Are stories academic?

On Thursday I emailed 8000 words to my supivisors on my methodology. The piece is largely a chapter on how my methodology started out being more traditional and ended up being very different turning into interwoven stories told in a variety of ways and means.

 I had wanted to record young children's perspectives of exclusion to a PRU and the research was to understand the best methods to do that. Initially I had intended to do action research and had planned neat cycles that would fit in with the academic year. Indeed this is how I started by gaining consent, staging semi-structured interviews, asking pupils to complete Pupil View templates (Wall, 2008) and asking for pupil's to share their stories through visual methods such as photographs. The aim was to be able to draw conclusions that could be generalised and my theory was that a tool box approach would be needed that was reflexive to meet the needs of each individual. It was a good plan. It passed the ethical scrutiny of the university and that of the Local Authority I work for. It was all systems go. I remember talking to my supervisors explaining that I did not want to do woolly research. My research would be meticulously planned and would be focused and clear. 

Yet things changed. Just before Christmas and into the second research cycle I started to be given spontaneous pieces of work by the pupils, unplanned for and unasked for. Some of the work was through drawings of the PRU or their previous school and these were handed to me for my 'box' in which all of their formally gathered work was put. Sometimes they asked me to take a photo of something they had done or they wanted a photo of them using the equipment I had used for kinaesthetic work with them. Other times came the request to write down our conversation in my research journal. Once I was brought the page of a story book showing a child depicted as a devil with the comment, "That's me at my old school."

What was I to do? I was at a cross roads. I could either plough on with the formal plan and risk loosing these rich snippets of their lives, or I could totally change direction and run with what they were giving me. I ran with them as how could I fully record their perspectives if I ignored the stories of themselves which mattered to them? I run the risk of telling the stories that I perceived to be important and not what was of significance to them. So the research became more and more woolly, planning had gone out of the window and I was totally dependent upon what they chose to share. Stories became more and more important until, ultimately, I submitted 8000 words largely written as narrative and dialogue.

One of the issues this has left me is just how academic can a story be? As with anything in academia, there are a variety of opinions and arguments for and against which I am still grappling with. In hindsight my interest in stories stemmed from those in the bible. As a teenager I had never felt that they could or should be taken literally yet that did not mean that they were unable to contain truth. It hadn't mattered to my teenage faith that I did not believe in the historical truth of the gospels, I mean just which emperor decreed a census during Mary's pregnancy? Nor did I feel the need to make the stories of the Hebrew's true, I didn't need to know the name of the pharaoh who Moses lived with. Although I knew friends who did believe in the bible being written by the holy type writer of God, I did not dispute some pressure to do so. But at university I felt set free. One of my favourite lectures was Old Testament Studies led by Walter Moberly and we studied a book by Robert Alter called, 'The Art of Biblical Narrative' in which the author posed that one could read the books as literature and see them as 'true' even if the events were not historically true. Another lecturer compared the stories of the twelve tribes of Israel to the formation of the Scottish clans and their tartans, both were an attempt to create a historical background in order to give some sense of worth and purpose: this is who we are today because of our past. The fact that they were not historically accurate did not draw away from there being a level of truth in them.

So stories, and the layers of truth in them, has been in my mind for a long time. The scary thing is now testing out that belief in an academic setting. The stories my pupil's tell of their exclusion and the stories their schools tell may both offer different levels of truth. Can an academic story of this provide truth as well? 

National identity as an identity in its self

Billy Bragg has probably taught me more about patriotism than anyone else. Between 'England, half English' and 'Take down the Union Jack' lie my thoughts on understanding national identity. Identity matters a lot to my research not only those whose stories I am writing but my own understanding of the identities I present at different times. National identity matters. Millions have died and continue to do so due to their desire to express their nationhood: Palestine, Israel, Ukraine, Russia, the list is endless. So is the patron saint's day of the country of my birth something to feel ashamed of or celebrate?

Whilst I do not like the style of patriotism expressed by those of the far right, does that mean that St. George becomes a figure to deride? Whilst it amuses me that those of the far right may not fully appreciate the irony of waving a flag associated with a Palestinian Roman soldier, a man who was martyred for standing up for his beliefs despite intense oppression has more in common with modern day heroes than we remember.  My initial response has been to say that such right wing beliefs are wrong without trying to understand where they have grown from and why a nationalistic identity is so violently important to some in this land. 

Our identity, both our own understanding of it and the way it is perceived by others, matters. We make judgements about people based on what we see or perceive we see; who we feel we are affects what we do. What research has taught me to do is to put those judgements to one side (as much as possible, I am human after all) and try and understand who people are and why they act how they do. By understanding their identity/ identities I can attempt to unravel the threads that have led to creating them as a person. We are complicated beings driven by many differing influences and needs and to understand someone as fully as possible we need to be open to all of their manifestations, even the ones we do not like. 

This clash of St. George and identity met today in my first conversation with a pupil: "Miss, it's England day today and my house is covered with flags." If I try and put aside my personal bias I can use this simple conversation to try and understand him better, to get into his world and see that his self presentation is based on more than an isolated human being but is from family, socially and culturally generated ideals too. I still believe those who present such right wing beliefs are wrong but at least I have made some steps towards understanding why that identity matters so much to some. Maybe St. George wasn't such a bad guy after all. 

First chapter nerves

This weeks sees me attempting to write a chapter or, at least, a very large part of one. I have 5000 words to submit to Panel on my birthday (well timed uni) and the methodology piece I am working on is currently 8000. It feels very scary for several reasons. 

Firstly, although my supervisors have read some of my work before, they have not read anything as long as this. It feels long. Seeing 14 pages of text running down the page is one hell of a fright. That is a lot of space to make mistakes. Once I have adjusted to the length I then panic.....I am going to run out of space. 55,000 words is not very many in reality.

Secondly the form is just so new. Sharing writing of any kind is an emotional challenge as it is letting someone else into your mind and soul. Sharing autoethnographic writing is like letting someone into your heart too. Criticisms of your writing hurt. A few months ago I ended up attending a course run by an editor. We were asked to submit a piece of writing which, I assumed, was for her benefit to know what we were working on and at what stage we were at. Wrong. At lunchtime I was handed back my three pages of text covered in red spidery ink. I managed to hold in my tears until I left for lunch and then let them flow as I walked to buy sushi. Sushi is therapeutic for my little soul. The editors comments were cutting yet good flip side was the reminder that this was probably the feelings that my students have when they open their books and see my (thankfully green) ink. Her main issue was: "You over use 'I'. This is academic research not a journal." I wanted to scream....."it's autoethnographic research lady" but I was not confident enough to explain myself. I still am not. I still struggle to explain that I write/record stories and thread them together to form a narrative. It is research. That's my new mantra.

Finally, it is so hard to edit. You spot an obvious mistake in a passage you have read countless times; you question how you set out dialogue (if anyone knows, do tell) and references in the same line. You realise how words reappear again and again....yet......however......wonder.....I cling to familiar words like comfort blankets. This is too grown up for little me.

The Ethnographic I

One night I was doing the good old trick of searching the internet for random academic books. Although I enjoy recommendations I also like discovering texts especially if they are inspiring. Normally it is the case that you end up with a parcel of very cheap second hand books that you simply want to pass on as quickly as possible. However there are very rare occassions when the hand of fate delivers and you find a gem. This was the case with 'The Ethnographic I' by Carolyn Ellis. 

Part story, part text book it blends the two seamlessly together. I found myself seriously considering reading it in bed as it was so captivating. I found myself empathising with the group of students at the heart of the book and being drawn into their private worlds. I cared about their research and the impact upon their family situations. Yet they were characters partly or fully created to serve a purpose. They expressed particular views and opinions and were crucial in the creation of plot and drama. And yet they were also very real as the eponymous lead character, Carolyn, is. Hearing her stories of loss and grief moved me due to an openness and honesty she appeared to have with those she encountered. So intense were her stories I often felt that I was eavesdropping into a private conversation between close friends. All of this was wrapped up in a methodological text book.

Suddenly my thesis made sense.  It made me realise how creative it was possible to be and still produce an academic piece of writing. Ethnography and autoethnography are growing in acceptance and researchers like Ellis are at the forefront of this developing field. I was always wary of ethnographic research and made every attempt to avoid it. I saw it as woolly and selfish with little use for a wider audience. Over time my thoughts had shifted and it was a strange day when I was forced to admit that I had moved away from a constructivist action research mentality and was actually writing in an ethnographic style. 

I cannot recall another textbook having as much of an impact on my own writing before nor being as challenging and thought provoking. It certainly opened my eyes to the possibilities that such an approach could offer.

Time off

This week I am on holiday. Not from work but from my thesis. The approaching Easter holidays and impending Panel mean that I have a lot of work to do but it is not the sort you can simply pick up and put down. So, as a treat, I decided to take the week off from all things thesis. Except the fact I am writing this now shows it has not entirely gone to plan. 

Some one once called me Stalin. Not because I had caused the death of millions or created a dictatorial system based around my own whims and issues but because I always had five year plans. I like plans. I like lists. I feel secure when I know what I am doing and where I am aiming. I like to know on a Friday what the weekend will hold. I like to know where I am going on holiday and what I will visit. This is also the case in both my work and academic lives: I know where I want to be in five years time and I roughly know how to get there. The nature of the plan may change but, with every new focus comes an automatic mental state that I do not even notice. 

Yet I am awful at planning for my free time. Or rather not planning. I can plan a whole week of thesis related tasks but struggle to arrange an evening of nothing. Spontaneous I am not. PT sessions get booked in hour slots. Episodes of Dexter last 49 minutes. I time and plan my life to the nth degree. Whilst it has benefits, it also has draw backs. Writing a thesis needs time set aside for specific tasks at specific times. The next step may well depend upon several overlapping tasks that all need to be finished at the same time. There are deadlines for submissions. Deadlines for article applications. Planning is crucial. Yet for someone using stories and narratives, too much planning is contradictory for narratives flow and develop at their own pace. They run off in tangents, stagnate in pools or develop lives of their own. Stories grow, shift and change. They are elusive often darting away like a willo the wisp. So it is often a mystery to me that this rigid planner is working with such a badly behaved and untameable medium.