Writing Evocatively Interlude: Life Becomes Work What about Ethics? Reflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: Sometimes You Need an Escape CLASS INTERLUDES: Living Autoethnography: Lite Informs Work Informs Life Balancing Vulnerability and Risk Life Becomes Performance/Performance Becomes Life Life Ends, Work Begins Retellings Rereadings Studying Others/Studying Ourselves Communicating about Death GLASS SEVEN: Writing as Inquiry Introduction Our Work/Our Selves Bringing It Back Up Breaking Hearts Framing a Story Revisions and Endings Incerlude: Raising Eyebrows and Running for Cover FRIENDSHIP INTERLUDE: Artful Autoethnography Art as Autoethnography/Autoethnography as Art (by Carolyn Ellis and Karen Scott-Hoy) 127 132 133 137 140 143 144 155 156 157 162 162 163 166 167 169 169 171 174 176 178 179 181 184 184GLASS EIGHT: Autoethnographic Forms of Writing Autoethnography as “CAP” Ethnography Analysis in Storytelling Reciting Poetry Performing Autoethnography Autoethnography On-line Multivoiced and Mixed Genre Arts-Based Autoethnography Interlude: The Storyteller GLASS NINE: Final Projects Illusions, Fantasies, Dreams, and Reflections: An Autoethnography of Abuse The Complexity of Cross-Racial Relationships “Then You Know How I Feel”: Empathy, Identification, and Reflexivity in Fieldwork A Crisis of Self: The Challenge of Breast Cancer and Long-Term Survival Dialogical Intersections: The Death of a Father Messianic Judaism: Searching the Spirit Latino-White Biculcural Identity Interlude: Work Spills into Personal Lives: Anger in Relationships GLASS TEN: Evaluating and Publishing Autoethnography Criteria for Evaluating Autocthnographic Projects Institutional Review Boards Getting Published Reflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: Dealing with Rejection COMMUNITY INTERLUDE: Taking Autoethnographic Research to a Domestic Abuse Shelter Collaborative Research about Domestic Violence Workers Engaged Collaborative Research: Writing a Story of Multiple Viewpoints and Feelings 193 194 194 201 206 212 214 215 216 219 220 224 227 231 234 237 240 244 249 252 256 261 264 269 269 271 Connecting Research and Practice: A Case of Working against Domestic Abuse PARTICIPANT INTERLUDES: Autoethnographic Conversations about Autoethography The Responsibilities of Doing Autoechnographic Research: Interview with Judy Perry Reactions to the Book and to Being a Character Doing Autoethnographic Research on Family Members Using Autoethnography to Understand the Perspectives of Others Mentor-Mentee Relationships Real Names or Pseudonyms/ Therapy or Autoethnography?: Interview with Valerie Macleod. Reactions to the Book and to Being a Character Confidentiality and Family Members Role of Autoethnography Autoethnography and Therapy Literary Agents Is There a Downside to Doing Autoethnographic Research?: Interview with Penny Phillips Reactions to the Book and to Being a Character Experiencing the Momenc Revisiting the CASA Story Exploring Autoethnography and “Real Life” Embodied Writing/Embodied Listening: Interview with Laura Ellingson Reactions to the Book and to Being a Character Embodied Writing Listening to and Telling Stories: Autoethnographic Connections Mixed Genres and Methods Autoethnography or Sensationalism?: Interview with Leigh Berger Reactions to the Book and to Being a Character Embracing Autoethnography ‘The Writing Process ‘The Autoechnographic Experience Autoethnography and Sensationalism 272 284 285 285 286 287 289 292 292 293 294 296 297 300 300 301 302 303 307 307 308 310 312 314 314 316 316 318 319Straying from Autoethnography: Interview wich Hector Auroethnographic Impressions Reactions to Being a Character Representing Family Uncritically Crivical Representation of Structure and Power Authenticity, Faith, and Context Incorporating Autocthnography AUTHOR INTERLUDE: Writing a Methodological Novel: Thinking Like an Ethnographer, Writing Like a Novelist Thinking Like An Ethnographer Writing Like a Novelist Developing Plot Selecting and Developing Characters Scene Setting Dialogue Co-creating a Text Getting Consent Giving Acknowledgment Ending and Beginning/Examining and Living APPENDIX (: Suggested Readings and Assignments for an Autoethnography Class APPENDIX II: Chart of Impressionist and Realist Ethnography APPENDIX Ii: Guidelines for Personal Writing Papers APPENDIX Iv: Editing Personal Narralives Notes References Name Index Judy Perry Subject Index judy Perry About the Author 322 322 323 324 325 325 327 330 333 335 337 338 342 343 344 344 345 347 351 359 365 369 371 389 413 419 427 Cast of Characters ART: communication professor, mid-fifties, Carolyn’s partner and coauthor, teaches and researches about narrative and close relationships CAROLYN: communication and sociology professox, around fifty, Art’s part- ner and coauthor, teaches and researches about autoechnography HECTOR: pseudonym, communication Ph.D. student, mid-twenties, writes about bicultural identity JACK: composite character, psychology Ph.D. student, late ewenties, writes about interracial relationships JUDY: communication Ph.D. seudent with an M.A. in sociology, around fifty, writes about her caregiving experience with her father at end of life KAREN: education, independent scholar from Australia, late forties, autoethnographic artist KEN: composite character, sociology M.A. student, mid-twenties, interested in gay parenting LAURA: communication Ph.D. student, late twenties, writes about a senior oncology program and her experiences with cancerxiv | CAST OF CHARACTERS LAUREL: sociologist, friend and colleague of Carolyn's, JRE early sixties, teaches qualitative methods and writes about writing LEIGH: communication Ph.D. student with an M.A. in soci i n ‘ology, mid- twenties, writes about Messianic Judaism and Jewish identity ” PENNY: communication M.A, student, late forties, writes about her physical abuse VALERIE: education Ph.D. student, around fi V ed fey, writes about long-term adap- tion to surviving breast cancer DOG CHILDREN of Carolyn and Art: Ande, a Jack Russell, 13; Likker, a Rat Terrier, 14; Sanya, an Australian Shepherd, 7; Traf, : daughter of Likker. epherd, 7; Traf, a Rat Terrier, 10, Preface tates in the entryway.! A large-brimmed, floppy, straw hat covered with purple bangles hides her face. A matching scarf hangs loosely around her neck. “Professor Ellis?” “Yes, that’s me,” I respond. “My name is Valerie, I'm a Ph.D. student in education. I want to do my dissertation on breast cancer. Your name was given to me as someone inter- ested in illness. I'd like you to be on my dissertation committee. One member of my committee is from psychology; ewo from education, one of whom is in measurement; and the fourth is a research oncologist.” “Hold it,” I say, my hands extended our frone co slow down her mono- logue. “Back up. Have a seat and let's talk about your project.” Valerie removes her scarf and hat with a sweeping crisscross motion of both hands and continues speaking as rapidly as before. “I want to interview breast can- cer survivors to understand how they're adjusting after cancer. I hope to combine qualitative and quantitative approaches, Send out a survey and then interview, oh, maybe thirty women, and include African Americans and lesbians, older and young women, professional and working class. That way I can generalize . . .” “How you get interested in this topic?” J interrupt. “Well, uh,” she begins, now slowing down and looking at me quizzically, “T’ve had breast cancer.” Then, going back to her rapid fire, assertive style, “But T won't let that bias my research. You can count on that.” A WOMAN IN HER mid-forties opens the door to my office and hesi-xvi | PREFACE “OF course you will,” I say. Valerie immediately assumes a defensive pos- ture, before I add, “As you should.” “What do you mean?” she asks, looking straight at me with penetrating eyes, “] was taught to keep my personal experience out of my research. IfZ want my study to be valid, I can't mention to my participants that I've had cancer, can 1?” “Hold that question for a minute,” I say again, and move my chair closer to hers. “Would you be willing to tell mea little about your breast cancer first? Tell help me understand more about your academic interest in the topic, Are you okay talking about your own experience?” “Of course,” she responds, “but nobody at the university has ever asked me about that before.” She breaches deeply and slowly begins her story about the lump she discovered seven years before, her mastectomy, and follow-up chemotherapy. Then, “And it’s had a big impace on my family, especially my relationship with my daughter, and how I see myself. ...” Her voice trails off “How has it impacted your relationship with your daughter?” I ask quietly. “Now she has to worry about getting cancer as well. You know, the genetic link, And we seem to have trouble talking openly about the risks and about our feelings.” Valerie continues to talk about her daughter. After awhile, I ask, “And your self-image?” “could write a book about that,” she says, shaking her head back and forth. “I'm a therapist. I thought I could deal with the cancer, But it’s hard to feel like a whole person. I don't mean because I lost a breast. Good riddance, I say to that. They were always too big anyway. I had breast reduction on the other one when I had reconstruction. Irs just—well, my life has changed so drastically, except the day-to-day, Actually that’s not all that different...” She becomes animated as she tells her story. Listening, I cant help think- ing how I would feel if I had a breast removed. As she talks, I glance ar her small breasts, then casually glide my hands across my own large ones, I can’t imagine their not being there. Without them, I'd feel incomplete, desexual- ized. Did she really feel “good riddance” or is that a cover? “...And the hais,” T hear her say through my thoughts. “Just look at my fuzz. It never really grew back like before. Shaving it was the most difficult yet exhilarating ching P've ever done.” The thin, inch-long, brown and grey secands don't move as she casually tosses her head from side to side. My fingers reach for my fine-textured, shoulder-length, brown hair—Td feel naked without it. I wonder why she cuts hers so short now, as if she’s drawing attention to hav- ing had cancer. But what about the hat and scarf? Does she use them in case she wants to ‘pass,’ I wonder. Valerie and I are about the same age. This could happen to me. No, it couldn't. I get an annual mammogram. PREFACE | “,.. Pd had a mammogram just a few months before I found the lump,” her voice intrudes into my thoughts. But I do self-examinations every month, I argue back from inside my head. “J found it during my monthly self-exam.” Valerie shakes the false pre- dictability of my world. { listen intently, understanding that Valerie has a lor to teach me. “Anyway, I'm interested in other women’s experience,” she says, adding hesitantly, “you know, how they compare to mine. Thar’s not something I've admitted before—the personal part, I mean.” I nod. What do I do now? J don't want to wean another student off the traditional social science model and deal with a science-oriented committee. And I’m weary of getting involved in another study tha simplifies, categorizes, slices, and dices the illness process. “Do you have any idea what I do?” I ask. “Just that you study illness and do qualitative research. Nobody does qual- itative in my department. But I’ve taken qualitative methods in sociology, and T think I could get my committee to accept grounded theory for my disserta- tion, as long as I used a computer program co code my data.” “I don't use grounded theory much anymore,” I say. “Most of what I do is autoethnography.” “Autoethnogtaphy? What's thar?” she asks, writing the word on her notepad. “I stare with my personal life and pay attention to my physical feelings, thoughts, and emotions. I use what I call ‘systematic sociological introspection’ and ‘emotional recall’ to try to understand an experience I’ve lived through.” Then I write my experience as a story. By exploring a particular life, | hope to understand a way of life, as Reed-Danahay says.” “Who?” she asks, pen poised in the air. “Reed-Danahay, an anthropologist who wrote a book on autoethnography.” “How do I get a copy?” “Don’t worry about that yet. There's plenty of time to read about autoethnography. I want you to experience it first.” 1 ignore Valerie's confused look, as I dig through my file cabinet. “So if I understand you correctly, the goal is to use your life experience ro generalize toa larger group or culture,” Valerie speaks to my back. “Yes, but thar’s not all. The goal is also to enter and document the moment-to-moment, concrete details of a life. That’s an important way of knowing as well.” “So, you just write about your life?” Valerie says casually. “That doesn’t sound too difficult.” J curn around, stare at her for a moment, as though I'll get a sign as to whether I should promote autocthnography to Valerie. When no sign isXVI | PREFACE forthcoming, I say, “It’s amazingly difficult. It’s certainly noc something that most people can do well. Social scientists usually don’t write well enough. Or they're not sufficiently introspective about their feelings or motives, or the contradictions they experience. Ironically, many aren’t observant enough of the world around them. The self-questioning autoethnography demands is extremely difficule. Often you confront things about yourself that are less than flattering. Believe me, honest aucoethnographic exploration generates 4 lot of fears and self-doubts—and emotional pain. Just when you think you can't stand the pain anymore—that’s when the real work begins. Then there's the vulner- ability of revealing yourself, not being able to take back what you've written or having any control over how readers interpret your story. It’s hard not co feel that critics are judging your life as well as your work. The critique can be humiliating. And the ethical issues,” I warn, “just wait until you'te writing about family members and loved ones who are part of your story.” Valerie holds onto her chair, her eyes wide. I smile and let out the breath Tve been holding. “I'm sorry. I get really passionate about all this,” I say more gently. “OF course, there are rewards too—for example, you may come to understand yourself in deeper ways. And with understanding yourself comes understanding others. Autoethnography provides an avenue for doing some- thing meaningful for yourself and the world. .. . “Ab, here they are,” I interrupt myself as I pull wo, stapled papers from my autoethnography file. “The one on top is “There are Survivors,” a paper I wrote about my brother's death. The second one’s a chapter from Butler and Rosenblum’s book Cancer in Tio Voices, a co-constructed narrative about a woman with breast cancer and her lesbian lover who takes care of her.”5 “Co-constructed?” “We'll talk about that later. For now, just see how you respond to these stories. 1 think that after you've read them, what I've been saying will be clearer. Oh, and...” “Yes?” Valerie says hesitantly, staring at the articles I've handed her. “You have to read more about qualitative methods and autoethnography and take my class on autoethnography offered next year. These are minimum requirements for me to consider being on your dissertation committee.” “Oh, my,” she says, her body slumping. “I don't know if Pll have time. I still have to take “Tests and Measurement’ and ‘Advanced Experimental Research Design,’ and, . . .” Her voice trails off. Then, “And I will be through with courses by then.” I shrug my shoulders as I stand and open the door. Valerie winds her scarf around her neck, throws her hat along with the papers I’ve given her into her large, open bag, says goad-by, and quickly scurries from view. A few days later, I arrive at school and find a faxed message from Valerie: PREFACE | xix Dear Professor Ellis: This is some of the most powerful writing I've ever read. identified with your grief over losing your brother so suddenly. You reminded me of how 1 felt when { found out I had cancer, So did Butler and Rosenblum. I recall experiencing that kind of turmoil, confusion, and meaninglessness, This work violates everything I've been taught about social science research, but I’m fascinated and want to know more. Would you send me more autoechnographic stories and chink again about being on my com- mittee? If you insist, I promise to enroll in your class next year. Valerie Interlude: The Ethnographic I Ethnographic I. | love the playfulness, “What is the role of the ‘T’ in ethnogra- phy?” you might ask. Is the ‘I’ only about the eye of the researcher, the researcher standing apart and looking? What about the ‘I’ of the researcher, the part that not only looks but is looked back at, that not only acts but is acted back upon by those in her focus. Is ethnography only about the other? Isn't ethnography also relational, about the other and the ‘T’ of the researcher in interaction?® Might the researcher also be a subject? Might the ‘T’ refer to the researcher who looks inward as well as oucward? What can be gained from mak- ing the ‘I’ a part, or even a focus, of ethnographic research? Methodological novel. The incongruence, even arrogance, of juxtaposing these two words makes me smile. “Can a work be both methodological and a novel?” you might ask, and be thinking: A novel tells an evocative story of intrigue; a methodological text is a dry, how-to treatise. “Can a work be both a novel and an ethnography?” you also might ask, thinking that novelists cre- ate dramatic plots chat may not necessarily have taken place, while ethnog- raphers claim to describe events or cultural practices based on “true,” real-life experiences. Autoethnography. “Whar is autoethnography?” you might ask. My brief answer: research, writing, story, and method that connect the autobiographi- cal and personal to the cultural, social, and political. Auroethnographic forms feature concrete action, emotion, embodiment, self-consciousness, and intro- spection portrayed in dialogue, scenes, characterization, and plot. Thus, autoethnography claims the conventions of literary writing. The Ethnographic I: A Methodological Novel about Autoethnography. The story is set in a class on autoethnography. I showcase the process of doing and writing autoethnography as I teach students about it, thus making pedagogy a part of this book, In showing what happens in che classroom, I want to pro- voke readers to experience the power of autoethnography, to feel its truths as well as come to know it intellectually.xx | PREFACE In this work, I intentionally combine fictional and ethnographic scenes, I never actually taught the class I desctibe, two of the characters are made up, and many of the scenes did not take place. What has taken place is chat I've watched (and felt) myself learn, write, and teach autoethnography for the past eighteen years. I've observed dissertation students and students in my writing and methods classes—including several of the characters in this book—absorb, resise, challenge, and add to the strategies I offered. P've struggled, as they've strug. gled, with issues of writing about family members, attempts to co-construct texts with other participants, and questions about whether and how to analyze per- sonal stories. I’ve collected e-mails exchanged between students and me, used information in papers and dissertations they wrote, and taped classes and inter- views with scholars and students about autoethnography. With the exception of two composite characters, I have taught all the students who are characters in my novel, though not all in the same class, and I have been involved in ot col- laborated with them on their dissertation projects and/or published papers. This book is based on these ethnographic details, making ic possible to construct the ethnographic scenes that happened and the fictional scenes that didn’t but could have. Combining literary and ethnographic techniques allows me to cteate a story to engage readers in methodological concerns in the same way a novel engages readers in its plot. OF course, the best way to learn how to do autoethnography is to go out (and in) and do it. The next best way is to read about and enter the experience of others as they work through their projects—problems, questions, and ethical issues—and devise coping strategies. Optimally readers will read along in the book as they do their own autoethnographies, getting ideas from the projects I describe and adding their story to the stories already taking, place in the classroom. If the book works as I intend, this approach should offer an engaging way to learn about autoethnographic method. That does not mean the process will be pain free; usually some degree of emotional curmoil accom- panies che vulnerability required to scrutinize yourself and reveal to others what you find. Almost always, the insights you gain about yourself and the world around you make the pain bearable, even welcome at times. I write this book for those interested in autoethnography, who want to incorporate the ‘T’ into their research, writing, and teaching. Graduate students and untenured professors too often are unable to find a supportive commu- nity at their universities for doing autoethnographic research. This book offers that community. My hope is that this book, whether read alone or in a class that features autoethnographic research, will engage students, teachers, and researchers alike, giving them confidence to carry on, new ideas about how to do so with gusto, and a supportive community with which to interact. Enough telling. It’s time for class. Introductions and Interruptions board. “Carolyn Ellis, Professor.” Glancing around the room, | am pleased to see Valerie among the new and familiar faces. “Welcome. This seminar focuses on doing aucoechnography.” I stop and, while I wait for students to quiet down, I take in the disheveled conference room. Beige, high-backed, swivel chairs fight for space. Napkins and bags of chips left from the graduate student reception overflow the institutional, brown, metal, trash can, while half-empty, two-liter, Diet Coke bottles clutter the tops of cabinets. The disorder disrupts what would otherwise be an attrac- tive and calming space—long, oak conference table, wider in the middle than at the ends; soft, comfortable pillow chairs on rollers; a wall of windows fea- turing views of campus trees and clouds, and glimpses of the top of the Busch Gardens roller coaster, if you look long and hard enough. My long, purple, blue, and red titanium earrings jingle, reminding me to concentrate on what T’m saying to the students now listening attentively. “In this class, we will discuss methodological issues in autoethnographic writing and write personal stories and ethnographic narratives,” I say, touch- ing my earrings. Though I’ve been teaching for more than twenty years, the slight quiver in my voice always occurs the first day of class. I guess no matter how long I teach, I'll still feel the anxiety and exhilaration of beginning a new 66 C OMMUNICATING AUTOETHNOGRAPHY,.” I write on the2| THE ETHNOGRAPHIC 1 relationship with a class, The mysteriously attractive sensibility of “nor know- ing” reminds me of feelings that arise in any new personal relationship. What will the students be like? How will they perceive me, and I, them? Who will I become in the relationship? What mirror will they hold up for me and I for them? What will we become together? Will I be able to direct, yet empower, them to take responsibility for the success of the class? Getting over the Syllabus After handing out a bibliography and syllabus,' I begin to talk through the course outline, a routine that gives me time to feel comfortable. “We'll first discuss the history of autoethnography, positioning it in the broader study of ethnography,” I say. “Then we'll explore in depth che meaning of the term and the different kinds of autoethnography, Next, we'll look at ways to use an autoethnographic perspective when doing interview research. We'll take time each week to talc about your class projects and then in week four, we'll concentrate on how you plan to put your self into your research. Will your research be focused on your story, or will you focus on another group and show your interactions with participants, of will you position yourself and your interests in this topic in an autoethnographic way? These are some of the possibilities. “In week five, we'll talk about raking field notes, writing up interviews, and dealing with issues of memory and tcuth. The heart of the course will be in week six, when we discuss writing therapeutically, vulnerably, evocatively, and ethically. The next week, we'll focus on writing as a method of inquiry. In week eight, I'll go over different forms for expressing autocthnography, such as art, poetry, performance, and mixed genre, and we'll examine the role of analysis in autoechnography. You'll present parts of your projects in week nine. In week ten, we'll end by looking at how autoethnography is evaluated and published, and address issues in presenting autoethnography to the public. ‘Then you'll have a few weeks where we'll meet together to work on your pro- jects and focus on writing, “Lil also want to meet with each of you after the semester is over to fol- low up on your projects and on some work I’m doing this semester.” “What kind of work?” asks Hector, one of the communication Ph.D. students. “T'm writing a book on autoethnography, and I hope to include some of what happens in this class—with your permission, of course. I'll want to inter- view you individually, get your response to what I write about you, and then have a follow-up group session to discuss the entire project.” “Cool,” says Hector, and several other students nod in agreement. INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS \3 “More about that later, Let's talk briefly about reading and writing assign- ments for the class.” Tam well into my monologue about assignments, when I am interrupted. “T thought this was a seminar on qualitative methods,” a serious-looking stu- dent says from the other end of the table. His formal attire—white linen pants, black silk shire, and black-and-white, diagonally striped tie—stands out among the sea of jeans, t-shirts, and casual attire. He is one of three males, and the only African American, in the class of eight students. “Ie ig,” I answer, wondering where this inquiry is headed. Two other students roll their eyes at each other as if to say, who's this char- acter? I wonder, too, as I respond, “As advertised, I’ve chosen to focus in this lass on qualitative methods that connecr social science to literature. We'll view ourselves as part of the research—sometimes as our focus—rather than stand- ing outside what we do. Instead of starting with hypotheses, we'll emphasize writing as a process of discovery.” “Buc these assignments,” the same student mutters, eyebrows furled, as he spits out the italicized headings on my syllabus. “Interview another class mem- ber about his or her life and write a story, feeling free to include yourself in the story. Describe and analyze a scene you observe with other researchers, including yourself and them as characters. Is this a valid way to do science?” He tosses the syllabus on the table and leans back in his chair, shaking his head from side to side. “I thought I'd learn to analyze qualitative data in here.” He looks around the class. When no response is forthcoming, he contin- ues. “My training is in quantitative methods in psychology, but I wanted to take a qualitative methods class so I'd be able to code the open-ended ques- tions on my survey form, to—you know—buttress my quantitative findings.” “What is your project about?” I ask, to give myself time to figure out how to handle this situation and get the student off the offensive. The tension in our interaction adds to my nervousness, making me feel far removed from the cordial and relaxed atmosphere { like to promote in class. I hadn't planned to start the seminar on the defensive. “It’s about attitudes toward interracial dating,” he replies, “a project I’m doing with my major professor in psychology. Right now we're in the middle ofa pilot study of ewenty subjects using phone surveys with Guttman-scale ques- tions. At the last minute, my professor added a couple of open-ended questions. ‘We're asking everyone to describe how they'd respond to a close friend dating a person of another race, and we're asking subjects who have been in interracial dating situations to describe their experiences. Weill use these data to construct a survey to give to a random sample of three hundred university students. “The problem,” he continues without pause, “is that when I get to these open-ended questions, subjects just tall and talk, even those who haven't had4 | THE ETHNOGRAPHIC 1 any personal experience with dating someone of another race. These two ques- tions have added at least fifteen minutes to our twenry-minute questionnaire. Ac this rate, the project will rake forever.” He sighs. “T don’t know what to do with all the data I'm recording,” he says, lean- ing forward, “Tell you the truth, Ti like to leave out these two questions, But my professor insists on including them,” A few of the students chuckle, and I feel my mouth tighten. “Look,” he continues, the ever-so-slight shakiness in his voice betraying the confidence in his words, “aren’t there some quick and dirty computer cod- ing programs? Maybe I should just use one of these. Do I really need this class?” More quiet, polite chuckles fill the silence. I'm tempted to answer “no” to his last question, since I fear his presence might ruin a unique opportunity to work with a small group of graduate stu- dents committed to doing autoethnographic projects. What brought this stu- dent to my class? He could have chosen from a number of qualitative classes around campus specifically designed for those wanting to learn analysis and coding procedures. I had hoped everyone in class would be familiar with basic qualitative methods, so I wouldn't have to stare from the beginning. But this student doesn't have a clue about qualitative research, much less autocthnography, How did he end up here? Wouldn't he have seen the course description in the publicity for the course? Why does he seem so uncomfortable talking about his projec? I wonder—bur don't ask—about his personal involvement in this topic. “I can tell you where to find the coding programs,” I offer, my “teach- ing persona” taking over, “bur you might benefit from staying in this class. For example, you might want ro interview one of your participants and his or her partner in depth to help you understand the quantitative information from the survey, or co delve deeper into the complexities of the experience, Or you might include your thoughts and feelings as you do the interview, or conduct an inter- active interview where you discuss your experience with the topic as well. Or stare your article with a story about your experience, what drew you to che topic. These are some of the approaches. . . .” “Buc my experience has nothing to do with this study,” he interrupts, “I'm interested in the patterns of racist responses that interracial couples engender from both blacks and whites. What can you learn from looking at your own experience? It’s just one case.” He leans back, arms crossed, “You might learn whac ic can feel like to be the recipient of racism.” I resist the impulse to give a passionate lecture on the value of looking at personal experience. I also resist responding to the “got you now” message | read in his words and posture. Instead, co bring quiet closure to this particular conversa- tion, I say, “There’s a class in qualitative methods in sociology that might be Fo INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS ls helpful to you. It covers analysis of coded interview data. Sce me after class if you want more information about it. ; “Anyone have any other questions on the assignments or other materials on the syllabus?” I ask, curning my attention outward to the rest of the class, my animated voice contrasting to the more measured voice I used. with the psy- chology student. After I address a number of questions, Laura, another com- munication Ph.D. scudent, raises her hand and silently gestures toward the door. Her body language reminds me of the exaggerated movements in the silent comedies of the 1930s. Taking my cue from other classes with Laura that this means she has to go to the bathroom, I say, “No? Then J believe Laura's ready for a break.” “Thank goodness,” Laura says loudly, shaking her head up and down, her brown, shoulder-length hair bouncing. 1 smile, glad for the comic relief. Our act is a famifiar routine to the students who have been in my classes before. “When we return, I'd like you to introduce yourselves and tell a little about the projects you're thinking of doing for this class,” I say to the backs of stu- dents exiting the room, When I walk into the bathroom, a few of the women students are talking and laughing. “What you dont know,” says Laura, curning to me, “is that all the other women in the class thank me for demanding a bathroom break.” “T give in,” I say. “I can't compete with your weak bladders.” “Who is this guy from psychology?” Laura asks. “Give him a chance,” I say. “He hasn't had the benefit of the perspectives you've studied in communication.” “You're right,” replies Laura, Introductions “Who wants to start?” I ask when the students haye returned and are chomp- ing on treats from the three, majar, college-student food groups—Diet Cokes, Hershey bars, and cheese crackers. I feel settled into the class now; my ner- vousness has dissipated. Stifling 2 yawn, I wait for someone to begin. I wish we didn't have to take breaks; they're interruptive and my energy is always lower afterwards. In spite of students’ protestations to the contrary and che “nutri- tional” supplements they buy from the machines, they, too, seem to go into a slump after a break. ; Finally, Laura, the break monitor, raises her hand. | nod in her direction. “Ym Laura,” she says in an animated voice, twisting in her seat to make eye contact with students, “but you already know that. I’m studying a senior oncology unit at a regional cancer cenrer in a metropolitan area in the south- east United States.” We laugh at her comedic attempt to camouflage the local6| THE ETHNOGRAPHIC | cancer center. “I’m not sure what my dissertation will focus on, which bothers me, but my advisor says it’s okay not to know yer.” She curls her thick brown hair around her index finger, points at me, chen continues, “She says to keep hanging around watching patients and staff since I'm interested in how team members talk to each other and to patients.” ‘When several students look confused, Laura explains, “Each patient is seen by a physician, registered nurse, pharmacist, dietician, nurse practitioner, and social worker, who compose the ream. I observe staff-patienc interaction as well as how staff members talk about patients to each other in the outer office and in their weekly meetings.” “What will you concenrrate on this semester?” I ask. “Maybe backstage relationships among team members,” Laura says.? “And since this is class on auroethnography, I might look at how my experience as a bone cancer patient affects my role as a researcher.” Using both hands, clasped above her right knee, she lifts her leg and moves it to the side as she curns in her chait. Pointing to her misshapen Knee, six-inch skin graft, and twenty-cwo- inch scar running along her leg-—all visible below her blue, cotton culottes—— she explains, “I had bone cancer nine years ago ar the age of twenty.” She then maneuvers her leg back under the table. “I’m interested in narrative, but I also want to code and analyze my data from a grounded theory perspective. I'm open to incorporating quantitative analysis, if the study calls for it.°3 “Laura moves between trying to fill ll her ‘cells’ in whatever two-by-two table she has in her mind and actually figuring out what's going on there,” I tease, Laura smiles, then pantomimes tearing out her hair. The psychology stu- dent stares at her, chen me. He looks as though he's trying to determine if we're serious, then shakes his head in disbelief. Amid the laughter of the test of the students, I say, “Leigh, why dont you go next?” A young, olive-complexioned, Jewish woman, Leigh announces to the class, “ma second year Ph.D. student in communication. Carolynis my advisor. I'm working on my dissertation on Messianic Judaism, Jews who believe in Jesus.” “Like Jews for Jesus?” Laura asks. “Not exactly.” Leigh responds, flipping her long, black, curly hair that frames her large, brown eyes. “Messianic Jews connect Jewish rituals with Christian beliefs. I've been doing participant observation in a Messianic temple and I’ve interviewed some of the participants, including the rabbi and his wife. In this class, ['d like to work on putting myself into the research. I want to study my own reactions to their religious beliefs and observe how I respond emotionally and spiritually to their attempts to convert me.” “But isn’t that deceptive?” asks Laura. “Since you're not open to being converted.” INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS lz “But I am,” says Leigh, and the room falls quiet. Leigh glances around, as though she is trying to figure out what everyone is thinking, “I'm nor ready to run off and join them or anything, but I have begun to see the value of what they believe—at least for them. I no longer think of Messianic Jews as weird as I did before I attended their services.” She giggles nervously, signifying she is finished, | “Judy,” I say, nodding to the perky, middle-aged woman sitting beside Leigh. Judy cups her hand behind her right ear, bends her head toward me, and nods. Her closely cropped hair frames the large hearing aid thar fills her ear. “I'm Judy,” she says, wiping her palms together. Her curious and engaged eyes along with her inviting smile and southwestern, travel t-shirt call atten- tion away from her voice. “I'm another Ph.D. student in communication and another Carolyn groupie.” 1 wonder if the new students feel out of place among all this comradery. “I also have an M.A. in sociology,” Judy adds. “So do I,” Leigh throws in, then slinks back in her chair, looking embat- rassed for speaking out of turn. “Leigh and I are like sisters,” Judy acknowledges. Leigh smiles and relaxes. And I'm like their mother, I think. “I want to write about being primary care- taker for my father. He's in the hospital now, critically ill,” Judy continues. “I've kept notes on everything that happened and e-mail messages I sent to friends during that time. I really just want to tell my story.” “What will you focus on in your story?” Penny, a communication M.A. student, asks. “The end-of-life decision making,” Judy answers. “How it happens, the emo- tions involved, how our history with our loved one affects decision making, prob- Jems I have had with the medical system. That last one would take a book.” Her greyish blue eyes tear up. I feel empathy for what she is going through. “Will you interview others?” Penny asks, breaking the frame. “Carolyn says I have to, but I just want to tell my story.” She sighs and lowers her head, as she wipes her tears with the back of her hand. I think of how removed this project is from Judy's job as a senior statistician in the Department of Aging and Mental Health. “Thanks, Judy,” I say and nod to the student from psychology. He points to himself questioningly, and I acknowledge, “Yes, your turn.” “I’m Jack,” he says. “I've already told you what I’m doing.” He sits back from the table. “We'd like to know more,” I say. “Maybe later,” he concedes. I nod toward Valerie, hoping she will be more forthcoming. “Y’m Valerie, from education,” Valerie says into the tension created by Jack’s reticence. “Carolyn is making me take the course.” Everyone laughs.8| THE ETHNOGRAPHIC 1 “Im interviewing survivors of breast cancer for my dissertation, I’m a breast cancer survivor myself, for six years. I already have my participants and IRB approval, bur Carolya fele I needed this course to help in writing my pattici- pants’ stories. She's agreed—reluctantly—to be my co-chair, so I've agreed— reluctantly—to be in this class. I thought I was through with courses,” she ends with an exasperated look, highlighted by inch-long wisps of fine, brown hair pulled toward her face. Ismile, chen turn to the next student, “I'm Ken,” the clean-cut, neatly dressed young man says sofly. “Pm from sociology. I dorit know most of you, but | talked to Dr. Ellis abouc being on my M.A. commitcee and she suggested this course.” He hesitates, then, “I’m studying the role of children in the lives of gay men.” Ken doesn’t say he is gay, though he told me previously he’s interested in studying his own relationship with his niece, who is the daughter of his lesbian sister and her partnes, and his attempt to co-parent a child with another les- bian couple, That will come later, I think, “From what aspect?” Penny probes. “Td like to know abour the different kinds of relationships that gay men form with children,” he responds, his face perspiting. “How they feel about them. And what they substitute for having their own children. “Till conduct interviews,” he continues, before anyone can ask a question. “Several of my professors in the Sociology Department said this would be too hard to do. They suggested that I analyze secondary daca sets. Maybe they're right,” he adds, sighing as he shakes his head, “A thesis rakes a long time and a lot of energy,” I say. “You should do something you're really engaged by.” “'m definitely engaged by this topic,” Ken replies softly. “My name is Hector,” the next student says into the pause. “I also am a Ph.D. student in communication. I’m interested in critical theory, culrural studies, and rhetoric. To be honest, I don’t understand why we need method at all. I’ve never had a methods course before. But J talked co Carolyn about my personal situation, and she suggested I might want to do an autoethno- graphic project. So I'm here to find out what this is all about.” “Why dont you tell them about your project,” I say, knowing Hector is a good storyteller. “I grew up in Texas,” Hector begins, “with my mother and father. At least I thoughe he was my father. Turns out he’s my stepfather,” With that, Hecror has everyone's attention. “My mother told mea few months ago that my bio- logical father was Mexican. So here I am, twenty-five-years old and just find. ing our that I'm part Latino.” I think about how much more Mexican Hector seems to me now than when I first met him, Has my perception changed as a result of what he told y INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS lo me about his father? Or has his actual appearance or behavior been trans- formed? I note his rounded face, ruddy complexion, bright eyes, crew-cut brown hair, and stretched out t-shire hanging over his faded blue jeans. “Has this information changed your sense of identity?” Leigh asks, reflect- ing my thoughts and her interests in identity. me “Thats ‘what 1 might explore in my class project. As a child, I used to think of myself as different from Mexican kids. I’m also interested in talking with other bicultural people and using my experiences to understand what they say. I nod, then glance at Penny, a middle-aged woman, thin, with platinum blonde, curly hair. Like Jack, she also is more formally dressed than the other students. Her tailored appearance, a requirement of her full-time job in Human Resources, seems to suit her. “Guess I’m last. I’m Penny, an M.A. stu- dent in communication. I want to finish a paper I’ve started on spouse abuse, which tells the story of my relationship with my first husband,” she says, accustomed to talking about her experience. “I want to write and present this story as a performance. I took a workshop with Carolyn and Art at che National Communication Association meetings, and I'd like to learn more about autoethnography.” “Arcs Arthur Bochner, a professor in the Communication Department and my partner,” I say for the benefit of those who don’t know. “You'll read. some of his work in this class.” . I pause. No one speaks. Reading the silence as indicating students’ dis- comfort in asking Penny about her research, I say, “That's probably enough for now, since you'r going to interview each other for next week. I should tell you a little about how I got into autoethnography. That'll lead to a discussion of the history of autoethnography, the context in which it developed, and its def inition and forms, which I'll continue next week.” A Personal History: From Sociology to Communication, from Ethnography to Autoethnography “How I got into autoethnography.” I take a deep breath and lean into the table, both hands moving as I talk. ; / “Twas a graduate student in sociology at SUNY Stony Brook in the mid- 1970s. For my dissertation work, I continued an ethnographic study of iso- lated fishing communities | had started as an undergraduate at College of William and Mary. [ tied to conduct my research the way most professors and books taught it then. In graduate school, I learned to observe from a distance, keep myself out of the story and even my line of vision, and dispassionately record what I saw and heard. I tried to be an objective observer and assumed that field notes would provide a snapshot of what had happened.THE ETHNOGRAPHIC 1 “As you might suspect, however, research didn’t work that smoothly in practice. I gor emotionally involved with my participants and our interactions were intricate grapplings with day-to-day details and life crises. I learned as much from what I felt as from what I observed. Though I didn’: think about it then, my participation with others clearly was part of what I was observing, not just a strategy for getting information.‘ J learned by thinking about how I saw them—the community members—and much later, from thinking about how they saw me. “T recall litele discussion about subjectivity while I was in graduate school. My experience fit into the modernist phase of qualitative research, which focused on formalizing qualitative methods and generating theory.> Glaser and Strauss's The Discovery of Grounded Theory—a qualitative bible of sores— offered a way to build theory from rigorous and systematic methods.* I was taught that the most important criterion of a ‘good ethnography’ was con- ceptual understanding. Your fieldwork setting was a medium for revealing sociological processes that might apply to other settings. In those days, we didn’t talk about what ethnography could evoke from readers or emphasize how to enliven a description. “No surprise then that my dissertation becarne a comparative study of two isolated fishing communities,” I continue. “What I didn’t realize was that defin- ing my topic this way set up my project for macroanalysis. My unit of analy- sis was the community.” “Unit of analysis?” I’ve never heard you use that language before,” Judy laughs. Jack raises his eyebrows, showing interest in the conversation. “Ics left over from my graduate education,” I joke back, then smile at Jack. “Though I have to admit, ‘unit of analysis’ is a useful concept. Macroanalysis was not my forte, nor were concepts and formal theory. I was interested in interpersonal relationships, emotions, and family life. And I loved to write vivid and lively description and stories. Under the influence of my professors and the courses I took, however, I soon found myself analyzing social organization and change, the reciprocal impact of work and family, and generating theory about ‘tight’ and ‘loose’ family structures.”” “Was qualitative research emphasized at Stony Brook?” Penny inquires. “No, though it was certainly respectable to do qualitative studies there. That was not so true at most mainstream universities chen, which emphasized quantitative research. Many sociology departments had no qualitative researchers. Qualitative researchers who succeeded were the ones who formal- ized qualitative methods, linking them to quantitative research. The Chicago School tradition in sociology—with a naturalistic, ‘slice-of-life’ orientation to research using techniques such as life history, case studies, interviews, and per- sonal documents—continued to have a piace. But by the time I was in gradu- INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS | 11 ate school—1974-1981—qualitative perspectives no longer occupied the prominent position they held in che 1920s and 1940s in Chicago.” “Things have really changed since you were in school,” says Hector. “Yes and no,” I respond. “If you look around the country, there aren’t many sociology departments now in which you can get support for a qualita- tive dissertation. Even if you can, you might have one or two qualitative fac- ulty members on staff, if you're lucky. But qualitative research has long been the bread and butter of anthropology,” I continue. “And qualitative studies are burgeoning in other disciplines as well, such as education.” “Where?” asks Valerie. “A PhD. in qualitative research studies has been developed in the College of Education at the University of Georgia and a postdoctoral program is begin- ning at the International Institute for Qualitative Studies at the University of Alberta in Canada. Also, Ohio State University has a strong qualitative sequence in cultural studies.” “Is that why you moved from sociology to communication several years ago? Because of the lack of support in sociology for qualitative approaches?” Hector asks. “Partly,” I respond. “Bur the pull initially was local rather than national. I wanted to be in this communication program. “We are a qualitative oasis here,” I joke. “Its easy to think the rest of the world is like us. Bur ie’s nor. Not even other communication programs feature qualitative, personal narrative and performance as we do.” “Why did it happen here?” asks Hector, “Irs hard to pinpoint,” I say, “but several things cook place at USF simul- taneously. In 1990, we joined the College of Social and Behavioral Sciences with Arts and Humanities. This generated more contact among departments in humanities, such as communication, and departments in social science, such as sociology, and placed greater emphasis on interdisciplinary development. 1 met Are the same year. “The Communication Department, chaired by Art, was building an interpretive program that included ethnography and cultural studies. They already had several qualitatively oriented faculty and others who had com- patible orientations toward theory, performance, and rhetoric. Then the department added other cultural studies faculty and ethnographers to this foundation. I got involved in teaching Ph.D. classes and working with seu- dents here, and that was enough to entice me away from sociology. Given the number of qualitative faculty hired in our department and around the rest of the campus, we may have the highest density of qualitative faculty of any university.” The students look surprised. “I havent done a study, but it certainly feels that way.”a2| THE ETHNOGRAPHIC 1 “What's the role of qualitative inquiry in the rest of communication?” Laura asks. “We can trace some roots to the ethnography of communication (also called the ethnography of speaking) literature of the 1960s and 1970s,” I respond, “which emphasized rules for communicating, both verbally and nonverbally. Gerry Philipsen, for example, wrote ‘Speaking ‘like a Man’ in Teamsterville’ in 1975. Through participant observation and interviews, he studied how blue- collar, low-income, white males valued speaking ‘like a man’ and how they learned implicit rules. To speak like a man in Teamsterville required knowing when and under what circumstances to speak at all. For example, talking is dis- approved of as a way to assert power over another but is appropriate as a means of expressing solidarity. Philipsen wrote traditional ethnographic prose, empha- sizing patterns of speaking. His students, such as Donal Carbaugh and Tamar Katriel, have continued doing ethnographies of speaking. “Interpretive ethnographic studies in communication in the 1970s were few and far between, though inroads were made in the 1980s and 1990s." The first piece of extended interpretive ethnography in the field, according to Goodall, was Tom Benson's, ‘Another Shootout in Cowtown,’ a story with scenes and dialogue about the production of a series of political television com- mercials for a congressional candidate.'? Michael Pacanowsky’s ‘Slouching toward Chicago’ was the next interpretive ethnography published in a com- munication journal. This piece presented a story about academic practices, in particular the politics and posturing associated with presenting papers at academic conferences. Both Benson and Pacanowsky used fictional devices: scene setting, conversation, and dramatic tension. These articles represent early attempts to include the author as a main character in our academic stories. The authors were writing autoethnography, though they didn't use that cerm. “They also were highly controversial when published,” I add. “What do you mean?” asks Hector. “Critics asked whether this was really research,” | explain. “Haven't other areas in communication also picked up on ethnography?” Laura asks. “Yes. Ethnographic and interview studies now are prevalent in organiza- tional, media, performance, and health communication studies. But ethnog- raphy became popular in communication only recently.” Laura asks why. “My sense is that those doing social science research in communication wanted to be respected as ‘scientists,’ from the earliest days when speech broke away from English.'4 Afcer the Second World War, the federal government offered grants to study mass persuasion and propaganda. Social scientists in communication increasingly identified their work as akin to social psychology. INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS | 13 Thus, they looked to psychology—steeped in behaviorism—as the model of social science. Psychology is a discipline thar, in many ways, has been one of the last to move away from a methodological orientation based on the physi- cal sciences.” “Just as I thought,” says Jack. “There aren‘t qualitative studies in psychology.” “T wouldn't go that far,” I reply, selecting my words carefully. “I'd say that many major contributions in psychology came through qualitative research.” !5 In response to Jack’s raised eyebrows, I continue, “William James used qualitative methods, in spirit at lease, in his study of the human mind in action.'6 And what about clinical case studies that led to insights in psy- choanalysis?'” Freud was a masterful storyteller. Then there’s Erikson, Piaget, Allport, and. ...” “Poine well caken,” Jack concedes. “But what about now?” “There aren't as many qualitative studies in psychology as in sociology, communication, social work, education, nursing, counseling, or anthropology. But even psychology is experiencing a renaissance of sorts. A book series was started at New York University Press on qualitative studies in psychology; two psychology and qualitative research conferences were held at the CUNY Graduate Center and one at Blaubeuren, Germany; a number of handbooks, special volumes, and special issues of journals were devoted to qualitative research, '® and an Incernet listserve was formed. I’ve seen syllabi for courses on qualitative methods in psychology. And books and articles are being writcen; fot example, I just ran across a book the other day on qualitative research meth- ods in psychology.!9 “Various areas of psychology, such as counseling psychology, family psy- chology, educational psychology, feminist psychology, and those involved in community action rescarch projects have been quite open to qualitative work, though mainstream psychology has been affected little.2° Similar to my expe- rience in sociology in graduate school, most of what is acceptable qualitative work ro psychologists is connected closely to a quantitative approach,?! though there are some arts-based”? and narrative projects”? going on—even interpretive poetics.24 Other names thar might be familiar to you are Elliot Mishler, Michelle Fine, Carol Gilligan, Theodore Sarbin, Ruthellen Josselson, and Mark Freeman.” Jack nods his head. “They're all working in a narrative tradition, which is qualitative. “Bven geographers are interested in qualitative,” I add. “Henry Hunker has a book called Columbus, Ohio: A Personal Geography and 1 just saw another book by Pamela Moss, entitled Placing Autobiography in Geography.2> In this edited collection, authors use autobiography as a method of data collection, a mode of analysis, and a way to examine the history of geography. The politi- cal scientists are still holding out though.deter 14,| THE ETHNOGRAPHIC | “Now back to communication,” I announce suddenly. “With the new Ethnography Division we've started at NCA—thar's the National Communication Association,” J explain, “there’s virtually no limic co the roles ethnography and qualitative research can play. You already can see the proliferation of eth- nographies, including hose with innovative formats, in communication stud- ies. Qualitative approaches fit with performance and cultural studies,?6 and provide natural bridges between social science and humanities, the main ori- entations in speech communication departments. “1 perceive the discipline of communication as flexible and open to alter native methodologies. That's another reason I moved from sociology into com- munication. So, in that sense, the move for me was national as well as local. I continue participating in sociology as a discipline, but it’s hard to be intensely involved in two academic fields—organizationally, | mean. I also am involved in the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction, which is composed pri- marily of qualitative sociologists.” “You talk a lor about this society, What is it exactly?” asks Valerie. Glad for the question, J reply, “Triple S. I. [SSST] began as a group of rene- gade sociologists in the early-to-mid-seventies who practiced interactionist the- ory and qualitative methods.” Rebelling against structural functionalism and the quantitative approaches of mainstream sociologists in control of the American Sociological Association [ASA], they set up their own organization. For the con- venience of their membership, they met annually in che same city at the same time as the ASA. Now there is an annual symposium as well, usually held in the winter, Mike Flahercy and I hosted che 1990 symposium on emotions, and Art and I organized the symposium in 2000 on ethnographic alternatives. “In some ways, I consider SSSI my primary academic home,” | continue. “T can be a communication scholar and a sociologist there and see most of the friends I made at sociology conferences. Besides, those who practice symbolic interaction are interested in people communicating in social relationships, peo- ple who act back on culture at the same time they're influenced, constrained, and liberated by it. That's the way T view the social world. Too much ¢ilturl > ithakes me crazy.” A few students stare off into space, seeming to have lost interest in my story. “I know this story isn't directly about communication,” I say, “but it is about the larger context of social science. Besides, SSSI focuses on communi- cation and you'll find a receptive community there for the kinds of work we do here.” “T like symbolic interaction,” says Hector, and I recognize from his tone that a “but” is about to spring forth, “but it seems to be somewhat apolitical and ahistorical. I want my work to emphasize culture, identity politics, and critical perspectives.” INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS | 15, “Those arc criticisms that some have made, though I think they were more appropriate in the past than now,” I reply. “The new edition of the Handbook of Qualitative Research, for example, will emphasize politics and social change, and many of the authors ate symbolic interactionists.”® But no doubt the main emphasis in symbolic interaction has been on face-to-face social interaction.” “That's the way I see you,” Hector says. “You live identity politics and appreciate feminism, but you concentrate on relationships and emotions.” “That's basically right,” 1 say, opening my mouth to say more, then decid- ing this conversation should wait. “Any other pull to communication?” ceases Judy; returning to the prior topic. “What?” I ask, not understanding the context. “Back to your story about being attracted to communication. Uh, well, I was just wondering if you left out anything,” From her twinkling eyes, I sur- mise she is referring to my relationship with Are. “Yes, you wonderful students, of course,” I respond, teasing back. “T mean Art,” she says, missing the counter-tease, then looking slightly embarrassed. Judy recognizes she sometimes has difficulty picking up the nuance of humor because of her hearing loss. “1 know. Pll get to that later,” I promise, “Back to my main plot line—contextualizing autoethnography through my own autobiography, which was heavily influenced by sociology and later by communication. As demonstrated in my dissertation, sociologists paid lictle or no attention in the 1970s to researchers’ experience, except to establish guidelines for how they should act so as not to bias their studies or cause harm to their subjects. Textbooks and professors warned of problems of deception, self-disclosure, and going native, and advised about how to present yourself to get what you wanted from participants.””? “Wasn't there discussion of ethical considerations?” Leigh asks, reflecting concerns from her own project. “Yes, all the ethical concerns that emerged from the warnings that these authors, such as Lofland and Lofland, mentioned.2° But there was little dis- cussion of the researcher’s emotions other than advice on dealing with the stresses of the fieldwork setting. The researcher's own experience was not viewed as interesting, or even legitimate, to look at in its own right. Given the com- mitment of sociology to scientific method and objectivity, the assumption was that you would keep who you were—your subjectivity and values—from bias- ing your observations.” I shuffle through the papers in an old, yellowed folder in front of me. “Listen to this,” I say, pulling out a ragged paper, smudged with blue, mimeo- graphed ink. “From an old handout in my graduate qualitative class back in 1975. ‘Ideally one’s field notes should be such that an independent reader couldie 16 | THE ETHNOGRAPHIC I take them and arrive at the same inferences and explanations as oneself? To be fair, the handout goes on to say, ‘While we may not be able fully to reach this ideal, a person who cannot keep adequate field notes should reconsider his choice of doing fieldwork.’ From this perspective, field notes ate to be written from a distance, with little, if any, concern about interactions specific to the particular researcher and participants—or the internal reactions of the researcher. The rules concentrated on a more traditional social science way of knowing and limited what one might learn. “Of course, there were a few reflexive field researchers in sociology in the seventies, such as Bennetta Jules-Rosette, who became a baptized true believer in the African Apostolic church she studied, and John Johnson, who wrote about his own emotional experiences in his investigation of social welfare offices,” I continue.3! “Works in anthropology in the seventies and early eighties also challenged the boundaries of a self studying the other.%? In writing about the life of Tuhami, a Moroccan man, for example, Vincent Crapanzano included his interactions with Tuhami and his own emotional and intellectual responses to his participant, producing a double portrait of himself as researcher and par- ticipane in his research.23 Jean-Paul Dumont began his book with: ‘This book is about the Panare Indians of Venezuelan Guiana and me, the investigating anthropologist.’ At the end of his narrative, he asked: “Who was I to them?’34 Manda Cesara’s Reflections of a Woman Anthropologist and Paul Rabinow’s Reflections on Fieldwork in Morocco are two of a number of memoirs of life in the field published separately from the authors’ primary ethnographies that dis- cussed the author's role in the tesearch process 33 “But these works study the author, at most, only as a researcher. It was pretty far-fetched for researchers to consider studying other aspects of their own lives.” 1am about to continue, when Penny pulls me back to the main story. “How does this tie into your work? I want to hear more of your story.” “To be honest, I didn’t know about these reflexive works until I was already out of graduate school and had been working as an assistant professor for a few years,” I laugh, “In graduate school, we took sociology classes and read sociol- ogy. I took only one course outside sociology—ethnology in the Anthropology Department. The social sciences were notoriously parochial in those days; actu- ally, they still ate. In qualitative courses, I read ‘how to’ books, such as Lofland and Lofland, which emphasized how to do participant observation ‘right,’ I studied Glaser and Strauss, and numerous articles that helped me learn sys- tematic methodological techniques, such as coding data, though lite of what I read resonated closely with the actual process of doing fieldwork.3? Other assigned readings focused on theory building and generalization, INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS jaz “L wasn't introduced to interpretive theoties until the end of my graduate _ education. We had a course in ethnomethiodology my last year in graduate 7 school, but many professors and mémibers of my cohort questioned the legiti- macy of doing sociology that way.” “What about critical theory?” asks Hector. “Or feminism?” asks Laura. “[ remember a few women’s studies courses in other departments, and we studied conflict theory in contemporary theory classes, But no courses on nar- tative or autoethnography. “I connected to writers in the tradition of symbolic interactionism very early, probably because of my interest in social psychology and meaning,” I continue. “The emphasis was on taking the role of the other, getting in the head—and later heart and body—of the person acting back on culture. To do that, you had to use an ethnographic approach. Well, you didn’t really have to. My professor, Gene Weinstein, who I had gone to Stony Brook to study with, was a symbolic interactionist, He was an experimental social psycholo- gist who conducted laboratory expetiments on social interaction, rather than an ethnographer. But he had an ethnographic eye; chat’s why his experiments were so brilliant. “Anyway,” I continue, shaking myself out of mental musing about Gene, “chat socialization prepared me for getting involved with the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction in 1985 after Gene died. That year I went to the annual symposium hosted by Norman Denzin at che University of Illinois in Urbana. A number of communication scholars were on the program—a result of Norman's connection with the Institute of Communication Studies there. While many used unfamiliar language, I was intrigued by what they were studying and how they were looking at the world. I'm embarrassed to admic this, bue back chen, the only thing I knew about communication departments was that they taught public speaking. “So to wrap this up,” I announce, now looking closely at my notes. “By 1985, when I started writing Final Negotiations, | was involved in SSSI and read- ing the reflexive works I mentioned previously. Additionally, postmodern, post- structuralist, and feminist writers, including the communication scholars I heard at SSSI, were contesting issues of authority, representation, voice, and method, and advancing connections between social science and literature. Suddenly, there was a host of this work originating in anthropology. I’m thinking of scholars, such as Geertz, Clifford and Marcus, and Marcus and Fischer.3* These writers prepared a space for texts such as fal Negotiations by introducing new forms for expressing lived experience. As T sat in my office trying out new ways to write that included the self, emotions, and the body, and brought the reader closer to the cext, they were deconstructing writing conventions and demonstrating that18 | THE ETHNOGRAPHIC 1 literary and scientific genres of writing were situated within historical and lin- guistic practices that hide ideological interest and largely determine what will count as a legitimate contribution to knowledge.2? My timing couldn't have been better.” As I continue to cite and review the influence of postmodern writers, I notice that students are doodling and looking around. “What's the matter? Don’t you find this interesting?” “What you're telling us is intriguing,” Leigh speaks hesivantly, a guilty look flooding her face. “But I'd hoped to hear more of yout story.” “Getting the larger context is important,” Hector objects. “Though we get theory and lists of theorists in other classes,” says Penny. “Td rather learn chrough story.” I smile and continue in jest, eyes closed, my head bobbing up and down, “You've learned well, my children,” Several of the students join in the fun, their hands folded and heads bowed, as if in prayer. We laugh heartily at our imper- sonation of a narrative sage and her followers. “The story. Here's the story.” I think about how I always feel compelled to give students contextual, theoretical material. I can’t shake the feeling that ifT don’t present formal theory, somehow my knowledge claims will be sus- pect, Is there a part of me that still privileges traditional theory over theory through story; that buys into the false dualism of theory and story? “So how did you come to autoethnography?” Penny asks, interrupting my thoughts. Interlude: Living and Writing Final Negotiations “My interest in autoethnography was sparked in the mid-1980s as well. By chis time, I had published my fishing community study and earned tenure. I was working on a survey study of emotions, still trying to pursue my interest in social psychology that had led me to sociology in the first place. I had a lot of trauma in my personal life. Fitse, my younger brother was killed in 1982 in an airplane ctash on his way to visit me.*° At the same time, Gene, the man I was living with, my former professor at Stony Brook, entered the final stages of chronic emphysema." In that context, the survey of emotions I was working on seemed insignificant. Instead, I wanted to understand and cope with the intense emotion I felt about the sudden loss of my brother and the excruciat- ing pain I experienced as Gene's health deteriorated.” “You had a relationship wich your professor?” asks Hector, leaning toward me, acting surprised. ‘This is the stuff from the seventies nobody talks about. ‘What did the other professors and students think? Did they know you were sleeping with him?” INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS | 19 “You have to remember that this was a different time,” I say, ignoring Hector's direct questions and feeling flushed. “Relationships between students and professors were not uncommon when I was a graduate student, though some of my contemporaries were critical of them. A few people have refused to read the book 1 wrote about my relationship, because they disapprove of professor— student liaisons. Some have criticized me for not being more critical or apologetic about that part of my life. No doubt, these kinds of relationships are complex. “I wonder what these critics would like us to do now. Should I have my marriage with Gene annulled? Should all married couples who began their rela- tionships as professor-student get a divorce? If so, the divorce rate among aca- demics would rise considerably.” l ignore the students’ laughter, and continue, “This is one of the issues you'll probably be exposed to if you do autoethnography. Not only your work, bur your personal life is scrutinized and critiqued. “Don't get me wrong. I’m not promoting having relationships with your professors, or your students, for that matter.” [ wait while several students hold sidebar discussions. After several shushes emanating from students, { finish with, “There are a lot more considerations today than | faced in the seventies, though faculey—student relationships were not without problems then either.” ‘When I see Hector about to ask another question, I say, “I’m sure we'll get back to this topic, but let me go on with my history now.” Hector nods. “T began co keep daily field notes about my relationship with Gene dur- ing the last year of his life, 1984-1985. The notes included my thoughts and feelings, conversations berween Gene and me, and a description of what hap- pened daily, especially when Gene was in the hospital.” Judy raises her hand, “What was your purpose for writing these notes? Did you know you were going to write something sociological?” “My purposes were twofold. Writing notes was therapeutic. The process helped me organize my life, figure out what was going on, and then put away events and feelings in order to deal with what happened next. Somehow, if events were recorded, I didn’t have to keep going over chem.*? Second, I felt my life experiences could and should be analyzed sociologically. As sociologists, Gene and I spent a lot of time analyzing our relationship and his illness, and I thought about it when I was alone, too. Thinking sociologically provided a coping mechanism, I wanted to write my story to help others understand their experiences sociologically. } hoped to provide 2 model, not for how readers in the same situation ought to be, but to give them—especially caregivers—the benefit of experiencing how I had acted and felt in this extreme situation. I wanted to provide a story to which they could compare their experiences. When Gene was dying, that’s what I looked for and had difficulty finding. 1 wanted to know I was not alone.20] THE ETHNOGRAPHIC I “Once Gene died, which was eight months after I began keeping the jour- nal, I had my notes, my grief, and the question of what ro do with the rest of my life, It was a tumultuous time. “Academically, I started looking for a place where I could be comfortable and comforted, where I could make a contribution and feel at home. In 1986, Ltried to create a place in the American Sociological Association for myself by working with others to start a section, which is like a division in NCA, on the Sociology of Emotions,” I explain. “I thought this would provide an outlet co discuss some of my work on lived, emotional experience and an opportunity to find other people doing this work—or at least a place where I could pro- mote it. The section did all this for awhile, and I was happy to have it. “Bur the pull in groups connected with ASA and mainstream sociology is toward traditional reseach—toward theorizing, counting, and predicting. Though we now looked at emotions, most people examined them only in tra- ditional ways. There wasn't a community of ethnographers embedded in soci- ology Ph.D. programs to help make changes over the generations. Some people, following Hochschild, did qualitative work on managing emotions. Buc how many examples of different types of management strategies do you want to read abou? | looked into the future and saw it was going to be a long time, if ever, before sociology moved in the ditection | hoped it would, Communication offered more possibilities. “And then there was Art,” I add and pause. A smile breaks out on my face. I consider telling my story, then, “Well, that’s a story for another time.” “Aww, come on,” several students encourage. “Later,” I respond. “How many relationships can I tell about at the same time? To summarize what I’ve been saying: Writing about my relationship with Gene and his illness drew me to aucoethnographic writing and personal narrative. I couldn't think of anything better to do with the notes I had kept than to tell the story and let the sociological analysis occur conversationally. Ir cook me nine years of writing and rewriting, and many false starts, to fig- ure out that was the way I wanted to write, I'd like to save you that time, if 1 could, and help you find your particular voice and style of experience. “This is a good place to end for tonight. Next week we'll return co my autobiography to concretize some of the history of autoechnography.” “Love your earrings,” Leigh says, gathering her books. “They match your outfit.” “Thanks,” I say, as | run my hands down the side of my purple, blue, red, and green plaid shirt and skirt. [love your Star of David necklace,” I say to Leigh, as we leave the room. “Wish I could find one like that for Art.” “Je was my grandmother's. Ir’s an antique.” Leigh says. INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS | 21 The class feels like it’s off to a good stare, I muse, and I make my way to my car. Then I wonder whether I talked too much. Normally I make space for more interaction. Reflections on Living the Autoethnographic Life: Cross-Status Relationships Revisited ‘As 1 drive home, I think about my response to Hector’s question regarding dat- ing my professor. This aspect of my relationship with Gene engendered more criticism chan any of the personal details | wrote about in Final Negotiations. Maybe I should have de-emphasized that this was a relationship between a stu- dent and professor? But how was that possible? Denying the nature of that rela- tionship would have destroyed the integrity of the text. Were there other acceptable ways to have dealt with the relationship? One critic, who read a draft of the book several years before it was published, felt I had hidden my deep and complex feelings abour having a telationship with my professor. She asked several questions about how other students and faculry members had responded to me and how I felt about their responses. Some of these questions had been central in the book, she said, and my silence about them was “loud,” She felt Thad played down this relationship too much, and the result for her was extremely disappointing. Her reaction sent me to bed in tears, sobbing to Ar “Do you think I lived an immoral life?” From that low point, with Ar’s sup- port and a lot of determination on my part, the seeds were sown that later would move me to concentrate less on how readers’ reactions made me feel and more on what I could learn about others from their responses. Though the book I published did not examine directly the cross-status dimensions of our relationship, the effects of this difference were apparent in many of the vignettes J included. Rather chan trying to settle the issue through critique as this reviewer wanted, I stucle to presenting the details in an emotive and complex way that I hoped would engender discussion among readers. [ wrote in the conclusion: T want to return for a minute to a scene that occurred just prior to Gene's death. Crazed from drugs, lack of oxygen, and loss of control during the final stage of his disease, Gene yells, “I made Carolyn. Without me, she never would have gotten her Ph.D.” I have pretended uncil now that these words had no effect on me. After all, Gene was “not himself” then. Yer if we think of “self” as che unmonitored self, he pethaps was more himself in dying than at any other time. I shudder now at how costly his approval had been; at the same time, | appreciate the contribution our interactions with and feelings for cach other made to the person I have become.‘ :a ae 22 | THE ETHNOGRAPHIC I This same reviewer concluded that Final Negotiations ultimately failed because it did not offer a “theory of something,” To her, sociology was “cate- fal, focused, detailed analysis of some particular episode, some particular pat- tern, issuing, say, in a new understanding of loss or emotional experience ultimately applicable to other people in other times and places.” This view of sociology was exactly what I was writing against. Final Negotiations argues for story as analysis, for evocation in addition to representation as a goal for social science research, for generalization through the resonance of readers, and for opening up rather than closing down conversation, ‘The reviewer didn’t “get it,” or she refused to get it, Instead, she yearned, as she said, for a “feminist confession about a non-PC love affair, with all the complexities involved.” She wanted me to write “her story,” not my own, She wanted me to write my past as we (or she) might wish it had been, given the current cultural perspective. I had tried to write it as I understood it had been. Frankly, I didn't feel that judgmental about this relationship as I lived it; nor do I feel that critical now, though writing and reflecting on my story has led me to examine the relationship more critically than when I lived it. That aware- ness was what I hoped would result for readers and myself. That awareness was where this reviewer hoped I'd begin. Did I have anything to learn fiom this review? Why had this reviewer, and others like her, honed in on the cross-status phenomenon? Why had Hector, a twenty-five-year-old, gay, subversive, biculzural male, asked the same question in 1998 that a fifty-something, liberal, heterosexual, social science, female reviewer asked in 1983? What did it say about their lives, fears, concerns, histories, demons? ‘What did it say about mine? Why didn’t I answer Hector’s or this reviewer's ques- tions about what other students and professors thought? Why wasn'v/isn’t this process something that I felt I needed to work through at the time? Was I not a “good enough’ feminist? Was I “tabooing a whole psycho-political realm,” as this reviewer said, Did [have different values than this reviewer? Or simply more press- ing worries at the time? Gene’ superior status position didnt seem like the most imporeant issue when I was holding him in my arms o being held by him; ie paled compared to the roles—I as mother, he as my child—we came to have when he became seriously ill. Ir certainly seemed irrelevant as I watched him die. “Arent we being defensive?” I chide myself. I am amazed at how hatd it is, even now, to subdue my defensive posture and put into play my belief that readers’ responses illuminate similarities and differences in socialization and experience. These insights are important to examine in their own right, not just in relation to my personal feelings about how Iam viewed. “Tim sorry,” I say out loud, as I turn the corner into my dead-end street and our grey, barn-like house comes into view. “I just dont feel bad about having cho- sen to be in that relationship or about how I lived it. Nor about the book, or how INTRODUCTIONS AND INTERRUPTIONS | 23 I wrote it, So there.” As bell hooks says, desire can be acknowledged between those with unequal power; it’s not necessarily abusive, The erotic can be subver- sive, a “space of transgression that can undermine politics of domination.” In spite ofthe other meanings of our relationship, desire between Gene and me pos- itively contributed to my educational, emotional, and spiritual growth, as it does for other women in these relationships.47 I suspect, if Gene could take part in this introspective conversation, he'd say it contributed to his growth as well. Autoethnography sure is painful sometimes, I think, as I pull into the garage. I have to prepare my students for the pain they may experience when others respond to what they write. [ also have to remind myself of all the affirming reviews Final Negotiations has received. People still contact me after reading ic o tell me about the positive effect reading ie had on cheir lives. Why is it chat we focus on one negative review, de-emphasizing all the positive response we get, I wonder, as I move sideways out of my car, trying not to bang my door against Arts car. As Lunlock the front door, I see lights glow from our kitchen, where Art is cooking dinner. I know thar stimulating conversation, along with tasty food, awaits me, and already | feel nourished. Being married to another academic, who also is my coauthor, makes ir hard to tell the difference between work and play. I can't imagine not being partnered with someone in the academy. What would we talk about? Who would edit my papers, and his? And how could a nonacademic partner ever understand the late nights at the computer—or the long phone calls with students? I'm glad this time that my partner and I started out in the same status positions—we were both professors when we met. “Tm tired,” I mutter, as four dogs pounce on me. Once they've had sufficient attention and kisses, Art and I greet each other. “How was your class?” he asks. As] check out the smells from the pors on the stove and begin setting the table, I say, “Great, just great. . "Autobiographical stories really make theory and history come alive, don't they?” I ask casually, sneaking a taste of Art's specialty—sesame marinated salmon grilled to a golden brown. I share bits of it unobtrusively with the dogs. Not to worry, Art is oblivious, too busy trying to make sure all the food is done at the same time, “There's nothing more theoretical than a good story.” Art says adamantly, scooping up the remaining salmon and large florets of broccoli and placing them onto our plates. “Or painful,” I say. “What?” Art asks, “Just something I was thinking about on the way home,” I reply. “Tell me,” he demands. Suddenly I feel re-energized, and the talk, which will last several hours, begins.The Call of Autoethnographic Stories the extra chairs to a corner. I stare at the long, bulging conference table that looks more inviting than it actually is. One of the students described it as shaped “like a casket.” After she said it, I thought, yeah, and it deadens the conversation, too. Students sitting along each side can’t make eye contact with others on the same side, which results in constant head bobbing when someone speaks. I sit at one end near the small blackboard so that I can see everyone, This position of power contrasts with the easygoing way I normally conduct class and allows me to move comfortably between being laid back and being an authority figure, Afier the usual housekeeping chores, I say, “Let's talk about ethnography in general, as a review for those who have had a qualitative methods course and as a mini-introduction for those who have not. Then we can see where autoethnography fits in the picture.” The students take up their pens, poised to write, and I take out my notes, poised to lecture. At that moment, Valerie walks in. Jack follows. I am surprised he has rerurned. B EFORE CLASS, I pick up trash strewn on the floor and move some of 4, THE CALL OF AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC STORIES | 25 Contextualizing Autoethnography within Ethnography “Before you begin, would you talk about the terms qualitative methods, ethnography, and fieldwork? You seem to use the terms interchangeably,” Hector says, leaning over the table. “Okay, good place to start.” I stand and grab the chalk. “Qualitative meth- ods,” I say, writing on the board, “is the more general and inclusive term. The label refers to a variety of research techniques and procedures associated with the goal of trying to understand the complexities of the social world in which we live and how we go about thinking, acting, and making meaning in our lives. These research practices emphasize getting close to those we study, attempting to see the world through participants’ eyes, and conveying the expe- rience in a way faithful to cheir everyday life.! Qualitative techniques include participant observation, interviews, life histories, focus groups, and grounded theory.” I write each term on the board. “Also autoethnographic, phenome- nological, narrative, performative, visual, and most ethnomethodological and feminist methods; particular forms of documentary, content, discourse, and conversational analysis research; and some critical, cultural studies, and social action research,” I add, now looking at the students. I pause, chalk in the air, trying co decide whether to move on or discuss these terms.26 | THE ETHNOGRAPHIC I “What about ethnography?” Penny asks, making the decision for me. “For now, check out these terms in the Denzin and Lincoln Handbook,? if you want to know more,” I say. “Yes, let’s move to ethnography. Take the word apart. Ethno means people ot culture; graphy means writing or describ- ing. Ethnography then means writing about or describing people and culture, using firsthand observation and participation in a setting or situation. The tetm refers both to the process of doing a study and to the written product.” “And fieldwork?” asks Judy. “Ethnographic fieldwork includes everything you do to gather informa- tion in a setting, especially hanging around, making conversation, and asking questions, but also formal interviewing and other information gathering. “Ethnography is first and foremost a perspective, a Tramework for thinking about the world,” as Stuart Sigman writes.? This perspective reflects a way of view- ing the world—holistically and naturalistically and a way of being in the world as an involved participant. Buddy Goodall observes that you don’t really choose ethnography; it chooses you. I agree. Many ethnographers tell dramatic stories about what pulled them into ethnography. For Buddy, it was the moment he received the letter granting him tenure in 1984, His sad, rather than elated, feel- ings started him on a search to connect his soul as a creative writer back to his roots as a social scientist. This search led him to ethnography.> “For Lyall Crawford, watching a friend get eaten by a crocodile changed his life. When he began to feel deeply interested in the ‘sheer mystery of being THE CALL OF AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC STORIES | 27 a person,” he turned to ethnography. He began living what Dan Rose calls ‘the ethnographic life,’ which for Crawford provided a path for waking up and preparing for death.” “What about you? What led you to ethnography?” asks Judy, when J pause. “] feel as if I’ve always been an ethnographer, from the time I was a kid trying to figure out my parents’ relationship, my relationships, and the hidden— or not so hidden—dramas in the small town in which I lived.” I wipe the yel- low chalk off my hands and sit down. “I watched and listened carefully, often—or maybe especially—when I was not supposed to. What's going on behind those closed doors? I asked myself. What are they thinking and doing? What are their motives? Early on I became interested in the incongruity between what people said and what they did. The key to understanding these contradictions seemed to be to approach the world as an ethnographer, who tries to figure out ‘what's going on here.’ Being nosy and a good listener are two primary prerequisites of a good ethnographer.” Amidst the students’ laughter, Hector asks, “Do all ethnographers share essentially the same worldview and perspective?” “Not at all,” I respond. “As you might suspect, ethnographers come in diverse shapes and colors. Let me speak for a moment about how I see the broad continuum of ethnographers, which will lead us into the positioning of autoethnographers. “Qualitative research falls roughly along a continuum ranging from an ori- entation akin to positivist science to one similar to att and literature,” I say, looking at my notes,” “In between is a vast middle ground where elements of both orientations are present.” | draw three columns on the board and head them: science, middle ground, art. “Moving along the qualitative continuum from science to art and litera- ture, one finds practitioners who see social life as something out there to be discovered independent of the researcher, those who view social life as some- thing constructed through interaction and engagement with the world, and those who focus more closely on the person describing social life and the modes and practices of description.® Across the continuum, the focus changes from studying others who are assumed to be separate from the researcher, to exam- ining interactions between the researcher and others, to including the posi- tionality, politics, values, and story of the researcher who interacts with others.” 1 fill in the chart with a few descriptive words as I talk: discovered indepen- dently, interaction, researcher-focused. “At the science end of the qualitative spectrum, researchers approach qual- itative research as an extension of quantitative inquiry. They are positivistic researchers whose goal is to produce propositional knowledge about human behavior generalizable to specific populations. They take an objective, neutralia 28 | THE ETHNOGRAPHIC I idde Ground AT oor eae roe aaa ie stance and use formal methods to produce knowledge and predict subsequent behaviors.” “This is the kind of research I'm familiar with,” Jack interjects. “The assumption is that a real world exists which can be studied scientifically. Researchers try to uncover the fundamental properties of that world—develop and test theories about them. The relationships among concepts should be clearly defined and reduced to their simplese form, as researchers seek to explain as large a portion of reality as possible.” “Nicely explained, Jack,” I compliment. “It’s good for us to have an under- standing of this kind of science, though in this class we're more interested in the middle of the continuum and the end closer to art. Between science and artis a sprawling middle ground of qualitative researchers who seek to analyze events, find patterns, and create models from their data. Here, rescarchers do not adhere rigidly to the rules of empiticism, but they still often work from a view of reality as objective and external and see themselves as neutral observers.” “Is chis che realist position thac Van Maanen talks about?” Laura asks, refer- ring to a book she read in our qualitative methods class last year? “Yes, exactly.” I turn toward the board, label the middle column “realist,” and draw through the column headed “science.” “Methodological concerns are THE CALL OF AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC STORIES | 29 very important to most realist researchers. In one of the most useful and widely applied analytic strategies, researchers emphasize the generation of categories and theory from systematic coding and analysis of qualitative data.'? Researchers using grounded theory often hold to the belief that if you apply a valid and systematic methodological approach, you'll get closer to an accurate representation of what's actually going on. “When analyzing data, some adhere rigidly to formal steps in grounded theory research—data notes, sorting and classifying, open coding, axial cod- ing, selective coding—with memo writing occurring throughout the process.) Others view the process in a more social constructivist way, allowing for mul- tiple interpretations of social realities and the collaborative creation of knowl- edge by the viewer and the viewed."2 “Realist researchers privilege theory generation, typicality, and general- ization to a wider world over evocative storytelling, detailing concrete expe- rience, and multiple perspectives that include participants’ voices and interpretations. They tend to write realist tales in an authorial, omnipotent voice, using selected snippets of fieldwork data to represent participants’ sto- ries, illustrating general concepts, patterns, and themes.”!? I write more illus- trative words in each column.