Journal of Loss and Trauma

International Perspectives on Stress & Coping

ISSN: 1532-5024 (Print) 1532-5032 (Online) Journal homepage: https://www.tandfonline.com/loi/upil20

Leaving London: Three Autoethnographic Sketches

Peter Joseph Gloviczki

To cite this article: Peter Joseph Gloviczki (2016) Leaving London: Three Autoethnographic
Sketches, Journal of Loss and Trauma, 21:4, 286-289, DOI: 10.1080/15325024.2015.1067093
To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/15325024.2015.1067093

Published online: 16 Feb 2016.

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JOURNAL OF LOSS AND TRAUMA
2016, VOL. 21, NO. 4, 286–289
http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15325024.2015.1067093

Leaving London: Three Autoethnographic Sketches

Peter Joseph Gloviczki
Communication Department, Coker College, Hartsville, South Carolina, USA

ABSTRACT ARTICLE HISTORY

In this essay, I use autoethnographic sketching (Rambo, 2007) to Received 14 December 2014
explore the experience of arriving at and withdrawing from the Accepted 14 December 2014
London School of Economics and its impact on my life and work. KEYWORDS
I especially draw on the importance of close relationships with Autoethnographic sketching;
family, which helped me cope with and overcome limitations autoethnography; cerebral
associated with my physical disability, cerebral palsy, as I work palsy
toward personal and professional fulfillment. It is my hope that
these words will motivate others to better cope with and
overcome challenges in pursuit of their goals.

I.
I am crossing the street in London. It is October 2006. I am 23 years old, but
my mother says “hold my hand.” A car has almost hit us. We swerved out of
the way, or the car did; either way, a near miss. I am walking with my mother
to the media department at the London School of Economics, having decided
to withdraw from my MSc program in politics and communication. I have
been in London for less than a week. The school does not seem to me to
be accessible to students with physical disabilities. Few railings, few elevators,
lots of stairs. I have to go home to Minnesota, and it’s painful.

II.
When I was quite young, four or five, if I was having trouble falling asleep, my
mother used to advise me: “dream of your friends.” In many ways, I am
indebted to and for their continued presence in my life. There is a tension
at play here, however, because I am also motivated to continue cultivating
a strong sense of self-identity. I am not only the person that my friends
and family helped me become; I am also a singular entity: my own individual.
Writing about the experience of constructing a shadowbox and doing an
autoethnography, autoethnographer Danielle Soper writes: “Though I still
experience fear, I have accepted and internalized these feelings as my own
and I am no longer ashamed of them” (Averett & Soper, 2011, p. 371). Soper
was writing about a different set of experiences and events, but my experience

CONTACT Peter Joseph Gloviczki pgloviczki@coker.edu 300 East College Avenue, Hartsville, SC 29550, USA.
© 2016 Taylor & Francis
 JOURNAL OF LOSS AND TRAUMA 287

is, nonetheless, somewhat similar in nature. I am not exactly afraid of or

fearful about my disability, but the process of writing this autoethnography
helps me clarify my own relationship to my body. I want very much for that
relationship to be reflected in a nuanced manner. A critical part of this process
is, for me, to acknowledge the vast contributions of so many people, places,
and things that were and are integral to my own story.
I experienced one of the most fearful moments of my life on the planeride home
from London. “Nem vagyok jól,” my mother said to me in Hungarian, which
means, “I’m not well.” Seconds later, she fainted while seated in her airline seat.
I watched her eyes roll back into her head. “My mother, my mother,” I shrieked,
hitting the flight attendant call button over and over again. A flight attendant came
over to see what was happening; I motioned to my mother and the attendant
worked with a few male passengers to lay my mother down in the narrow aisle.
I heard the pilot call for a doctor over the plane’s intercom system.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Quinn,” said the doctor who found us moments later. “Does
she have any medical conditions?” he asked. “Not really, no,” I responded.
“She has a slight thyroid condition,” Dr. Quinn asked for pillows to prop
my mother up, so that her body was not resting on the hard aisle. Our seats
were about ten rows back and dozens of small airline pillows, at least 20 of
them, were passed to my row. After about a minute, my mother regained
consciousness. One flight attendant said to my mother, “Let’s get you to
the restroom,” and took her hand to guide her toward the lavatory. “As soon
as I heard the news, I started praying for you,” another flight attendant said
tome.

III.
“What’s wrong with you?” I am asked this question while waiting to leave
London’s Heathrow Airport in June 2013. Three days earlier, I presented a
poster at the International Communication Association’s (ICA) annual
conference. The poster, titled “Personal History: An Autoethnography of Life
and Work,” especially examined my journey through graduate school,
beginning very briefly at the London School of Economics and then, over
the next several years, for an MA and a PhD in mass communication at the
University of Minnesota.
“What’s wrong with me,” I repeat her words with some astonishment. I tell her
that I was born with cerebral palsy, a disability that impacts my balance, stamina,
and coordination.1 She looks at me in seeming agreement, and mentions some-
thing about her knee before she goes to sit down in a seat across from me.
I am sitting with my partner, Jennifer, in the Serenity Lounge at London
Heathrow. This is a surprisingly calm and tranquil area of the airport reserved
for passengers needing, in their words, special assistance. I notice that every-
thing is blue and white. The chairs are a calming deep blue and there is a
288 P. J. GLOVICZKI

painting on the wall, a beach scene. The walls are otherwise white. Out the
window, I see planes waiting on the runway. I have waited in dozens of
airports around the world, but the Serenity Lounge is the nicest in recent
memory. This place lives up to its name.
What surprises me most about walking around in London is the abundance
of stairs. Little stairs are everywhere. One big step to get from the pavement to
our hotel, two or three steps to get from the pavement to the café where we
have lunch, two flights of stairs (thankfully with good railings) to eat at Burger
King, the list could go on and on.
One of the reasons I chose to withdraw from the London School of
Economics was the massive number of stairs, especially stairs without the
aid of a railing or the option of an elevator. I have a great deal of difficulty
climbing or descending stairs without some help because of my balance: I
worry that I’ll fall forward or, worse, fall backward. Returning to Britain seven
years after the LSE experience, I find it maddening to see so many stairs. I
complain about this to Jen in a coffee shop. I tell her that I can’t imagine living
here, that I’m not sure how I would do it. These feelings affirm my decision to
leave the LSE, painful as it was. I believe, as I wrote on my autoethnography
poster at ICA, I made the right decision for my life and work.
Autoethnographic sketching (Rambo, 2007) provides the best methodologi-
cal fit for this paper. I admire the way that autoethnography bridges self and
society (see, for example, Ellis, 1999, 2004) and I am grateful to Barbara
J. Jago’s example of the autoethnographic short story (see, for example, Jago,
2005). I kept Jago’s approach close in mind while finalizing this paper. Blinne’s
(2012) example of writing about—and through, and for, the body—also helped
me find a meaningful path forward for the presentation of the ideas contained
in these autoethnographic sketches.
The process of writing these autoethnographic sketches provides a concrete
sense-making mechanism for the past eight years of my life: I went to gradu-
ate school in London, withdrew from the London School of Economics,
arrived home in Minnesota, completed graduate school at the University of
Minnesota, and am now working in a tenure-track position at a small liberal
arts college. Throughout these experiences, my interpersonal relationships
have grown stronger. I feel truly fortunate for the support of my mother
and father, extended family, close friends, and my partner Jennifer. Through
the process of writing these autoethnographic sketches, I have come to more
fully recognize the “tempo” (Progoff, 1975, p. 9) of my life. As a result, I am
better prepared for the future and I am excited for the road ahead.

Acknowledgments
An earlier version of this article was presented during the Plenary Poster Session at the Annual
Conference of the International Communication Association, which was held in London,
 JOURNAL OF LOSS AND TRAUMA 289

England, on June 20, 2013. I am grateful to the members of the Communication History
Interest Group (now the Communication History Division) for their support of my work.

Note
1. I tend to describe my disability in these terms, in both formal and informal settings. See, for
example, Gloviczki (2013, June 20), Personal History: An Autoethnography of Life and
Work. Communication History Interest Group. Plenary Poster Session, Annual Conference
of the International Communication Association. London, England, UK.

Notes on contributor
Peter Joseph Gloviczki, PhD, is a teacher, a communication researcher, and a poet. He is an
assistant professor of communication at Coker College in Hartsville, South Carolina. His first
scholarly book is Journalism and Memorialization in the Age of Social Media (Palgrave
Macmillan, 2015).

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